The Predictions (20 page)

I turned away and buried my head in Lukas’s chest, finding some of the old warmth there. How long had it been since we had turned to each other for comfort?

In his plastic box, Zachary was wheeled into the X-ray machine and zapped, once, twice; green lightning lit up the room, and then it was over. He was wheeled back to us, unbuckled from the torture device, and handed over to me to soothe and dress. In my arms he was meek and droopy, his energy spent.

Back in the cubicle, waiting for the X-ray results, Lukas held on to Zachary and me as though his survival depended on it.

“From now on,” he said, “I want us to be together.”

“How?” I said. “You can’t change what you do.”

Zachary had fallen into a deep sleep, exhausted by his ordeal, and Lukas stroked his cheek. “I’d walk away from the band in a heartbeat, if I could.”

“Really?”

“Every time we play, I’m up there onstage and I feel like the world is laughing at us.” He pinged the spandex of his leopard-skin pants, which he wore even on his days off. “Look at me. I’m a joke. I’m in a fucking joke band.”

I agreed with him, but I couldn’t say it. “Why don’t you just leave, if you hate it that much?”

“I don’t know how to do anything else. And now I’ve got a family to support.”

I hadn’t thought about this consequence of having a baby, that it would end up contributing to Lukas’s unhappiness.

The doctor arrived with a large manila envelope and took out an X-ray, which he held up to the light. “This lung,” he said, pointing to one side of Zachary’s tiny rib cage, “is perfectly clear. But this one on the right has spots of pneumonia.”

“Pneumonia?” Just the day before, Zachary had been in bouncing good health. “How did he catch pneumonia in the middle of summer?”

“We can’t tell if the infection started from bacteria or a virus, but we’ll get him started on antibiotics, just in case.”

“Does he need to stay overnight?”

“It isn’t necessary,” said the doctor. “But if you’re nervous about taking him home, I can see if we’ve got a spare bed for you both.”

Nervous? I had burned through so much adrenaline there was none left. I glanced at Lukas to see what he thought, and he just shrugged. “Up to you.”

“I’d like to stay if we can,” I said to the doctor. “I don’t feel comfortable taking him home.”

Zachary and I stayed in the children’s ward overnight, even though his condition improved immediately, once the antibiotics kicked in. Watching his rapid recovery, I remembered how on the commune, when one of us was sick, the women had run through every remedy in a large, white book of natural healing before anyone was taken to the doctor. Most of the time, they were successful. We didn’t get sick much; the commune was too isolated. But every now and then, someone came down with an illness that seemed to worsen with each herbal poultice or potion. When Meg was eight or nine she had cut her toe open on a piece of glass from a beer bottle that had washed up on the beach, and the skin around the wound turned shiny and red before her whole leg swelled up as though it might burst. After a night of vomiting and high fevers, she was bundled into the Land Rover and driven to Whitianga, where she was pronounced to be moments away from septicemia, which would have killed her, the doctor said. One helicopter ride later, she was in the children’s hospital in Auckland, where she remained for a week. She had come home with mythical tales of rainbow Jell-O and vats of ice cream for dessert every night, and for months afterward, all of us kids had been on the lookout for broken beer bottles, in case we could catch a swollen leg and eat Jell-O and ice cream too.

When Zachary and I came home from the hospital in a taxi, Lukas wasn’t there, but he had thoughtfully stocked the fridge with groceries and left flowers and a scribbled note on the table. The note said he was sorry but they were stepping up rehearsals ahead of the tour. He would try to be home
for dinner. He hadn’t made it home for dinner in months, so after Zachary had gone to sleep that night, I overlooked the word “try” and busied myself making a meal out of what Lukas had put in the fridge, a mismatched assortment of lettuce and parsnips, lamb chops and Camembert cheese. Chopping and dicing, sautéing and grilling, I felt a surge of optimism. If I made a good meal, if I was a better wife, more supportive, Lukas might come home more often and we could turn things around. As much as the band was to blame for taking Lukas away from us, I could see that I hadn’t given him much of a reason to come home.

I set the table for dinner and put on what I hoped, in my doughy condition, was a sexy dress.

Eight in the evening came and went, and after it, nine and ten. The salad had dried out; the lamb was a Roman sandal. I ate my portion and covered Lukas’s with tinfoil. I still thought he might come home to eat, but I was too tired to wait up any longer. Zachary had settled into something like a routine, waking once in the night for a feed and getting up at six
A.M
.—hardly restful—but there was still no guarantee that I would be able to sleep in between. I had gotten used to sleep deprivation, to spending my days in a fog, but every now and then, when I did get a good night’s sleep, I felt so energetic, so
euphoric,
that I realized how rubbish I felt all the rest of the time.

The night of the uneaten dinner, I didn’t hear Lukas come home, but when Zachary woke at two
A.M
. for a feed, he was in bed next to me, and I got a fright. He hadn’t slept there in months. He was in such a deep sleep that he didn’t
even stir when Zachary chirped with elation all through his nappy change at six fifteen.

In the morning,
his
morning, which started much later than ours, Lukas found the dinner I had made. He felt so bad that he insisted on eating it for breakfast, a sweet gesture but one that was hard to carry through. The salad was brown, the lamb chops congealed with fat. I couldn’t stand to watch.

“Please,” I said. “You don’t have to do that.”

He forced down another mouthful. “But you went to so much trouble.”

I took away the plate. “Why don’t I make you something else?”

“Why don’t I take you out for lunch? We could go somewhere flash—that place in Knightsbridge, what’s it called?”

“Are you kidding?” I fast-forwarded to Zachary pulling silverware off white linen tablecloths, wailing between itsy-bitsy courses. The meal would be wasted on me. And why sit in a restaurant when you could be outdoors? Zachary had made a swift recovery, went my train of mad thoughts, but the fresh air would do him good. “Why don’t we go to Richmond Park? Zachary would love the animals.”

Lukas knifed his leftovers into the bin, put his plate by the sink, then came over and knelt beside me. “I don’t have time for a day trip. Only lunch.”

“We could go somewhere closer to home.”

“Sorry, babe.” He planted a kiss on my forehead. “They’re expecting me in the studio. Another time?”

Zachary and I went to the park on our own, and I took off his terrycloth romper and nappy and let him lie on his
back in the nude. Soft, dappled light played across his face as he gazed into the tree above him, blowing raspberries and warbling, each note as clear as birdsong. I wished Lukas was present to hear the lovely noise, but as with so many of the tiny marvels that had occurred since Zachary’s birth, I was the only witness.

London

1989

O
N THE MORNING OF
departure for the European tour, the suitcases were out, the cab was due in an hour, and Lukas couldn’t find his passport anywhere. I had tried to be a good housewife, to make sure his eight or nine pairs of leather pants were dry-cleaned, and these he flung into three suitcases, along with armfuls of cropped tank tops, long fringed scarves, studded dog collars, high-heeled boots, fingerless lace gloves, chunky silver chains, and miniature fishnet vests. There was even a studded leather G-string that I hoped was not a costume for the stage. “Will you be warm enough?” I said, with wifely concern, when the last of these cases had been forcefully zipped up.

“Isn’t that what bourbon’s for?”

“Oh, darling, that’s for cleaning your teeth.”

He had been dreading the tour, the nightly humiliation, but now that it was about to begin, I could tell he was also a teeny bit excited. It was fun to hang out in a gang, to dress up
in silly costumes, to travel all over Europe with your mates. That was one of the reasons I didn’t want to go with him—the vibe when they were together was so clannish. But he wanted us to go. He begged us to go. He said if he knew Zachary and I were waiting for him back in his hotel room each night, he could stand it, the ordeal of performance. But each time he asked, I had come up with a new set of excuses.
You’ll be too busy to spend time with us, and I don’t fancy hanging out in a hotel room on my own with a baby.
Zachary will take a few days to settle in each place and before he does, we’ll move on.
The change of time zones, the baby gear we’d have to take, I have nothing to wear.
His routine would turn pear-shaped.
And the unspoken fear that if the hotel was a skyscraper, Zachary might fall out a window (there was no end to the sorrows my mind could invent). My reasons were so numerous and stubborn that I barely considered why Lukas was so adamant that we come—why maybe he
needed
us with him.

Just as Lukas found his passport, the cab arrived, and sat, idling, on the curb while we said our farewells. I had kept Zachary up past his usual nap time, and he sat on my hip, grizzling.

“Are you sure you won’t come?” said Lukas. “Go on—you could meet us halfway through the tour. You could fly to Berlin with Zachary.”

For a few seconds, I entertained the idea of jumping on a plane like the free-spirited Bohemian I was not and never would be. Underneath all my excuses was a layer of plain old terror. I thought if we stayed at home, I could at least keep Zachary safe. “I’ll think about it,” I said, to placate him.

“You will?”

“Sure. I’ll talk to a travel agent on Monday.”

He kissed me on the lips and fluffed the wisps on Zachary’s head while the driver honked his horn. Lukas’s hand was bony, veins showing through his skin. When had he lost so much weight? He was cold to the touch when we hugged, as though his pilot light had gone out, but his energy levels were high, and he took the stairs two at a time, as he always did, even when there was no rush. At the cab door, he turned around and saluted us good-bye.

“Good-bye,” I said, waving back, and taking Zachary’s fat, coiled fist and waving that at him too. “We’ll miss you!”

The first week he was away, Lukas rang us every day without fail. The second week he skipped a call or two and on the occasions he did call, he sounded tired and distracted, and was hard to draw out, as though he was calling us out of habit when really he had nothing to say. I felt our connection slipping again and didn’t know how to get it back. Lukas seemed to need my physical presence or he forgot I was there for him, forgot I was his wife. We were so different that way. If anything, I felt surer of my love for him when he was away. In absence I was clear that I loved him whereas he felt abandoned, as though I had left him, or he had lost me, and it wasn’t just a temporary separation.

From time to time, if I hadn’t heard from Lukas for longer than a few days, I would call one of the hotels on his itinerary and ask for him, or for Fran, if the band members were checked in under false names. In most places that wasn’t necessary, but in certain cities—Düsseldorf, Cologne,
Zurich—they were superstars, and they’d had trouble with fans ringing the hotel and being put through to their rooms. Some had gone further, dressing up as hotel porters and trying to deliver room service.

On this particular date the band’s itinerary said they were in West Berlin (fewer fans) and the hotel receptionist put me straight through. Lukas picked up the phone after two rings but didn’t recognize my voice or know where he was. When I told him, he said, “No, it looks like Helsinki.”

“But I just called the number for the Berlin hotel. The woman who answered spoke German.”

“Well, if you know where I am, why did you ask?”

I took a breath. He wasn’t trying to be mean, he was just tired. “How was the concert last night?”

“We had the night off.”

“That’s great. I bet you needed it.”

“It’s a waste of time. I’d rather play. Get this thing over with. Go home.”

What could I say that would cheer him up? The baby would wake soon. We didn’t have long. “Zachary put his foot in his mouth today.”

Lukas didn’t say anything. He was lighting a cigarette.

“One minute he was playing with it, the next he was chewing on his big toe.”

“Cool.”

“He was so pleased with himself.”

“I miss him so much.”

“He misses you too. We both do.”

“He probably doesn’t know who I am.” He sounded so morose.

“Of course he does.” In the next room, a bleat from Zachary, and my breasts needled, the milk letting down. Lukas muffled the receiver while he talked to someone who had come into his hotel room. When they left, he said, “Sorry, that was Fran. We’ve got a radio interview in ten minutes. I haven’t even had a shower yet.”

“You better find out where you are.”

“Berlin,” said Lukas. “You were right.”

“I have to go, anyway. Zachary’s up.”

“What time is it there?”

“Two thirty.”

“You should see a dentist about that.”

“Har har. Very funny.”

Tooth hurty was one of his favorite puns, and I felt reassured by it. “I love you,” I said into the receiver, attached by plastic spiral wire to an old avocado-green rotary phone that we had inherited with the flat. I had been meaning to get one with push buttons that would be easier to dial when my hands were full. Lukas hadn’t replied yet. Had the line gone dead? “Are you there, darling? I love you.”

“I hope so,” he said, then hung up.

The dial tone wasn’t one I was used to, and even though Zachary’s bleat rose quickly to an angry, high-pitched cry, I held the phone to my ear for a long time after Lukas had hung up, wondering why he had said that, and none of the reasons I came up with were good. When I tried calling him back, I couldn’t get through.

I rang a travel agent and booked a flight to Cologne, leaving in three days’ time. The next day, Lukas didn’t call, and the day after that, someone else did—the receptionist at the record company. She was very young, her voice stuck in a chirpy register, no matter the news she delivered. For this reason, I took a while to take on board her message.

“Wait. Slow down. He did what?”

“He, um, overdosed!” she said, practically singing.

“What kind of overdose? Is he okay?”

“I don’t know. They found him in his room.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know. I just got told to give you this number.” She had to repeat the number three times. My hand wouldn’t write it down. Dialing it took another three shots. A German man answered. He spoke no English, but even if he had, he would not have understood my gibberish. He fetched his supervisor.

I finally got Fran on the line, but she had gone into public relations overdrive, and her answers were all smoke and mirrors. “Poppy, relax. He’s fine. It isn’t a real tour unless someone gets hospitalized with exhaustion. This time it was Lukas.”

“Exhaustion? Is that what you call an overdose?”

“Who told you that?”

“The girl from the record company—Tina? Gina? I can’t remember her name.”

“Fucking Tina,” said Fran. “She can’t even send a fax without screwing it up.”

“Fran,” I said. “My husband’s in the hospital. Don’t lie to me.”

“Don’t have a cow, babe. He took one too many prescription tranquilizers—that’s all.”

“What was he taking those for?”

“All the guys do. It helps them wind down after a show.”

This was news to me.

“Who found him?”

“Marlon, Vincent, one of the guys—does it matter? The main thing is he’s fine.”

“It matters to me. Can I speak to him?”

“Not right now,” she said. “He’s sleeping.”

“When he wakes up, tell him I’ll be there tonight. That I’m on my way.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a . . .” She paused. “Suit yourself. And by the way, if anyone asks, we’re saying exhaustion, brought on by the laryngitis.”

“Lukas had laryngitis?”

“No, it’s just what you say.”

The conversation left a bad taste.
What happens on tour stays on tour,
and I wasn’t on the tour. To Fran, I was no better than the press, someone to be fobbed off and lied to.

The last flight to Cologne out of Heathrow left at midnight. Zachary was wired, his eyeballs on stalks, even after the plane took off and the narcotic hum of the aircraft set in. He stared at me, tripping on the unfamiliar surroundings, and I stared back, trying not to look as bleak as I felt.

We arrived at Cologne airport in the middle of the night and took a taxi to the hotel they were staying at, an austere L-shaped block of concrete and glass. In the lobby bar, a few of the band, plus roadies and hangers-on, swilled cock
tails, their laughter raucous and loud. Fran was there too, in white-fringed boots, red leather hot pants, and a spangled boob tube, her bloodshot eyes ringed with black. When she saw us, she came over, while the others carried on drinking.

“It’s been an absolute bloody nightmare,” she said, slurring her words a little. “Reporters on the front step, following us everywhere. It couldn’t have happened in a worse place. They’re royalty here.”

“How is he?”

“Oh, he’s fine. Sleeping it off.” She stubbed out her cigarette in a metal bowl filled with sand and her hands butterflied around for something else to do. She was thin and glossy, her makeup so thick you’d have had to take it off with a chisel. She had always been tough but now she was also hard. “I’ll take you up to his room.”

“Thanks. Do you know if the hotel has any cots? We’ll need one.”

“Shit,” said Fran. “Are you all going to sleep in the same room?”

“Where else would we sleep?”

“It might not be such a good idea—not after what happened. Lukas needs to rest. They’re playing tomorrow night.”

“
Tomorrow
night? Lukas overdosed and he gets one day off?”

“Shhhh,” said Fran. “Keep it down. It was laryngitis, remember?”

“Even if it was that he’d have to rest.”

“Relax, it’s not that serious.”

When we reached the room, she came in with us and
fussed about, filling a glass of water by the bed, fluffing Lukas’s pillow, checking supplies in the minibar—I wasn’t sure what he’d need that for. He was dead to the world. Fran leaned against the wall, watching him, watching us settle in.

“I can take over now,” I said. “Just tell me your room number. In case we need anything.”

“I’m right next door. But I won’t be there for a while.”

“Will you be downstairs, in the bar?”

“We talked about going to a club.”

“I’ll call reception if we come unstuck.”

“Sure,” said Fran, finally heading for the door. After she had opened it, she turned and said, “Oh. One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“If the phone rings, don’t answer it.” She lowered her voice. “
Reporters.
”

Zachary had been red faced and wailing for most of the plane trip but since touching down, perversely, he had conked out. He didn’t even stir when the cot arrived and he was tucked into the stiff, unfamiliar sheets. He would wake in an hour or two, when he was hungry, but there was no use trying to feed him now.

I lay down on the bed, next to Lukas. He was in a deep, convalescent sleep, the sort that can go on for days and that you wake from in a sweat, feeling desolate. His hair was damp at the temples, his face pallid. I put my hand on his forehead to check his temperature. He felt cold, slightly clammy.

On the bedside table, next to the glass of water, were a host of prescription pill bottles. Most of the labels were in German, but I recognized the word “Valium.” I had seen
those in his toilet bag before, after a trip, and he had told me they helped him relax. Taking him at his word, I had said, “Just make sure to keep them out of Zachary’s reach.”

I climbed under the sheets and blanket, and wriggled closer to my husband, then closer still. His breath was stinky, as though he hadn’t cleaned his teeth, even with bourbon, for a week. When I was near enough to hear his breathing, to hear if it stopped, I shut my eyes. If I managed a half-hour nap before Zachary woke up, I’d be lucky. I had been dozing for a few minutes, maybe ten at the most, when Lukas stirred. I had not been properly asleep and was instantly alert. “Hi,” I said softly, near his ear.

He sighed, more asleep than awake, and said, “Where have you been?”

“I got here as quickly as I could but it took ages, I’m sorry.”

“You were going to come straight back.”

“I was?”

“Yeah. You said it wouldn’t take long to get it.”

“To get what?”

“Fran, babe, I’m too tired for this.”

“Lukas?”

He opened his eyes and looked at me, and I could tell, in the few seconds before he spoke, that I was not the person he had been expecting to see—or the person he had thought he was talking to. “Poppy, my love, when did you get here?”

“Lukas—just before—you said ‘Fran.’”

“Did I?”

“You thought I was Fran. You were waiting for her.”