Gus (2 page)

I power up my phone. I shut it off days ago when I left home because I didn't want to deal with everyone ... or anyone. I checked in with Ma about the funeral via text, but that's it. I'm already cringing before I see the number of missed calls, texts, and emails because I know it's going to be too many.
 

87 missed calls

72 texts

37 emails

"Dude," I say, exhaling exasperation, or denial, or indifference. I can't decide which at the moment, so I toss my phone on the bed and finish my cigarette, followed by another ... followed by another. It's fifteen minutes of nothing more than breathing through my addiction. I can't stop thinking about her. Nothing specific, nothing I can visualize or recall. It's just pain and emptiness. Darkness. The light,
the bright light
, is gone. I'm fighting to draw calm out of the cigarette with each deep pull; to dispel the darkness.
 

The calm doesn't come.

So, I pick up my life—my phone—again, and skim through the missed calls first: my mom; my bandmates: Franco, Robbie, and Jamie; our producer, MFDM (the Motherfucking Dream Maker, his real name's Tom, but he loves it when I call him MFDM); and our tour manager, Hitler (not his real name obviously, but it suits him given his tendency toward overall insensitivity. Our next tour's been in suspense. Apparently, in his mind, said tour and the almighty dollar take priority over us dealing with terminal illness and the death of a human being.). The only name I want to see, both on an instinctive and selfish level, isn't here. And it never will be again.

I skip the texts and emails and call my mom instead. She answers on the second ring. "Gus, honey, where are you? Are you okay?"

I hate hearing her worry like this, but knowing my desertion is fueling it makes it worse. "Hey, Ma."

She repeats, "Where are you? Your truck's still at the church."

"Yeah, I know. I've been staying at a motel." My throat feels dry and scratchy as I speak.

"Gus, you should come home." My mom's never been one to tell me what to do. Suggestively guide? Absolutely. But tell me what to do? It rarely happens.

I don't answer.

She sighs, "Honey, I know this is hard—"

I cut her off. "
Hard
? Please tell me you did not just say this is
hard
, Ma, because that's the understatement of the century." She sniffles and I know she's starting to cry, which makes me feel like shit because I know I'm the catalyst. "Sorry Ma."

"I know." The pain that rises out of those two words reminds me that we're in this together. She misses her, too.

I throw on my suit coat and pick up my lighter and cigarettes and stuff them in my pocket. "I'll be home in a half hour. Love you."

"Love—"

I end the call before I hear her finish.

By the time I settle up my bill at the motel, take a cab to the church to get my truck, and drive home, an hour has passed. It's lunchtime.

When I open the front door, the aroma of garlic and caramelized onions assaults me. Veggie tacos. My stomach growls on cue. I can't remember the last time I ate.

I kiss Ma on the forehead on my way through the kitchen. "I need to get out of this damn suit. I'll be right back."

When I return, we eat in silence. Ma's a lot like Bright Side. Or maybe Bright Side was a lot like Ma. They both understood the power of silence. Some people are threatened by silence and try to avoid it or fill it with needless bullshit. Silence isn't the enemy. It can bring comfort and clarity and validation. It's a reminder of time for what it is ... presence. Which sadly doesn't mean as much as it did a week ago.

Eight tacos in and my stomach starts screaming for mercy. "Thanks for taco Tuesday, Ma."

She smiles but it doesn't begin to reach her eyes. "You're welcome." She looks tired. "By the way, Franco's been by every day to check on you."

It's her way of telling me to call him. "Yeah, I'll call him when I get out of the shower."

Two phone calls down (Franco and fucking Hitler), and I'm ready to throw my phone out the window into the fucking ocean, crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head, and forget everything. We're leaving for Europe Thursday morning to begin the postponed tour. Our self-titled debut album, Rook, has done well in the states since its release late last year, but it's nothing compared to how it's blown up in Europe. Hitler can't wait to get us over there. I know I'm an ungrateful, selfish asshole for not wanting to get back out on tour, but the honest-to-God truth is I don't even know how to function anymore. Bright Side wasn't only my best friend; she was like my other half ... the other half of my brain, the other half of my conscience, the other half of my sense of humor, the other half of my creativity, the other half of my heart. How do you go back to doing what you did before, when half of you is gone forever?

Wednesday, January 25

(Gus)

It's my birthday today. I'm twenty-two. I feel fucking eighty-two.

Ma made me cupcakes. Twenty-two chocolate cupcakes. Each one with a candle in it. It takes me two tries to blow them all out.
 

Guess I'm not getting my wish.

I knew that.

This is the first birthday I've ever had that I've wanted to skip. I want to rewind time and go back to my last birthday. Bright Side and Gracie were both here. And I don't mean metaphorically. I mean here physically, in this room with us. Smiling and laughing and eating cupcakes until they got sick.
 

I'm smiling now thinking about them, but my stomach hurts.

I don't want to eat cupcakes without them.

No more birthdays.

No more reminders.

I fucking hate reminders.

Thursday, January 26

(Gus)

I know I didn't pack enough clothes, but it's too late now. Franco's waiting in the kitchen for me, talking to Ma. The record label sent a car, which is waiting in the driveway to take us to the airport. Our plane departs for Germany in two hours. I grab another handful of boxer-briefs and socks and drop them into my bag, where they take up residence alongside two pairs of jeans, three T-shirts, deodorant, toothpaste, toothbrush, laptop, wallet, passport, and phone.

I sling the bag's strap over my shoulder and check the pocket of my jeans for my cigarettes and lighter. I can't step out of my bedroom without staring at Bright Side's laptop that's been sitting untouched on my dresser for over a week now. She left it to me. It houses all the music she ever wrote. I feel honored to have it. My mind's screaming at me to go back for it, but my heart is pulling rank and commanding me to leave without it. I'm not ready. The CD she left for me is lying on top of it. She knew she was dying. I know it's a good-bye and I'm sure as hell not ready for that. I flip off the light and start down the hall toward Franco's voice.

Franco tips his chin up when he catches sight of me. "What's up, douche nozzle?"

I shake my head. "Not much, mangina."

Ma doesn't even flinch. It's how Franco and I have always talked to each other. They're terms of endearment. The truth is, Franco's the only person I have left in my life who will tell me exactly like it is now that Bright Side's gone. No sugarcoating, no blowing smoke up my ass, just straight up honesty. I love him for it. Despite the tough guy façade of shaved head and tattoos, he's a softy ... with a fierce sense of loyalty.
 

He points to my bag. "That all you're taking, man? We'll be gone for two months."

I shrug. "And my guitars. I can buy more on the road when I need it. Let's roll, dude."

He nods and I'm thankful for his lack of psychoanalysis. He hugs Ma. "Thanks for breakfast, Mrs. H." He's palming two large blueberry muffins wrapped in a paper towel.

She squeezes him tight. "Of course. Have fun over there, Franco."
 

"Will do."

When she hugs me I want to fall apart in her arms. To cry like I did when I was eight and I broke my ankle. But I don't. We both hold on longer than usual and hesitate to release. "Make sure you enable the security system every night while I'm gone," I tell her.

The corner of her mouth turns up and I know she's put on her brave face for me. "I always do. Don't worry about me. Go see the world, Gus. I'm so proud of you."

I nod. Compliments have always managed to embarrass me, like I'm somehow not quite worthy of them. The last few weeks I've felt
completely
unworthy. "Thanks Ma. I love you."

She kisses me on the cheek and hands me my own paper towel-wrapped blueberry muffins. "I love you, too, honey. Be safe."

Normally I'd respond with, "Always," but I can't bring myself to say it now. I feel like it would be premature betrayal for the next two months of unknowns. I don't feel like being cautious. Not in the least. "Bye, Ma."

"Bye, Gus."

Friday, January 27

(Gus)

It's officially Friday by the time we touch down in Berlin. I've never traveled outside the United States before and I quickly learn what all the fuss is about—jet lag is a motherfucker.

My ass is dragging from the moment we step off the plane, through customs, and all the way to our hotel. Time is not on my side today. We've got back-to-back meetings before soundcheck this afternoon, and then two interviews before the show tonight.
 

It's hard to put my game face on. I fucking loath faking anything. I'm horrible at it. So I'm actually grateful when Hitler escorts us everywhere. The dude's in love with the sound of his own voice and I'm more than happy to let him yammer on for us during the meetings. Most of it is stuff he should be dealing with anyway. And I practically want to hug the guy when he instructs both interviewers that all personal questions are off the table. No need to dodge why the tour was delayed or why we've been off the radar for a month. Thank God, because I'd probably take somebody's head off if they mentioned her name. I say Bright Side's name in my head a million times a day. But hearing her real name, Kate Sedgwick, spoken by a stranger who never knew her? Some journalist feigning concern or sympathy? I'd be tempted to silence them with my fist.
 

Dinner is preceded by, and concluded with, several pints of strong German ale.

There's enough alcohol in my system that when we take the stage my guitar feels comfortable in my hands and the crowd is only a fuzzy blur of color and motion. My memory's teetering just enough to the near side of lost that I need to concentrate with single-minded focus on the chords I'm playing and the lyrics I'm singing. That leaves room in my mind for nothing else for a solid hour. It feels like I've discovered the formula for coping: the combination of excessive amounts of alcohol and live performance.

Magic.

Friday, February 3

(Gus)

We're a week into this tour, and the distraction of drunkenness and performing isn't working anymore. I don't think I've been sober since the day we arrived on this side of the pond. During the first few days, I couldn't sleep enough. These past few days, I haven't wanted to. It's like I can't get enough of just sitting around thinking about her: her ever-present deep but feminine laughter; the faint dusting of freckles on her nose and cheeks and between her shoulder blades; how she loved to watch the sunset; the sound of her voice when she said
I love you
; how beautifully she played her violin. I know I'm obsessing in an entirely unhealthy way, but I have this fear that if I don't keep turning her over in my head, I'll forget. And forgetting scares the hell out of me.

Franco thinks I should see a doctor. Maybe get some sleeping pills, or anti-depressants.

I think that's a pussy's way out. I'm not going to start popping pills to avoid grief. Booze is my only strategy. Some would argue meds would be a better alternative, but I don't like the idea of giving some doctor carte blanche to manipulate me with scripts. If anyone's going to manipulate me ... it's going to be me.

I try not to think about that night with Bright Side. I try not to think about it because everything else pales in comparison. It was the best night of my life. I didn't know it was going to happen. She didn't know it was going to happen. But
goddamn
it did happen. So, while I'm lying on this bunk in the tour bus, in the middle of the night, cruising across the European countryside, I'm going to give into it and replay it in my mind. Closing my eyes, I allow the memories to flood in.

I walk into the guest room from the hallway at the same time Bright Side walks in from the adjoining bathroom. She's brushing her teeth. She always multi-tasks while she's brushing her teeth. Right now she's digging through her duffle bag on the floor.

"What're you looking for?" I ask. The sight of her hunting through her bag makes me sad. She's packed and ready to leave for Minnesota early tomorrow morning. I don't know when I'll see her next. We've never gone more than a day or two without seeing each other, and even that was rare.

She shifts her toothbrush to the side of her mouth and tries to talk through all of the frothy toothpaste. "Pajamas," she says. At least, that's what I think she said. She turns, runs back in the bathroom, spits out the toothpaste, and returns smiling. "Pajamas," she repeats. "I think they're in my other bag. It's already out in my car."

"Gimme your keys. I'll go get it," I offer.

She shakes her head. "Nah. That's okay, I'll get by without them. Can you get the light?" she asks.

I'm gonna miss this. Our friendship. The familiarity. She's always been here. With me. We do everything together. Since we were kids every time we've spent the night under the same roof, we had to sleep in the same room together. Whether it was in my room, or in the living room on the sofa, or more recently here in the guest room the past couple of weeks. Always together. Hell, I don't know how I'm gonna fall asleep without her in my arms after tonight.
 

I flip the light off and take off my shorts and T-shirt. I always sleep in my underwear, but I always wait until the light is off to strip down to them, which is weird because in the morning I'll climb out of bed and she'll see me. Nighttime is always more intimate though. The darkness brings with it a certain longing, and damn, I've loved this girl forever. She doesn't know that though.