Chapter 2 Tristan
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Tristan
“I want to write and make music. Get my songs out there and play concerts everywhere. I want to show my fans that I’m still very much alive.”
Tristan forced a smile, flashing his white teeth, but he felt it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Could he convince the psychiatrist with just that?
If he reminded himself enough of what had always been his plan, maybe he would find his old self again.
His words weren’t a lie. After the incident with his brother, he had lost his drive and forgotten how committed he was about it.
Unimpressed, Dr. Snider scribbled something in his file.
How absurd, Tristan thought, running his hand through his black locks. A sharp pain shot through his right forearm, unpleasantly reminding him that his body was still healing.
“Mr. James,” the psychiatrist began, seeking his gaze.
“You crashed into a house without any restraint and miraculously avoided life-threatening injuries. You clearly had more luck than sense. That wasn’t just a whim of a rock star.
So please, don’t try to convince me that you’re fully motivated to return to your old life as if nothing happened. ”
“One does what one must.” Tristan’s voice was too weak to be convincing.
“Do I sense a certain resignation?”
It was impossible to withstand the piercing gaze of the middle-aged man.
Tristan shifted in his chair, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and wondering if he had exaggerated.
Since the doctor remained silent, apparently waiting for a response, he cleared his throat and briefly considered how much of his true self he could reveal without destroying himself.
“Okay, listen, you just need to sign this paper and you’ll be rid of me. I’ll even leave the city.”
Snider frowned in disbelief, looking far from happy, and flipped through his notes. “Last Friday, your manager called me. What was her name again?”
“Carol Davis.”
“Right. Carol Davis. A very … determined woman.”
“Politely put.”
At least that brought a little smile to Snider’s face.
“She tried to bribe me to release you from here.”
“Yeah, Carol has no scruples when it comes to money.”
“But money isn’t my concern, Mr. James. Right now, you’re under my care. I’m the one who, as you so aptly put it, gives you the drugs. If I sign the discharge papers, I’m literally releasing you into the world.”
“I just want to go home.” Tristan ignored the fact that an empty apartment awaited him there. “And … It’s not like I’ll go completely off the rails if you release me into the world. The longer I stay here, the sicker I feel. I’m not made to be locked up. I …”
“You’re an artist,” Snider said, sighing. “I know. We’ve been through this before.” The psychiatrist crossed one leg over the other and tilted his head slightly.
Tristan grimaced. He prided himself on his persuasive skills, but this man was a tough nut to crack. “Come on, Doc. I need to be back on stage soon. If I don’t show up there …”
“Do you want to be on stage?”
No.
“Of course!” This lie brought back the queasy feeling in his stomach. What else do I have? “Back to normalcy. That’s what you’re advocating for, isn’t it?”
“You won’t be able to maintain this facade forever,” Snider predicted. “I’ll ask you again. What do you want? Because if you don’t want to leave, don’t want to go on stage, and don’t want to go home, I can offer you refuge here.”
Tristan bit his lip, sitting back in the chair with his legs spread wide and arms crossed, staring down at the gray linoleum floor as he searched for the right answer.
When he opened his mouth to give the psychiatrist what he wanted to hear, a knot formed in his stomach once again.
He felt like a hunted animal in a labyrinth with no way out.
Tapping his right leg, he tousled his hair nervously.
His locks were long again, falling over his forehead and ears, but he didn’t have a hair tie to pull them back.
“Be honest with yourself.”
Surprised, Tristan raised an eyebrow. The fact that the old man suddenly sounded so understanding was something entirely new.
After all, Tristan had been here for almost three weeks.
What had changed? Or was it the pressure of the upcoming concert that was gradually becoming palpable?
Just the thought of the next gig made Tristan shudder.
“How does it matter if I want to go back or not when the whole tour is already planned?”
“How do you feel about it? Is there anything you can do about it?”
Baffled, Tristan hung his head. “O Captain! My Captain! If I only knew.” Since the day Milo died, this poem had been swirling in his mind, as if it held the answers to all his questions.
“You’d rather quote Walt Whitman than tell me how you feel?”
“No idea why.” Tristan sighed, sweeping his locks from his forehead. “It seems fitting right now.”
“So you feel torn?”
“Not appropriate enough for you? Or are you more of a Wordsworth type?”
“Enlighten me with a passage,” Snider encouraged him, pleased.
“I guess, that would be: ‘We will grieve not, rather find / Strength in what remains behind.’”
“And that would be?”
“Figure it out yourself. I’m not about to dishonor Wordsworth’s genius by vomiting it at your feet.”
Snider smiled understandingly, and Tristan knew that the doctor was familiar with Wordsworth’s Ode.
It wasn’t the first time they had discussed poetry. Tristan found solace in poetry, and Snider enjoyed every verse he recited.
“They’ll tear me apart if I don’t show up,” Tristan muttered, his voice barely a whisper.
“Who?”
He swallowed the heavy lump on his throat and rubbed his face with one hand. “Everyone who profits off us.”
“As I said, I have the power to give you time.”
“I appreciate that, but if I stay here, I’ll never find it again.”
“What have you lost?”
“The fire. The joy. What got me this far in the first place. The passion for my art.” Tristan paused, inhaled a deep breath, and pressed his lips together in contemplation. Then, with a sense of disbelief, he exhaled slowly. “It’s strange how quickly one can feel so pathetic.”
Dr. Snider remained silent, patiently waiting.
“I left someone behind,” Tristan continued. “Someone important to me. And because I did that, the fear for his safety is tearing me apart. I need to check on him and make sure he’s okay—even though he probably isn’t.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because I know him too well.” Tristan shrugged.
“You grieved. You don’t owe anything to anyone.”
“Yes, I do. I pushed him away when he wanted to help me. Besides, he was grieving too.” Tristan shook his head in disbelief. “I was trapped in that dark storm for days. I have no idea what I did there, but I’m sure the accident was just the culmination of that hellish journey.”
Snider flipped through the file and yanked out a paper. “As I also learned from Carol Davis last Friday, you’ve been charged with assault. The man you attacked is demanding compensation.”
“Of course,” Tristan muttered. “What else?”
“Do you want to talk about it? Remember why you attacked the man?”
The memories were blurry, but when Tristan saw the man’s face in his mind again, a chill ran down his spine. “He … was a jerk.”
Snider winced. “But that wasn’t all, right?”
“No. Of course not. He was drunk, insulted me, and provoked me. Called me a damn Indian.”
“People who know you from the media are aware of your indigenous roots; it’s even somewhat apparent.”
Tristan sighed. It was even more apparent with Milo that their mother had belonged to the Blackfoot tribe. “I’m well aware of that. But … the guy … He not only insulted me, but also my brother, as if he knew him. I don’t know.”
“That was just a few days after the funeral, wasn’t it? Why did you even agree to go to a bar?”
“José just wouldn’t let up, and I thought …”
“Mr. James, listen. It’s not my intention to sabotage your career by keeping you here any longer.
If you feel up to it, if you can perform in six days, then I won’t stand in your way.
Moreover, I think the circumstances speak for themselves.
Since this morning, one of your bandmates has been waiting for you.
Like a meditating monk, he sits in the waiting room and refuses to leave without you. ”
José.
Tristan smiled sadly. Only his drummer possessed the calmness Snider spoke of. But why did the doctor choose to reveal this information now? When all his defenses had collapsed and he felt like a wreck.
“I’ll give you some medication and a prescription. That will help you focus. Additionally, I’ll provide you with a medical report, which I’ll also send to your manager.”
“What? Why?”
“She asked me to issue one, intending to forward it to a lawyer. Probably has to do with that lawsuit. I’ll send it by email tonight. Miss Davis also gave me your email address.”
As the psychiatrist stood up, Tristan remained seated.
His gaze wandered to the clock above the door.
It was only half past nine; the week had just begun.
Snider went to his computer and clicked the mouse a few times.
Shortly after, the printer behind him started whirring.
The doctor took out the paper and signed it.
He then retrieved a medication from a drawer and added it to the document.
As he came around the table and stood in front of Tristan, he frowned.
“Or do you want to stay after all?”
That got Tristan moving, and he abruptly stood up.
“You’ll find my number here as well,” Dr. Snider said, handing him the prescription and medication. “Call me anytime if you need to talk.”
Without a word, Tristan accepted everything, nodded, and folded the paper. “I guess I’ll first have to get a new phone.”
Dr. Snider laughed. “Do that. Anyway, I wish you all the best for the future.”
As Tristan left the consultation room and stepped into the corridor, he suddenly felt dizzy.
A thick lump lodged in his throat that he couldn’t swallow, and his hand trembled as he gripped the piece of paper.
The short bursts of panic had become less in the last few days, so he tried to ignore this one as best as he could and returned to his room.
When he arrived at the psychiatric hospital, he had hardly anything with him.
Aside from himself, the only items salvaged from the car wreck were a keychain, a wallet, and a small notebook, which he had kept in his back pockets.
His phone was broken, and of the clothing not cut by the paramedics, he was left with only a denim jacket and his sneakers.
For almost three weeks now, he had been walking around in clothes from the shelter—a simple pair of jeans and a black shirt.
He folded the prescription neatly until it fit into his notebook and tucked it into his right back pocket. Next, he slipped the wallet into his left pocket and slid the key into his jacket.
Walking toward the exit felt strange. As he turned the corner and spotted José, his breath caught for a moment.
With his red, sleeveless shirt, short-cropped hair, and fully tattooed arms, the drummer looked completely out of place in the waiting room.
He was focused on typing something on his phone when he glanced up, and their eyes met.
A grin spread across his sun-bronzed face as he jumped up from his chair and hugged him tightly.
“Good to see you,” José whispered into his ear.
Tristan hesitantly wrapped his arms around him. Just hearing his Spanish accent again gave him a good feeling. José was always dependable.
The native Venezuelan, who had lived in the States since childhood, stepped back and inspected him from head to toe. “Damn, have you grown? I didn’t remember you being so tall.”
Tristan forced a smile and patted his buddy on the shoulder. “Thanks.”
“No, thank you for not making me wait any longer.” With a nod, he gestured toward Tristan’s bandaged arm. “What’s this?”
“A cut,” he replied curtly. When the airbag deployed, a shard of metal slashed his forearm in half.
José nodded thoughtfully. “Alright, then let’s get out of here.”
As they left the clinic together, Tristan followed him across the parking lot, relieved to take a seat in an air-conditioned car. They sat in silence for a while, Tristan gazing out the window at his old hometown as it whizzed by, while José focused on the traffic.
Now that Tristan was about to leave once more, he wondered how reckless he had been to come back here. But it was necessary. He had no other choice. His parents were here. Even though Milo had been buried in Los Angeles, he wanted to return their pendant.
“We’re all meeting at the Redwood tonight,” José said as he turned on the blinker and merged onto the freeway. “Carol thought a neutral place like a bar would probably be better than her office.”
“The Redwood?” Tristan furrowed his brow in disbelief. “Not exactly neutral.”
“I know. Maybe she thought it was better to hide among sharks than to try to swim away from them.”
“Or she thought she wouldn’t have to get back into the car and could walk there.”
José laughed. “That sounds more like her.”
A heaviness settled over Tristan, and he felt incredibly tired. Surely, José wouldn’t mind if he took a quick nap. But a thought jolted him out of his daze.
“How’s Leaf?”
José fell silent, staring intently at the road.
“Is he okay?”
“We’ll probably find out soon.” José muttered and stepped on the gas.
As the expanse of the desert opened up before them, Tristan breathed a sigh of relief.
Survived Las Vegas once again.
The sun still stood behind them, but soon they would be chasing after it. Westward. Back to the City of Angels.