Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol (16 page)

As I cracked open my eyes and lifted my head from the big pillow to look around the dark, unfamiliar room, pain scorched my neck. Then I noticed a bulk of white bandages on my nose. It had to be broken, the soreness told me. I reached up to feel a boxy splint on my nose and gauze and tape on my jaw.

Dropping my head back onto the pillow, I stared up at the white ceiling and recalled seeing Olivia Gilbert asleep, covered in tubes and tape and bandages. Fourteen years old…swimming…cheerleading…
coma
.

I remembered praying over her bed with Mary, Jerry, and Claudia.

I remembered the boy doctor, Danny Treadwell.

Cincinnati!
I’m supposed to be in Cincinnati.

What time was it?

Wincing, I propped myself up on the edge of the bed.

Two thirty-five and light outside.

People and companies and cash registers…
counting on me.

Dibbs and Scoogs and Crazee…Gray Harris.

I’ve got to go!
But there’s no way.

My father’s displeasure.

Liza…gone.

Endora.

My head reeled from it all.

Death would be better than this.

A sick feeling rolled through my stomach and up to my throat as I remembered the enraged face of Raymond Gilbert.

A father’s passionate love…

Disregarding the pain that coursed through me, I dashed into the small bathroom where I fell to my knees, vomiting violently into the toilet.

Unrolling a wad of toilet paper from the holder next to me, I swiped my mouth and dropped back against the wall of the cramped bathroom. I was burning up. The pain in my neck and face was almost unbearable. Feeling the sickness coming again, I hoisted myself up and vomited.

Grasping the front edge of the sink with trembling hands, I looked into the mirror. This was not my shirt. Someone had changed me. The splint appeared huge over my swollen cheeks. Even worse were the dark purple half circles that had settled beneath my eyes.

A pit deep in my stomach screamed out. My head pulsed.

Drugs.

I crawled to my black shoulder bag, which sat on a chair in the corner. My hands shook almost violently as I rummaged through.

Nothing.

I groaned and felt the weight of the world.

So alone.

Sleep…just let me sleep.

I started to fade out but then remembered the promise I had made to myself. “I will call Karen Bayliss. I
will
.”

My phone was off. Holding down the red button with one hand to power it back up, with the other I found the letter on which I had scribbled Karen’s number; it stuck out of the small brown Bible in my bag.

I didn’t hesitate to dial the number this time but punched it in quickly, as if Karen was the drug I had been longing for a moment ago.

Two rings…

“Hi, this is Karen. I can’t make it to the phone right now, but leave a message if you like. Hope to talk to you soon… Bye!”

Beeeeeep.

“Hi…” I sniffed. “This is Everett…Everett Lester. I…I get your letters. They mean something to me. Uh, I don’t know… I’ve been meaning to contact you. I need help, I really do. I’m just messed up. Um…uh…thank you…for caring. Good-bye.”

I turned the phone off and slept.

12

WHEN I WOKE UP
again, my face and sides were sore to the touch, and my neck felt as if I had been in a car wreck.

After lying in bed for a few minutes thinking about Olivia, our packed concert schedule, the recording project in California, and all my other commitments, my heart raced. Sheer anxiety forced me up.

I walked gingerly to the window, moved the curtains open about six inches with the back of my hand, and peered out. My room overlooked a picturesque backyard, nicely mowed and filled with trees and greenery. The long shadows told me it was late afternoon.

My black bag was still in the chair in the corner.

In the bathroom, I patted my mangled face with a wet washcloth, rinsed my hands, and brushed my hair. Then I eased open the door to my room, which led out to a cozy family room lit by skylights and a tin lamp. It featured wood floors, a dark brown couch, fireplace, built-in bookcases, and rustic exposed beams overhead.

“Hello,” I called out, walking into the room.

The largest of the framed pictures sitting upright on the built-in desk showed a young Jerry Princeton with his arm around a beautiful blond woman, probably the wife who died. Their hair was blowing in the wind. They were both tan, wore sunglasses, and held drinks. It looked as if they were on a boat.

“Hello,” I said louder.

Another photograph, a black and white, showed Jerry and four other uniformed Marines, smoking cigarettes and showing off their tattoos and rifles. There was also what appeared to be a family portrait with Jerry and Claudia, their parents, and two other men who I guessed were brothers. Then I picked up a small framed photograph of Claudia and Raymond Gilbert with their smiling daughters, Olivia and Veronica.

Memories of the dysfunctional Lester family began to emerge, but I quickly suppressed them. Olivia glowed in the photograph. She was so completely different than she looked lying in the hospital bed.

“Anybody home?” I yelled, walking into the kitchen.

The island in the middle of the room was clean, except for an orange bottle of pills, which sat on a sheet of white paper. I picked the note up and read:

Everett –

After you were treated at the hospital in Dayton yesterday, Mary didn’t think you should travel far and agreed to bring you here to my home in Grayson, Ohio. It is just east of Dayton and should give you adequate privacy during the media coverage.

In case you didn’t figure it out yet, you have a broken nose! You’ve been quite heavily sedated, and more pain medication is here, should you need it. Don’t worry about upcoming concerts. Mary is handling everything with Gray Harris. I am at work, will be home around five-thirty. Help yourself to food in fridge and pantry.

For now, rest.

Fondly,

Jerry Princeton

I picked up the bottle of pills prescribed in my name. One every four to six hours. I tapped two into my hand, found a glass, and swallowed them with tap water. Then I put the orange bottle in my pocket and casually opened a cabinet here and there, hoping to find a bottle of wine or something to wet my whistle.

On top of the white refrigerator, I noticed a maroon Bible and a small, black hardbound notebook. I got the books down. Leafing through the worn Bible, I noticed that many of its words and verses had been highlighted with yellow and orange markers; others were underlined and circled in ink. Words were written up and down the margins. The black notebook appeared to be Jerry’s personal journal. I put both books back as they were atop the fridge.

Opening a door in the kitchen, I looked down several steps into a clean two-car garage. Jerry had a nice workbench, with lamps, cabinets, and shelves full of tools. Next, I opened the door to the pantry, found a box of Ritz crackers, and helped myself, taking the box with me.

I peered into the small dining room, then walked into a nicely decorated study, with a maple desk, a comfortable reading chair and ottoman, and a wall full of books—complete with a rolling library ladder. One wall was filled with unique paintings, watercolors and oils.

There was a painting of an orange sunset, a fisherman repairing a buoy, sea oats at the beach, and one of a lighthouse at night. Another showed Jesus and his disciples in a boat, surrounded by a raging storm. Christ stood with his arms stretched skyward, and the sun began to shine in the background. Words were written in calligraphy below:
“He got up, rebuked the wind and said to the waves, ‘Quiet! Be still!’ Then the wind died down and it was completely calm.”
—Mark 4:39.

So this is where Jerry gets his peace… Even the tough Marine is a sheep.

Heading back to the family room, I found the remote control on the arm of the couch and turned on the TV. Flipping through the channels, I stopped at CNN
Headline News
, thinking I might see something about the events of the past two days.

During a commercial break, I pulled up the white T-shirt Jerry must have loaned me and examined several spots that were particularly painful. Slowly lifting the tape that covered a large bandage on my left side, I saw a red welt about the circumference of a softball. It was hot to the touch. Several ample purple and yellow bruises decorated the middle of my chest. Reaching behind me, I felt another warm lump on my lower back.

“Real news. Real fast. This is CNN
Headline News
with Linda Stockton and Chuck Richards…

“Management for the heavy metal band DeathStroke announced today that it will cancel at least the next ten shows of its forty-eight-city Rowdy tour. This news comes one day after fourteen-year-old ninth grader Olivia Gilbert of Xenia, Ohio, was struck in the head by a microphone stand thrown into the audience by DeathStroke lead singer Everett Lester at a concert before thousands of people at Dayton Arena.

“The young girl remains in a coma, in guarded condition at Good Samaritan Hospital.

“Fifteen other people were treated and released from local hospitals after suffering from breathing difficulties, cuts, and bruises sustained in a riot and stampede that ensued when Lester passed out onstage, and the concert was abruptly cancelled.

“Further developments have revealed that Lester was badly beaten by the Xenia girl’s father when attempting to visit her at the hospital. Unconfirmed sources say Lester sustained a broken nose, cuts, and abrasions in the tussle.

“Numerous reports indicate that Lester was intoxicated before the concert began and continued to imbibe openly during the show. Dayton police have questioned numerous people in the case and have said they are looking for Lester in order to question him. However, his whereabouts at this time are unknown.

“Insiders say the parents of Olivia Gilbert are considering filing charges against the bad boy rocker. For more, here’s CNN’s Byron Pinter…”

“Good evening, Linda and Chuck,”
said the handsome black reporter, standing outside Good Samaritan Hospital.
“Dayton police are investigating this case, which could lead to aggravated assault and other charges against Lester—even manslaughter, should the young girl die.

“Meanwhile, her father has made it clear he wants Lester punished for his actions. Gilbert could file suit against Lester right now for battery, compensatory damages for the wrong done to his daughter, and hefty punitive damages—designed to dissuade the guilty party from repeating his actions.

“Although Gilbert is anxious to file suit, his attorneys may advise him to wait until Lester is brought to trial by the Dayton district attorney, if indeed he is. This way, Gilbert’s attorneys could use to their advantage all of the pertinent material gathered in the case by the district attorney’s office—including evidence, witness transcripts, and factual data.

“We’ll keep a close eye on this one, Linda and Chuck. For now, this is Byron Pinter reporting live from Good Samaritan Hospital in Dayton, Ohio.”

Setting the black bag on the floor in my room, I lowered myself onto the chair, found my phone, turned it on, and held down the button programmed with Endora’s cell phone number.

“Endora Crystal,” she picked up, sounding as if she was on speakerphone.

“It’s me.”

“Where
are
you?” she hissed.

“Sounds like the cops are looking for me.”

“Them and everybody else. Are you okay?”

“Pretty banged up.”

“You poor thing. Where on earth are you? I know you’re not at your sister’s.”

“What am I gonna do? This girl’s in a coma.”

“Everett, you need to listen to me very carefully,” she said, pronouncing every word slowly, systematically. “This may be the most important conversation we ever have. Do you understand?”

“I’m here.”

“You need to get yourself to the Dayton police and cooperate with them—however they want.”

“But…”

“I’m not finished,” she yelled over the sounds of traffic. “Then…we’re going to get you back in the studio to finish
Freedom
. We’ve cancelled ten concerts so we can get that monkey off our backs. You can sing, can’t you?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Are you there?”

“Yeah.”

“Once we’re done with
Freedom
, hopefully you’ll be well enough to finish the Rowdy tour.”

“There’s a girl in a coma, Endora! Do you live in the real world? My nose is broken!”

“Gray and the attorneys are handling all the legal stuff. All of it. Okay? To you, it doesn’t exist.”

“That girl exists! I saw her… She may never be the same.”

“She’ll make it,” Endora said coldly. “I really feel she’s going to make it.”