Still Life with Strings (26 page)

Shane sighs and runs a
hand through his wet hair, coming to sit beside me. He picks his phone up again
and rubs his thumb along the blank screen.

“It was Mona’s home
number. I don’t know why she’s been calling,” he finally answers.

I look at him in
surprise for a moment, before saying, “You haven’t answered at all?”

He shakes his head. “I
have nothing to say to her.”

“Maybe she wants to
talk about the upcoming show. You two are going to have to work together then,
right?”

His tortured eyes
continue to stare down at the blank screen of his phone. “Yeah, probably. I’m
still not sure if I’m capable of doing it.” He pauses and meets my gaze now.
“She brings back too many bad memories.”

Reaching over, I slide
the phone from his hand and put it aside, before slipping my fingers through
his. “You mean your…your suicide attempt?” I whisper softly.

His nod is barely
perceptible. “It’s not something you’re ever going to forget,” I tell him,
pulling him into a hug. “Unfortunately, our memories like to give us a little
bitch slap from time to time. I know all about it. Use the pain as fuel, let it
make you stronger. You’re the best musician I’ve ever seen and that’s because
of the emotions you channel into your music. Those emotions are what make the
audience love to come see you, to feel that catharsis.”

He chuckles sadly. “You
didn’t happen to complete a psychology degree at some point?”

I give him a warm
smile. “Nope. I learned all I know in the school of hard knocks. Plus, I force
Clark to teach me new stuff all the time.”

“Well, you can thank
Clark for me. You give better advice than most of the professionals I’ve seen,”
Shane replies, rubbing his finger down my cheek.

Giving him a serious
look, I say, “You’re welcome, just remember it when you’ve got to face Mona.”

“I should be able to
survive the memory bitch slap,” he answers warmly.

“That’s the spirit,” I
murmur and lean in for a kiss.

We’re both quiet as we
dress. Shane seems thoughtful, contemplative, even. I’d give anything to know
what’s churning up inside that head of his. I tie my hair in a fish tail plait,
a style my mum taught me when I was only little. Shane stands behind me at the
mirror, fully dressed now, and runs his hand down the braid.

“Pretty,” he murmurs
before pressing his lips to my cheek. I smile at him, but it’s half-hearted.
There’s a pebble of fear in my gut that I can’t seem to shake. A feeling of
urgency that this sweet thing we’ve got can’t last.

On the drive home, we
stop off at a restaurant for something to eat. Afterward, Shane drops me home,
and I scurry about to get into my work uniform and throw dinner together for
April and Pete. I’m out the door with just enough time to spare and arrive at
six on the dot.

That night after the
concert, Shane finds me as I’m helping with the close-up. He asks if I’d like a
ride home, and I tell him yes. Although if he tries for an invite to stay over,
I’m going to have to tell him no. It’s not that I don’t want him to stay, it’s
just that we tend to be pretty loud, and my entire family will be home.

We leave through the
backstage exit, and I ask him how he played tonight. There was a big group of
students from a nearby music college in the audience, so we had a full house.
As we leave, we’re stopped in our tracks by a group of girls in their late
teens and early twenties who are getting some of the orchestra musicians to
sign stuff.

Huh. Orchestra fan
girls. I never thought I’d see the day. Unless there’s a really big name
playing at the venue, we don’t normally get a lot of fans queuing up for
autographs. Most of the time the musician or speaker will stand in the foyer to
sign books or CDs.

“Oh my God, that’s
him!” I hear one of the girls hiss excitedly as Shane emerges through the exit.

The next thing I know
they’ve all flocked around him, thrusting programmes and CDs in his face to
sign. I quickly get shoved out of the way, so I step back a bit, kind of
annoyed at their rudeness. Looking at the CDs, I notice some of them are old
ones he recorded with the Bohemia Quartet. One girl asks if he’ll sign her arm,
and he does so graciously. Glancing down at my watch, I realise I’ve been standing
here waiting for at least ten minutes, and they’re not showing any signs of
letting Shane go soon.

I’ve got an early start
in the morning, since the concert hall is hosting a big conference, so I need
my beauty sleep tonight. I try to get by a few of the girls to tell Shane I’m
going to head off, but a brunette gives me the stink-eye and elbows me out of
the way, telling me to wait my turn.

“Uh, I’m not a fan. I’m
his friend,” I tell her, disgruntled.

She gives me a look as
if to say,
so what?
and I decide I’m really not in the mood. I put both
hands around my mouth and call to him over their heads.

“Yo! I’m going to walk.
I’ll call you tomorrow, ’kay?”

I’m surprised that he
actually hears me over the excited chattering. His head whips up from a CD he’d
been signing, his eyes locking with mine.

“Give me ten minutes?”
he asks pleadingly, and some of the girls’ gazes cut to me.

I tap my wrist. “It’s
late, and I’ve got an early start. You stay. I’m good walking.”

He looks disappointed
for a minute but then finally nods his acceptance, gives me a quick wave
goodbye, and goes back to signing. I turn and start in the direction of home.
When I reach my street, I notice somebody sitting on my front doorstep. As I
get closer I see it’s Patrick, looking like shit with a bottle of whiskey in
his hand, intermittently taking sips. If ever there was a picture to describe
the term “lowest ebb,” this would be it. So much for him staying away for a
couple of weeks. It’s only been a few days, and he’s back already. He must be
having a particularly bad time of it.

I stop in front of him
and tap my foot on the path. “Do you mind getting out of the way, Pat?” I ask.
As it stands, he’s completely blocking my entrance.

His bleary eyes move up
to meet mine, and he does a little shrug. “Been knocking for ages. Alec won’t
let me in.” His voice is all lonesome and dejected, and something stirs inside
me. I know what it feels like to be Patrick. I’ve been at rock bottom, too, and
it’s the loneliest place in the world.

I go down on my haunches
and study him. He glances up from his bottle and does a little huff as though
to keep from crying. To be honest, his face is so messed up he could already be
crying, and I wouldn’t be able to tell. Somewhere in the days since I last saw
him, he’s gotten himself a black eye and a fat lip. Either he was in a fight,
or he owes someone money that he can’t afford to pay back.

“It never leads
anywhere good, does it?” I ask, reaching over and tapping the glass bottle in
his hand.

He stares at me full-on
then, and it’s hard to keep looking at eyes that bloodshot. His mouth twists,
and then he finally answers, “No, it doesn’t.”

I don’t know a lot
about Patrick’s life before he met my mother, but I do know a few bits and
pieces. His father was a violent drunk who beat his wife and kids. The usual
fucked-up family story. At times it’s hard to judge Patrick when I know there’s
a reason for his behaviour. As I said, I’ve been there myself.

I take the bottle from
him, and he must have completely run out of steam because he doesn’t even
bother to fight me. I’ll probably regret this decision in the morning, but I
help him up to standing, wincing at the smell of him, and say, “You can stay
one night. Tomorrow I’m going to call an old friend of mine and get you booked into
rehab, okay?”

At hearing the word
“rehab,” his entire body stills, and I can tell he’s deciding whether or not to
make a run for it. Is a night with somewhere warm and safe to sleep worth going
into a clinic? I can practically see his mind weighing the options as he stands
there frozen. A minute later he wipes a hand across his mouth, turns to me, and
nods.

I open the front door
and lead him into the kitchen before sitting him down on a chair and placing a
pint of water in front of him.

“Drink this. You’ll
thank me in the morning,” I say just as Alec comes down the stairs.

“Jade, I already told
him he can’t stay. Why did you let him in?”

“I took pity on the
pathetic bastard. Come and help set up the couch for him to sleep on, would
you?” I reply tiredly.

Alec scratches the back
of his neck. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“It’s just for one
night. I’ve got a friend who works at the rehab centre I went to back in the
day. She might be able to find a place for Patrick. That’s where I’m sending
him in the morning.”

“You think it’ll work?
He’s quit rehab at least five times already.”

“I think I can get
through to him if we talk. This is the last chance he’s going to get, and I’m
doing it for you, April, and Pete. If it’s possible to get him clean, then I’ll
do everything I can to help. You three deserve a proper father, even if you are
all grown already.”

Alec keeps staring at
me and then pulls me into a hug. “You’re a better person than me, sis. I gave
up on him a long time ago.”

I smile at him tightly
when we break our hug. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for a lost cause.”

Because I was one, and
I know it’s possible to get better
.

Alec goes into the
kitchen, speaking a few quiet but hard words to Patrick as I go upstairs to get
some pillows and a blanket from the airing cupboard. He’s probably warning him
not to fuck this up, because this is the last chance we’re going to give him.
In the living room I make the couch into as much of a bed as I can manage. It’s
old and threadbare, but it’s the best we have to offer him at the moment.

Entering the kitchen, I
find Patrick alone now, sipping quietly on the water I gave him. I put the
kettle on and make myself a cup of tea. Then I go to sit down opposite him.

“How old are you, Pat?”
I ask, clasping my hands around the warm mug.

He looks at me, then
slurs, “Fifty-two.”

I whistle. “That’s
old.”

“Piss off,” he says,
but chuckles just a little.

“Apart from when you
were a kid, did you ever not drink? And I don’t mean just a day or two. I mean
being completely sober.”

He purses his lips,
thinking about it. He looks a little ashamed when he replies, “No.”

“And in your fifty-two
years, have you ever been happy? More to the point, has drinking ever made you
happy?”

Dejectedly, he shakes
his head, not even bothering to form words.

I take a sip of tea.
“So, every time you go drinking and gambling, you think it’s going to make you
feel better, but it never does, not in the long run, anyway. Maybe there’s a
period of about an hour in every drinking session where you feel on top of the
world, but the rest of the time you feel like shit. Am I right?”

“Are you lecturing me,
Jade?”

“If anyone needs a
lecture, it’s you, Patrick. So you go through all the money loss, the sickness,
the depression, the feeling like you’re twenty years older than you actually
are, and you never learn your lesson. All for a pathetic hour of feeling free
and many hours of feeling nothing. That’s fairly fucking dumb, isn’t it?”

Patrick lifts his head
like it takes a great effort. “I know my life is a joke. You don’t have to
remind me.”

“Yeah, your life is a
joke, but it doesn’t have to be. You get yourself sober, get a job, and a
little apartment maybe. Spend some time with your kids. They’re great kids,
Pat, and I feel sorry for you that you’ve missed out on so much with them. But
anyway, don’t waste time regretting your mistakes — take control and make them
right. Don’t waste any more time.”

Picking up the pint
glass, he tips the last of its contents into his mouth. “I’ll try.”

“Don’t say you’ll try,
say you’ll succeed. Trying means you’re giving yourself the option to fail.
Don’t give yourself that option. I didn’t, and look at me. Five years sober.”

“Okay,” he says
hesitantly. “I’ll — I’ll succeed.”

I stare at him
approvingly. I have no idea if he’s actually going to clean up his act. That’s
all on him. All I can do is give him a little push in the right direction.
After walking him into the living room, I pull back the blanket I’ve set on the
couch and gesture for him to lie down. He slips off his boots and jacket and
then drops down onto it, closing his eyes.

I’m at the door, about
to leave and go to bed myself, when Patrick suddenly says, “You’re a good girl,
Jade. I know I’ve always been a prick to you, but you never deserved it.”

I only nod at him, not
knowing what to say. In all the years I’ve known him, I think this might be the
first time he’s said something genuinely nice to me.

“And I’m sorry about
your sister,” he says then, his words mumbled.