Sources confirmed Von Bleu then disappeared with no contact for four days and was found wandering incoherently in the desert. He is currently hospitalized for dehydration and exposure but is in stable condition.

Back-up vocalist Reece Blackstone publicly apologized to No Tomorrow fans for canceling the last three shows of the tour and claims Blue has been suffering a breakdown from extreme stress coupled with a recent shoulder injury. He advised that Blue is receiving treatment and they will resume working on their new album soon.

There’s a video alongside the article, and I immediately regret clicking on it. Like a train wreck, I can’t look away from the ugliness of it. Even though I just read the details of his behavior, seeing him so out of control on stage, a complete disheveled drunken mess, barely able to stand or speak—let alone sing—is devastating and cringeworthy. Fans are yelling and booing at him, and I can understand why. The man stumbling around is nothing like the soft spoken, charismatic vocalist they came to see.

I want to bleach my brain. The videos and photographs make me nauseous on so many levels. And that whole disappearing thing. Just the thought of him walking into the desert, most likely with nothing but his guitar and his backpack, is disturbing.

Worried, I chew my thumbnail while I try to process my thoughts. I want to call or email Reece and make sure Blue is really okay, but he may tell me things I don’t want to hear. I’m not sure I can be trusted to stay away if Reece tells me Blue is in a lot worse shape than this news article is letting on. And then what? Do I fly out there to see him? Get dragged further into this spiral of push and pull with him? If he’s this much of a mess, it will destroy me to leave him. I’ll want to bring him home with me and try to fix him. And him? He’ll probably fight me like a wild animal and ricochet between making me leave and begging me to stay. But other than Reece, who else does he have? What if he needs me?

I open up my email program and search for Reece’s email address, which I added to my contacts the day he came to talk to me and gave me his card.

“Mommy?”

I look up from the screen. Josh holds Lyric in the doorway. Acorn is beside them. “Uncle Josh is gonna teach me to plant flowers. Will you come, too?”

I hover my fingers over the keyboard for a few seconds, and then I exit out of the email. Standing, I smile at my beautiful baby girl. “I would love that,” I reply, catching Josh’s slight approving nod.

I need to focus on the good things in my life, and they’re all right here in front of me.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Immersing myself in work is what I do. I don’t even take a lunch break anymore. I eat at my desk over my keyboard, sometimes calling my mother or Ditra for a quick chat before I throw myself back into the never-ending to-do list of my day.

The rest of my time is spent with Lyric. Reading to her, taking her and Acorn to the park. Letting her help me get dinner ready. Watching television with her and Josh, until I finally fall into bed completely exhausted. The next day, I do it all over again.

As long as I keep myself busy, I’m not falling apart missing Blue, or working myself into a worried frenzy reading about his debauchery. There’s been a lot of crazy in his life lately, unfortunately. His life and career have been up and down like a seesaw. When I read about the ups, I silently cheer for him. I print out the articles, the interviews, and the photos. I hide them all away in an old steam trunk in the basement, along with all of his albums, band T-shirts, and memorabilia like concert tickets I’ve purchased over the years. All of this I hope to give to Lyric someday so she has pieces of her father’s life and accomplishments. Regardless of anything else, he’s an amazing musician—an icon in the grunge rock era—and I’m immensely proud of him for that. I hope all his accomplishments will help Lyric overlook his less than favorable moments. Like drunken tantrums on stage and disappearing into the desert.

It’s nearing five o’clock on Friday night, and I’m almost done updating the production schedule when my direct line rings.

“Good afternoon, Piper Karel.”

Silence.

“May I help you?” I ask.

“Hey, you.”

At the sound of his deep voice, my heart flip flops like a trained dog under his command. It’s been a year since we last talked, although I’m not really sure I can call that a talk at all. He called me drunk in the middle of the night, distraught and mumbling about voices and darkness and pain and how much he missed me and birds and things I couldn’t even begin to comprehend. I listened to him until the sun came up. I tried to calm him and bring him down from whatever mental trip he was on. Suddenly he stopped talking, and I held the phone to my ear for a full ten minutes, waiting and listening, and softly saying his name. Worried, I hung up and called Reece, who confirmed that Blue had passed out on his bed, still with the phone in his hand.