The Debt (23 page)

“Fuck. No. Dad, that’s not what I meant.”

“I asked myself that question every day for four years. Then it was every other day. Yes, there were signs. If a patient walked into a doctor’s office complaining of headaches, irregular sleep patterns, memory loss, mood swings, and claimed she heard music when there was none, he’d order a CT scan and an MRI. But your mother—”

“She was always a little irregular,” I answered.

“Yes. Eccentric at times. Alternately focused and dispersed. She carried on according to her own rhythm. The picture was not so clear until there was nothing to be done.”

My mom liked to paint flowers. As in
Alice in Wonderland
, Red Queen taking a brush to roses and lilies. So of course Hadley was enamored. My mom taught her how to paint the smallest, most intricate scenes on the most unconventional of canvases, to build huge worlds in tiny places. Carmen didn’t compose music, she told stories about little boys slaying dragons and fighting pirates while dancing her fingers across the keys. Every note was a syllable. I could play the tale of King Arthur before I learned to read.

“I’m going to find you the best possible surgeon,” Simon said.

“I know.”

“There are some specialists here I can consult with. I’ll make the calls, then book the flight.”

I found Punky on the back porch with the easel set up and splotches of paint running up her arms. Punky was the messiest damn artist outside of a preschool. The more material she got on her, the better the work turned out. Fascinating how that happened. I never saw her so uninhibited as when she worked. Or when we were fucking. That was pretty terrific, too.

“Thank you,” I answered Simon.

Hadley set down her brush and turned around. She took my outstretched hand and pressed her cheek to my chest.

“I’m not scared. Maybe I should be. Maybe anyone in his right mind would be. The most terrifying part is knowing how much this hurts you.”

Both of them.

“Tell them,” Hadley whispered in my ear.

She sat on my lap, running her fingers through the hair at the nape of my neck. I’d fallen asleep twice during the movie. Near us, our friends covered the living room couch. It had been a week since my diagnosis, and Hadley was growing more insistent that I go public with this latest development. I was inclined to ignore it until it was time to go under the knife.

“What next?” Corey asked. He picked up the remote to scan through the Netflix queue while Asha and Trey bickered over the selections.

“Tell them,” Hadley repeated.

“Why ruin a perfectly good afternoon?”

“Fine. I’ll tell them.”

I squeezed her ass. “No. My tumor, my news. Don’t steal my thunder.”

Punky rolled her eyes and flicked my nipple ring. Feisty little shit was going to make me bend her over this love seat with a room full of witnesses.

“Do it. Chickenshit.”

“Chickenshit? Really?” I slid my fingers under her sweatshirt and over her ribs. “Careful how you proceed, sweetheart.”

“Tickle me and I’ll scream tumor. Try it, MacKay.”

“I’m sorry.” Trey leaned forward. “Are we interrupting your foreplay? Feel free to take it upstairs.”

“Josh has something to say,” Hadley announced.

“You’re getting your sac pierced,” Corey answered.

“You’re getting warmer.”

Hadley was not amused, glaring at me with violent intentions. I could end up with stitches in my scrotum if I tested her much further.

“I have a brain tumor,” I stated as I reached for a handful of popcorn. “Let’s watch
John Dies at the End
.”

I crunched on popcorn as all else fell silent. Punky stared at me. Yep, there went my nuts. She was likely to go
Fight Club
on me with a rubber band and a machete.

“There,” I said, picking bits of kernel from my teeth. “I told them.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Are you for real?” Asha asked. “Is he serious?”

“As a craniopharyngioma,” I said. Was that more or less serious than a heart attack?

“A what?” Trey asked.

“A benign pituitary brain tumor.”

“Holy shit.”

“What?”

I looked over the group, all staring at me like I’d just been handed a death sentence. I fully intended to live. The expectation to the contrary was starting to bum me the fuck out.

“Simon is flying in this weekend and he’s going to help me narrow down my options.”

“Which are?” Trey asked.

“Cherry, oak, pine—”

Hadley launched off my lap and stormed into the kitchen. Maybe that last bit was pushing it.

“I need to find a surgeon who can perform a supraorbital craniotomy. It’s minimally invasive as far as drilling a hole in my skull goes. They cut through my eyebrow, push some muscle and brain matter aside, and then remove the tumor. Two weeks in the hospital, tops.”

“That’s it?” Trey propped his elbows on his knees, brow furrowed.

“I know, right? I thought I was looking at radiation and shit. Months feeling like death warmed over. But with some meds postsurgery, I’ll be good as new.”

“If the surgeon doesn’t get twitchy hands and slice into your goddamn brain,” Hadley shouted from the kitchen. “Or sever your optic nerve. Or you crash during surgery. Or—”

Glass shattered on the kitchen floor. Asha leapt up from the couch to help.

“Punky’s taking it well,” I told the guys.

“You’re an asshat,” she shouted. “It isn’t funny.”

But I didn’t want to be sad. If I spent the next few days with the look of certain death in my eyes, Hadley and Simon would suffer more. The best I could do was dose the reality of my situation with irreverence. A pissed-off Punky was always better than a crying Punky.

“How did your dad take it?” Corey asked. “Shit. He must be a wreck.”

“He agrees that my prognosis is good. Despite how it sounds.”

“Wow.” Trey sat back, slumping on the couch. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to. Just make a list of what you want and I’ll put it in my will.”

“I swear, Josh—”

Punky’s tone had my testicles crawling inside my stomach.

“Okay, okay,” Asha said. “Let’s get you away from the sharp objects.”

I’d make this up to Punky somehow.

“What are you going to do about school?” Corey asked.

“Keep going until I can’t. I can go on medical leave for recovery, but I’m looking at a few weeks at most. Actually, I’m feeling creative again. Been working on my composition. It’s sort of ballooning.”

“Hadley said you were back at the piano.”

I smiled. Couldn’t help it. Playing made me happier than I thought possible without my mom there to enjoy it with me.

“Yeah, I’m choosing to believe the seizure knocked loose the blockage.”

And weeks of therapy, but that wasn’t as sexy.

“You had a seizure?” Asha yelled from the kitchen. “Damn it, Josh!”

I might have created an angry pair I was not prepared to fend off. But I did have an idea. “Let’s play a show.”

“Where?” Trey asked.

“Here. Tonight.” I toyed with my tongue piercing between my lips, letting the idea simmer. “Yeah. Invite just a small group of friends. We can open up the garage and put out some tiki torches and shit. I’ll get a keg.”

“You’re serious.”

“Why not?” I looked to Corey, sensing that he’d be the more agreeable one of the two. “Let’s just have fun and jam.”

Hadley appeared with Asha beside her at the edge of the living room. I met her eyes, offering a silent apology.

“What do you say?” I asked her.

“I love that idea.”

I nodded, gesturing for her come closer. Hadley curled up in my lap and I placed a kiss to her temple.

“All right,” Trey answered. “The garage sessions at the MacKay house.”

I had a moment of trepidation as the first cars pulled up to the front of the house. But the others went about stocking the makeshift bar and hanging strings of lights as if nothing was amiss. If anything, Hadley and our friends looked relieved for the distraction. Energetic, even.

So fuck it.

Vaughn watched as Kyle messed around with my Les Paul, Professor Monroe taking an interest in the next prodigy. Grace came with a small army of political science majors. Asha had invited a few people from the photography class she shared with Hadley. Likewise, classmates of Corey and Trey showed for the last-minute event. I really had been living in a hole, because I wasn’t aware we knew so many people.

The garage felt tiny with two dozen others crowded inside and spilling out onto the torch-lined dirt drive. I tried to hold a conversation with my jazz ensemble from class, but my attention was across the room, where Hadley stood with Andre and his friends.

Asha was going in my will. Big, bold letters that read, “Give her whatever she wants.” She had insisted the occasion called for a costume change, so she and Hadley had driven into the city while the guys and I went out for provisions. The result of the girls’ excursion was my wet dream. Punky wore a black cropped sweatshirt with hand-painted lyrics to one of my songs. Below her bare stomach, which I wanted to either lick or cover up, she wore a pair of black leather pants that might as well have been sprayed on her legs. I wanted to fucking mount her, but the house was a bit overrun by spectators at the moment.

With the support of many of the people in this room, I hadn’t become a complete catastrophe. There were flaws—some that were in remediation and others I held to, like proof of my battles—but mostly I was in working order. I had love, friendship, even mentors, and I was learning how to hand off some of the valuable lessons they had been patient enough to teach me.

Successful people always say that the trick to a happy life is never having regrets. That’s a load of bullshit. If we regret nothing, then we’ve never truly failed, never truly hurt, and never really lost. Without regret, we have never acted with all our passion and anger and love and hope only to have our skull stomped on while we bite a street curb. Those soft, empty people don’t know the satisfaction of rehabilitation. They have nothing but optimism, because optimism thrives where conflict is absent. Conflict makes us hearty. Hearty lives flourish in the blackest depths and the driest soil.

I wouldn’t correct one single mistake.

I regretted not one regret.

Crossing the garage, I came up behind Punky and wrapped my arms around her stomach to slide my fingers across her bare skin. “I missed you, sweetheart,” my lips whispered against her ear.

Hadley shivered and arched her back. “Josh, you remember the guys.”

I nodded, tightening my hold on her body. “Thanks for coming.”

My eyes met with Andre’s. We’d graduated from challenging stares to flat indifference.

“Welcome.”

There was no reason to be a dick. We didn’t like each other, but we couldn’t be enemies.

“Hey, brother.” Corey came up and slapped a hand to my shoulder. “You about ready?”

“Yeah.”

Hadley joined me as we congregated around the drums. Trey and I hooked into the amps while Corey tuned his kit. I got that nervous, excited jolt I always felt before a performance, but this was better. There were no assumptions waiting inside this garage, no expectations.

Hadley watched me like a cat prowling in the tall grass, hind legs poised to spring.

“You’re having dirty thoughts about me,” she accused.

“Do I have any other kind?”

“I’ve known you to be romantic once or twice.”

“Sweetheart.” I grabbed her around the waist. “Even when I dream of singing under your window or penning sonnets to your beauty, you’re still naked and touching yourself to the sound of my voice.”

She bit her lip, rolling her eyes. “Why don’t you put that sharp tongue to good use?”

I shrugged. “If you insist.” I dipped my fingers into the top of her pants and dropped to my knees.

“Fucking Christ,” Punky hissed. She grabbed my hair and yanked. “Get up. Everyone is watching.”

Standing, I pressed my lips to hers. “We really need to work on our communication.”

“Shut up and sing,” she said with a laugh.

“Which is it? Shut up or sing?”

Punky pried herself from my hands, backing up. “I’m walking away now. You stay there. Stay. Good boy.”

“Remember that when I take you over my knee tonight.”

The room fell silent.

Hadley flipped me off, her face burning with embarrassment and anger. I’d let her smack me around a little, as long as we did it naked.

Trey came up beside me, an amused curve to his lips. “And to think you almost let her get away.”

“Yeah. Why didn’t you try to stop me?”

“Asshole.”

Corey sat making eyes at the blonde in the front row. We would play the song he wrote for her first.

“You nervous?” I asked.

A huge dumb grin curved his freshly shaven mug. Turned out Grace wasn’t a fan of beards, either. “Not even a little.”

“Good. She’s going to love it.”

“I know.”

I looked between him and Trey. I had lucked out somehow. “It’s been an honor,” I told them. “I’m grateful to have you in my life.”

Trey glanced at Corey and back to me. “I didn’t see an iceberg.”

“This ship isn’t sinking,” Corey said. “No need to break out the violins.”

“Fine, fuckers.” I slid my guitar over my shoulder. “Count it off.”

That night, to an intimate audience, we left it all on the cement floor covered with cheap Ikea rugs. We were the Ramones at CBGB, the Red Hot Chili Peppers at the Roxy in 1989. For a few hours, we were the Doors at Whisky a Go Go. Something significant happened among the screaming of my Les Paul, the dark rhythm of Trey’s bass, and the thunder of Corey’s drums. Maybe it was the liquor or the excited high of knowing that those were the last few hours of a closing chapter in my life, but the night felt fucking transcendent.

My second seizure came two weeks later while Hadley and I took a shower. Forty-eight hours after that, I lay in a hospital bed awaiting surgery.

“You understand why I set it up this way?” I asked my father.

It was easy to play unaffected while I carried on around the house like nothing could touch me. Here, in a hospital gown and all the metal removed from my body, the reality of my circumstances sat heavy on my chest. If I didn’t make it, certain affairs had to be in order.

“Please.” He held my hand between both of his. “Let’s not have this conversation.”

We’d talked of almost nothing else since he flew home to help make arrangements for my surgery.

“I need to know you understand,” I said. “I need your word.”

“You have it. Of course, son. It’s your decision.”

“Help her.” I squeezed his hand, pleading. “She won’t want this. She’ll fight you. But you have to tell her it’s okay.”

“Josh.” Simon leaned against the bed, dragging his chair closer. “Listen to me.”

His blue eyes held my full attention. They were clear, focused. No sign of withheld tears.

“When we first brought you home, you were malnourished and covered in bedbug bites.”

That foster home was a shithole, but my health problems went far beyond. My birth mother had been an addict, which meant I was born a weak, sickly child. When one foster family got sick of the doctors and medications and twenty-four-hour care, they shipped me off to a new home.

“Even then, as small as you were, you were so strong. Every day we saw improvement. Most children at that age wouldn’t have survived.”

I wouldn’t have if not for Punky and my parents getting me out of there.

“You’ve been through worse than this and pulled through. My son is a survivor. You don’t give up. Ever.”

I wiped my eyes, choking on the lump in my throat. “Yes, sir.”

My dad smiled, holding the side of my face. “I love you. You’re all I have in this world. And you’ve made me so proud.”

“I love you, too.” I pulled him closer to wrap my arms around his shoulders. “Thank you,” I whispered, “for everything you’ve given me.”

Simon pulled away and placed a box in my hand. He gave me a last approving look before leaving the room. Hadley slid inside before the door closed.