Chapter 10
Josh
Tamika's features seem frozen, just like her body. She looks like an artificial foreign object, standing there amid the sprawling oleander bushes on my terrace, staring at the softly rippling water of the pool. "Please tell me this isn't true."
A listless snort is all I can muster in response.
Suddenly, she breaks free from her paralysis, tearing the oversized sunglasses off her nose and fixing her gaze on me. "Do you realize what you've done?" she snaps at me.
Come on, I'm not an idiot. "Stop blaming me." Yes, I sound bitter. But how else should I feel given the situation? I cover my face with my hands. I wish I could just disappear. "I've been doing that myself for a while," I whisper hoarsely.
How did this happen? Why didn't I take better care of myself?
"Damn, I know that." She lets her arm drop in exhaustion. Then she turns back to the park-like garden adjoining my terrace. Her upper body trembles.
She pretends this is about her. But nothing has happened to her. She can manage someone else, pursue her career, and find happiness. Whatever happens to me has no bearing on that.
She should be comforting me. Giving me courageand hope. Instead, she just stands there, swearing so loudly to herself that not even the bright chirping of the birds can be heard.
I slump into one of the plush cushioned chairs in the shadow of the large sunshade and reach for my drink. I can barely lift the glass an inch before the prescribed vitamin juice spills over and coats my fingers. I despondently suck a mouthful of the unnaturally sweet liquid through the straw.
How will I ever play again?
"How long have you been taking the medication?" At least Tamika sounds a little more composed now.
She won't like the answer. "I started the same night I was at the clinic. In addition to physiotherapy, I do the prescribed exercises three times a day."
She remains standing with her back to me. "Three days, that's six doses and three therapy sessions," she mumbles to herself. "It should be showing some effect."
Of course, it should. But dammit, it isn't!
"This just can't be true." She repeats her earlier words. Since my diagnosis, we've been stuck in this endless loop, always ending up at the same point.
I can't be sick.
Yet I feel it. Every damn day. Every minute. The tremors and the numbness are there. The medication just isn't helping.
"I can't perform like this, Tamika," I say, voicing what we're both thinking. I could never take to the stage this way. My performance would be riddled with mistakes, and everyone would hear them. I sink deeper into the chair.
If only it would swallow me whole.
Tamika shakes her head decisively, her sleek hairmoving rhythmically with the motion. "You have to perform. The tour is fully planned. The kickoff in Vienna, then Prague, Dublin, London, Stockholm, and Amsterdam. In August, Florence, Barcelona, Tyrol, Geneva, and Paris." Her palm slaps hard on her thigh. "The concerts are sold out. Everyone wants to see you on stage. If we cancel this tour, the press will tear you apart. You know they're always looking for a sensation they can inflate."
"But if we don't cancel the concerts, they'll do just that," I counter, convinced of it.
If I perform like this, the fans will turn their backs on me. No one wants to hear me play badly. Only one person would enjoy that.
My father.
Slowly, she turns to face me, and her shoulders sag. Shaking her head, she reaches for her phone, presses a few buttons, and puts the device to her ear. Her foot taps impatiently on the stone terrace tiles as an almost unbearable silence stretches between us.
"Ralf? This is Tamika. We need to issue a press release. Vienna and Prague are canceled." She moves abruptly. "A persistent stomach bug or something, just make up something everyone can understand." She paces up and down the terrace as if needing to burn off energy. "I don't care. Just do it, it's important."
With that, she lets the phone drop and walks briskly over to me. Upon reaching me, she squats down and looks deep into my eyes. "No one can find out about the tremors. And I mean absolutely no one. Not even Jasmin."
I nod. What else can I do?
"Promise me you'll be fit for Ireland," she pleads.
