Sit Down For This

Row,  Some Days Later

"Okay," I say to my mother for the tenth time. "I understand we're a day ahead of schedule but were not now, because Riley is getting released this afternoon. It needs to be finished. Like now. Just...hurry them okay? I don't want the place in shambles. I want it clean. And neat. And empty. I want all the workers and cleaners gone. And please tell Linda to clear out, too. If she doesn't have time to do the details when the cleaning crew is finished...I'll put the sheets on the bed and worry about dinner. But tell her to make sure the kitchen is stocked. She can run out and do that while the workers and cleaning crew are finishing..."

My mother is completely silent on the other end of the phone.

"Mom! Are you listening?"

"I'm listening. I just can't believe what I'm hearing," she whispers.

"Oh my fucking god, Mom—"

"Calm down. I'm just teasing you, Doodle. You're managing all this so well. I'm very proud of you."

I smile. I'm not really managing it. She's the one, there at Riley's house, pushing the contractor and keeping things running at a breakneck pace, while I'm at the hospital with Riley every day.

I'm grateful for her help. I really am. At the same time, I wonder if she's completely abandoned her job to help me simply because she thinks I can't handle all this.

I can run a stage and a band and even a road crew like a motherfucking boss. I've lived pretty much on my own in New Zealand on and off for years.

Why does everyone think I can't run a household? Just because I've never been interested in that kind of stuff before? Or because I've never had to? My parents never required me and Riley never asked me to do anything but focus on my music or the career that followed from it, but that doesn't mean I can't deal with the practical side of life.

It's not brain surgery. It's not even as hard as getting a record deal. Certainly not as hard as seeing your entire self-image crumble. Or your marriage. Definitely not as hard as seeing a person you love in pain, exhausted, and frustrated with his recovery progress.

Then again, it is a little stressful convincing the contractor to agree to move so quickly with the accessibility modifications at Riley's house. But only because they had to be completed so quickly and because I insisted they be designed for the temporary nature of Riley's needs. I didn't want our...I mean his...house torn up when they rip all the stuff out in a few months. He shouldn't have to bear that additional expense.

He's going to have a fit when he sees the bills from the contractor as it is. Because of the urgency and the custom builds, they didn't come cheap. Hmmmm...

"Hey, Mom? Is Jerry there?"

"Yes."

"See if you can pay him cash for half the bill right now. You know...like under the table? That way, he can modify the invoice. So Riley doesn't freak over the costs..."

I can hear Riley now. Bloody hell, Rowan. These temporary modifications are a full fifth of the property value. You should have consulted me. What were you thinking?

I was thinking the house is a split level and impossible to navigate in a wheel chair without significant modifications. If I had consulted Riley, he would never have agreed to them. He would have made the most practical decision.

He would have confined himself to the lower level, which consists of the smallest of the sitting areas, the bedrooms, and his office. The only modification he probably would have made would have have been the addition of a small refrigerator with snacks in his office or something, because he wouldn't have been able to navigate to the kitchen. Neither would he have been able to make it to the front door. Certainly not to the terraced outdoor living areas, the uppermost of which has a gorgeous overlook of LA, especially at night.

I love that deck. We spent many happy sunsets there. I love the house, actually, despite the fact that it's nothing special. A three bedroom split-level, incredibly modest for Bel Air. But it's significantly upgraded on the inside and well-decorated. The outdoor space is seductively inviting. And the way the house and outdoor spaces are situated in the hills makes the property exceptionally private, despite the fact that it's not a large rock star compound with walls and gates and lots of acreage.

Which Riley and I couldn't afford at the time we were married.

So he busted his ass to find us a place that we really liked, but that also was naturally defensible against paparazzi or nosy neighbors. He viewed hundreds of properties by himself, while I pouted about his budget and dreamed of twenty million dollar homes on the internet.

I am sort of ashamed of the way I acted over choosing a house, looking back. I did behave like a spoiled brat. I had never lived in a regular house. I had this idea that I would feel confined, or something, in a small place. Like being on the tour bus.

Riley proposed that a smaller home could feel both spacious and cozy at the same time, we just had to find the right situation. He was right. When he insisted I look at this house, I fell in love with it.

The view from the foyer—an overlook ofseveral of the different levels below is extremely cool—kind of like an Escher painting. Except not in black and white. The house has warm whites and wood beams and colorful fixtures.

The outside is what I love best. The long narrow pool is lined on one side with teak wood and rock walls but the other side has a wide view of the natural, descending hill. Above the pool, on a second terrace of the patio, is the hot tub. The deck extends from the hot tub like a bow of a ship, and that's where you can see the bright lights of LA at night.

I knew the minutes I stood on that deck that we belonged there, with the world at our feet.

But things are different now. All those split levels. The terraced patio, the steps up to the hot tub. It won't feel like the world is open to Riley. Not right now. Right now even the few steps it takes to go from his office to the kitchen will feel like a mountain to him.

"Yes, I can see how that would be better, but I don't carry a hundreds of thousands of dollars in my purse," my mother is saying, in regards to the contractor's bill.

"Well, send someone to the bank. I'll pay you back of course."

"Not necessary, Sweetheart" she says, as if she were spotting me a hundred bucks. "I'll call Anna, she is already out getting new towels...Rowan the towels here are disgraceful. I can't imagine Riley actually using these..."

The towels are all stained because I used to color my hair at home with temporary dyes. Just for fun. To experiment. Stella's platinum blonde look is not my choice. When the show was on hiatus and I was home in LA, and I knew I wasn't going to have an appearance for a week or so, I would put colors in it, or even silver it like it used to be.

I always made a disaster in the bathroom, and I would clean it up with the towels. Riley was horrified that I used our extremely expensive Turkish cotton towels like kitchen roll. Every time I ruined another towel, we would bicker. He would scold me, and he absolutely refused to replace them, since I was just going to mess up another couple thousand dollars worth of linens next month, he said. I would reply that I didn't care if the towels were tie-dyed—I liked my hair tie-dyed for chrissakes. And at least I used cheap pots of color from the beauty supply store, instead of spending a thousand bucks for color that would only last a few washes.

That would usually end the argument. "Well, you are trying to compromise, aren't you?" he would agree, about my hair experimentation. "And they are rather pretty," he would add with a wink.

He pretended he meant the towels, but really he meant the colors in my hair.

But that was back in the happy days. The first year or two or our marriage. I don't know why he hasn't replaced the towels since I've been gone. Surely they are an irritating reminder of the mess I made of us.

"Rowan, I'll call Street to go to the bank. I'm afraid the contractor might leave before Anna gets back," she says.

"No, Street's with me. He's helping me get Riley home," My brother is lounging on the couch in Riley's hospital room. For some reason he's got my bag in his lap, and his head is lying on the arm of the sofa as he draws lazily in bold strokes with...

Unbelievable. He's using my lipgloss wand.

I go over to him and snatch it. "What the hell? Do you know how much this costs?" I say. "It's not fingerpaint!"

His eyebrows fold and he gives me an amused grin. "Wow. You're back with Riley two weeks, and you're already money concious again."

"I'm not back with Riley. And of course I'm money conscious, I'm about to be sued for more than I'm worth," I growl.

"More than you're worth right now..." he drawls, still drawing the cat on the window with my coppery lipstick.

It's a cheetah, I realize. He says it's my spirit animal.

You know. Because I'm a cheater.

I slap him in the head, hard. "Goddammit, Street!!! That's not funny!"

"Oh, no. It's funny," he insists. Now he's giving the cheetah spots with my liquid eyeliner.

Okay, it's kinda funny. I mean, he didn't tease me like this when it first happened and I was a wreck. And he is my brother, it's his job to tease me. And we've always grown up giving each other the most shit. I've been far crueler to him than he's ever been to me. The cheetah thing was actually something that Bridge came up with one night when the three of us were shit-faced drunk. I had just moved back home into our old suites, and so did they—temporarily—to console me. Bridge came up with it, but Street picked it up and ran with it, and now it's a thing.

"Wrong time, wrong place!" I hiss. Riley is at his last in-house physical therapy session, but the cheetah is certainly something I don't want to explain when he gets back.

"Relax," he says, smearing it so that's illegible, wiping his hand on his black jeans, and flipping closed the blinds, too. "Riley won't see it. I'm just messing with you."

"Yeah?" I take the gloss wand and trail it down his devastatingly white button down. "Like this, you mean?"

"What the fuck, Row," he laughs in disbelief and leaps from the couch, chasing me with the eyeliner, trying to catch me and mark me anywhere he can.

"Are you guys fighting?" My mother yells from the phone.

"Gotta go! Thanks, Mom!" I yell, tossing my phone down on the bed as I push the rolling hospital cart toward Street in attempt to get away.

I'm bolting for the door when it pushes open and smacks me in the face. I grab it, cursing with closed eyes, my foot catching on something, I swing around trying to catch my balance, then I'm falling backwards.

Hands on me, then "Oooof," but an oooof in that accent that always makes my stomach drop. And I'm sitting. In Riley's lap. I tripped over the wheel of his chair.

His expression wide open but unreadable. Surprise? Annoyance? Pain? I can't tell.

"Oh god, are you okay? My hands on his chest, his knee, his face. "Are you okay? Did I hurt you?"

"If you did, I probably wouldn't know just yet," he smiles at me. "Not until a scan showed it."

That's not true. He feels things in both his back and legs. Pain from the injuries. Soreness from the physical therapy. He's just frustrated because he continues to have reduced sensation in his legs and little feeling in his feet, so he harps on his lack of sensation.

I'm trying to get up but he gives the wheels a giant shove, knocking me back into his lap, rolling us both into the room. Street laughs. Riley laughs. Blake his physical therapist laughs. I scowl at him. How can he think that's funny? The doctor is always harping on Riley not reinjuring himself.

"Should he have a scan or something?" I ask Blake anxiously. "To make sure I didn't hurt him?"

Black shakes his head. "He's fine. You just plopped down in his lap, you didn't push him down a flight of stairs."

"Not yet, but she might," Riley grins at me. "We are a bit of an odd-couple when it comes to cohabitating."

"Ha-ha. Guess what, Mister? There are no more stairs in your house. Only ramps," I smirk. "They're finishing up now."

Those lips thin in disapproval.

I point at them. "Shut-up. Access in your own home is not an unnecessary indulgence."

They thin back further as he tries, for once, not to argue with me. Suddenly I become aware of everything beyond his lips. His stubble. The bottom fringe of his eyelashes, the heavy crease of his eyelids, the curl of his hair over his ears because he badly need a haircut. The smell of his sweat. The blue eyes regarding me with an expression of concentration, like he's doing the exact same thing as I am.

Remembering. Longing. Worrying.

Worrying about repeating the same old patterns of control and rebellion.

He shakes us out of the melodramatic moment by rocking the wheels a little violently. "Are you getting up then? If you sit here any longer, I think I might charge you a fare..."

It's a little awkward, getting out of his lap. I catch Street's eye, and I don't like what I see there...

Pity. For me, because I ruined my marriage, or for Riley, because of his condition, or for both of us, I don't know. I don't care. I don't like pity of any kind. I shove the rolling table at him again.

"Asswipe," I mutter.

He makes a yippy, growly cat sound at me. Like a cheetah.

"Children, children," Riley says, amused. "What's the spat, then?"

"She ruined my shirt," Street says breezily pulling it taught to show the lipstick as he rolls the walker forward. "Chair or bed, brother?"

"I'm done with bed," Riley says.

"No you're not," Blake says. "You need breaks, remember? You need rest, so we can keep pushing hard."

"Chair for now," Riley insists, maneuvering the wheelchair near the comfortable but firm overstuffed chair.

He goes through the whole process of positioning his chair, locking the wheels, reaching down move the footrests because he has trouble flipping them back with his feet, all while Street waits patiently with his walker.

My irritation with my brother fades away as he talks with Riley about some big soccer match that no one in our rock star sphere cares about, but that Street had money on, apparently. Street never focuses on Riley's injuries. He treats him exactly the same as he always has, even to the point of telling Riley like it is on the one rare occasion Riley and I argued recently.

Over the house renovations, of course. He checked Riley just like he would have in the old days. I didn't appreciate Street's sharp rebuke of Riley, but for strange reason, I think Riley did. When he tries, Street can make everyone around him feel at ease. Even if he's calling up his ex-brother-in-law to tell to stop being a fucking asshole toward me when he's really pissed that he needs a ramp to get into his house.

Riley hauls himself up without assistance, inches sideways with the walker, reminescent of an old man.

I look at the floor, concentrating on the tiles. I'm still practicing not feeling when I see him moving like that. It's a worse feeling for me than when he was immobile, for some reason. Maybe because, as much I hate pity, I refuse to put that out toward Riley.

He's not an object of pity. He's a man with many things about him to admire. Things to evoke envy in others. Or even desire.

Despite that, it does hurt me to see his deficits right now. So I practice detaching from that hurt, so he doesn't see the pain on my face, and misread it as pity. If Street can show such grace, so can I.

Aren't I my mother's child, too?

After confirming Riley's new outpatient schedule, Blake says his goodbyes, and it's not long before a nurse returns with Riley's discharge papers and a cart to gather his belongings.

Riley asks me where AJ is.

"Where he always is," I say. "Around, somewhere."

"Not sure that's the best plan now," he says calmly. "Why don't we get him with us in the new van?"

That surprises me.

AJ is my "favorite" security guard. Yet, even his existence I do my absolute best to ignore. Unlike Soundcrush and all their women, us del Marco's don't embrace our security like friends.

Me especially. It's not because I don't like my guys, and it's not because I'm some catty bitch, either.

It's just the way I've always rolled. Street, too. We were both pretty rebellious as teens and constantly ditched our security, so finally parents reached a compromise with us. The security would hang back and not be right by our sides, if we would let them tail us and we would wear panic bracelets in case of need. So I pretty much ignore my guys. I don't treat them like drivers. I don't have them with me in the car and buy them a coffee when I go through the Starbucks drive-thru. I don't ask them to hold my shopping bags. I don't make them go jogging with me.

If I need a driver, I hire a driver. If I need a trainer, I hire a trainer. If I want someone to shop with, I go with Bridge. Or Street. Or Bodie.The security guys are not part of my circle of friends.

The Soundcrush crew acts like I'm all kinds of evil for that. They don't understand how I can pretend someone paid to protect me simply isn't there. But it's because I grew up with security as staff and they didn't. I notice they don't treat their housekeepers like their best friends. They are polite to them, they pay them well, and mostly they prefer not see them hanging around too much. To me, the security guys are no different.

Riley has never had a problem with the way I roll with my security. He prefers his privacy, too. I mean, there have been shows, and events where I needed a brace of security guards to get through a crowd or something, and in that case he would make it happen and I was fine with that. But in general he's never harped on me to keep my guy close outside of an event. I've never had a problem with fans or creeps or the like. Probably because I grew up famous, I can spot a crazy a hundred yards away. It's a simple thing to turn around, press my panic button and let my guy intercept the problem as I walk away.

"The van is in valet parking," Street says mildly. "No paps there. Besides, there's two of us with her."

He nods at Street, but looks at me. "It's not about me or Street. It's about you."

"What?"

I prickle. Is this how he's going to keep tabs on me now? Instead of having Maisy watching my moves, he's going to pull the security in to do it?

"Your safety has never at risk because you are always quite conscious of your surroundings and the people in it. Now you won't be focused on your environment. You'll be focused on me. And that." He points to the chair. "I'd feel better if we kept AJ a little closer from now on."

"Riley," I sigh. Part of me wants to give in, so that he doesn't get upset. But I really hate security hovering over me. "I'd really rather not."

"I'd really rather so," he repeats.

We stare at each other. "No," I say softly.

It feels so weird, the disconnect that one syllable causes. It's been so long since I refused to do something that Riley really wanted me to do. Not since before the affair.

He looks very displeased but he swallows it back with those lips.

"Please?" he asks. "I'm only concerned for your safety. That's all."

"No," I say again more firmly.

He looks away in irritation. "Fine. It's not my call anymore. I know that."

Actually it was never his call, either as my manager or my husband, but I just let him call all the shots, so he began to feel like it was.

Still, I do understand what he's saying. He's not actually wrong. I'm just not willing to sacrifice my independence against whatever minor increased risk there might be if I'm uber aware of my surrounding at all times like normal.

"Look... if you want, I'll call him now and tell him your concerns. He'll know to look sharp when we go out together, because you think I might be distracted. How's that?"

He nods slowly. "That works. Thank you."

Forty-five minutes later, Riley is discharged. I see Riley give AJ a terse nod of thanks from where he leans against his car watching as we exit the hospital and stand in front of the new van.

I move behind Riley's chair as the side door opens and the life platform descends. He likes to handle the chair himself but he doesn't argue as I position him on the platform and lock the wheels. He seems daunted by the clunky, utilitarian vehicle.

It doesn't quite have the lines of the sports cars we are used to driving. I wonder if he is thinking about the last time he was in a vehicle.

"Okay?" I ask.

He nods silently as he's lifted into the van.

It takes Street and I together several minutes to get the chair locked down in docking system. Riley is perfectly patient, but I am not. I'm annoyed at I apologize to Riley a lot. I should have a consultant train us on all this stuff, I guess.

"It's a learning curve," Riley says. He's pointing to me how he things the wheelchair passenger seatbelt is supposed to work. "Next time it will be easier. By the third time, I'm sure we will all be pro's."

"Third time, I'm sure you'll be driving," Street says. "It has hand controls, too."

"I think he's supposed to have a special driver's license and training and stuff for the hand controls. We'll probably never get that far," I remind Street. "This is just a temporary vehicle."

I don't even think most people could get the hand control modifications without doing all that stuff first, but my dad dropped this van off a few days ago, and I didn't really inquire how he got it.

"Right, but let's check this bad boy out." Street grins as he pulls his hair back in a pig tail like he's about to race the Grand Prix. He presses the ignition button.

Street proceeds to annoy the fuck out of me by using the hand controls instead of the foot pedals. He's giving Riley a running commentary about how it all works, while he scares me to do death, figuring it out as we go. A few weeks ago, I don't think I would have been scared at Street's reckless and inexact hand control driving, but now I'm anxious. Riley can't afford another accident. Not even a fender bender. What if the impact caused more damage?

When we arrive home, the drive is thankfully empty of work vehicles and cars. Street, gracious as ever, bails as he puts all the stuff from the hospital just inside the mudroom. He's going to catch an Uber, allowing us to enter alone.

My mom did it. I push Riley up the ramp from the garage and the house is perfectly silent, perfectly clean, and perfectly accessible. Riley and I take turns manuevering his chair through the house, up the various ramps and two lifts, making sure furniture is arranged for getting through the rooms in the chair.

Riley is tired and I'm on edge but we are both being super polite and courteous to one another as he experiments with the accomadations. It's so strange to me that our home is now his home, yet here I am again.

I don't know my place. From the way his lips are set, I can tell he doesn't know it either.

When we make it to the kitchen, I realize My mom must have just left. There are brand new fragrance candles burning, and there's a handsome wood case of Riley's favorite wine on the counter, with a bottle pulled out, sitting on a folded piece of paper. I assume it's the invoice for the finished work.

I pick up the bottle, sliding the paper beneath the case. The atmosphere is very charged and I think we could both use a drink.

"Shall we open it?" I ask him, reaching for the wine opener.

He raises his eyebrow. "You aren't going to treat me like an invalid then?"

"Well if you didn't manage to kill yourself with a litre of gin, I imagine we can split a bottle of wine without any danger," I smile.

"Give it here, then," he gestures for it. I retrieve glasses, but Riley didn't miss my quick gesture of sliding the invoice beneath the case of wine. He's teased it out and is looking it over as he deftly works the cork. His expression leaves him, until his face is completely blank.

Oh God.

"Riley, listen, I know the bill for the accessibility features is high but you need them and—"

"It's not a bill." He sits the wine down on the counter picking up the note. "Rowan, come here."

His voice makes me look up, and the expression on his face makes me walk over to him quickly.

"You need to read this. I...well...here...so we can read it together..." He wags his hand at me, and I don't know what he wants, but he takes me by the wrist and pulls me into his lap again. I don't have time to think about how I feel about that, because the paper catches my attention.

It's a note in my mother's hand.

Welcome home, Riley and Row,

Dinner is ordered and should be delivered around 7.

Oh...and more thing.

Matt and I have a secret we want to share with you. A very old secret, buried long before the digital age, which makes it much easier to keep. A secret so long shared to Matt and I now, it's not so much a hidden worry but more like a favorite old song.

Rowan, Sweetheart, sit down. Riley...well, you're already sitting aren't you?

Lean in, now. Here's our secret:

Matt and I are not married.

We were, but we haven't been for nearly as long as you've been alive, Rowan. I think Street might have an idea, but you girls were too young to remember when your father and I divorced.

I know. I'm sure we'll be facing a firestorm of indignation from all you children, but before you begin a rapid fire of texts to the family thread, let me share, just with you two, our story.

You both know that in our twenties we both rode the roller coaster of SkidMarcs...him full time, me as his sometimes girlfriend.

Then I got knocked up. Obviously we know now I wasn't the only one.

But I wasn't a fangirl. I was the girl in all his songs. Despite his wildness, Matt wanted us to be a family. I had my reservations that we were truly ready to settle down, but I loved him and I loved the child I was growing.

We married just after Street was born. We tried to live the next eighteen months as we had lived the eighties—uproarious and wild. That resulted in two more beautiful babies but a very unhappy marriage. After the girls were born, our unhappiness reached crisis levels. It was almost almost inconceivable to accept the party we had once both lived was gone, and in its place was one helluva hangover. A hangover, and three squalling babies that we loved very much, but that terrified us both.

During that time of crisis, we betrayed and failed each other in every way a couple can fail and betray.

We divorced. We remained estranged for nearly as long as we had been married. We still loved each other very much, but neither one of us knew how to reach for one another.

Finally, we simply decided the misery of being apart was far worse than anything we had experienced together. Matt asked if he could have his family back just for one day. That was all he asked. I greeted him with an awkward kiss at the door and we put all hurt aside and we simply lived the day as a family. That night, I asked him if we would like to stay the night. His response was not so awkward as mine had been.

The next day we committed to another day. He stayed another night.

That was twenty-three years ago. In that twenty three years we never really put aside the sex, drugs, and rocknroll. Or the arguments, relapses, or failures. But we quickly realized that if we couldn't abandon the life and our imperfections, we had to add things, too.

Couples Counseling. Tolerance. Grace. Punching Bags. Retail Therapy. The house in Hawaii, where I can walk into the ocean to get away from that madman, and where I can be assured he will not follow.

Most importantly we expanded love and laughter and family and comfort and joy.

After a time, we added back the convention of living as if we were legally  married—the labels of husband and wife—to make life simpler for you kids. To us the legal state of love is completely meaningless. In this life we have built we are more committed than a marriage certificate could ever make is, and likewise, a piece of paper dissolving our legal union was a paltry attempt on our part to quit one another.

We simply couldn't.

The way I love Matt, the way he loves me? It cannot be severed. By any decree of man or god. Not even by our own demons. We can put each other through hell and we will both endure it, because he is my heaven and I am his.

How do we suffer all the pain? How do we forgive and recover?

Every day that I wake with Matt beside me, he asks me if he can stay another day. Every night we find ourselves close enough to touch, I ask him to stay with me another night.

That is how we do it. One day at a time.

I hope you find your own way, dear ones.

Much love,

Mom

PS...I suppose you are all old enough to understand now, but don't share this with Lane and Alley. Now that we've put our secret out for good use, let your father and I tell them.

I read it, but I can't believe it. I take it from Riley's hand, and read it again. He puts his hand on my back, rubbing lightly as I read it a third time. I hold out the note to him, as if I need him to explain it to me.

He doesn't explain, he reaches up to the counter and pours a glass of wine. He offers it to me with a completely hapless look. I drink. He takes it from me and drinks as well.

After a long moment he asks, "Are you alright?"

I nod numbly. "I...I guess?"

We stare at the note and share the glass of wine as the day fades. I don't move from his lap and he doesn't ask me to this time.