Page 4 of Derailed
Bedo claps his hands together once. “Okay, then. That’s our story. You didn’t know. You never participated. You don’t know shit, get that? The story doesn’tchange.”
“It’s not a story, Bedo. It’s the truth,” Trent grinds out between clenchedteeth.
Bedo’s smile holds no humor and it’s only seconds before he fires back. “I don’t care about the truth, and excuse me for being indifferent, but in my experience stories start to change when piles of cash are thrown in the mix for tell-allexclusives.”
I’m tired of this shit. I don’t want a fight, but Bedo’s got to be high himself if he thinks we’d throw one of our own to the press. “When can we see Iz?” The request leaves my lips as more of ademand.
Bedo shakes his head. “They’ll let you stop in to say a quick hello, but that’s only if you don’t cause a scene or get him worked up. They’ve finally got him comfortable. He’s in and out of it, though. Might not recognize any ofyou.”
“Let’s go, then,” Austin practically shouts, and I rise to myfeet.
“Oh, and congratulations,” Erika says with a weak smile and a shrug. At our puzzled expressions she forces a laugh. “Sorry. You don’t know. Congratulations on your firstGrammy.”
It’s sad because I’ve dreamed about this news my entire fucking life. Ever since I was a teen playing a borrowed guitar in my friend’s garage. It’s the epitome of success in the music business, but in this moment I can’t will myself to give afuck.
“Oh yeah? Cool.” Austin’s the only one who responds, but by everyone’s lackluster enthusiasm, I’m not the only one who feels this way. It’s hard to be excited about your career when your drummer is fighting for hislife.
“Best Rock Single. Not album, though. Better luck next time.” I have to admire her fortitude. Considering the circumstances, our joy at her announcement is indifferent, but she’s still trying to deliver this news withzeal.
“Yep. Next time.” Trent’s words come out bitter and he turns to head toward Iz’sroom.
“Fine. Go. We’ll finish this conversation when you get back.” Bedo points down the hall. “303.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Austin mutters under his breath just loud enough we can hear. Normally, that would make me laugh. Normally, we’d continue to give Bedo a hard time, joking more only because it pisses him off. But tonight, or this morning rather, nothing is funny. I don’t think we’ve ever been this quiet. We walk along the linoleum floor, heavy steps mingled with intermittent soft squeaks. When we finally reach the door, Trent lifts the handle with a click, holding it open for us each to passthrough.
No one says aword.
That’s how fucking scary it is to see our bandmate white as a goddamn corpse tucked under hospital sheets with all sorts of wires and tubes protruding from hisbody.
“He looks dead,” Austin blurts and even though that’s my exact thought, I want to punch him for speaking italoud.
“Oxygen.” A nurse interrupts, shuffles up to the head of the bed, and touches the tubing that snakes out of our friend’s nostrils. “He’s not dead, he’s breathing. Just needs a little help.” She goes about what looks like a routine—checking machines, his pulse, and the bag of IV fluid that leads into his forearm. She explains it all, matter-of-factly and without dramatics. That alone settles my fears andapprehensions.
“Thank you for taking good care of him.” Lexi offers a smile after the nurse tucks her metal clipboard in a holder fastened to thewall.
“You’re welcome.” She smiles back and turns toleave.
“He’s gonna be okay, though?” Austin’s question stops her. “Like, there’s no permanentdamage?”
She turns back to us with a shake of her head. “I’m sorry, I’m not at liberty to discussthat.”
Austin nods. “Right. Sorry. It’s just . . . We really care about . . . He scared us pretty goodtonight.”
“Can I be perfectly honest? Not as his nurse, but as someone who’s worked in health care for the past fifteenyears?”
Trent speaks but she’s the one who holds our attention. “Of course.Please.”
“He won’t get better until he gets clean. He can’t do that without your support. He needs extensive rehab. Without it, this . . . This will only continue to happen. Until his body can’tanymore.”
“This isn’t like Iz. Sure, he likes to smoke a little weed. But he’s not an addict,” Austinsays.
“Casual drug users don’t shoot half grams of heroin for fun. He’s an addict. He needs help. You’ll have to fight to get himthat.”
I thought we were quiet before, but that’s nothing compared to this moment. The machine that measures Iz’s heart rate thrums over the silence that stretches along with the nurse’s words. Her comments settle, along with the gravity of this situation. Our friend isn’t okay. Not even a little bit. And we never fuckingnoticed.
“Thank you,” I murmur, and meet herstare.
Her smile is grim, but in it I find honesty. “I’ll take good care of him. He won’t be up for another eight hours. Go home. Get somerest.”
