Page 142 of Down Beat

FIFTY

Tabitha

“Reason I’m Alive” – Drowning Pool

My phone signals a message as I stand with coffee in hand and scour the jobs board at our local café. I haven’t given up on music, simply accepted the truth that I’m further from it being my sole source of income than I’d like.

I know my limitations, and they all center on money. Taking a “real” job for a while to save up some cash to invest into an album, or a new violin, isn’t giving up. It’s smart business sense… at least that’s what I tell myself when I freak out at seemingly going backwards.

The froth of my drink hits my lip as I hesitate over one that reads “Hours Negotiable.” It turns out to be a temporary position, nothing that could sustain living costs for my foreseeable future. Aside from a couple of seasonal positions, it’s all the same stuff that’s advertised online—nothing I’m qualified to do.

Afternoon light paints the street in warm oranges and reds as I step out of the shop and wrestle my phone from my purse with my free hand. Kendall is at work, and over the past week I’ve found myself out wandering our neighborhood. What for? I don’t really know. All I do know is that I’m searching for something I won’t find here.

Something I left behind.

Someone.

Yet, no matter how many times the pang of regret stabs in my chest, no matter how any times my lungs grow tight when I wonder how he’s doing, what happened, I won’t break.

I won’t cave in and search out the information that would be so readily available on the internet. Not when the only person I want to hear the news from is Rey himself.

I live with a ridiculous fantasy that after the tour ends, my Messenger will chime to let me know he’s calling to say he’s found himself in rehab, that he finally accepted the help he needs and he’s better.

But I know that’s bullshit. I know, as well as he does, that the end of the tour will mean nothing when it comes to his mental health.

Hell, all it will probably do is give him an out. Nobody there to watch him twenty-four seven. Nobody there to check his schedule, make sure he’s where he’s supposed to be, doing what he’s meant to.

Nobody but him.

I find a seat on the windowsill of a boutique store and set my coffee at my feet to check my phone.

The name sitting proudly in bold before the preview sends my heart into chaos and my head into a spin.

Toby

I’ve done so well. I’ve managed this far. And yet one goddamn word and my subconscious catalogues how much combined cash I have between my bank account and credit card to afford another plane ticket.

Toby’s message is simple, an image attached.

T: Help.

I tap on the photo, an picture of a sheet of paper with handwritten lines. I have to pinch and zoom to see what it says, but there’s no doubt once I have who’s written it.

Oh, babe. What are you doing to yourself?

I swallow back the restriction in my throat, determined not to cry in public. The lines are dark; darker than anything he’s put out to date.

Ta: What do you want me to do?

I wait as Toby’s dots dance across my screen, lifting my coffee to take a sip. People walk past, oblivious to the problem unfolding on my phone. It strikes me—is that how Rey feels when he gets up to perform? Does he stare out at all those faces, all those people who are completely unaware of what he struggles with, and get frustrated by their ignorance?

It’s not their fault that they don’t know his battle, but as I look at the people walk by me now, I understand how isolating that must feel.

T: We need you here, Tabby. Please.

I shake my head at Toby’s reply, my heart yet to slow from the definite prestissimo it took on when I opened the thread.

Ta: I can’t do this for him. He needs professional help.

---