Tuesday, June 27
(Gus)
There's a sudden pain in my ribs. Both sides. Franco's punching me from the left side, and Jamie's poking me from the right.
"Wake up, ass hat," Franco says, practically shouting into my ear.
"We're on the ground, Gus." It's Jamie this time.
My eyes are sticky and crusted with sleep. And my nose, my entire head really, is stuffy and congested. My throat is sore, like I've been swallowing razor blades. I have a cold. Symptoms started last night before our last show of the tour, but after a few hours' sleep on this flight home, it feels as if the germs have waged an all-out assault on my immune system. Summer colds are bullshit. As I clear my throat and pry my eyes open, Franco punches me again. Hard.
I hold up my hand to ward off any further physical attack. "Stop. I'm up, dammit. I'm up." My voice sounds like sawdust, dry and dusty.
As we wait for those in the front rows to exit the plane, Jamie hops out in the aisle and pulls down our carry-ons. Robbie joins him from across the aisle.
When the semi-orderly evacuation finds our row, my body protests vehemently to standing and walking. Every joint in my body aches. Strike the foolish notion that this is a cold—it's definitely the flu. I trudge behind Franco, Robbie, and Jamie, following their taunts about how slow I am the entire way to baggage claim. I can't say it bothers me at all though. Over the past few weeks, things with the guys are back to normal. The tension and edge is gone.
After we find our bags at the baggage claim, we head outside to the taxi lanes. Franco, Robbie, and Jamie share a cab. Jamie and Robbie share a place in Carlsbad with a couple other guys, but they're staying at Franco's place in San Diego tonight. The three of them leave for Hawaii tomorrow. They're going on vacation for a week. Surfing for a week, no less. Me, I'm just happy to be heading back to Ma's. I don't need a vacation. I need home.
The cab ride takes about thirty minutes and though all I want to do is sleep, I can't get this nagging feeling out of my pressure-filled head. Impatient left Sunday afternoon from Dallas. I heard a muffled conversation between her and Hitler on the bus right before soundcheck. When we arrived back on the bus after dinner, she was gone. Her bunk was empty. She fucking vanished into thin air. It was like she'd never even been there at all. It was a shock I felt in my gut. I don't know if it was the fact that familiarity had been altered. I don't know if it was the fact that I knew I was on my own again, if only for two days. But what bothered me the most was that she didn't say goodbye, which is batshit crazy, because I know she didn't like me. We never talked outside of that morning at the laundromat in Tennessee. But we had established a routine of silent communication using sticky notes of all things, and the past three weeks we added hand gestures and facial cues. What started off impersonal turned into intimately impersonal. When you don't speak with someone out loud, you study their mannerisms and body language much more closely. You get to know them on a different level. Bright Side and I were that way. We could carry on an entire conversation without ever uttering a word.
By the time we pull in Ma's driveway and I pay, thoughts of Impatient have gone foggy and given way to exhaustion. I'm struggling to put one foot in front of the other to walk up the front porch steps, and all I can think about is sleeping the day away while Ma's at work.
My eyes are hazy and scratchy when I open them. The sun is setting outside my window. I blink a few times trying to clear my vision to take in the view. The sunset doesn't come into focus; instead it becomes a blur of fiery orange. I feel a sudden rush of grief. I blink, and realize that my eyes are filling with tears. Sunsets have always reminded me of Bright Side. She and her sister, Gracie, loved to watch the sunset. They did it every night. It was a planned event, and they called it "showtime." Seeing the sun drown itself out in the ocean tonight is bittersweet because it brings with it thoughts of her and the fact that I'll never watch a sunset with either one of them again. The pain builds in my chest until it erupts into sobs. I haven't cried like this for weeks. When I finally catch my breath, I'm covered in sweat. My body feels foreign, and my mind seems to float at a distance. It takes more effort than it should to heave my body out of bed and strip off my soaked T-shirt and sweats, and slip into a pair of board shorts from a pile of dirty clothes on the floor next to my bed. I don't want to make the journey to the kitchen, but I'm so thirsty and I need some aspirin. My head is throbbing.
I hear Ma's voice talking to someone as I round the corner into the kitchen. She stops mid-sentence when she sees me. "Gus, honey, what's wrong?" The back of her hand is to my forehead in a flash. "You have a fever."
"Flu," I confirm. "Better keep your distance, Ma. Hi, by the way. I missed you."
"Hi, Gus. Oh, I've missed you, too." She hugs me despite my warning and I'm grateful for it. I squeeze her and my muscles scream, but I ignore them. Arms still wrapped around Ma, I open my eyes and notice the person standing across the kitchen, cutting onions, mushrooms, and red peppers. Seeing her confirms that I've gone from feverish to delirious.
It's Impatient.
What the hell?
Her stance hints at her normal guarded defiance, but she also looks sheepish. Or scared. I can't tell which. Either emotion is all wrong on her. She nods her head. On the bus, that was good morning, or hi, or good night. I'm so fucking flustered right now, that I'm not sure it means what it used to.
I release Ma and look at her questioningly. She knows I'm looking for answers.
She clears her throat. "I guess I don't need to introduce the two of you. Gus, I hired Scout to be my new assistant." That was tentative, even for Ma. She's trying to gloss over this as no big deal.
But now that Impatient is standing in our kitchen, I realize that it's a big deal.
I shake my head and the percussive pounding between my ears amps up. Hours ago my mind had turned Impatient into some weird regret, and now that I'm standing in the same room with her again and can feel her tightly wound constitution, all I want to do is leave and go back to bed. I don't know if it's the fact that I feel like hell, but I hope she's not still here when I wake up because this house seems all wrong with Impatient inside. Maybe this is all just a fucking dream.
As I turn around, Ma's words stop me as I exit the kitchen. "It's taco Tuesday, Gus. Don't you want something to eat?"
"No thanks, Ma. I'm not hungry." I shuffle back to my room and fall asleep the instant I drop into bed.