Serge

There’s a ringing in my head and it just won’t go away. I wince at the bright morning light, and pull a pillow over my head, trying to force the ringing out.

This is always the worst. Waking up after a bender to the complete misery…

But I’m not hungover. I didn’t go on a bender. It’s been years since I’ve done that. And the ringing isn’t in my head.

I blink, eyes bleary as I reach out blindly for my phone.

“’Lo?” I answer, my voice rough with sleep.

“I was wondering if you were ever going to answer or if you’re too busy for your poor mother,” my mom says, her slightly affronted, slightly accusatory tone coming loud and clear through the phone.

I groan. “Hi Mom.”

“When were you going to tell me?” she shrieks, and I can’t tell if it’s a good shriek or a bad shriek, but I know it’s a shrill as hell shriek and I hold the phone a few inches from my face, still wincing at the light.

“Tell you what?” I grumble, dragging my knuckles over my eyes, trying to get the crust out of them.

“Oh, honestly Serge, don’t play coy with me. It’s all over the papers!”

I groan again, flopping back into my pillows. “What time is it?” I blink at the digital clock on the bedside table and let out another sound of protest. “Jesus, Mom, it’s seven AM.”

“Oh, you know I always forget about that time difference. Never can remember how it works.”

I roll my eyes. I’m sure she’d remember it no problem if it was me calling her at unreasonable hours.

“But don’t go changing the subject on me! When were you going to tell me that you’re getting back into performing?”

“What? I’m not,” I say with a yawn, sitting up and rubbing the back of my head. I can already tell that this is going to be a call that goes on for awhile and there’s no hope of me getting back to sleep afterward.

“That’s not what the internet says. You did a show last night! I have pictures right here! Oh, honey, I’m so excited for you. I always said you were wasting your talent with those kids and that you should be out there performing in arenas again—”

She’s still going on and on, but I set the phone down in my lap and stretch across the bed for my laptop. I can still mostly hear what she’s saying, the same old same old about my shitty life choices and how she would’ve done it all differently. I don’t really need to listen to this re-run.

But I open up my laptop anyway and search for my name, bracing for the headlines about my near-death experience. Only it’s not that that’s filling the first page of search results. It’s news of my return to the stage. My ‘trial performance’ with DCoy, speculations about a new album. All of it.

Fuck.

I pick up the phone again and my mom’s still prattling on incessantly, never even noticing that I wasn’t there hanging on her every word.

“Mom?”

“—But you know I always said she’d get what’s coming to her, so you can imagine how I—”

“Mom,” I try, a little more forceful.

“What is it honey?”

“I was just doing a favor for a friend, okay? The reporters got it wrong. I’m not making a comeback.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line for a long time. Silence that stretches on for a couple of minutes before I hear my mom take a sharp breath on the other end of the line.

“So you’re still giving up on your dream, then?” she says, her voice clipped and cold. I cringe like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water over my head.

That’s my mom for you. Happy and supportive as long as things are going according to plan. Her plans, obviously.

My arm itches and I scratch it absently, knowing that it’s not a surface itch, that it’s not an itch that any amount of scratching can fix. Just that tone from my mother is enough to send me to the needle. Honestly, that’s a big part of why I don’t talk to her much anymore. Ever since I got out of rehab, I’ve had to keep my distance. Sobriety’s the most important thing, and any one of my friends that didn’t understand that would just have to go on without me. That’s what they taught me in rehab, and it’s something I’ve taken to heart ever since.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I snap back. “I’ve gotta go. Do so love these chats of ours,” I say, cutting the call short before she can even say anything else. It rings again immediately, but I ignore it, the itch under my skin burning until it’s the only thing I can think of.

It was a mistake to perform with Tori. Just that one show has already brought me closer to using again than I’ve been in nearly seven years. I know this is a dangerous road, and I know I need to stay the hell away from it.

I pick up the phone, intending to call Tori. I need to tell her that I can’t do it again. I can’t go to the next show. I can’t be on stage again, in the tabloids again, people all over the world questioning my every move, wondering if I’m using again and who I’m dragging down with me this time.

I can’t do it.

But instead of calling her right away — it is seven in the freaking morning, after all — I head to the kitchen. If I’m going to be up, I might as well have coffee.

I’m still looking at the phone, debating texting her at least — as spineless as it seems, at least it wouldn’t be an early-morning wake-up call — when I reach for the fridge and stop.

On the fridge, in pride of place with pizza menus and bills shoved to the side, is one of Kamala’s drawings. I told her I was going to put it on my fridge, and I meant it.

“God damn it,” I grouse. I know I can’t cancel on Tori. The program could use her donation. The kids could benefit, and I have to keep them at the forefront of my mind. I can’t be selfish here.

Though, part of me knows I am being selfish. Because if it weren’t for the kids, I’m sure I’d find another reason not to cancel on Tori. I really liked playing with her. With her whole band, but her especially. From the moment we were on stage together, we were in sync. The show wasn’t some disaster where it was obvious we hadn’t had a chance to rehearse. It was a good show.

Better than I thought, even, if the tabloids were to be believed. The internet is positively gushing about my comeback and, as dangerous as I know it is, I find myself preening about it.

Ian always got the attention when we were in Nuclear Kool-aid. Which is all fine and good. The frontman should get all the attention, but that does leave the rest of the band feeling relegated to the shadows. Especially when you’re the frontman’s best friend and no one even realizes you’re in the band too.

It’s a little petty, but I always wanted some of the limelight for myself and it seems this might just be my ticket.

I just don’t know if I can handle it. Show after show, long hours spent on buses, cramped in shitty hotel rooms, living on top of one another…

My hands ball into fists. I know how I dealt with it last time, and I know that’s not an option for me this time. There’s no point in worrying and fretting over things that may never come to be.

So I set my phone on the counter and get to work making a pot of coffee.

Except today’s just not my day. Before the water’s even percolating my phone’s ringing again.

“Not now, Mom,” I grumble at it, nearly ignoring it. But the caller ID doesn’t say DOOM, it says Ava and I lunge across the counter to grab the phone, my heart in my throat.

“Ava? Is everything okay?” I haven’t talked to her many times before, but she never really has good news, so I’ve got a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“More or less,” she says with a heavy sigh.

“What is it? What hospital?” I ask, without a second thought, already jumping into sweats, digging through the pile of clothes on my couch for a shirt that’s wearably clean.

“Calm down,” she says, her voice tired but gentle. I wonder how long she’s been awake. If she even got any sleep.

“We’re at St. Christopher’s. Kamala came down with a fever yesterday afternoon and it worsened through the night. They’re running a full blood count and checking for any infections.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. It’s always scary when Kamala goes into the hospital, but at least this is one of the more routine ones. Not like she collapsed or something.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I say.

“There’s no rush, you know she’ll—”

“As soon as I can,” I say, cutting her off. I know what she’s going to say. That Kamala’s going to be so busy with people poking her and prodding her that she wouldn’t even know I was there. That she’s probably going to be in and out of sleep and won’t even notice. That she’s going to be on drugs and might not even remember.

I don’t care. Kamala’s my little buddy and I’m not letting her go through any of this without me.

I’m not even bothering with a shower, and my coffee pot’s still spewing dark liquid that will probably be more or less tar by the time I get home, but I’m not letting any of it slow me down. I grab my key and practically run out the door.

“Oh, shit!” someone yells, jumping back from me as I nearly run into them.

Not just someone.

“Tori, what are you doing here?” She looks as disheveled as I must, like she just rolled out of bed and put some sweats on, way earlier than she’d like to.

She holds up a cup carrier full of travel coffee cups. “I’m on my way to practice and thought you might wanna come with, get a feel for the rest of our songs, get to know the band a bit better… you know?” She shrugs and smiles uncertainly. “Don’t know how you like your coffee, but feel free to take one.”

“Black’s fine,” I say, taking one from the tray that doesn’t have any markings. “But I can’t come with you.”

She frowns. “Oh… okay, it’s not a big—”

“It’s not that I don’t want to, but…” I sigh. Tori may as well know. “It’s Kamala, she’s in the hospital.”

Her eyes go wide and her jaw drops, all the color draining from her face. “Oh my god, is she okay? What happened?”

I’m actually a little surprised by her concern, but it makes me smile, too.

“She’s fine… Well, mostly. Kamala’s got something called Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. She’s been a trooper through chemo and the ongoing treatments, but any time she’s sick, they have to watch her really closely and make sure it’s not a resurgence.”

“Oh my god, that’s terrible. I never would have guessed… She’s always so full of energy.”

“Yeah, it’s tough to see her not feeling like herself, but I’ve gotta be there for her.”

Tori nods, chewing her bottom lip, looking at the coffees still in hand.

“Would it be okay if I come with you?” she asks, and I’m taken aback, but pleasantly surprised.

“I think she’d like that,” I say, leading her down to the garage behind the building. I don’t ask where her car is or offer to meet her at the hospital. It would just take too much time and I’d already wasted enough. Kamala needs me.

Of course, once we’re at the hospital, I have to make a quick pit stop at the gift shop for a teddy bear and a chocolate bar.

Ava meets us outside the hospital room door and Tori offers her a coffee, which she narrows her eyes at, then accepts. She’s clearly too worn out to even be suspicious of free coffee.

“How is she?” I ask, trying to look over Ava’s shoulder into the room beyond.

“She’s good,” Ava says between sips of coffee. “I’m not sure she even feels sick, but her white blood cells are up, so you know they want to keep her and keep an eye on her.”

I sigh, nodding. “I hate that she has to be cooped up in here so much.”

Ava gives me a sad smile and pats me on the arm. “I’m glad she has you.”

“Can we go in?”

She nods, stepping aside. “But don’t get her all riled up. She does need to sleep at some point.”

I send her an innocent grin before stepping into the hospital room. The smell of antiseptic hits me first, then the shrill beeping from the far side of the room. But then there are more normal Saturday morning sounds — cartoons on the TV and a little girl singing to herself.

I hide the bear and the chocolate behind my back, peering around the bed curtain that shields Kamala from the door.

“Commander?”

“General!” she squeals, jumping to her knees in the bed with a big grin, tangling the tube and wires hooked into her.

“Careful there,” I chuckle, wrapping her into a big hug. She squeezes me back, her skin grayer than usual, her eyes a little dimmer, but she’s trying to put on a brave face.

“You know you didn’t have to do all this just to see me again,” I tease her and she giggles, smacking my arm.

“I got something for you.” I bring the teddy bear out from behind my back, making him dance and bob toward her, his arms and legs flopping.

“Thank you,” she says, hugging the bear tight too.

“And,” I say, my voice lowered to a whisper, “don’t tell anyone.” I hand her the chocolate bar and her eyes go wide before she shoves it under her pillowcase for safe-keeping.

“I can’t eat until after my tests later,” she pouts.

“Definitely don’t want to cheat on those tests. Then they’ll just keep you here longer,” I say, making a face. She makes the same face back at me and then we laugh together before I remember Tori.

“Oh, I brought someone else to visit you,” I say, grinning.

Tori pops her head around the curtain and waves. “Hi Kamala. I’m sorry you’re not feeling good.”

Kamala shrugs. “That’s okay. It happens a lot. I’m used to it.”

“So what’re you watching?” I ask, turning toward the TV. I see the stricken look on Tori’s face and I know what it means. Lots of people don’t really know how to interact with a kid like Kamala. Not just a smart, outspoken kid, not just a sick kid, but all of those things. She knows she’s sick, but she doesn’t let it slow her down. And she knows the reality of the situation. She doesn’t like being pandered to. She doesn’t appreciate being treated like some fragile thing, and lots of people really don’t know how to deal with that.

At least Tori seems to know that she doesn’t know. She’s just kind of watching us interact together like a biologist observing animals in the wild.

“Ponies, but it’s an old season. Twilight’s not even a Princess in this one.”

“Ugh,” I groan, making a face. “Does that mean she’s not an alicorn either?”

“Yeah,” Kamala says, the disdain clear in her voice.

“What’s even the point?”

“I know, right?”

After talking about My Little Pony some more, we switch topics to the competition, then to the virtues of crayons over markers, and eventually, after her tests and lunch, I suggest reading a story and it’s not long before she’s fast asleep.

Ava had left at one point earlier in the morning, but she’s back now, talking to the doctors, as we decide to dip out.

“Thanks for coming,” she says with a soft smile. I nod.

“You know I always will.”

Tori and I head out of the hospital and it feels like it should be after midnight, not only three or so in the afternoon.

“Shit, you missed your practice,” I say, suddenly remembering the world outside of the hospital. Tori shrugs.

“It’s fine. I had somewhere else to be.”

“Thanks for coming with me,” I say. I didn’t ask her to, but I didn’t realize how nice it would be to have someone there with me. It’s hard sometimes, keeping the brave face for a kid that just wants you to tell her everything’s going to be all right, even though you know it might not be. But with Tori there, I didn’t have to do it alone. I was able to draw strength from her, and I’m not even sure she realizes how comforting it was to have her there.

“Thanks for letting me come,” she says, a small, sad smile on her pretty pouty lips. “Who’s Ava?”

“Kamala’s social worker,” I say. “She lives with a foster family that takes care of a lot of kids with special medical needs.”

Tori nods. “So why does her social worker call you when she’s in the hospital?”

I shrug. “Kamala and I just have this… bond. I don’t know. We’ve always gotten along really well and she doesn’t really have anyone else. Ava’s got a thousand more kids, and her foster family is nice enough, but they’ve got their hands full. There’s no one else who’s just going to go sit with her and talk about ponies. We’ve always just… clicked.”

It’s not just that. I’ve always been protective of Kamala, too. And whenever she’s not feeling good, I want nothing more than to make everything better. I care about all my kids, obviously, and have a special relationship with a number of them, but Kamala’s always been extra special.

“Have you ever thought about adopting her?”

I freeze in the middle of the hospital parking garage like I just ran into a brick wall. It only lasts a second before I’m back in stride with Tori, but the shock of the question shoves roots deep into my brain.

Why hadn’t I ever thought about that?

“No,” I say truthfully. Then my mouth supplies the reasoning without me even having to think of it. “I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t let an ex-heroin addict without a real job adopt a sick orphan.”

She frowns, but doesn’t argue with me. And even though it sounds pretty cut and dried when I say it like that, I can’t stop thinking about the possibility the rest of the afternoon.