Page 24 of Songs for Libby

I stood there, my face numb and heavy as I processed what Randy had just told me. If I had been there—if they had called me—Sean wouldn’t be in the hospital right now.

Randy said it wasn’t my fault, but…

I found a bathroom so I could splash water on my face and pull up my hair. I leaned my hands on the sides of the sink, staring at my reflection, struck by how worn and faded I appeared.

I went back to the waiting room, and twenty minutes later, a different nurse came to get me.

“He should be waking up soon,” she said as I stepped up beside his bed, taking hold of his uninjured right hand. “But he’s on heavy pain meds, so he’ll be a little loopy.”

I nodded.

“Press the call button if he needs anything.”

“Thank you.”

I heard the door shut but hardly noticed. It was strange to be on the other side of this situation. I remembered so vividly lying in a hospital bed while Sean sat beside me, crying because his sister was gone.

At least no one had died this time.

My eyes went to his bandaged hand. I’d forgotten to ask the nurse about it. Hopefully the doctor would come in soon. How bad had it been really? Would his hand heal completely?

I dropped my head into my hands, trying not to think about what would happen if he couldn’t play anymore. Yes, he was a singer first, but he always had a guitar in his hands when he was on stage. I didn’t want to know how he would cope if he lost that ability.

“Libby.”

My head snapped up. Sean was looking over at me with hazy eyes. “Hey.” I stood at his bedside so that he could see me easily. “How are you feeling?”

He looked around him, at the monitor and the bandages. “I don’t know,” he slurred. “But it looks like I should feel pretty bad.” He turned his wide eyes to me then sloppily put his hand on my cheek. “You’re pretty.”

I smiled just a little. “Okay.”

“Why is my hand in a cocoon?”

“You’ve had a pretty tough night. You threw a tantrum and cut your hand open. So you’re in the hospital and they just finished operating on it.”

He blinked slowly at his hand. “That’s not good.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I need my hand.”

“I know.” I was relieved that he sounded more confused than angry, though that would likely last only as long as the pain meds.

“I can’t lose my hand.”

“You’re not losing your hand, Sean. It’s just hurt and it will take a while to heal.”

“That doesn’t sound fun,” he said casually.

“You’re right.”

He turned back to me, squinting a little. “Being me is hard,” he said, fighting to keep his focus on me as his head swayed from side to side. “Like, there’s no training course. No one was like, ‘Hey Sean, you should do this when people chase you with cameras. You should do this when people throw themselves on your car.’ No one told me that. No one gave me the run-down on how to be famous without going crazy.”

I was glad he wasn’t in pain, but his unfiltered thoughts were a little hard to hear.

“They just shoved me into it and expected me to enjoy it all,” he continued with a wild wave of his hand. “And, you want to know a secret? Sometimes I do enjoy it. But other times, it’s like I’m suffocating, or like my body is floating, like my body doesn’t belong to me anymore.” He drifted into silence, his eyes blinking slowly for several seconds before they went wide and he sat up straight. “That’s probably because it doesn’t!” He put a hand over his mouth like he’d come to a shocking revelation. “I don’t own me anymore. Everyone else does. Wow…that sucks…” He sank back against the pillows. “I should be my own owner, you know?” He sounded so spacey that it would have been funny if his words hadn’t gutted me.

“I know,” I said as I ran my fingers through his hair.