I'm so alone, and I feel just like somebody else
Man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same
But somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
I think her death, it must be killin' me
The Wallflowers, "One Headlight"
Late the next morning, Roger packed up his belongings in his old VW bus and began his journey to New York. He had a hard time separating himself from Will, who tearfully clung to him when he tried to leave the house.
"Hey," Roger said gently, picking up his nephew. "I'll be back, you know I will."
"Who will play with me?" Will asked, pouting. During his week-long stay, Roger had taken Will to the nearby park every day to play catch, aiding in Will's growing obsession with baseball.
"You have a dad, you know," Roger reminded him, chuckling. He tousled Will's dark hair. He was an exact miniature of his father.
"I'll miss you!"
All Roger could do was laugh. He knew that if he didn't laugh, he'd cry just as hard as the eight year old that was clasped onto him. "I'll be back…I'll be back," he kept repeating.
He received hugs and kisses from Layla and Cal and planted a tiny kiss on baby Sarah's pudgy cheek. Layla wouldn't let him leave without taking food, which she placed in the small cooler that he always kept in the back of the VW bus. As a going-away present, Cal threw in a bottle of Smirnoff, which Roger tried to refuse.
"I know you're used to Stoli," Cal joked, "but it's all I could get my hands on. Just take it as a gift, Roger. Please."
The two brothers embraced for a long while before Roger climbed into the front seat of the bus and started it up. He had over twenty-five hundred miles and almost forty hours of driving to put behind him. It was going to leave him with a long time to think.
He bid farewell to Sin City as he watched the Strip disappear in his rearview mirror. He slipped onto I-515, which took him through Reno, then made his way to I-15 towards Salt Lake City. There was a long stretch of highway in front of him…he let his mind wander…
SEVEN YEARS EARLIER—
The heart monitor emitted a slow, monotone beep that rang in Roger's ears. His mouth went completely dry. The lean, dark haired doctor in wire-rimmed glasses that held the defibrillator paddles turned to the nurse over his shoulder. "Call it," he ordered.
"Time of death: nineteen oh-two," the nurse responded.
The other doctor, a short blonde woman, who had been performing CPR on Mimi, now removed the oxygen mask from her face.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Davis," said the first doctor. "She's gone."
Roger clenched his fists. "No!" he insisted. "S-she can't!"
"We've been trying to bring her back for twenty minutes. She has no heartbeat. I'm sorry." He began to put the defibrillator away.
"No!" Roger roared. He punched the wall closest to him with a surprising amount of force before sliding to the floor, burying his face in his hands. He sobbed fiercely. "Mimi, no…"
The blonde female doctor approached him. "I'm sorry. We did all we could."
Roger looked up at her, revealing his tear-stained face. "Did you?" he asked, with a hint of sarcasm.
The doctor was slightly jarred by this question. She was only a second-year resident, still new to dealing with patients and their families. The patient in question, Lucia "Mimi" Davis, had AIDS-related pneumonia. Her body was too weak to resist the illness. They'd pumped her full of antibiotics and kept her hydrated in hopes of helping her fight, but she slipped away anyway. Her husband, this man Roger, who kept a constant vigil over her, noticed that her breathing was shallow and her heart rate was slowing down, and pressed her call button. They performed a tracheal intubation and performed CPR. When her heart stopped, they tried to revive her. "Yes, Mr. Davis," the doctor replied, sincerely. "We did everything we could for your wife. I'm sorry. Again."
Roger stared at her, hard. "Sorry won't bring her back."
The male doctor removed his rubber gloves. "Is there anyone you want to call? Her family?"
"Her mother," Roger replied, nearly choking on his own voice.
"There's a phone in the hallway. I'll tell my staff to leave the body."
The body. That's all she was now—a body. Roger just nodded. The team of doctors and nurses turned off all of the machines that had been keeping Mimi alive for the past two weeks, and left the room. His ears still rang with the beep of the heart monitor.
Roger approached Mimi's body slowly. She was lying so still, so peacefully. E reached out and stroked her hair, then leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. Her let himself cry, openly, as he held Mimi in his arms. He cried every tear he'd ever held back over the years. He cried for the times they'd had together, the time they should have had together, the time they were never going to have. She was…gone.
After Roger had cried until there were no tears left, he wiped his eyes with his sleeve and went to the phone in the hallway. He dialed the first number that came to mind.
"Speeeeeeeak," said the answering machine.
"Mark, it's Roger," he said tearfully. "Sh-she's gone. Mimi's gone."
Mimi's body was handed over to her mother, and buried with her family. Mimi, unlike Angel, had not been disowned by her family due to her illness, so the attendance of her funeral was slightly larger.
Roger moved mechanically throughout the whole ordeal. He didn't speak; barely made eye contact with anyone. He was unresponsive to kind words and hugs, even from Collins, Mark, Maureen and Joanne. Not even Calvin, who had flown in from Las Vegas to be beside his brother, could snap him out of this malaise.
Benny showed up, without Alison; a blonde bombshell on his arm instead whom he introduced as Corrine. He gave no explanation as to where Alison was. Nor did he offer Roger a hug—there was still mild friction between the two men, having both loved Mimi. He did, however, offer his hand in condolence. When Roger accepted this, along with a friendly pat on the back, a silent truce fell between them. Mark, who'd been quietly observing this confrontation, breathed a small sigh of relief.
Again, Mimi's funeral was a bit more elaborate than Angel's had been: flower arrangements everywhere, with food served afterwards at Mimi's mother's house, cooked by the women of the Marquez family. The thing keeping Roger there was Mark—he wouldn't let him leave. Roger knew how strong Mark could be: it was Mark that had gotten him through his own withdrawal and received only a black eye in return.
"You need to stay here and be strong for Mimi," Mark said firmly, practically pushing Roger down into a chair.
"Mimi's dead," Roger shot back, coldly.
"If she could see you now," Mark continued in retort, "she'd be shaking her head at you. You're here for her; make her proud."
Mark annoyed Roger sometimes, as annoying as best friends go. Unfortunately, Roger knew he was right. He hated it when Mark was right.
After all was said and done, Jacinta Marquez, Mimi's mother, asked Roger if he'd like to keep any of Mimi's personal belongings. He selected her hairbrush, a few decorative hair combs, a few items of clothes and several pieces of her jewelry. From that day forward, he wore her wedding band suspended alongside his from a chain around his neck.
Soon after Mimi's burial, Roger fled. He was itchy; he couldn't stay in New York. It was the first time Roger had lost someone he really loved and he didn't know how to deal with it. He now knew the pain Collins felt when Angel had passed—a searing, white hot pain in the center of his chest.
He tried to go to Life Support alongside Collins, but the pair eventually stopped going once Collins took the position at UCLA. This struck more fear into Roger until he hit rock bottom.
He drank. Heavily. He had traded one vice for another. Mark became increasingly disgusted with him and it turned into many a fight. Finally, Roger couldn't take it anymore. He disappeared in the middle of the night, packing up everything he owned, which, admittedly, wasn't much. Roger had used the last of his savings to purchase a plane ticket to Las Vegas, where he shacked up with Cal, Layla and Will (who was less than a year old at this time). He explained this to Mark when he called him two days later.
He slept on Cal and Layla's living room couch for three weeks. He didn't drink. He didn't watch television. He didn't play his guitar. Cal tried his best once more to snap Roger out of it, but with a baby to look after and working forty hours a week, he gave up very easily on trying to entertain his grief-stricken brother. Until one day, Layla begged her husband to "do something" about his brother. Cal's "something" was to kindly kick him out.
Thus Roger became a drifter. In the Volkswagen—which had seen better days—he wandered from place to place, playing gig after gig, where he could get one. He slept in the bus, ate only when he was hungry, took his AZT like a good boy. Every few months or so, he would return to Las Vegas for a week or two before heading out on the road again. It was a miracle that the Volkswagen survived so long.
In this bus now, Roger continued to drive. First along I-15, then it had become I-76 and, eventually, I-80. He passed a sign: Now Entering Nebraska. He smiled sadly to himself. He'd driven for fifteen hours straight.