Page 6 of Beyond the Stix
“The jet is clear for us. We have two hours before it takes off,” Ron says and grips my shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie openly, as my mind races ahead to all of the what ifs. No, I’m far from okay, but I try to keep the mudslide of bad thoughts from flowing out of my mouth.
“I wish I could go, but I have things keeping me here. But I’ll call for updates,” Ron adds, with a note of sorrow. “I’ll cancel the promo appearances that are coming up for you guys. I’m sorry, Connor.” He blows out a breath and releases his grip on my shoulder.
“He’s not dead yet,” I utter, unable to raise my voice above a whisper.
“No, he’s isn’t.” Ron nods.
“Don’t worry. We’ll make sure to keep you abreast of any news,” Callum says with watery eyes. He too, is close to my father. Dad had been there when Callum’s father wasn’t.
All of my friends, who have been at my house—slept over—engaged with my parents thousands of times, hung out with my dad, are also feeling the ache. I see it in every one of my friends’ faces.
As we take off from SFO’s tarmac headed to Chicago, I repeatedly wish for my father to stay alive, and to get better. But I’m afraid of wishing may be beyond my luck.
TWO
John
The entire flight was tense,a dark cloud of gloom hanging over each band member’s head during the drive from the Chicago Executive Airport to the hospital. They are just as quiet in the stretch SUV that Dean procured for us, as they had been on the jet.
As Tobias slides into the driver’s seat, he passes a worried glance to me as I get in the front passenger side. I know that look, and nod in acknowledgement. This is going to be a hard day for all the band members, but especially for Connor. His world is about to be upended and I need to stay by his side in case he falls.
I look over my shoulder and spot the same looks of concern on the faces of my teammates Dom, Pen, and Cal, who are each watching their charges with total intent.
My eyes drift to Connor, who’s sitting in the very back seat, his attention fixed to the world passing outside his window. Despite the quiet, I can detect the unease surrounding him, like he’s preparing himself for the worst. And maybe he should be,especially after getting another call from his mother, telling him what actually happened to his father.
Cerebral aneurysm that led to a hemorrhage in his brain. But add that to him falling off the ladder at work and hitting his head, and I fear there isn’t much time left for the man.
I wish I could do something to ease the pain Connor is trying so hard to hide away, but there’s nothing to be done, except to wait and see if his father survives and what the doctors will do next.
The horde of us storm inside the hospital around six that evening, with Connor and Danny leading the charge. At the entrance, we are stopped by security, but Tobias takes care of that situation right away.
When we reach the critical care floor, an angry nurse won’t let us pass until we promise that most of us will remain in the waiting room while Connor—with me as his protection—heads into his father’s room.
“Mom.” Connor steps inside the room.
“Con.” His mother, Amanda Wild, turns her puffy red eyes toward her son and rushes into his arms with a choked-out sob. “I’m so glad you got here quickly.”
From her frail complexion, she looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks. But I see where Connor got the shape of his eyes, his chestnut brown hair and his olive skin tone. He must get his brilliant green eyes from his father.
A quick glance at the man on the bed shows that Markus Wild isn’t an average size man. He’s big, around six-five, judging by how his feet partly hang over the end of the bed. His wide shoulders span the entirety of the twin bed. His short, wooly, grayish-red hair matches the unruly, thick beard that has equal amounts of red and silver.
“Your father would be glad to see you.” Her tear-filled vow hits me right in the chest, especially when anguish flashes acrossConnor’s face then blinks into an emotion I can’t decipher. Her breath hitches before she continues. “We need to be prepared.”
“Be prepared for what?” Connor pulls back and stares down at his mother. “Explain it to me, Mom.”
Without having her utter a word, I know the outcome for Markus. The man doesn’t have long to live. He’s hooked up to several machines, including a ventilator that’s keeping Markus breathing.
Connor’s mother sits in the chair adjacent to the bed and quickly explains what the doctor said. “Talk to your father. Maybe he’ll listen to you and wake up.” There’s hope in her words that her son can bring about this miracle. The solemnity in the drummer’s eyes says he has no confidence in his father’s waking from the coma. But he agrees to do anything to appease his mother’s request.
He releases her hand, and turns to his father. Connor leans in and kisses his father’s forehead. “Hey, Dad. I’m here. Open your eyes for me, please. I got things to say and I can’t say them while you’re lying there with your eyes closed. Come on, wake up for me.” The desperation inching into his voice slices at my heart even more.
Connor might appear composed, but under that stoic veil, he is protecting himself. To me, I see his fear bright like a beacon in a typhoon of emotions while he’s trying to hold on to some semblance of control.
For a long beat, Connor hovers over his father, waiting for the man to rouse, but there’s no chance of that. With each passing second, Connor’s shoulders hunch further in defeat.
“Connor.” Amanda tugs on her son’s hand. “Grab a chair and sit with me.”