39
“I don’t know where you are, but I do know where you aren’t.” Eric made a face, his lips bunching together as he packed his guitar into its traveling case. “And that’s here.”
I braced for yet another argument. “I’m right here, Eric. With our son—”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s your excuse—Beck.”
“Beck is not an excuse. You’re the one out of town all the time.”
Eric glanced quickly at his Blackberry and shoved it into his pocket. “What I’m saying is that when I am home, you’ve got so much shit going on in your head, it’s like you’re not even here. You’re still having the nightmares, talking in your sleep, but you’re not getting any help.”
“For shit’s sake, I’m not into therapy like you and all your friends are.”
“It might help you, but the point is, you’re just not willing to go there.”
I used to have nightmares regularly—about Med, about Motormouth, Turo. But they had all faded. Eric was wrong. Dreams of Finger haunted me now. Ever since I’d had the baby, Finger’s face, his voice, his touch, even had come back to haunt me, as if the vault door had suddenly sprang open inside me. I’d woken up this morning in a sweat at the memory of his words.
“You’re the villain here. Not me.”
Disappointment settled over me like a layer of wet cement hardening quickly.
“What’s the matter, Eric? You need more attention from me?” I lashed back.
He propped the guitar case up on the sofa. “It’d be nice for a change, instead of being your goddamn afterthought. I get that you work, I know Beck’s a handful. But when we’re both in the same location, you don’t act like you really want me here. I feel like I’m in your goddamn way.”
I chewed on my lips, staring at my bare feet. He had a point. In the beginning of our relationship, I enjoyed spending every minute with him and the other members of Cruel Fate and their crew. But it had gotten tedious real quick, especially when I was in the last months of my pregnancy. Once I had Beck, who we named after Eric’s rock hero, Jeff Beck, I’d preferred to stay home with my baby, rather than be a part of Eric’s background noise.
Eric ran a hand through his thick mop of blondish brown hair. “I’m a little busy as a working musician here. I wish I could take years off between albums to hang out with you and live in our castle in the south of France drinking Evian or some shit, but those of us who aren’t superstars have to actually sweat for a living. If I’m not out there touring, I’m writing and recording. The pressure to produce is harsher than ever, Len. Album sales are tanking, you know this. We haven’t had a hit single in years.”
“I know. Sales are shit for everyone, Eric. All I’m saying is that we’ll never get this time back with Beck. You weren’t around when he started to eat solid foods, to speak, to walk, his first day of school.”
“I know, but it doesn’t mean I’m a shit dad if I can’t be around because of work. Fuck, there you go again, turning this into something else—I’m supporting us, I only wish you could support me!” His voice rose.
“I do support you! How can you say that? I stopped working full time so I could be there for you whenever and wherever you needed me. I was always the first to compromise in this relationship, especially now that we have Beck.”
“You’re the mother!” he shouted.
“Yes, yes, I am. I’m the mother.”
No truer words had been spoken. I thrilled at those words, that title. They were a part of me, and I delighted in them; they were written across my soul, just like Beck’s name had been tattooed over my heart in bold red letters.
Our little boy had been born healthy and energetic. I adored him, and I adored being his mom. For weeks, every morning I would rush to his crib to watch him sleep, still barely able to believe that I had a child. I had achieved this dream, and the dream was real, and I was happy.
Wasn’t I?
We lived in our house in LA most of the time, and spent the odd month here and there at the house in Rapid City. Our lifestyle wasn’t red carpets, paparazzi, and private jets, but it was a recording contract, tour dates, video clips, supportive fans, and a manager who believed in the talent.
We had just come off a tour of the southern states, and it had been challenging with Beck in tow. But I figured if Linda McCartney had done it with four kids, I could do it with one. I did, but I was happy to be back at the house in Rapid.
Eric pulled on his jacket. “Look, David is threatening to pull out of the group and that can’t happen. I need him to write with. I need him onstage. It won’t be the same for me without him. If he leaves, it’ll be the beginning of the end for Cruel Fate.”
“Yeah, well, David needs cocaine to write with you, and he needs cocaine to perform with you. If he doesn’t get help soon—”
“Sure, of course.” Eric shrugged. “But he needs the music, Len. He needs us. We’re his family. We can help him through this.”
“Eric, you haven’t been able to help him through this in over fifteen years. Come on!”
“You don’t get it.”
I waved my hands in the air and picked up Beck’s superhero figures from the living room floor. “Right, right, I forgot, I don’t get it.”
If only he knew.
Eric didn’t know anything about my past. I’d only told him that I’d come from Chicago, studied design, and was good with a sewing machine. I’d explained the scars on my body with a detail-less story about an abusive stepfather, and he never pressed me for more.
Eric gnawed on his lower lip. “Look, I have to get to LA. I just need to make sure David’s okay and get him to finish this album once and for all. I’ve got to get him in gear.”
“Hmm. Right.”
David also had a little sister who’d had a crush on Eric from day one, and Eric was sweet on Pam. They’d had a thing off and on for years before I’d come along. Sara, one of the groupies of the band that I’d befriended from the very beginning, had called me in a drunken haze last month and told me she’d seen Eric and Pam together before and after a show at a small club in San Diego in between concert dates. Pam was a professional cheerleader for an NBA team in California, and hot as hell. Who could say no to adoration from a girl ten years younger than you with pompoms and twerking moves?
The taxi honked its horn outside.
“You go to LA, Eric. Say hi to Pammy for me when you see her.”
“What?” Eric, his eyes wide, stood motionless in the middle of our living room in a sea of Beck’s metal yellow Tonka trucks. His jaw stiffened, and he snatched a Batman doll from the sofa and tossed it into the toy basket at my side. “Pam’s in Houston.”
“Is she? That’s too bad.”
Eric grabbed his guitar case. “I’ll call you.”
He stalked down the hallway, his footsteps thudding down the glossy hardwood floor. The front door opened. The slam of doors, and the car took off down our driveway, its motor fading.
I flopped back on the sofa and stretched out my legs. I didn’t feel sad or particularly angry or even resentful of him and Pam. Eric was right, of course. I’d checked out of our relationship, and our work schedules had provided the perfect excuse. Whenever we were together, a well of panic would rise inside me because I couldn’t give him back all the things he expected of me.
In the very beginning, I had made a supreme effort, when things between us were new and fun and I’d convinced myself that it was for the best. A new adventure in a new world, a world I needed to lose myself in. But I was already lost in the dirty puddle Med had left behind, and lost foremost, in the love I had for Finger. I’d put those feelings high on a shelf, out of reach. But they only stared back at me from their lofty perch, towered over me, casting their shadow over everything.
The late morning rays streamed through the front bay window, and I enjoyed the warmth of the sun on my body. The vividly colored curtains I’d made last year created a warm glow of burnt orange, gold, and berry flowing through the small room. My life with Eric was colorless, and I didn’t want to be his wife anymore. I couldn’t pretend or make do any longer. He was frustrated and pissed, and he had every right to be. And Beck deserved better than growing up with parents who merely tolerated each other. I needed to clean up my mess.
I got up from the sofa and picked up the rest of my son’s toys from the floor. My eyes went to the drawer where I’d tucked that divorce lawyer’s business card a friend had given me last month.
I hadn’t been able to make it work with Eric; it wasn’t in me.
Would it ever be again?