In the Absence of You (26 page)

I want to meet up with my family. Visit their campground. Sit around the bonfire
with them
, sing old songs
with them
, taste horrible moonshine made by old Zindelo
with them
. I don’t know if I’m suited for the close-knitted, one-for-all community I was born into, but the plague is disintegrating before my eyes, and my urge to hide isn’t what it used to be.

“We’re aware. Help is waiting for him in L.A., I promise you,” Troy replies.

“Have you completely written off Zoe?”

“We’ve talked about it. No one believes she’s part of the solution. Zoe apparently took a month’s sick leave after she came out and saw us because she couldn’t cope with stuff either. It looks like they both just need to heal.”

And that’s where our opinions differ. I don’t understand Troy’s logic, and from the way he says it, it’s not just him. It’s the entire band.

I shared a lot with Troy while we were on tour, my closest ally, my friend, but with no one did I share the legend of the plague. If he had met Chavali and Kennick. If he knew the backstory to everything I did. Would his logic be the same?

Chavali’s situation was different from Emil’s, but now that my mind isn’t clouded by obsession, it seems so simple: if Zoe can’t stomach their estrangement and Emil is falling apart over it, why doesn’t someone reach out to her?

“She’d do more harm than good,” Troy murmurs as if he’s onto my trail of thoughts.

“What do you mean?”

He clears his throat. Mumbles, “Hold on,” then shuts a door.

“What’re you doing?”

He chuckles. “You literally have me locking myself into the bathroom.”

“Phone sex!” Elias yells. “Whoever she is, tell her ‘Hi’ and ‘Enjoy!’”

There’s a strange snorting sound, and I realize it’s Troy suppressing a laugh. It’s cute. “Shut up, Elias,” he growls once he’s in control of his amusement.

I smile but sober quickly. “Tell me about Zoe.”

“Have you heard Emil call her bitchy?”

“Yeah…”

“She
is
bitchy. Jealous and bitchy. Emil’s got weird taste in chicks, man. Clearly, he gets off on them being bossy, and Zoe’s the queen of bossy. She’s nice around us and all, but she loves to tell him what to do.”

“Oh. Lots of arguments then? I heard them on the bus.”

“No, oddly not. It was more a constant bickering and Emil laughing his ass off when her demands became ridiculous. And then of course, sometimes she’d be right and he’d apologize and just… sort of…”

“What.”

“Oh nothing. Loud makeup sex with explicit, verbal instructions running between the two of them.” Troy snorts again.

“Wow,” I say.

“Yeah. Nadia’s probably the only one who dares to give Zoe advice. She’ll bite anyone else’s head off is what I’m trying to say. And when it comes to you, since you’ve kept Emil warm, I wouldn’t bet on you surviving a run-in.”

EMIL

N
ew York.
I’m stone sober before the most important concert of my life. I’m here. Zoe won’t be—I know—I know—but thanks to my bloody mess on stage, we’ve been all over the media lately. I hope she sees.

We’ve got TV shows visiting the gig, and our business manager is flying up from L.A. Reporters are popping by backstage, but the only person I can deal with right now is Bo.

“You sure about this? We can still pull the plug on ‘I’m Sorry.’” He leans back in his seat, strumming quietly on his guitar. “I don’t want you to lose your shit up there.”

“I’m losing my shit as it is, bro. Same difference.” I chuckle though I know he doesn’t find it funny. “Anyway. Let’s play ‘I’m Sorry’ right after ‘The Entertainer’ when I’ve got this white shirt all bloodied up in the front. I’ll look like a zombie singing it, don’t you think?” I pat the for-now clean fabric.

His look turns steely, empathy receding to measured annoyance. “Yeah. You will.”

Standing up, I pull in a breath, touching the low ceiling in this glorified locker room with my hand. “If they replay it everywhere, she’ll end up seeing it no matter what.” I hear the hope in my voice. Funny how I still have hope. “Maybe a friend will show her the clip.”

“Emil, don’t. Let’s do this show, get our asses back to L.A., and once we’re there, we’ll get you sorted out.”

I snort. “What, you’re gonna put me in the loony bin or something?”

“No, but I want you to see someone that can help you screw your head back on because the way you’re acting isn’t normal, and it sure as hell isn’t you.”

“A shrink. Jesus.” I laugh at him.

“Guys, it’s time.” Troll is subdued tonight as he jerks his head toward the backstage corridor. Our walk-on music has started, and the audience is one solid hiss out there. My heart kick-starts. By the time we’re at the stage entrance, it accelerates into a thunder I’m addicted to.

I’ve insisted on “The Entertainer” coming first. No one thinks it’s a good idea, but Bo is tired of fighting me. He’s been there. Almost been there; Bo knows all I care about is the demolition of my guts.

Sometimes I wonder how I’m still standing.

I barge out last, rush toward blinding lights, thrusting my fists in the air like I’m made of victory. I scream my hellos to the crowd, who goes ballistic, their hiss growing to a roar that finds me in their wall of approval.

We play “The Entertainer.”

The revolver. Familiar. Friendly in my hand. I squeeze tight, tight. Press it to my head. I fall to my knees as I sing, pushing its tip against my chest, and my last shout is everything triumph.

I shake, my pretend suicide a respite from the deep red of my agony. Kneeling, I shake—electrocuted—it’s how you feel when your heart explodes. I’ve got so much blood on me.

It’s all over my heart, my chest; I’m a carnage of heartache, the way she should see me. My zombie pain. She’s turned me into a zombie.
Oh Zoe, Zoe, why do you do what you do?

“I have a little song I want to play,” I whisper, hoarse. Road-worn and ragged out. “You guys haven’t heard it before. I made it for my girl who stopped being my girl. I wish she heard.”

“I’d never stop being your girl!”
someone shouts.

My hands are bloody around the mic, I see them, I do, and in my peripheral, Troy closes his eyes against me. The adrenaline makes my body tremble. I pant because pain takes energy.

He starts on the drums though, heavy, dark, low, the way we’ve rehearsed this song. They’re right. It’s a killer.

The audience, they love us. They’ll take it. And what we play is nothing like the real deal.

I shove hair off my forehead. It’s long now, messier than it used to be. No one yells at me to go to the stylist. No one books me an appointment.

My fingers are slippery with fake blood.

It’s cool.

It’s cool against my face.

AISHE

“It’s the love fire,
Aishe!” Shandor growls.

“No, it’s not. This is
humanity
speaking.”

“We’ve been away for less than a week and suddenly there’s no love fire, no plague, no fucking nothing anymore?”

“Just.
Look
at him!” I scream. My eyes blur with tears as I turn my laptop to my cousin. “You worked for him for ten months, and you don’t give a damn? Listen, you’re not heartless, and I’m not a robot—just freaking
watch
! Then tell me. I don’t know how they let him go on.”

With his arms scissoring his chest, Shandor is tense behind me as I play “I’m Sorry.” The concert is just over, but a fan even added subtitles before leaking the song to YouTube. It’s absolutely devastating.

“He’s manipulating you,” Shandor snarls, a verse and a chorus into the song. “Don’t for a second believe—”

“Shandor. The song isn’t about me.”

He turns to me, yellow eyes searching mine. “It’s about Zoe, you think?”

“Yes, and I’m going to help him sort this out.”

Shandor throws his hands in the air. “Look, Emil is surrounded by people who love him. He’s got the band, his family, Troll too. They’ll help.”

“What happens if someone’s bit by the plague at home?” I ask rhetorically, “home” being wherever our campers stop for the night.

“We’re there for them.”

“Right, twenty-four seven. And isn’t our first solution to see if the love fire is reciprocated? Then, isn’t someone there, making sure the meeting between the loving and the loved doesn’t end in disaster?”

Shandor sighs, his chest sinking in time with his slow blink. His gaze floats back to the screen where Emil’s on his knees, trembling, the gun on the floor and tears streaking the blood on his face. “What’s your plan?”

“Hello?”

“Hi… Zoe?”

“Who’s this?”

I swallow, steeling myself for her reaction. “It’s Aishe.”

“Aishe? How
dare
you call me!”

She curses. Calls me names. Once she’s done, I’m still on the phone with her and she’s still on the phone with me. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

Her patience with me won’t last. She hates me hard, and already her voice is quavering so I skip niceties and move straight to Emil’s needs.

“Did you watch the concert tonight?”

“Aishe,” she mocks, dragging my name out like she dumpster-dove for it. “I wouldn’t dream of watching his sorry ass, and I definitely don’t need to see him with pathetic sluts like you.”

“Emil and I aren’t together,” I hurry out before her words can sink in and hurt me. “He isn’t available. Emotionally, I mean. All he thinks about is you.”

“Who put you up to this? Nadia? Bo?” she demands, tears dousing her voice. “Oh it’s one of Elias’ stupid bets, isn’t it? Well, forget it. Let him collect his twenty bucks from you, because I won’t be a pawn to him.”

“I’m sending you a link,” I say.

“A link?”

“Yeah, to a recording of tonight. Emil wrote a song for you.”

“Ha!” she says, choking her sob too late. I hear her.

“I think you listening to this song is the only thing he has left to wish for.”

“Really? Because all
I
wish for is to get over him!”

“No!” I shout, and oddly, it silences her. “No…” I repeat more quietly. “You don’t understand. Emil wants nothing right now. Nothing spurs his interest. You’d lighten his burden just by watching it.”

Zoe isn’t on the phone anymore. I’m not sure when she hung up. I lift my eyes, finding Shandor leaned against the countertop of the deserted hotel bar.

“Told you,” he breathes out, sad for me.

“I had to try.”

“Why, cousin? He’s not your business. All he ever did was cause you grief and force you into a situation you’d never consciously choose.”

I lift my shoulders in a shrug. Fiercely protective of me, Shandor is a guy; things are black and white for him. For me, it’s not that simple. “Emil meant a lot to me. That hasn’t changed.”

EMIL

“N
o. I mean it,”
I sigh to Troy over the phone.

I’m in Los Angeles, Bo and Elias are in Sweden, while Troy wants me to be with his family for Christmas. “I’ve got plans.”

I don’t want him to know that I’m alone in my apartment on Christmas Eve. Though maybe it’s not a big deal to him; Americans celebrate tomorrow, not tonight.

“Did Troll invite you over tomorrow? Or… It’s not a hospital day for you, is it?”

I’m so tired. I lean my forehead against the wall. “No. You know what? I’ll be there tomorrow. Text me your folks’ address,” I whisper.

“Done deal.” He doesn’t sound content. “I’ll come by tonight. We’ll play ‘Guitar Hero’ or some shit.”

“I’m exhausted,” I say, not having to lie. “Mañana, yeah?”

“Okay. Mañana. But no ogling my sisters,” he kids.

I don’t laugh at his joke.

Bo calls from Sweden.

I don’t pick up.

He texts me while I clean the revolver I’ve never used.

Mår du okey?
he asks, and I don’t lie to Bo either when I reply that I’m tired but happy.

Final decisions have
the power to relax a man. They make you stop worrying. You’re done fighting, done calling, done leaving messages, singing songs, trying to create a life worth living.

It’s relief, yeah, it is, when you open that little carton of bullets and load them into your gun.

Your family, will they find you selfish? You’re doing them a favor. Instead of watching you rot from the inside out, they can remember you as you were.

The screen lights
up with Aishe’s name.

I should have turned off the phone.

You clean the
revolver again, shiny, beautiful in the afternoon glow. You hold it up, reveling in the relief of your decision.

If you believed in God, you’d be sentenced to Hell. You don’t though—you’re fine—plus, a humane god would say an infraction out of kindness for others is permissible when your act will cut others’ misery short.

Your relief evaporates if you think about
After
. You switch on the TV and find some channel playing a professional poker tournament—

How fitting.

You’ll be gambling too.

Aishe doesn’t get
the hint when I reject her fifth attempt to call me. She buzzes again; the girl always was stubborn.

You turn up
the volume on the television. None of your friends would play this game with you. You’re a social person. Now the players on the show are your only company.

Elias calls between
Aishe’s attempts. He instantly follows up with a text.

God jul, idiot!
it says.

God jul,
I text back so he doesn’t try to call again.

Troll calls. Nadia texts me.

Even Shandor?

What is this, a conspiracy to not leave me the fuck alone?

When Irene types something out from South Africa, I’ve had it. I turn my phone off and let the TV blare.

It’s four p.m.
on Christmas Eve, and you don’t want to think too hard about things. Since you woke up this morning, you’ve been relieved. Why would you think about people going to Christmas ceremonies back home?

You can’t call them. That would be insanity. Your mom would want to get on the phone too, and as soon as you opened your mouth, she’d hear how you are. You’d never do that to her. You’re not ruining her memory of you before you check out.

You won’t.

Crazy how physical needs interrupt the inevitable; all this bodily crap moseying on like it’s supposed to bog you down forever. The revolver comes with you to the bathroom. The phone too. Your fingers turn it back on.

You lay the revolver gingerly on the porcelain sink, loaded muzzle pointing at your thigh as you pee. How ironic if you shot yourself in the leg before you got to play your game. You’re a sissy. You probably wouldn’t even get to the game if you did that first.

She calls. Fucking.
Again!

“Aishe!” I scream into the phone.

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Emil! You picked up.”

“Leave me the fuck alone!”

“Why? Are you okay?” And something about the way she’s fearless, meeting my questions with immediate questions, makes me
talk.