Blue Saturn (28 page)

I know what it’s going to be. An apology. And I know that reading it will not make me feel any better. But I unfold the piece of paper, sit down on the couch and begin reading it anyway.

Dear Lyndsay,

I’m not going to offer you any excuses for my behaviour, because you and I both know the reasons behind what happened.

I’m a weak man Lyndsay and you deserve someone a hundred times stronger than me.

If you’re willing to read it, I’d like to explain to you exactly what happened last night.

As you know I went out with Liane and the producers from the label. For weeks, they have been putting pressure on me to write better music. And Liane felt the best way to bring out my creative side was to use “substances.”

That is why I had been so stressed of late. The pressure being put on me day in and out was beginning to put little chinks in my resolve and I felt myself weakening. But I thought I could get through it. I thought I was strong.

At dinner, Liane offered me a glass of wine, assuring me that having one little glass wasn’t going to make me a bad person. I thought I could have one glass and then stop. But in my weakening state, I drank it, and I couldn’t stop.

Once that alcohol hit my tongue, I lost all control. During dinner, I finished off two bottles of wine. And then on the way home, Liane stopped and bought two more. When we arrived back at my place, she offered to help me upstairs.

And what happened after that feels like a dream.

I knew what Liane was doing to my body. But in my drunken, weak state, I didn’t stop her from doing it.

I never thought that I deserved someone as special as you Lyndsay, and now I’ve proven it to myself and to you.

I know that you saw Liane and I. And I’m truly sorry for that because I know that image will never leave your mind. And while that image haunts you, I know I will never have you in my arms again.

This causes me pain beyond what you could ever understand.

I’m sorry Lyndsay. I’m sorry I broke my promises to you. But one promise I will never break.

I promised you that every day I’m alive I will tell you that I love you. And I intend to keep that promise.

I love you Lyndsay.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

I will miss you every day. I will miss your laughter and your smile and your soft touch. I will miss your kindness and patience. I will miss you.

With all my love,

Mike.

Tears are pouring down my face. I can feel his regret and sadness. I can also feel his hope. As always when Mike is involved, I can feel.

I can feel him.

I hold the letter in my hands, over my heart and cry. I cry uncontrollably, my eyes clenched shut, my chest caving in with the tenderness of his words.

Gavin sits down beside me and wraps his arms around me. He gently holds me while I cry and when I lack the strength to cry anymore, he holds me while I try to breathe. And then, when I lack the strength to do anything but sleep, he lifts me into his arms and carries me to my bed. He lays me down and lowers himself down next to me, pulling me into his arms and tenderly strokes my hair until I feel the pain slowly ebb away.

I wake up alone in bed and the pressing feeling on my chest instantly reignites. I can’t be alone right now. I need...

I reach for my phone. “Meredith,” I sob down the phone. “I need you.”

Mike

25.

“Where are you going?” Gavin meets me at the bottom of the stairs.

I hold up my guitar case, which holds my acoustic guitar. “I’m going to the hospital for a few hours. Jas said she’d look after Mikey for me.”

Gavin nods his head and scratches his chest. “Have you been in touch with the agency for a nanny for Mikey?”

I sigh. “Not yet. I’ll get around to it.”

“We leave in six weeks,” Gavin reminds me, yet again.

“I’m aware of that, mate. I’ll do it.” I grab my keys from the table next to the front door and head out. I throw my guitar across the back seat and climb into my car.

A nanny. I sigh. There is only one nanny I’d ever trust with my child and I know for a fact she won’t speak to me.

It has been just over one year since I completely screwed up and Lyndsay left me. And I don’t blame her for doing it. I hurt her in ways I never thought possible and even with a heart as big as hers, I knew she wouldn’t forgive me. I don’t deserve her forgiveness.

I deserve to feel this pain every day.

But a lot of good has come from my mistake.

Firstly, I spent six months in rehab. It was a private facility just out of Melbourne, one that caters for all different kinds of addictions. Gavin dropped me off there once I was discharged from hospital. And other than Mikey and Gavin, I didn’t allow anyone to see me. My only form of contact with the outside world was letters; handwritten, old-school. Cherry and Carey wrote to me every month and I always replied to them. But other than that, I focused purely on my recovery. The problem with my first attempt at sobriety was that I was over confident. I thought that getting clean was the hard part, when in actual fact, staying clean is the real challenge.

During those six months at the clinic, I can confidently say that every single day I craved alcohol or drugs or a cigarette – hell, even today I’ve craved those things – but I learnt to control those urges, replace them with something that can’t harm my body. So, because of that, I went from a scrawny small sized man who could wear my girlfriends’ jeans to a fit and athletic extra large build. And I gotta say, I love my new look. I love that my t-shirts feel tight around my biceps. I love that my chest and abs have definition. I love that I look and feel strong. Having a strong body has definitely contributed toward my strong mind. Without one, I can’t have the other.

So I workout every morning, strong lifts and cardio and I also run in the afternoon. I can run an easy 15 k’s these days.

While I was in rehab, I negotiated with my recording label. No, negotiate is too soft a word. I made demands to my label. The first demand was that Liane was to be fired and was to be replaced by a male. The second demand; my songs were to be recorded my way, or they could contact their lawyers and take me to court. I was absolutely adamant. And I was completely confident that they’d agree.

There was a lot of media hype surrounding the sudden disappearance of Blue Saturn’s lead singer, Mike Green; or me. Some speculated that I’d died. Other gossip columns suggested that the nanny turned girlfriend had manipulated me into quitting music and that I was now living on a small island off the north coast. Others said that I had gone underground to write and record a new record and it was going to be the best music any one had heard in decades. And some, the more realistic reports, suggested that I was in rehab. I have no idea who came up with these stories but I didn’t care. I knew that when I did arrive back on the scene, I would be worth even more money to the label. And I knew they wouldn’t let me go. So I stood firm to my demands.

And my demands were met with very little compromise. The only compromise I did have to make was in regards to Paul. The label wanted Paul back for this record and the subsequent tours. After that, he’d be out, if I still wanted him gone. I agreed to that only because Paul is a damn good musician and I didn’t really feel up to having to find someone to replace him.

Three days after I came out from rehab we went into the recording studio. Normally, and when I say normally, I mean before I knew about Mikey’s existence, we went into the studio and came out again with a perfect record within a few days, one week max. This time it took weeks. Because of my tumultuous year, I’d kept Mikey back a year from school - again. That was a big mistake, because that meant I had to take Mikey into the studio with me. Let me say, there is nothing worse than having a small kid in a recording studio. And it wasn’t just me who felt it. Everyone involved was about ready to strangle Mikey, and me. Hence Gavin’s constant reminders to find a nanny for this tour.

Despite Mikey’s constant interruptions, the record is done and I gotta say, it is just as awesome as I hoped it would be. In six weeks, we go on a small ten day promotional tour, performed in small personal venues before we go on a big international tour next year. There is even talk that our last record is selling well in the US. If we can get sales on this record to reach good numbers, we’ll definitely extend our tour to include the States. I’ll definitely need a nanny for that. There is no way I’m leaving Mikey for that long. I love that kid and I miss him like crazy when he’s not around.

If only I could come up with a way to get Lyndsay to talk to me.

I made a promise to Lyndsay. I told her I’d tell her every day that I loved her. I intended to keep that promise. While I was in rehab, I didn’t have a phone. So, instead of texting her, I started sending her small cards. Every day, to this day, I hand write a card and send it to her. The card says the exact same thing every time.
‘Dear Lyndsay, I love you. Mike.’

And instead of posting them to her, I get them couriered. The company says that most days the notes are being hand delivered, but if there is no response, they slide them under the front door. You don’t want to know how much money its cost to have those letters hand delivered every day for over a year. But it’s been worth every cent to know that I’m keeping at least that one promise to her.

Have I tried to call her – heck yes, but she had her phone number disconnected. Gavin told me that he’d tried to call her three days after he’d taken her home and it was disconnected then. He took that as a pretty good sign that she didn’t want to see any of us.

I know she hasn’t completely forgotten about us though. Last year Mikey got a birthday present from her. It was three pieces of origami, a crane, a boat and an elephant. She’d had them mounted, each one on a different background, and framed. Mikey told me that when she first came to look after him, she’d made him origami to try to cheer him up. A crane, boat and elephant were the first three things she made. I was impressed that he’d remembered. Mikey insisted I immediately hang them on the wall in his bedroom and there they’ve remained.

They’re not the only reminder of her around the house. For our first Christmas together, Lyndsay arranged for a photographer to come to the house to take photos of my family. Those photos are absolutely beautiful. I have 35 framed photo’s going up the wall along the staircase. Some are black and white and some are in colour. All my family are accounted for in the photos, including Lyndsay. She will always be family to me. There is one photo of us that breaks my heart every time I see it. It’s a photo of Lyndsay and I and it was taken moments after she’d blundered her way through explaining what my present was. I love and I hated that she always thought she was doing the wrong thing by me. Anyway, in this photo, our foreheads are pressed together and we’re smiling into each other’s eyes. It’s an absolutely stunning photo. I find myself standing on the damn top step looking at it all the time. I know that given the chance, I could look at her the exact same way with the exact same amount of love. But I doubt she’d feel that same way about me.

It’s not only the wall decorations that remind me of Lyndsay; my mind is full of memories. My mind’s eye can see her in every room, I can hear her laugh, and I can smell her sweet scent. I feel her in bed with me. Some days it drives me crazy that I can’t forget her. But most days, I cherish those memories and hope that I never lose them.

My phone sounds to tell me someone has sent me a text. My phone is connected to the Bluetooth in my car and the strange robotic voice reads the message to me.

“From Cherry: For the love of good, call Dad!”

Call Dad? What the heck for? So he can tell me that I’m nothing but a failure and a good for nothing useless son and father and will only ever cause him embarrassment? Because that was pretty much the body of the letter he sent me while I was in rehab. He said he wasn’t angry at me anymore because his disappointment in me outweighed his anger astronomically. Yeah, things between Dad and I are as sour as ever. At least we had that one great Christmas day together.

I pull into the car park of the hospital, find a spot under a tree and grab my guitar from the back seat. I haven’t been to a hospital to play since I was in Sydney the year before last. I’ve been here a few times before though, and I know exactly where to go. I like to play in the room where the patients are being given their chemo. It’s a big room, with lots of comfy couches and chairs. I like that this hospital has it set up so that the patients who feel up to it can interact with the other patients. The atmosphere is a lot less clinical than other hospitals I’ve visited, less intimidating.

Also, this is the hospital where my mum received her treatment.

I make my way down the long corridor, smile at the nurse sitting behind the desk and open the door to the chemo room. It’s full today. There have got to be close to 30, maybe more, patients, all hooked up to their IV lines. I walk to the far corner of the room, hearing the excited whispers of a few patients who have recognised me, and set my guitar down on the floor. I sit down on a plastic chair and lift my guitar from its case.

I hear a low whisper from a table near to me. “He’s so wonderful. He came during my last treatment too. His voice is so soothing.”

I look up and smile at the middle aged woman. She’s playing cards with another patient and when our eyes meet she blushes a crimson red.

I look around the room and I seem to have the attention of most of the patients. There are a few that have their backs to me and haven’t seen me yet, but I know that once I start singing, they’ll turn around. I have that effect on people. My voice seems to demand attention. I hope that’s a good thing.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I thought I’d drop by to play a few songs,” I say as I check again that the guitar is in tune. I strum a few chords and look out to the room.

“Do you take requests?” a man not too far away from me asks.

“I sure do,” I answer. “What would you like to hear?”

“I’d like to hear ‘Hotel California’ if you think you can do it any justice.” The man puts his book down on his lap.

“I think I can manage.” I strum a few chords, clear my throat and launch into the song.

I get a few more requests, but after a while the patients all seem to relax back into their seats and let me play a few of my own favourites. As I look around the room, I seem to have everyone’s attention. Some are giving me their rapt attention, others are tapping their feet as they continue to read or knit. Others are sitting back with their eyes closed, just listening, allowing themselves to forget about their illness for a short time and letting their minds be fully absorbed in the music. Hell, if I can give them that short reprieve, even if it is only for a few hours, then I’m happy with that.

But there is one person whose attention I don’t have. They’ve had their back to me the entire time. They’re lying down on a couch toward the back of the room. They haven’t moved the entire time I’ve been here. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone sleep through a chemo treatment; most shiver with cold, some feel instantly nauseous and headachy. From what my mum told me, it’s a pretty horrendous time.

I can’t tell if they’re a boy or a girl; they’re wearing a blue scarf tied around their head which makes me think it’s a boy and judging by the size of their small frame alone, I’m guessing it’s a young person; maybe a teenager, perhaps even younger. I’m wondering why on earth they’re here alone for their treatment. Most patients bring along a “chemo buddy”, especially young people. Some bring an entire posse along with them. But this kid is all alone and I feel a small squeeze in my chest thinking that they’re going through this alone. I’ll make sure to talk to them once I’m done playing.

I’ve been playing for about an hour now. Most are finishing up their treatments and are getting ready to leave. But the young person at the back is still lying perfectly still. I’ll play one more song, one of my favourites and then I’ll spend some time talking to the patients.

“This last song...” I start. “Well it’s one of my favourites.” I laugh and shake my head at the memories that come to my mind every time I think about this song. “It’s called ‘Paradise Street.’”

As I play the first few chords, I think about Lyndsay. I remember her carefree spirit the day I caught her jumping on the bed in the hotel. I remember the way she jumped up and down at that concert in Brisbane, so free and unashamed. I’ll never forget her smile and the way her mouth moved as she sang along. And once again I feel my heart tighten and my stomach drop with a heavy regret that I made her want to leave me.

As I finish up the first verse and head into the chorus, I look to the back of the room again. I see that young kids’ shoulders shake and their body tense before they calm again. They’re either crying or really cold. God I hope they’re cold. It sucks to think they’re alone and crying.