Friday, March 9
(Franco)
Gemma and I message each other every day.
Until yesterday.
I messaged.
No response.
Maybe she's busy? I thought.
Maybe she lost her phone? I thought.
So, I messaged again when I woke up this morning.
I surfed and checked my phone. No response.
Band rehearsal and checked my phone. No response.
Maybe she's been in an accident? I worried.
Maybe she's unable to respond? I worried.
So, I messaged, Are you okay? Because I'm not one to interfere, but I am a silent fixer. Meaning I lurk in the background, rather than hover in the forefront, and try to help.
I visited my brother, Julian, at his tattoo studio and talked to him about a tattoo I want to get before the tour starts and checked my phone. No response.
I went to Mom and Dad's for dinner and checked my phone. No response.
Now I'm home. It's late.
I've been pacing the living room down the hallway path, thankful I have hardwood because carpet would be worn down to the pad if I didn't. I'm tired. I have a headache. My body desperately wants to sleep them both off. But I have this nagging feeling that something is wrong.
My phone ringing inside my pocket makes my heart pound.
It's probably Gus, Jamie, or Robbie—they're the only ones who would call me at midnight.
But when I see her name on my phone my heart sinks because she doesn't call, she messages. Only bad news would warrant a call following radio silence. I make a quick note to work on my pessimistic side because it's obviously winning.
"Gem, is everything okay?" I sound panicked. I'm trying not to, but I do.
"Hiya." Never has a cheerful greeting sounded so dire. "I'm sorry I haven't messaged you back. I wanted to call and apologize for being rude. I've never liked getting my period, but it was particularly annoying this month. My reaction to it was much more visceral than I anticipated it might be. I'd prepared myself and done all of the necessary pep talks: This may take time. You can't expect success on the first try. I'm a rational person, I believed what I was saying in theory. When theory became reality, all reason evaporated, and I found myself in the fetal position crying and I couldn't stop. For twenty-four hours. I've never been one to shut down in the face of failure. I was embarrassed to tell you we'd failed because I feel like I let you down. Like my body rejected your kindness—"
I cut her off. "Gem, stop. Please don't. This is about you and your future family. It's not about me. Please don't worry about me. We're a team that's focused on you, that's it. Period."
"I'm British, we pride ourselves in being stoic. I'm a blithering mess," she responds. There's so much going on in her head, I can hear the static raging.
"That's okay. Feelings are like physics. Force generated creates an equal and opposite reaction. Intense passion put into something creates a result equally as passionate. Pregnancy would've resulted in extreme happiness. It makes sense that the opposite outcome would result in extreme disappointment. Don't be so hard on yourself. What you do going forward is what will define you, though. You can't give up. We'll try again."
"I can't take time off from work this month to come visit. My team has deadlines that need to be met. And I can't ask you to come here."
"Why not? Ask me," I pause for a millisecond and amend because I don't want her to have to think. "Or better yet, don't ask me. Tell me."
"Franco," she sighs. It's not exasperation. It's not desperation. It's the equivalent of dropping into my arms because she's exhausted and is relieved to have someone prop her up temporarily until she finds her footing again. Because she will find her footing and when she does she'll be back to driven, determined, I-make-shit-happen Gemma. Everyone deserves to falter in crisis, vulnerability is part of what makes us human. It's whether we let the crisis swallow us whole, that defines us.
"Just tell me what day I need to be there and how long, Gem." I prompt because she can't hesitate if she's going to push through this.
"Erm..." She's thinking, not delaying, so I wait. "I'm looking at my calendar."
"Take your time."
"What about your tour? You have rehearsals and—" Considerate Gemma is putting my needs ahead of hers. Again.
I repeat, "Tell me what day I need to be there."
"The twentieth."
"Done. Message me the name of a hotel near you too, and I'll book a room. Unless your roommate doesn't mind hearing you shout my name repeatedly in the middle of the night or sex on the kitchen table?"
She laughs. Yes! "I love my roommate dearly, but she's not tolerant of the telly turned up to ten. Having to listen to us turned up to ten in the bedroom next door to hers might be a bit much for her."
"Hotel room it is."