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.