Every Little Piece of Me Page 16

  Shaking his head, Paul unplugged his guitar from his amp and began winding up the cord. “Or, we could be the idiots who stayed and waited, thinking that the anomaly that was the Halifax music scene in the early ’90s is going to somehow repeat itself.”

  “It won’t repeat itself if all the good bands leave.”

  “Jesus Christ, Mags. You were the one who suggested the move in the first place,” Paul said. He threw the cord in his equipment box a little too forcefully. “We’ve outgrown this city, you said. We need to move forward, you said. Well, the only way forward is Toronto.”

  Mags knew Paul was right. They had played in Toronto before, of course, but it was always in and out—they needed to stay. No more stopping there between shows in Kingston and Sudbury, no more watching the city where they were destined to make their mark receding in the rear-view mirror. Over the past year, they had had minor successes, enough to keep them going after Mags quit the Brigatines, enough to stave off the desperation and despair—a live EP release, an East Coast Music Award, a North by Northeast showcase, a small write-up in Canadian Music. They had even received some major label interest. So where had this feeling of dread come from? Why did she suddenly feel as through Toronto was going to ruin them?

  “I just don’t think it’s the right time,” she said.

  “I hear what you’re saying,” Sam said carefully, trying to tread water in the space between Mags and Paul, the way he always did. “Halifax has been good to us, but you know as well as the rest of us that Halifax is too small to break us.”

  “Being a Halifax band is part of our identity,” she said. “If we don’t have that, what do we have?”

  Paul picked up the equipment box. “How about a future?”

  “Who says we can’t have that here?”

  Paul’s phone dinged, and he pulled it out of his pocket. Mags sucked in her breath. Recently, Paul had become obsessed with media coverage of the band, and had set up a Google Alert on his phone. That dinging sound had started to make Mags sick. “Listen to this. ‘Align Above could do great things, but they have started to stagnate in Halifax, their newer songs practically indistinguishable from their old songs.’ And that’s from Henry Cullen at The Shore, who loves us.”

  “Pretentious dirtbag,” Mags said. “Our new stuff sounds nothing like our old stuff.”

  “Fuck this,” said Zac, getting up and grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. “I don’t give a fuck if the scene here explodes or not. I’m sick of seeing the same stupid faces at Canada Day at Alderney Landing and New Year’s Eve at the Marquee and at the Pop Explosion or any of the millions of shows we’ve played here.” He shoved his drumsticks into his bag. “It’s always the same sweaty cans of Schooner, the same drunken walk home across the Commons, the same greasy Gina’s breakfast, the same crappy write-up in the paper. I am done with this city, and if you guys don’t move, I’m moving without you.”

  * * *

  “You know, there’s things I’m going to miss about Halifax too,” Sam said. “Our rent here is so affordable. And from what I hear there are no donairs in Toronto.”

  It was the morning before their final show, and by this point the lead weight in Mags’s chest had grown into a boulder, pinning her to the bed. She looked around the room—the first room that had been really, truly hers—with its sloped floors and tea-coloured walls, a chipped windowsill just big enough for a little potted cactus. Mags had never owned a plant before, had never owned anything except four shirts and two pairs of pants. When they were packing up to leave, she had dropped the cactus, the pot shattering on the floor. Mags wasn’t superstitious, but how could she not take that as an omen?

  “Don’t patronize me. You hate donairs.”

  “I don’t hate them.” Sam propped himself up on one elbow, leaning his head against his hand. “They give me heartburn. That could change. Or I could take a Tums.”

  “Forget donairs, okay?” Mags ran her fingers along his bicep, wiry and pale and run through with bluish veins that pulsed delicately beneath the skin. In the wake of her touch she saw goose pimples rise on his arm. “I just don’t know what there is for us in Toronto.”

  “Uh, a recording contract, for starters. Paul says there’s a lot of interest there.”

  “We can always sign with someone in Toronto and then fly back and forth. Lots of people do it. It wouldn’t have to change anything.”

  Sam pushed back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “That’s really what you want?” he asked, picking his jeans up off the floor and pulling them on over his boxers. “You want to live in Halifax and fly back and forth to Toronto to record?”

  Mags buried herself deeper into the bed. “Why not? I mean, it’s such a cliché. Another Maritime band fleeing the province at the first sign of success.”

  “Are you going to tell me what the hell is really going on?” He gazed down at her, his hands on his hips, shirtless, jeans unbuttoned. “I thought this was a done deal. Paul and Zac already signed a lease. We have a place lined up. We have gigs that you scheduled. And we’ve already played two sold-out shows at the Octopus full of people who think we’re leaving.”

  “I know.” Mags rolled over, pressing her face into the pillow. “And you’re being so nice and I’m being so unreasonable and it’s driving me crazy.” Lifting her head slightly, she peeked up at Sam. “I feel like it’s too soon. It’s too fast. I need more time to think.”

  “You don’t get it,” he said. He sat back down on the bed and caressed the side of her face. “We’re going to do this show tonight, and then we’re going to move to Toronto and we’re going to sign with a major label and we’re going to be famous and make music forever and be happy together for the rest of our lives. And that’s an order.”

  Mags exhaled slowly. She knew it wasn’t only the thought of leaving the apartment behind that scared her—there was something else, something she couldn’t name that was stoking her fear. But she also knew you didn’t get anywhere in life if you let the fear take over. One foot in front of the other. “I’ll be fine. I just need…” She stopped, unsure of how to finish the sentence. What did she need?

  “I know there’s things you’re going to miss…”

  She laughed. “Like what? All my friends are in the band. All my favourite places have closed or moved to Dartmouth or become a Pizza Hut. All the other bands I like have left. There is literally nothing left here for me.”

  The tip of Sam’s tongue protruded from between his lips, a thought vibrating on it. “What about Frankie?”

  Mags bolted upright in bed. “I told you never to say her name to me.”

  “I know. But—”

  “There is no but. This has nothing to do with her.” Blindly, Mags fumbled for clothing on the floor. “I can’t believe you would even think that.”

  Sam crawled across to her side of the bed, reaching for her, trying to get her to slow down. “Mags, I know you…”

  But she was already dressed. “Really? Because it doesn’t sound like you do,” she said. She grabbed her purse and stormed out of the room. She knew how to make a quick exit.

  * * *

  —

  Mags spent the rest of the afternoon at the Octopus, where she sat in the green room drinking beers with a couple of the tech guys until she realized it was an hour before they were scheduled to go on and Sam still hadn’t shown up.

  “I don’t get it,” she said to Zac backstage as she listened to Sam’s voicemail pick up for the third time. “We had a bit of a fight this morning, but it’s not like him to be late for something. He wouldn’t jeopardize a show just because he thought I was being kind of a bitch.”

  Zac took a sip of beer and leaned precariously back in his chair “Were you?” he asked. Mags glared at him.

  Finally, with forty-five minutes left to spare, she raced back to their apartment in their Civic, worried and angry. Maybe he had left a note, she thought, or maybe he had taken a nap, forgotten to set
an alarm. At least it was a start, a place to look. At least it kept her from catastrophizing, picturing gangs of knife-wielding teenagers jumping him in Victoria Park, desperate suicidal plunges from the MacDonald Bridge, buses skidding through stop signs and smashing his body to pieces. Most likely, he had lost track of time. Lost his phone. Lost his sense of direction. Lost something.

  When she got back to the apartment, she ran up to their second-floor entrance, taking the steps two at a time. The door was unlocked but Sam was nowhere to be found. She dashed from room to room, but the moment she walked in she could feel his absence in the house like a phantom limb. She was about to leave when she noticed the back door was ajar. She peered through the dim light down the narrow back stairs. When her eyes adjusted, she saw Sam lying in the foyer at the bottom, a garbage bag split open next to him. His body was splayed across the floor and up one wall at an odd angle, his legs folded in on themselves in the constricted space.

  Mags flew down the stairs and knelt on the bottom step next to him, suspended in a sea of plastic meat trays and coffee filters full of used-up grounds, the smell making her stomach heave. “Sam, what happened? Are you hurt?”

  His eyes fluttered open, and he blinked up at her in confusion. “I must have fallen down the stairs when I was taking out the garbage.” He tried to shift his weight toward her, then winced and rolled back.”

  “It’s okay, it’s okay.” Mags stood up, her heart racing, as she tried to think of what to do. What did people do in these kinds of situations? “A hospital. We need to get you to a hospital.”

  “No!” Sam shifted, and a wad of tinfoil rolled off his leg. “Just help me up. Please. We have to do the show.”

  “Are you kidding me? You can’t do the show.”

  “I have to.” He attempted a smile. “I don’t want anyone thinking I threw myself down here to avoid our last hometown performance.”

  But Mags was too upset to laugh. “How long have you been lying here?” she demanded, sweeping his hair away from his eyes and staring into them. Why were they so glassy? Did his pupils seem dilated? She couldn’t tell. Why couldn’t she tell?

  “I’m not sure,” Sam said. “I think I might have been unconscious for a bit of it.”

  “Oh my god.” Mags brushed some old coffee grounds off her jeans. Her knees were soaked through with garbage juice, and there was a piece of last night’s sushi stuck to her arm, but she didn’t care. “I’m calling 911.”

  Sam grabbed her leg. “Mags! Just help me up, okay? I’ll be fine. I think I cracked a rib or something. I can move my legs and my arms. I’m not paralyzed.”

  “Okay,” Mags said. Trying to take deep breaths. Remembering what they said on television about concussions. “Tell me what today’s date is?”

  “It’s Saturday, July 13, 2013. My name is Sam Cole and your name is Magdalena Kovach. We live at 2238 South Park Street. The prime minister of Canada, unfortunately, is Stephen Harper.” He turned his head to look at her. “Are you happy now?”

  “No, I’m not happy!” A thin trickle of blood streamed from one of his nostrils, and Mags pulled her hand in her sleeve and wiped it away gently. “You’re bleeding,” she said softly.

  Sam reached up and touched his face. “Just get me to the show,” he said. “Please.”

  Mags exhaled slowly, then nodded. If this was what Sam wanted, then this was what she was going to do. She stooped over and slid her arm underneath him, bringing him to his feet with almost no effort at all. A chill ran through her body from the soles of her feet to the back of her neck. Sam had always been thin, but now he felt positively weightless. Had he been losing weight? How had she not noticed? “How does that feel?” she asked, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

  “Not too bad.” But he was clearly in pain. He put a foot up on the step and grimaced. Mags repositioned her arm under his armpit and pulled him up the first step, and then the second, and the third. “See? I can do it. I told you, I’m fine. I just need to get to the show and everything will be good.”

  “Sure,” said Mags.

  She knew she was supporting his entire weight, but the expression on his face was so hopeful that she didn’t dare say anything. She couldn’t. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him he couldn’t do it on his own.

  * * *

  —

  She got Sam to the Octopus with zero minutes to spare, and laid him on the couch in the green room while she went to search for Paul and Zac. She found them in the wings with the stage manager, talking in a tight circle.

  “Jesus Christ, you’re here,” said Paul when he saw her, rubbing his hand over his face. “Where the fuck have you been? Where’s Sam?”

  “In the green room. He…well, he fell. At our apartment. I think he might have cracked a rib or something.” Paul and Zac and the stage manager all murmured exclamations of surprise and concern, but Mags knew they all only had one thing on their mind. “He says he can play. He wants to play. Give us, like, fifteen minutes,” she said, hoping they would protest, that they would offer to talk some sense into him, that they would act like human beings for once.

  “Yeah, yeah, of course,” Paul said. He turned to the stage manager. “We’ll let the crew know.” The three of them disappeared quietly, avoiding any further talk on the subject. He’s your friend, Mags wanted to scream. He’s not just your bassist, he’s your fucking friend. At least pretend to care.

  Back in the green room, Mags changed her pants and fixed her makeup with a shaking hand, keeping an eye on Sam on the couch. “You look like you put on that eyeliner while riding a roller coaster,” Sam joked feebly as she helped him to his feet.

  “Don’t worry, I’m a trendsetter. In a few weeks everyone will be doing their eyeliner like this.”

  They walked together in the dark to the stage, where Paul and Zac were already waiting. Then Mags strapped Sam’s bass over his shoulder and sat him on a chair. “I can stand,” he whispered, but she could feel the tension release when he sat down, and he didn’t fight her.

  She stood at the mic and squinted her eyes at the crowd, unable to hear them over the pounding of her heart in her ears. Everything felt terrible, wrong. For the first time ever onstage, there was no rush of adrenaline, no flush of joy, nothing. Just a numbness. As the lights came on, she saw a speck of blood on her scarf. Suddenly, she felt as though she was choking on the air in the room. She peeled the scarf off and flung it away, not even caring where it went, as long as she didn’t have to see that speck of blood, as long as she didn’t have to acknowledge the buzz of worry it activated in her gut. It was as if she were standing on a high cliff, the audience in a ravine far below her. She couldn’t see, couldn’t hear anything.

  Still, she stepped to the mic to sing. It was the only thing she knew how to do. And when Mags turned and saw Sam, sitting in his chair with his bass resting on his lap, his head bent in concentration, she knew it was the same for him.

  After the show, Mags took Sam home.

  “I told you, I’m fine,” he said unconvincingly as she put him into bed, his face caved in with exhaustion. “‘It’s just a flesh wound.’”

  “You dork,” she said, pulling the blanket up over him. “You’re going to have to cut out all that nerdy shit when we get to Toronto.” As she moved toward the door, she paused and turned around. “‘Now go away or I will taunt you a second time,’” she said softly, in a terrible British accent. But Sam was already asleep.

  In the kitchen, she sat with a cigarette and a glass of wine and stared at her phone. It had been over four years since she had last spoken to Frankie, four years since her sister threw her out on the street. When Mags had left that night, she had been sure Frankie wanted her out of her life forever. But what if she was wrong? What if she had burned that bridge behind her while Frankie was standing on the opposite side, reaching out her hand?

  It seemed impossible. But as soon as Sam had said Frankie’s name, she knew he was right. And she had been so mad at him for see
ing right through her like that, seeing the parts of her that she couldn’t—or maybe didn’t want—to see. But where had that anger gotten them? Sam was lying in bed, broken. And Mags was here, phone in hand, unable to sleep.

  Mags knew it was late, but she also knew Frankie. It wasn’t a big deal, really. It would only take a flick of her finger. A muscle twitch. The slightest caress.

  Frankie answered on the seventh ring. “Hello?” she rasped over the loud music in the background, some kind of strobing EDM with a heavy bass drum and a fast breakbeat. “Who is this?”

  “Frankie. It’s Mags.”

  There was a long pause. In the background, Mags could hear people talking, shouting, screaming. A party, or a club. She had imagined Frankie at home, stoned on the couch watching Friends reruns, or alone in her dark bedroom, woken from sleep. She should have known she’d find Frankie lit up like New Year’s Eve fireworks at some warehouse rave in Burnside, trying to figure out whose dick she was going to have to suck to get more MDMA.

  Mags was about to hang up the phone when Frankie finally spoke. “Who the fuck is Mags?” she said, then she laughed, stiltedly, as though she were copying the way she thought people were supposed to laugh.

  “Frankie…”

  “Yeah, I know, I know. She’s the big rock star. Living large down by the Arm with her rich-ass boyfriend and leaving poor Frankie rotting up in the Towers with the roaches.”

  “What? How did you know that?”

  “What, you think I didn’t keep tabs on you, little sister?” The music muted considerably, and now Mags pictured Frankie locked in a bathroom stall, platform sneakers pressed up against the door to keep it closed. “I know all about you and your little band. You’ve made quite a name for yourself in the city.”

  Mags took a deep drink of her wine, realizing she had lost all ability to read her sister. Or maybe she’d never had it in the first place. Finally, she put her glass down and picked up her cigarette with a shaking hand. “How come you never called, then?”