Great fucking advice, Len. You’re such an old woman at times. Worse than Linda. Only you’re wrong about everything. Always. You’re my best friend. You should know me better than that.
I don’t fuck around on Chrissie. Not ever. I collapsed in my hotel suite. I’ve been in the hospital, you asshole. The doctors don’t know what’s wrong with me yet—I don’t look like death; I feel like death and I’m fucking scared—and I sure as fuck don’t want Chrissie to know about this yet. She takes everything so hard. Better to find out what it is first. Better not to worry her.
The car rolls to a stop and the door is opened. The crowd, the screaming, the rapidly flashing cameras are almost more than my fatigue-drained body can take as I am pulled by my security team into the arena. Maybe Dr. Blackman was right; I shouldn’t have left the hospital. But fuck, what’s the point in lying in a bed waiting for them to tell you what’s wrong when they can’t do a single thing to make you well until they figure out what the fuck is wrong in your body.
Fuck, I’m breathless. Why can’t I pull air in and out of my lungs? What the fuck is happening to my body? I don’t want to be ill. I have everything to live for. Finally.
My security team starts ushering me toward the pressroom, but the couch in my dressing room is where I’d prefer to go. My phone vibrates again. I pull it from my pocket and flip it open.
Blackman. Finally. What the hell took so long? What the fuck is the point of having money if it can’t at least expedite things in your life once in a while? It shouldn’t take so long to get answers on a handful of medical tests. They make you wait because they can. Miserable cunts in white coats.
I search for somewhere quiet to take the call. Shit, nearest place is an exit tunnel.
I turn toward the head of my security detail. “I need to take five minutes in there alone. Keep everyone out of the tunnel.”
I’m escorted into the concrete corridor and security starts pushing the bodies back from me.
I hit the answer button, cover one ear with a hand, and turn my back on the shouting crowd intent on not letting me have a completely private moment for this.
“Yes, Dr. Blackman,” I say anxiously. “Did you get the test results back?”
“How are you feeling, Alan?”
Oh shit. I can tell by his tone of voice this is not going to be good news. I tense. “Why don’t you skip the pleasantries and move on to the part where you tell me what’s wrong with me?”
A long pause. “When can you get back to the hospital? This is a discussion we should have in my office.”
“I can’t. I’m performing tonight. Then I go home to California. Just tell me what the fuck is wrong with me.”
“California. Good. Probably best. I have a colleague at Stanford Medical Center. Top man in his field. It’s where I recommend you go for treatment. He’ll take excellent care of you. High success rates. They are making remarkable medical advances with this type of illness in the United States. Much better treatments than we have in the UK.”
Treatment for what? Why can’t anyone ever talk to me straight? “What is wrong with me?”
“Alan, you have non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Cancer.”
My body goes cold even though it feels like my heart is about to explode from its rapid beating.
“Cancer? Are you telling me I’m going to die? Is that what the fuck you’re telling me tonight? Stop equivocating and be direct even if it offends your medical sense of superiority and cruelty.”
“That’s not what I’m telling you. There are no guarantees, but the cure rate is very high for this type of cancer. If you were going to get a cancer, this is the one you want. Ninety percent cure rate.”
My temper flares. As far as reassurances go, that one was fucking inappropriate. Who the hell would want any kind of cancer?
“When are you back in the States?” Dr. Blackman asks.
“Tomorrow.”
“I’ll set things up with Dr. Hern for him to see you as soon as possible. You shouldn’t delay this, Alan.”
As if I’m going to fucking delay trying not to die. “Set it up.”
I snap shut the phone. My legs give way. I’m crouched against the wall, my face in my hands. My phone starts to vibrate again. Chrissie. Every part of me is desperate to hear her voice, but I can’t talk to her, not now. I’ll lose it if I hear her voice.
I stand up and shove the phone into my pocket.
“You ready to do this, Manny?” Trey shouts from the top of the corridor.
I nod to the head of my security team, climbing the slight incline to the main corridor. God, I can hardly breathe and it was only ten steps. I’m ushered into the pressroom. The rest of the band is already there fielding questions.
Len stands up, placing his hands on my chest. “We need to talk before you do this. Something has happened that you need to know about.”
I rake a hand through my hair, trying not to explode. I just found out I have cancer. I don’t need to hear about anything, not one more fucking trivial thing anyone thinks is important, not ever again.
Do I call Chrissie and tell her or do I wait until I’m home? I can’t breathe again. Emotion clogs in my throat. Oh fuck, not here. Not now. Not for people to see.
“Manny…”
I ignore Len and drop heavily onto my chair as my name is shouted over and over again. I point. Jenkins. Daily Telegraph. It will be a softball question. I can’t take more than softball questions today.
Jenkins stands. “Do you have a comment on the death of Neil Stanton?”
Did I hear Jenkins right? The sudden hush in the room is eerie, even with the rapidly flashing cameras wanting to catch my first reaction. Oh no. The repeated phone calls from Chrissie. So unlike her. Crap. Is this why she’s been calling me?
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Jenkins flips his notebook. “This is from the LA Times this morning. ‘UCLA Medical Center announced that Neil Stanton, lead singer of Arctic Hole, died at 7:27 a.m. following a fatal car accident on Laurel Canyon Road at 11:30 p.m. Thursday night. He was immediately rushed into surgery; however, he never regained consciousness. At his bedside when he was removed from life-support were his wife, singer-songwriter Christian Parker, and their daughter, Kaley Stanton.’ Do you care to comment?”
Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. I need to get home, now.
I calmly arch a brow. “Ex.”
Jenkins’s eyes widen. “Excuse me? Would you like to repeat that comment?”
“The LA Times is inaccurate,” I reply succinctly. “Christian Parker is his ex-wife.” I point to another reporter. “Next question, please.”
I force myself to sit through another five questions, then abruptly I stand up and calmly leave the room.
I lean into the head of my security and order, “Take me to my car.”
Trey looks alarmed. “Where the fuck are you going? You’re on stage in less than two hours.”
“I don’t care.”
And for the first time in a very long time, I don’t.
The house is dark when I reach Malibu fifteen hours later. I should have called Chrissie before I left London, but I traveled straight here from the UK without even my customary stopover in New York as I prefer. The few days alone to decompress from the road before I try to ease myself into Chrissie’s world are an immeasurably useful thing, but not this time. Getting to her quickly, for a multitude of reasons, felt like necessity.
With all that’s going on, it would probably have been the smarter move to do the days in Manhattan. I’m anxious, tense and on edge. And Chrissie…who the fuck knows what I’ll find going on with her? Neil’s death could manifest in her in a variety of ways.