Mandolin Dreams. Chapter VI.i
Montreal, one year ago
That loss is common would not make
My own less bitter, rather more:
Too common! Never morning wore
To evening, but some heart did break.
-Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H
On the morning of September fifteenth, twenty-twenty-two, I got the call. It was a Thursday. I only remember because it was the one day of the week that I had to work from the office. Part of a gradual, but enforced post-COVID return. I hated it. I had just pulled my car keys off the hook by the door.
It was a number I didn't recognize, but I was expecting a delivery. "Hello?" I said.
"Anthony? It's Chris, Van's sister." It took me a moment to switch gears, to register that the low hoarse voice in my ear was someone I knew from forever ago.
"Hi? Is--" I started.
"It's Van. He's in the hospital. He was admitted last night. It doesn't look good. I know he'd want to see you again, at least once, before..."
"Before what?" I was confused. "Before what? How is he? What happened?" I kept firing questions, not giving her time to answer.
"He collapsed sometime last night, or this morning. We're not sure how he did it, but he managed to call 911 before it was too late."
"I... What hospital? Where? I'm on my way."
She told me that the doctor had told her that he'd suffered massive liver failure. They were not sure how long-- "They don't think he's going to wake up. If you can come today, it might be your last chance, last chance to say goodbye. I have to get back to mum." She told me the name of the hospital, and what to say when I got there to get through the COVID security measures.
Did she know that I'd been ducking his calls? Was, was she blaming me? I just hadn't had the energy to deal with his repeated stories. Was it my fault? I should have been there for him. He had always, and I do mean, always been there for me. No matter what. And now it looks like I may have got him killed. That I had ignored his calls, and messages because they were inconvenient. What the hell was my problem?
He had been in trouble, in real trouble, and I'd ignored him. I looked back at the last text messages. I hadn't even opened them.
7:12pm - Complete Deep Dark Depression. Need time off to read, write and practice... basically get a grip. Give us a call, when you have a minute. 7:43pm - You don't check your messages, do you? Git. Give me a call. Not feeling great. 11:26pm - Working on another song... and a few martinis. How are you doing? KOTF, brother.
I went to the Tesla and sat there for a minute. I couldn't-- not yet. I wasn't going to say goodbye. This couldn't be happening. No. It was not supposed to go this way. We'd already planned our futures. We were going to be two cantankerous old men, together.
I was going to save his ass. I needed to talk to the only person that I knew might be able to help, Hobson. Except I didn't know how to reach him, never had to before. He always just seemed to be around whenever we needed him. I found the number for the pub.
"Terry? It's Anthony. Is Hobson there? I need to speak to him, now." I said louder than I should have.
"Who? Anthony? No, he isn't around. Not sure when I'll see him. He hasn't been around in a while. We haven't been on the--"
"I don't care Terry. Find Hobson and tell him to come and see me right away. Van is in trouble. We need his help. I ain't messing around. I know you can reach him."
"Anthony, I don't--"
"Just do it. And when you do, tell him that I'm ready to blow his whole thing open, unless he meets me at the hospital. I'll be there in twenty minutes. he better be there are well." I hung up the phone. To be honest, I didn't know if Hobson could do anything, but he was the only person that could.
I needed to hear Van's voice. I rifled through our message history, found a link to the demos he'd sent me and listened on my way there. I never understood why he hadn't made it. Why he never got a record contract. He had it. I know he did. For the whole ride there, his music filled my ears. It shouldn't be this good. If anyone else I knew had this kind of talent, I'd be jealous as fuck, not because they were better than me, but because they didn't deserve it. Not Van. he deserved it, had earned it. It was not going to end this way. It couldn't. Fuck. No.
I hadn't been to a hospital since before COVID. I usually didn't mind hospitals. They were clean, quiet and full of people that had too much on their minds for small talk, but this wasn't that. It was fucking hell. There were checkpoints, questions, temperature checks, disinfection stations, mask swaps and more questions. Finally, I was told to go to the sixth floor. I got turned around a few times, missed the elevators, tried to take the stairs and ended up in the emergency ward. There were people everywhere, and they were all doing their damnedest to stay two metres apart. It was impossible. I treaded through there, weaved from bubble to bubble, and held my breath the whole time. I got passed another checkpoint and left that antiseptic tomb behind me.
Around every corner, I expected, hoped, that Hobson would be there. He wasn't. Every moment, I didn't see him just made me angrier. We'll see about that. If he thought he was going to abandon us now, after all these years; after everything I'd done for him.
I made it to the sixth floor. I saw that it was a special ward for those about to die. I felt dizzy and dropped into a seat in the hallway. As soon as my ass hit the chair, a nurse appeared next to me, asking all kinds of questions. I don't remember much. I must have said the right words because she turned around and went to attend someone else. As I watched her leave in her olive green scrubs, I saw him. he was a spot of bright blue at the end of the hall. He came out of a room and walked away from me, turned right and disappeared down another corridor. He never looked my way, but it was him. Fucking Hobson. He made it. He must be looking for me. I bolted after him.
When I reached the the door where I had spotted him, I heard soft music, Besame mucho in Van's voice. I looked through the window and saw Van's whole family around a bed. He lay there, tubes coming and going, in and out of him. Someone had put a phone on the pillow by his left ear. It was partly hidden, tucked under his long hair. That was where the music came from. Oh, Van. I could barely make out his legs and torso. His large overweight frame flattened by the weight of the thin snow-white sheets. I had arrived just in time to see the nurse nod to someone. She flicked the switch that would turn off the machines. The inflating and deflating sounds ceased. It made the music clearer, but his voice softer. The song ended and started again. It was on a loop. I was later told that they had been keeping him alive so that I could say goodbye.
I didn't go in. They hadn't seen me. I couldn't face them. I couldn't talk with them. I didn't know how to comfort them. They might even blame me. Then I remembered what led me to Van's door in the first place. Hobson. He didn't save him. What the hell was he doing here if not to save him?
I left the hospital and headed straight to the airport and was on the next available flight to London.
Eighteen hours later, I arrived at the pub. It was barely nine in the morning. It was still closed. Too early for Terry, but I still had a key to the apartment. I always had it on me. I often held it, and worried it between my fingers. It was a reminder of what could have been, had I been able to write instead of joining the corporate ranks. Terry had insisted that we keep the key, that it may come in handy someday, even when it was clear that we wouldn't be back regularly anymore. I stood in the alley, in front of the door to the apartment, the shiny brass key already in my hand. I walked in. It was exactly as we’d left it three years ago. The dried and stained coffee cups, the two empty scotch glasses and the bottle of Teacher's were all still on the table in the sitting room. That had been a hard night. I had called to tell him that my marriage was falling apart, that I didn't know what to do. He told me to meet him here. He had dropped everything, hopped a train from Paris and sat in our booth in the pub and waited for me.
I walked into the pub just after lunch. Terry looked at me, surprised. "Anthony, what are you doing here?"
"What do you mean? Of course, I'm here. I need you to find Hobson." I said.
"I told you on the phone that I didn't, that I couldn't reach him--"
"He was at the hospital. So he knew. I need to talk to him now." My upper lip shook.
A voice from behind me said "Terry didn't tell me, and had nothing to do with it. Leave him alone."
"Hobson." I turned to face him. I didn't know what to do, what to say. "Why?" The word stuck in my throat, came out as little more than a whisper.
Terry chimed in, "I would also like to know why."
Hobson looked at Terry for a moment, and squinted. "You too?" He raised his hands when I took a step towards him. "It couldn't be helped and I don't answer to either of you. It was a mistake coming here." He backed up and disappeared.