Chapter 31
Letter – an ancient method of communication involving pen and paper
Gibson
I groan as I wake and reach for my phone. My hand meets air. I frown as I open my eyes. My frown deepens when I encounter white walls and utilitarian furniture. This is not the house I’m renting with Jett.
Rehab. For a moment there, I forgot I’m in rehab and miles away from Mercy and my bandmates. I scrub a hand down my face. My usual trimmed beard is out of control after a week of not shaving.
One week down. Who knows how many weeks to go. In the meantime, I’m not allowed to phone or message anyone. No social media. No newsletters. No magazines. Thus, the lack of a phone on my dresser.
I didn’t think I was one of those annoying people who is on their phone all the time. I was wrong. I reach for my phone several times an hour. I feel as if I’m missing a limb. I’m cut off from the world and hankering for connection.
I’m desperate to speak to Mercy. To find out how she’s doing. How is she handling being a business owner again? And – most important of all – does she forgive me? Does she still love me? Or does she want nothing to do with me?
Nurse Hannah knocks on the door. “Time for group.”
I smile but my usual charm has no effect on Nurse Hannah. She’s all business as she motions me toward the room where our group sessions are held.
“Oh, great,” Danny says as I enter. “The whiner has arrived.”
“I’m not a whiner.”
Charles snorts. “Because complaining about how you can’t make phone calls for an hour isn’t whining.”
Danny and Charles are the other members of this group session and they pull no punches. I’ll never admit it, but I like both of them. If the circumstances were different, we’d be friends having drinks at a bar.
I scowl at Charles. “I didn’t complain for an hour.”
Danny chuckles. “And I didn’t wet my bed the first night I arrived.”
My nose wrinkles. “Gross. Keep your bed wetting stories to yourself.”
Charles groans. “Great. Now he thinks you’re challenging him.”
“I’m not challenging anyone.”
Danny wriggles his eyebrows. “Did I tell you about the time I—”
I hold up a hand to stop him. I’ll never admit it out loud, but I’m squeamish when it comes to bodily fluids. Bodily fluids should stay where they belong. Inside the body.
Dr. Stu arrives and joins our merry circle. “Good morning.”
I open my mouth to ask him what’s good about it but slam it shut again when I realize I’d be whining. Damn. I guess I am becoming a whiner.
“Yesterday, we were discussing triggers,” Dr. Stu begins. “Charles, you spoke about sports being a trigger for you.”
“I started drinking when I got injured playing for the Broncos. It helped me cope with the stress of thinking I was never going to be able to play again,” Charles begins.
“Thank you for sharing,” Dr. Stu says once Charles has finished his story. “Gibson, you haven’t talked much in therapy.”
“Except to complain,” Danny mutters.
Dr. Stu pretends not to hear Danny. “Do you want to discuss your triggers?”
“No.”
Dr. Stu smiles. “Let me rephrase. Tell us about your triggers. It’s not a request.”
I blow out a breath. The last thing I want to do is discuss my private life with these strangers.
“Anything you say in this group is confidential.”
“We’re not running to the paps, those vultures,” Danny says.
Since he’s a movie star and Charles is a former professional athlete who’s now a sports commentator, I believe him. They know how the paps can twist a story until it resembles nothing close to the truth just to sell a few more copies. They don’t care about causing hurt to those involved. Vultures is too tame a word for them.
“My trigger is my parents. Mostly my dad,” I confess.
By the time, the session ends an hour later I feel completely hollowed out. Explaining how my parents are assholes who don’t care about me isn’t exactly fun.
Dr. Stu stands. “Tomorrow we’ll discuss coping strategies.”
Danny and Charles hurry out of the room but Dr. Stu motions for me to stay behind.
“Thanks for sharing today.”
I grunt. It’s not as if I had a choice.
“Nurse Hannah told me you’ve complained about not being able to make any phone calls. As I explained to you before, you’ll only be allowed access to your phone after the initial fourteen days.”
“That’s another week away.” Another week without contact with Mercy. Will she have forgotten about me by then?
“True, but there are other methods of communicating with people.”
I frown. “I can’t message her without a phone.”
He chuckles. “How about a letter?”
“A letter?”
“I instructed Nurse Hannah to place some paper and envelopes in your room,” he says before someone hollers his name. He rushes off as I contemplate his words.
A letter? What would I say to Mercy in a letter? I usually fly by the seat of my pants. Writing a letter takes planning and consideration. Two things I’m not exactly known for.
I return to my room to find a pile of paper on my desk. I pick up a pen and twirl it around as I contemplate what to write.
Dear Mercy,
I tap the pen against the desk. Great start. I’m not a songwriter. Cash is the songwriter of the band. I don’t have fancy words of love for Mercy. I can’t write her a ballad that becomes a hit song.
But I do need her to forgive me. To give me another chance. Because I love her.
I can’t write her a letter claiming I love her now though. She won’t believe me. And I wouldn’t blame her either. Besides, she deserves to hear those words in person.
What I can do is apologize. And explain.
I start again.
Dear Mercy,
I’m not allowed to speak to you on the phone yet. Apparently, I whined about the no phone situation a bit much since I returned to my room to find a pen and paper on my desk.
I’m not the songwriter of the band, but I’ll try to put my thoughts into writing. I hope you read this and don’t burn it the second it arrives. I wouldn’t blame you, though. I was a complete and utter asshole to you.
I’m sorry for the way I treated you. If I’m completely honest – something these doctors in rehab say I should be – I don’t remember the night very well.
The guys filled me in. Who knows how they know every single thing that happened – the gossip gals probably have our house bugged – but they did.
I scratch those words out. It doesn’t matter what I believe. And saying I can’t believe it kind of nullifies the apology. It happened. I need to own up to my behavior.
I’m sorry I called you a bitch. I know the word is a trigger for you. I’m learning all about triggers here.
Speaking of triggers…
My dad rang me that day. He wanted me to buy him a new car because the Mercedes I bought them is too old now.
I’m not trying to excuse my behavior – there is no excuse for it – but maybe an explanation will help you understand why I did what I did.
I’ve always drank a bit too much. It’s easy to get carried away when you’re on tour and alcohol is shoved into your hands at every turn. Fame is intoxicating – pun intended – when it first happens and before you realize it’s all a smoke screen.
But when my parents sued me I started drinking more to numb the pain. Their lawsuit felt like a rejection of my love for them. Why else would they demand money from me? And insist they were the only reason I became famous?
If they loved me, they wouldn’t have sued me is what I thought. There must have been something wrong with me to prevent them from loving me.
And so I drank.
Dr. Stu says I need to learn coping mechanisms to stop myself from reaching for a beer whenever I’m triggered. I’m not there yet but I’m not leaving this place until I am. I’m pretty sure the good ‘ol doc is hatching a plan, which involves me phoning my parents before I’m allowed to leave. Something to look forward to.
I’m sorry again for the things I said. The way I acted. I can’t apologize enough for how I acted.
I cross out the last question. I want Mercy to forgive me and give me a second chance more than anything in the world. But it’s too early to ask for her forgiveness. I need to show her she can trust me first.
I miss you, sassy girl. I miss the twinkle in your eye before you sass at me. I miss watching you try to bring Mercury into line. I miss your insistence on listening to country music. I miss how fast you drive. Your smile when you switch on the car engine. I miss how you refuse to care I’m a rockstar. Have you googled me yet?
I’ll write again soon.
Yours always,
Guitar man
I fold the paper and stick it into the envelope.
Step one in my plan to get my girl back is underway. Go to rehab and get sober.
Step two is to get Mercy to forgive me. This letter is the start.
Step three is for Mercy to give me another chance. No sense worrying about a second chance until she’s forgiven me.
But I am not letting Mercy go without a fight. She owns my heart and soul.
Please forgive me, Mercy. I don’t want to live without you. I can’t.