Birthday Blues

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of anyone or anything in this story to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Granted, I've written this story with some thought as to how Steve Perry, Neal Schon, Jonathan Cain, Ross Valory and Steve Smith MIGHT act, but again, this is just fantasy. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Melissa McCook

January 1998

For L.A., my '#1 fan'

BIRTHDAY BLUES, (c) Copyright 1998 by Melissa McCook. Melody Silver/Golden Eighth Note Ltd., All Rights Reserved.

It all started Monday morning, when I dragged myself into the bathroom to unglue my eyelids under a hot shower and found Steve, who was standing at the mirror and peering intently at his own reflection. He swept one hand through his hair from crown to nape, then sighed as if the weight of the world was on his slender shoulders as he stared back at the hazel-grey eyes I knew and loved so well, his fingers running along his jawline as if searching for some hidden inperfection. I cast a wary glance at him, then gave up and went to stand behind him, my arms threaded around his waist and my chin on his shoulder.

"Okay, I'll bite. What are you doing?" I asked, when he kept up his vigil at the mirror despite the pressure of my pointed chin.

"Just looking." He opened his eyes wide, then raised his eyebrows and examined the frown lines on his high forehead up close, forcing me to unwind myself from his body and stand against the counter. "That's all, just looking."

I crossed my arms and fixed him with an amused smile. "At what, your face? It's the same as it was yesterday. Were you expecting some sort of huge catastrophic change?"

Steve finally gave up his scrutiny and drew me into his arms with a smirk. "I don't know, maybe I was. I've never turned forty-nine before, I'm not real sure what to expect."

"Forty-nine?" I raised my eyebrows, smoothing the silky dark hair draped over his shoulder. "You're finally admitting your real age now? What, with age comes honesty?"

He pushed away from me, pointing a finger and grinning. "Now hold on a minute there, let's be reasonable about this. I may be middle aged, but let's not encourage it."

I moved closer to him again, lacing my fingers together behind his neck. "So you're officially forty-five, I suppose. Well, let me be the first to wish you a very happy birthday, Mr. Perry," I murmured, kissing him long and deep, and we stood there together for a long moment. When we broke away from each other, Steve's eyes were lit from within with a fire I hadn't seen in the eyes of men my own age, which was half of his. At twenty-four, I still found it difficult to keep up with Steve, since he was almost always on the move or striving to complete a project, but as his secretary I was obliged to do so. As his lover, I found the challenge of keeping in step with him a pleasure.

"Mm, thank you. I don't know if it's going to be all that happy, but I'll try my best."

I smirked at him through the shower door, turning on the spray and testing it with the back of my hand, then slipped off my robe and left it in a puddle of violet terrycloth on the black tiles as I stepped under the water. "You let me handle that part, I'll make sure you'll have a happy birthday." I thought about the party I had planned for weeks; how I had insisted on only the finest champagne, the most exquisite of hors d'oerves, and the jewel- colored decorations that Liz and Dina were hanging at my house in San Francisco even now, and grinned what must have been an evil grin, because Steve's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Wait, you're not thinking of throwing me some ridiculous surprise party or anything--are you, Jen? 'Cause if you are, you can just forget it." He held up his hands in a warding-off gesture, hoping to delay the inevitable, but I just laughed as I finished rinsing my hair and turned off the shower. His discomfiture was evident in the look of disgust on his face, like he had been made to swallow a spoonful of castor oil, but I wrapped the towel around myself and my arms around him, my chin on his shoulder again.

"Okay, so it's not a surprise. There, is that better?"

He screwed up his face even more, like someone had added lemon juice to the castor oil. "Jesus, Jen, I told you not to! Goddamnit..." he trailed off as I let go, but there was no teasing left in his voice as he stood with his hands on the tiled countertop. I was beginning to feel a little hurt, and grabbed up my brush with an angry flourish, which made him flinch involuntarily.

"What's up with you?" I asked, yanking angrily on the tangled ends of my hair. "You've taken the Lord's name in vain twice in one sentence, and now you think I'm gonna hit you. I probably should, since you're acting like a brat who needs a good spanking, but I daresay that I would probably break my brush on your ass before I got to forty-five, much less forty-nine. OW!" I yelled, catching a particularly bad snarl, and I sighed explosively in frustration.

Steve had stood silent through my whole tirade, and his expression had softened as he watched me wrestle with my hair. "Here, let me have it," he said softly, and reached for my brush. I turned to face the mirror, arms crossed, but his expert hands patiently unworked the snarls and smoothed out my frayed ends as he tried to smooth out my ruffled ego. "It's not that I don't appreciate what you're trying to do, babe, but birthdays aren't any big deal to me anymore. In my book, the less fuss the better, and that way no one has to go to any trouble." He handed the brush back to me, turning me around and drawing me into his arms, and I laid my head on his shoulder, listening to the strong, sure rhythm of his heart. "Plus, if you haven't noticed, I don't intend to grow old gracefully, so I just try to make my birthday like every other day. However, I think you're a sweetheart to think of me."

He kissed me on the forehead like one would kiss a favorite child, and I had to count to ten to keep from exploding in anger. I was his lover, not his damn daughter, but I knew as he left the bathroom whistling a tune, he considered the matter closed. He had another thing coming, I thought, so I followed him into the bedroom where he was rummaging in his closet. "Do you have any idea how much work I've put into this for you?" I taunted, restorting to guerrilla tactics, but not really caring.

"No, but if you'd listened to me you wouldn't have this problem, now would you?" Steve said, his words muffled by layers of Levi's.

I wondered for the hundreth time how in the world I got mixed up with someone who could be such a jerk sometimes, but suddenly I didn't have the strength to fight with him anymore this morning. "Steve, look--I know you hate parties, and birthday parties even more, and your own birthday parties even more still, but I only did it because I wanted your day to be special. Shoot me, but that's all I wanted." I sat heavily on the black brocade chaise, elbows on knees and hands in my wet, cold hair, and stared at the floor until I saw Steve's bare feet step into the spot I was studying. His feet were small for a man's, almost as small as my own size eight feet, and his toes looked like they belonged to a six-year old more than a man of forty-nine, but that was in keeping with the boyish build he would have for all of this life. I felt his hand caress my damp head, and I looked up to see him standing there half-dressed in faded jeans, his hazel-grey eyes soft and thoughtful as he looked down at me.

He knelt down to my level, knees making a faint popping sound like they always did in the morning, and pushed back my wet hair with gentle fingers. "It means that much to you?"

Nodding wordlessly, I closed my eyes as he stroked my cheek, and I turned my lips into his palm after a moment more. "It does mean that much to me," I murmured after he dropped his hand, "I just wanted to give you a nice birthday."

Steve smiled wistfully, helping me to my feet. "Oh, honey, you don't need to give me a thing. Every day, you give me so much, just by hanging around this ol' kid from Fresno with a big nose." We chuckled together, and he turned back to his closet to select a comfortable henley shirt, slipping the midnight blue knit over his head and pushing up the long sleeves to reveal strong forearms. "I've got two questions, though; where, and when?"

"I think I can answer those," I grinned, putting my arms around him and tucking in a stray tag at his collar. "At my house, eight o'clock sharp. The only bad news is we'll have to fly, but I reserved a little plane with that one pilot you liked when we went to Vegas for New Year's, remember? I think you'll be fine."

Steve nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I remember him. Nice fellow, sounded like he knew his stuff. Okay, I guess you sold me." He kissed me with a loud SMACK! and grinned, and I had to laugh. "Birthday party: one, Steve: zero."

Later that afternoon, with the duffel bag of basics Steve had packed to take up to the City and my small carry-on luggage stowed on the plane, we settled into our plush seats for the short flight. After we climbed to a safe altitude, Steve stretched out next to me and settled into a prescription-induced slumber for the remainder of the trip, and I looked up at him from time to time from the notes and letters I had brought with me to answer. He looked so peaceful as he slept, the lines of his face relaxing into an echo of his younger days, intermittent snores wafting from his trademark Roman nose, so I smiled and returned to my writing as we sailed on through a sunny winter sky.

The rest of the flight was uneventful, and I yawned to unpop my ears as we glided to a smooth stop on the runway of a smaller airport outside the City, then turned to Steve and gently shook his shoulder. "We're here, babe, time to wake up." Steve rolled over at my touch, moaning a little and protesting unintelligbly. He raised a hand in front of his face as if to shield his eyes from intruding sunlight, but then he dropped his hand and became completely limp, as if falling back into deep, deep sleep, and I was suddenly very alarmed.

"Steve, come on, wake up. Hey! Wake up!" I got down on my knees in front of him and shook his head back and forth with my hand under his chin, then tapped him lightly on the cheek with the tips of my fingers. When he didn't respond, I smacked his cheek a little bit harder, but this only elicited a repeat of the first actions; a moan, an unintelligible phrase, and total lethargy. My heart was beginning to pound in my ears as the pilot sailor-hitched himself up the cabin steps to see why we hadn't exited the plane yet, and I remembered in the flash of an instant that he used to fly medical helicopter flights. The skills that made him set down injured people with a feather touch had drawn him into Steve's confidence, so I looked up at him with fearful eyes as he moved toward us. "I don't know what's wrong, he won't come around."

The pilot, whose name was Austin, bent down and reached for Steve's slack wrist, feeling for a pulse. At six-foot-three and two hundred and twenty pounds, Austin looked more like a bruiser than a medic, but he timed the pulses of Steve's heartbeat with a massive Swiss Army watch, frowning at the information he got from his sensitive fingertips. "I don't like this, Ms. Marschall; his pulse is really slow. What did he take to knock him out?" Austin's dark brown eyes were worried, his usually upturned mustache grin compressed into a tight, hard line, and I racked my brain for the names of depressants I'd seen in Steve's medicine cabinet for just such a purpose.

"Usually he takes a Valium, but they've never knocked him out this heavily before." I rummaged in his carry-on, and came up with a small, plastic amber-colored bottle half-full of round white pills that looked deceptively like aspirin. VICODIN, read the label, TAKE ONE EVERY FOUR HOURS AS NEEDED FOR PAIN OR ONE AT BEDTIME FOR SLEEPLESSNESS. DO NOT DOUBLE UP ON DOSAGES. AMOUNT:20, REFILLS:3. I opened the tiny vial and spilled the white buttons onto my hand, counting them hurriedly, and my heart sank as I only found eighteen--he had taken two of the powerful sedatives, and he had taken them today, since the fill date on the prescription was today's date. With sickening dread, I remembered stopping at the local Thrifty to pick it up before we left, and thinking he must have called ahead to his doctor's office, knowing his phobia of flying.

"Well that sure ain't Valium, at least not like any Valium I've ever seen," said Austin, reaching for the bottle and examining it, then opening it and shaking the tiny pills around inside the bottle. "Do you know any reason he'd take Vicodin instead?"

I found myself shaking my head, mentally cussing Steve out for changing his medication without telling me and then going and OD'ing to boot. "I rented a limo for us; this was supposed to be his birthday surprise," I murmured, glancing out the port-hole style window. "Is it here yet?" Spotting the long white limousine parked at the edge of the runway, I answered my own question and went back to where Steve was sprawled, lifting his arm and trying to shinny underneath his shoulder and get some leverage. "Here, let's get him up, and see if that helps any."

Austin took my cue and put Steve's other slack arm over his brawny shoulder, and together we hefted Steve's one hundred and forty pounds between us, his body feeling like so much dead weight without his vibrant energy flowing through it. For a moment as we raised him to his clumsy, stumbling feet, Steve tried to stir and come back to consciousness, raising his head for a few seconds as we managed to get him down the stairs and across the tarmac, and he rolled his face towards me with bleary eyes that were merest slits in the winter sunshine.

"Whassmadur, Jenny?" he slurred, head bobbling like a puppet as we approached the limousine's open door. "Hidon'feelsogood." Austin and I gently stretched him out on the leather bench of the limo, then I clasped the pilot's hand in fond farewell as he shut the door and bid the driver take us to the nearest hospital as fast as he could go, and I cradled Steve's head in my lap as we began to move.

"If you think you don't feel good now, wait till I get done with you," I tried to snap, but I felt the tears sting my eyes as I watched him try to fight his way out of medicated sleep. "I swear, Stephen Ray, if you ever do this to me again, I will kick your butt from here to next Tuesday." I was mostly talking to myself, trying to keep myself calm, but if Steve responded, so much the better.

He didn't say much else during the trip across town, and when we got to the hospital, I found that Austin had radioed ahead and alerted a small emergency team to meet us as soon as we arrived, and they whisked Steve away with typical efficiency. I busied myself with paperwork and all the usual details, checking Steve in under the assumed name of Ray Periera that we always used in hotels, and it was a good forty-five minutes before I found a doctor who would even let me in to see Steve. Consequently, I flashed the hefty diamond engagement ring Steve had given me three years earlier in the face of a staff member, the carat-sized princess-cut diamond and baguettes flashing in a doctor's dark eyes, and soon I was shown to a small, quiet room with Steve sleeping peacefully in a high bed. The door whispered shut, and I crossed the room on quiet feet to sit beside him.

I looked at him as he lay there, plastic tubing draped over his face where the cannula was placed in his nose, the nondescript print of a hospital gown covering his chest and shoulders, and the white plastic band on his right wrist read PEREIRA, RAY, completing the whole ensemble. I chuckled ruefully to myself, thinking of the swallow-tailed tux hanging in a hotel room across town, the champagne that was getting warm somewhere, and the bandmates that were--_The band!_ the thought hit me like a bolt from the blue, and I dug out my cell phone to call my house and tell the band what had transpired. I shook my head in disbelief that I could forget such a detail, but better late than never, I mused, switching the phone on and dialing my home number.

"This is Jennifer Marschal," began my answering machine, and then the beep sounded. "Hello, is anyone there? Liz, Dee, anyone, pick up! This is Jen."

The answering machine beeped again, turning itself off as someone picked up the phone. "Jen? Where are you, what's going on?" It was Jay, and tears sprang to my eyes as relief flooded me at the sound of his voice. "Are you two alright? We were wondering what was up, since you were supposed to be here at two."

I glanced at my watch, and the hands reflected back 4:30. Where had the time gone? I wondered. "I'm alright, but Steve's had a problem with something he took. We were on the plane, and he usually takes a sedative because he's plane-phobic. Only this time, he took something a lot stronger than he's used to, and he doubled up on it. So we brought him to Kaiser to shake it off, he'll be fine in a few hours."

"He what?" Jay's voice was incredulous, and I could just see him running his fingers through his lush, reddish mane in confusion. "How in the world did he manage that?"

"I don't know, I'm waiting for him to wake up so I can ask myself." I looked over at Steve, who was still heavily asleep, but seemed to be doing alright so far. "Listen, you tell the girls that I appreciate what they've done, but the party's going to have to wait. We'll be home by tomorrow morning, I'm sure of it."

Jay sighed heavily. "I hope so. Why in the world would he...well, never mind," he said, trying not to dwell on the why's right at this moment, although I knew the questions were spinning in his head as much as they were in mine. "Give him our best, and we'll see you later."

"Will do. See you later." I clicked off the phone, then slipped it back into my purse for safekeeping. I sat back and watched Steve for what seemed like hours, my eyes following the steady rhythm of the rise and fall of his chest, and soon I was drifting in sleep as well. I didn't even know I'd fallen asleep, however, because the next thing I knew, I was hearing my name.

"Jen," came a raspy voice, and suddenly I was awake. "Jenny..."

I opened my eyes and looked over to see Steve, face toward me and eyes soft and hazel-grey as he watched me sleep, and he slowly dragged his hand across the bed to touch my own where it lay next to him. I twined my fingers in his, but he was still too groggy to even make his fingers flex, so I folded them around mine with my other hand and leaned forward to hear him. "Hi," I said softly, taking my hand from our joined ones and smoothing back a lock of his dark hair. "Some birthday. You alright?"

He swallowed with effort, and the corners of his mouth quirked in a small smile. "I feel like shit."

Unexpected tears were in my eyes as I laughed, and my voice sounded odd and strained as I brought his hand to my lips and kissed it. "Good, I'm glad you feel like shit. Don't you ever forget what this feels like." I felt my visage crumbling beneath the weight of worry and anxiety I hadn't even realized was laying heavily on my shoulders, and the tears overflowed. "I could have lost you. You know that, right?"

Almost before the words were out of my mouth, Steve shook his head slightly from side to side, managing to grip my fingers gently. "You're not gonna lose me. You're never gonna lose me. Don't worry about it."

I sighed. "Well, if you're not gonna let me worry about it, will you at least tell me why?"

Steve's brows furrowed, and he looked at me in confusion for a moment. "Why what?"

"Why you OD'd? Why did you change meds without telling me? You can start with those."

Now he really looked confused. "What? Is that what happened to land me in this joint?" He rolled onto his back, leaving his hand in mine, and stared at the ceiling for a moment. "I'm trying to remember, give me a minute."

"Surely you remember that," I murmured, and was relieved when he turned towards me again, recognition pulled from deep within his medicated brain.

"I asked the doc for Vicodin because the last time we went on a trip, the Valium didn't knock me out; I must have had too much coffee. You know how flying scares me shitless, so I wanted to be completely out."

"You almost were," I growled, but Steve ignored me and continued.

"I didn't have the foggiest idea of how strong those little suckers are," he said gently, his grip on my hand getting stronger, "but I guess I found out in a quick hurry. If I'd known they were that strong, I never would've taken two. You know me, I'm not a pill-popper in the first place, so I had no idea."

I grabbed the bottle out of my purse and held it steadily in front of his eyes. "Right there, it says 'DO NOT DOUBLE UP ON DOSAGES.' Doesn't take a genius, Perry."

He clenched his jaw, turning his face away. "Don't call me that, I hate it when you say my name like that."

"Why?" I demanded. "Because it reminds you that you screwed up? Well let me be the first to state the obvious, you nearly screwed up for good."

"I know." He swallowed painfully, and I unlaced my hand from his to pour a cup of water, then stuck a bendy straw in it and put it to his lips. He took a sip, then I removed the straw and kissed him gently, and he smiled as I pulled away. "I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted." I put the cup back on the table next to me, and I smoothed his hair again. "You'd better get some sleep, babe."

As if in answer, Steve let out a small yawn, then settled back into the soft pillow and immediately began to doze. Within moments, his hand had gone slack in mine with sleep, and I was left to sit alone, watching him as his chest rose and fell gently with each breath. Once more, I watched him for a long time, tracing every curve of his face and body with my gaze in fond caress, marveling at the phenomenon that was this person, this Steve Perry- -just a kid from Fresno who loved music--and how, through the fate of the universe, he had touched my life. Originally, I had tried very hard not to love him, fearing a mortal wound to my heart more painful than any real injury, fearing the happiness of being "stone in love" with someone like him. It had taken some false starts and letting down some high barriers on both our parts, but we had finally found our way to love, and the relief I felt now that he was alright only reinforced that love.

Over the next few days, Steve's body regained its balance, and I was finally allowed to take him back to my house amidst much goodnatured teasing from the band as the nurse wheeled him to my Porsche. Once he was at my house, he began to get back into his normal routine, and a little over a week after his ordeal we were able to put his birthday party in full swing. That evening, Steve was dressed to the nines in his beautiful tuxedo, and he celebrated his birthday in grand style with his bandmates and our assorted guests, talking and laughing so much that he seemed to spill over with life. As I saw that the champagne glasses were always full and the hors d'oevres kept coming, I watched him as he moved among his friends and loved ones, and more than once, he caught my eye and smiled a secret smile.

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