The Song Remains the Same (55 page)

“Xavier—we all just called him X—was the strongest ingredient in the glue that held us all together, through thick and thin.

“Without X, none of us would be where we are today. It’s because of him that Phil shines as front man, and Flipper was stolen away from a band that fizzled out years ago. Without X, Jason wouldn’t have tried so hard to make it as a guitarist and would probably be mowing lawns still.”

“Thanks, babe!” Jason called out, raising the flask in the air.

This made just about everyone laugh, except for Phil. He had his face buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking with sobs. My heart breaking for him once more, I wrapped my arms around him, and in turn, he pulled me into his chest and sobbed wetly into my hair.

“After years of touring the world, it was X who held us solid. His humor, his love for the music he and his brothers made, and his love for
us
created what had once seemed endless into something
timeless.

“Coming home meant so much to all of us even if it was for different reasons. For X, it meant beginning a new chapter for NOLA’s Junk. He was excited and ready for change. He pushed himself and the rest of the guys to make a sound that could only be considered magic.

“Along the way, X found his own bit of magic, too. He fell in love with a woman who lifted him up and brought him to his knees at the same time. Alys made him see life outside of the band. She made him put his life into perspective, made him want more. And he went after it. He made her his wife.

“And that’s why it’s such a shock to all of us that we have to say good-bye to the one person who was so full of life, who filled our lives with laughter and love and joy. Xavier was one in a million—a son who never failed to call his parents to tell them he loved them and that he was okay, an older brother who adored his baby sister and would send her a souvenir from every city he played in, a man who lived for his brothers and the music they made, and a husband who loved his wife more than anything else.

“X died in Saskatoon as he lived—with
no regrets
.”

My entire body erupted into goose bumps, and Phil went so still that I was afraid he might have stopped breathing.

Sheri heard X, too!

By the way Phil had reacted, he must’ve heard X say those words.

Glancing at Jason, Flipper, and Alys, I knew that, at some point, they had all heard him, and it was after he had died.

Connor took up a beat-up old acoustic guitar and started strumming “Over the Hills and Far Away.” He didn’t just play it. He sang it, and he nailed it. He and Alys started walking toward the river as she tightly held X to her chest with X’s family following.

I prodded Phil. “Come on,” I told him.

Before Tiny could push Phil, I slipped behind the chair and wheeled him out myself with Jason and Sheri, Flipper and Viv, and the roadies all tagging along.

Raising my voice, joining it with Connor’s, I sang. Smiling, my brother looked back at me over his shoulder and winked. Phil joined in, his voice still a piece of auditory heaven, even though he was piss drunk.

By the end, the entire mass was singing along. It was a beautiful way to send off our man and one he would have loved. Phil clutched tightly at my hand, and I had to squeeze back to keep him from breaking my bones.

Holding X’s urn with one hand, Alys grabbed Connor’s arm with the other to steady herself as she slipped her feet from her shoes and stood on the shore. Barefoot with her shoulders straight and head held high, X’s queen walked out into the muddy waters until it reached her thighs.

Turning to face downstream, Alys removed the top of the urn, looked into it, and whispered something none of us could hear. Tilting it, she started to pour the ashes into the water.

A heavy breeze swept up and dumped about half of the ashes all over her black dress along with coating her chest, neck, and face with a grimy layer of dead husband.

Stunned, she stared down at herself for a split second. “Damn it, X!” she screeched.

Jason
roared
with laughter. “He ain’t ever gonna leave you, Muffin!”

Flipper fell to the ground in hysterics, and Connor had his hand covering his mouth to stifle his own laughter. Lili’s face was horrified, and Phil…a glimmer sparkled in his bloodshot eyes, and his lips twitched.

“Aye, tha’s a soulless ginger fer ye!” Da’s voice rumbled out.

Bless it, Phil finally laughed.

For every drop of hope, there was a deluge of disappointment.

My days were spent providing rehabilitating therapy for Flipper and Phil, the latter becoming increasingly belligerent, cantankerous, and downright mean. During Phil’s sessions, which I made sure he had in the mornings just to get them over with, he would do what I asked and leave it at that. Usually, he was also hungover.

At least he had run out of Vicodin two days after the memorial service.

However, I soon realized that someone had been bringing Phil a bottle of booze every day.

Once we were finished with his therapy, I would make him food and then go give Flipper his therapy. By the time I came back, Phil would be three sheets to the wind.

After the first week of this, I was irate.

“You need to get a grip, Phil!” I snapped, finding him in bed in the living room, a bottle of Jack cradled in his crotch.

He lifted the bottle. “My grip is fine. See?”

Marching up to him, I snatched the bottle from his hand and stomped to the kitchen sink.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare, woman!” he roared, struggling to get to his feet and hobbling over with his walker.

I’d gotten a good two-thirds of it down the drain by the time he made it to me and snatched it back.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“The person who loves you more than anything and anyone in my life!” I shouted back. “The one who’s dedicated to healing you, who has been doing everything I can to get you and myself through this!”

“Well, stop bothering! I don’t give a shit about anythin’ anymore! I’m sick of you fuckin’ naggin’ my ass, tellin’ me what to do, what to fuckin’ eat, and bein’ an overall pain!”

Slapping me would have been less painful. “Fine,” I said, recoiling both physically and mentally.

“Don’t fuckin’ look at me like that,” he sneered. “It’s bad enough I have a gapin’ hole in my fuckin’ chest over losin’ my best friend. I don’t need you tryin’ to heap a shit pile of guilt on me, too.”

Shaking my head, I grabbed my bag and got the hell out of there.

While hanging out with Gavin, eventually, my conscience convinced me that Phil still needed me. Hours later, I returned to find him weeping and contrite.

“Baby Girrrl,” he slurred, opening his arms. “I’m sooo ssorrry! Please don’ hate me!”

Starved for the love that had once been stronger than anything, I went into his arms and cried with him. I was mourning so many things. It was a wonder to me that I could get myself up and out of bed each day.

Daily, I made the time to meditate and communicate with my Little Zephyr. Another week went by, and during a session, I noticed the abnormal flicker had dimmed. The stress I was dealing with was taking its toll on both of us. I was no longer strong enough to keep us going.

“Don’t give up!”
I told Little Zephyr.
“Please, there has to be a way to save you! I love you. I love you!”

Phil was much more willing to do his therapy when he was scared that I’d up and leave his ass again. Although I wished his love for me and not his guilt had brought the change, I took it for all it was worth.

A few days of promise.

While watching
Metal Madness Hour
on Thursday evening, the show had a tribute to X, showing clips from concerts and dedicating a whole hour to nothing but NOLA’s Junk. A year and a half ago, I would have been thrilled to have so much airplay of my favorite band.

Phil grew quiet, his hooded eyes filling with tears, and in that instant, his newfound desire to get strong, heal, and move forward had banked, cooling to ashes.

“Do you want to watch something else?” I asked quietly, hoping that he’d bounce back if the channel changed.

“No,” he replied.

Alys, Jason, and Sheri watched with us. When Alys burst into tears, Phil pulled her into his arms and rocked her. In a strange sense of horror, I watched my man and best friend find comfort in each other’s arms. The rational part of me knew that there was nothing more than the deep mourning they shared, but the love-starved, sickened, jealous part of me was what I felt the most. It burned like acid through me, sowing a seed of hate for the both of them.

Phil didn’t hold me like that anymore. He hardly touched me. Not once since the night we’d gotten back had he made any attempt for something physical between us. While witnessing his ability to comfort someone, anyone, else…a part of me shriveled up and died right there on the couch next to him.

Jason busted out a large bottle of Jack, and the three of them got fucking wasted.

Sheri looked at me in stunned disbelief, stoically refusing the alcohol, showing them her loyalty was to me—not that any of them even noticed. Phil kept his arm around Alys’s shoulders. Sheri’s disbelief turned to quiet outrage and then mellowed into pity, and that was when I got up and made my way to our side—
Phil’s
side—and crawled into the bed in the living room.

Alone.

Walls, ceiling, floor—they are all bright white, blindingly white, soft and squishy…padded.

My eyes adjust to the painful crisp brilliance of it all before it slowly dims, revealing shadows where the fabric and cushion dips, fixing to the surfaces beneath.

“It’s all a lie, a dream, a fantasy I made up in my head to deal with the pain.”

I keep telling myself this, a mantra that repeats in my mind.

It’s not
his
voice. It’s my own, and I know I should take comfort in that somehow. But I can’t because a part of me simply can’t believe that
it’s all a lie, a dream, a fantasy I made up in my head to deal with the pain.

The pain from what?

“Losing Mom.”

Glancing down, I see they’ve made me secure once more, strapped into my straitjacket like a good little head case who insists she’s the lover of a rock god.

“We have a whole life together!” I say.

“No, you don’t. It’s all in your head.”

That’s impossible. Am I really here?

“The crazies don’t know they’re crazy.
”

They say I’m making progress, that I have more moments of lucidity. If I continue to get better, then I can go home and live with Grandma again. If I just give up this world in my head, I can get away from all this white.

But a world without Phi—

“No! Don’t say his name! They’ll know. They’ll keep me in here longer!”

“He exists, yes, but not in the world of your own creation, Zephyr.”

“Only my mother called me Zephyr!” I snap.

Who’s talking to me? I don’t see anyone!

My darting frantic eyeballs sift through the white and shadow, searching for the source. Nothing reveals itself. I don’t even detect a door.