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Up From Here	By : aliciakristine Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Eminem/Marshall Mathers Views: 3454 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know Eminem (Marshall Mathers). I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 11
- 12
- 13
12.

Marshall
put in a call to his lawyers and had Rob's phone number in Boston within the
hour. It was seven o'clock eastern time when he called, still sitting in his
Navigator in the parking garage of the hospital. A woman answered the phone.
"I need to speak with Rob," he said. He was aware of the Detroit in
his voice, the unrefined edge that would almost undoubtedly immediately put
this woman on edge. He wasn't wrong. When she spoke again, she sounded wary and
a little concerned.

"May
I please ask whose calling?"

"An
old friend from Detroit."

She
sniffed, put the phone down, and he heard her call for Rob. A second later,
another extension picked up. "Hello?"

Marshall
had only met Rob once, and that was on the day he left with Tara - Tara,
pregnant with Marshall's baby. Marshall had gone to Rob's house to see her one
last time. He hadn't had a plan that day, and he didn't have one now, but he
remembered the look that had flickered in Rob's eyes when Marshall pulled his
old Lincoln up to the curb. It had been a combination of annoyance and
impatience and fear.

"What
do you want?" Rob had asked then, putting the box he was carrying in the
back of the U-Haul. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a polo shirt with the
Ralph Lauren pony on the chest, the collar folded down just right. His hair was
black and gelled into a messy spike, and his skin was olive and clear. Marshall
hated him immediately for being a pussy white boy and for stealing Tara.

"I
want to talk to Tara."

"Tara's
not feeling well," Rob had told him. "She's lying down upstairs. She
doesn't want to see you."

"I
want to fucking see her. You can either go get her or I can go find her."

"She
doesn't want to see you, man," Rob said.

"Don't
call me 'man,' you fucking pussy. Get the fuck out of my way so I can talk to
my girl."

"She
isn't your girl anymore."

"The
fuck she isn't."

"She's
moving to Boston with me, Marshall."

"Don't
call me by my fuckin' name, man, you don't fuckin' know me. Let me talk to Tara
before I knock you the fuck out right here in front of all your rich-ass
fuckin' neighbors."

"Someone's
going to call the police, Marshall."

"Tara!"
Marshall had yelled up at the window. Rob opened his mouth, but Marshall cut
him off by yelling Tara's name again and again. Finally, he pushed past Rob and
ran into the house. Rob stayed on his heels, but he found Tara before Rob could
stop him. She was lying on a plush king-sized bed, hair spread out on a
white-cased pillow, eyes closed. He shook her roughly. "Wake the fuck up,
Tara."

"Marsh-"

"You
really can't be in here," Rob said, cutting Tara off without even looking
at her.

"Let
the girl fuckin' talk, man," Marshall said, looking down at Tara.

"What
are you doing here, Marshall? You can't be here right now. I'm getting ready
to-"

"Come
on, Tara. We need to go somewhere and talk."

"You're
not going anywhere with Tara," Rob had told him, his voice an octave
higher. "You need to get out of my home."

"Fuck
you, man!" Marshall yelled. "Come on, Tara."

"I'm
not going with you, Marshall."

"The
fuck you're not."

"The
fuck I am, Marshall. You can't fucking control me anymore. I don't belong to
you. I'm sick of this, okay? I don't want to fuck with it anymore. Just go away
and leave me alone, Marshall. You got what you wanted out of me, right? Go back
to Kim and Hailie now, okay?"

"This
is fucking bullshit, Tara, and you know it." Marshall had been nearly
hysterical, and the urge to knock Rob right on his prissy ass had been
overwhelming.

"I
don't love you anymore, Marshall," Tara had said loudly and firmly. Her trembling
lips were the only thing that gave her away, and she pressed them together.
"Please leave."

"If
this pussy motherfucker would give me one fucking minute," Marshall
said, turning and glaring at Rob. "One minute alone with you, one minute
to talk. Please, Tara, talk to me for one fucking minute."

She
sighed and sat up, pulling the pillow over her lap. "Could we have a
minute, Rob?"

Marshall
asked her not to go, and then he demanded that she stay. He yelled and threw
things and threatened to kill Rob, but nothing could shake Tara. She was going,
and nothing was changing her mind.

When he
left, he pushed Rob against the doorframe so hard he stumbled and fell over.
Marshall didn't stop to see if he was okay. He went home, did more than an
8-ball of cocaine, and went looking for a fight.

"Hello?"
the voice repeated impatiently.

"Rob?"
Marshall said. He had no plan. He didn't know what he was going to say, didn't
know what he was going to accomplish. But he had a son. A son. A boy that was
his, a boy that he created, a boy that he and Tara had created. He had
to do something.

"Who
is this?"

"This
is Marshall. I don't know if you remember me."

"Marshall
who?"

"Marshall
Mathers. Eminem. Tara's old boyfriend. How's your back?"

"My,
my, my. I assume you're looking for Tara, then? And my back is fine, thank
you."

"No.
I'm not looking for Tara."

"What
do you want, then? Legal representation?" He laughed.

"I've
got more lawyers that you'd know what to do with," Marshall said, and the
laughter stopped.

"Wha
do you want?" Rob repeated.

"I
assume you don't know about Tara, then," Marshall said, unable to keep the
mocking tone from his voice.

"What
about her? We were divorced several years ago. I know nothing except that she
got a job as a waitress and went back to school."

"She
has cancer. She had surgery this morning to have a tumor removed that was
blocking her intestines, and there was a problem during the surgery. Digestive
acids leaked into her blood stream and somehow or another, she's not breathing
on her own. I'm not a doctor, so I don't know the technicalities. She's in an
intensive care unit, though, and they're keeping her on a ventilator."

"What
does this have to do with me?"

"It
has nothing to do with you. It has to do with Cameron."

"Excuse
me? If she's unconscious anyway, what does it have-"

"Look,"
Marshall said, his adrenaline pumping. "I'm going to just be real with
you. Cameron isn't your son."

"I
know," Rob said.

Marshall
felt as though he'd been slapped. "What?"

"Of
course I know," Rob snapped. "I'm not completely stupid."

"Cameron
is my son."

"Tara
was quite the slut," Rob said. "I wouldn't count on it."

"Why
the fuck are you calling people names? Is that how you win your court battles?
Calling women sluts?"

"That's
how you sell records."

Marshall
bit back a scathing reply. "I really want to keep this civil. Tara and I
are going to pursue custody of Cameron."

"Good
luck," Rob said, laughing. "I've provided for him for the last nine
years, Mr. Mathers. They're going to look in the best interest of him, and I'm
afraid a rap star with a criminal record and Tara, who lied about the paternity
of this boy from day one, aren't really going to look like stellar
parents."

Marshall's
head spun. He's thought of this before. He knew this day was coming. He's
had the last ten years to come up with a defense.

"If
he's not your son, why do you want him?"

"Because
I love him, Marshall. Or did you think a pussy like me was incapable of such an
emotion? I've raised this child as my own. He calls me 'Dad.' He barely
remembers Tara. He has siblings, and he loves my wife very much. Why would you
want to uproot him from his life, the only life he's ever known, after an
entire decade?"

"Because
he's my son," Marshall said hollowly.

"By
blood, yes. But he's my son in every other meaning of the word. If you want to
take this to court, fine. Your attorneys, the ones I won't know what to do
with, can contact me at my office during business hours. I'm sure I can figure
something out to keep them occupied." The phone went dead.

Marshall
felt dead.

He had a
son. He and Tara had a son. Tara kept a son from him for all of these years!
Hailie had a brother not much younger than she was. He had a son, and his name
was Cameron. He had a nine-year-old boy named Cameron with his toes and his
nose and his lips and his hair. For the last decade, he had been a father to a
son, who learned to ride a bike and kick a ball without him.

He went
and sat with Tara that night until the nurses insisted he leave. He went home,
showered, and lay in bed unable to sleep. It had been days since he'd slept,
but his mind raced. He had a son. He was the father of Tara's son. Things were
starting to click into place, and he felt like a fool for not realizing it
sooner.

Hailie
and Laney were sleeping by the time he got home, but he went and sat on the
floor beside Hailie's bed. It was two in the morning when he finally got up and
went into Laney's room. He slept on her floor for an hour, and then went into
his room that smelled so much of Tara and slept on top of the blankets. He
didn't go into work the next day and missed his monthly meeting with his
accountants. They called his home, his home office, and his cell phone,
worried. He'd never missed a meeting before. But he didn't think he could go
and sit with a bunch of stuffy business-types, pretending like everything was
okay and Aftermath was first priority when his entire life had just burst open
at the seams.

Tara was
still unconscious when he went to the hospital to see her the next day, and he
was only able to sit beside her for a few minutes before going back to the
parking garage and sitting in his Navigator. He played with the On Star system
for awhile, pushing buttons and entering destinations at random. He looked up
the driving directions to Boston three times and studied the map of highways
and interstates.

Marshall
was a mess. He didn't know what to think. Should he be angry? Should he be sad?
Should he feel betrayed, cheated? Or should he try to understand Tara's
reasoning? Maybe she had genuinely good reasons for doing what she had;
Marshall knew that he hadn't been the most upstanding of people when she'd gone
to Boston with Rob. He worked dead-end job after dead-end job making barely
enough money to pay the rent and save for studio time. He acted as the
middle-man for people looking for weed; they'd come to him, and he'd go to his
guys, keeping some for himself and making a little profit in the meantime. That
entire period of his life was a blur of drunken and stoned haze. He fucked
random women, tried random drugs, lashed out at whoever was unfortunate enough
to be around him.

He
remembered the first years of Hailie's life. It hadn't been necessarily awful,
but it hadn't been great. He and Kim fought constantly, mostly about his
priorities - he cringed when he thought about how wrapped up in his career he'd
been. He'd missed Hailie's first steps and her first words. Between work,
working on his demos, going to battles and contests, and getting fucked up, he
hadn't had much time for anyone but himself. What would he have done if he'd
have had to add another woman, another baby into the mix?

But
damnit, how could she hide a son from him? Why couldn't he have got a
picture in the mail, a letter, a phone call, anything to let him know?

He didn't
want to admit it to himself, but he knew. He wouldn't have allowed it. He was
too crazy and way too possessive. Letting Tara go had been hard enough - he
knew he wouldn't have allowed it if he knew she was carrying his baby.

His head
ached from the pressure of the thoughts plowing through his head. He finally
went back upstairs and waited for Dr. Cardwell to come in and examine her.

He only
had to wait twenty minutes, and sat impatiently in the waiting room while the
doctor checked Tara over. When he came to find Marshall, he stood up.
"When is she going to wake up?" he asked before they could so much as
extend their hands for him to shake.

"Please
sit down, Marshall," Dr. Cardwell said.

Marshall
sat across from the doctor and tried to keep his poker face. "How is
she?"

"Her
vital signs are improving, and her white blood cell count is up. Her lungs
appear to be strengthening, but I want to give her a little while longer before
seeing how she does on her own. Her body is very weak, and she needs time to
heal."

"How
much time?"

"I
wish I had a definite answer for you, Marshall, but I'm afraid I don't. It's
really up to Tara at this point. We're keeping her sedated until the ventilator
is removed, but she isn't comatose. Her body needs this period of time to rest
up. You have to remember, Marshall, that a significant portion of her small
intestine was removed. That in itself is a huge adjustment for a body to get
used to, and it's going to take time before she's ready to wake up. The pain
alone would be overwhelming if she were awake right now. I know you're worried
about her, and I won't lie to you and tell you that there's no reason. Her
condition is still very serious. But she made it through the night, and that
was my primary concern. I don't think it'll be smooth sailing from here on out,
but I do think she's got a very high chance of survival."

"You
can't give me any kind of time frame at all?"

"A
few days. A week, maybe."

Marshall's
chest hurt. He needed to talk to her now, he needed to see her eyes now, and he
needed to know she was going to be okay. He needed to yell at her and tell her
how angry he was, he needed to fuck her and make love to her and kiss her and
hold her and throw her around until everything between them was okay. A few
fucking days? A fucking week? That was unacceptable, and he wanted to
say that, he wanted to scream and rant and rave and throw things until he got
the fucking point across that he wanted Tara awake right fucking now,
but his lips were frozen together.

The
doctor talked for a few more minutes, trying to make sense of what was going on
inside Tara's body, but there was a rush of blood in Marshall's ears that kept
him from hearing anything but his own thoughts. When Dr. Cardwell finally left
him alone, he sat numbly in the padded mauve chair for a few moments. He stood
and went to the water fountain, bent his head to take a drink, realized he
wasn't thirsty, and sat in a different chair. His eyes hurt. He needed to
sleep, but how in the fuck was he supposed to sleep with all of this shit on
his mind? What the fuck was Tara thinking, writing a letter like that, thinking
he'd only read it if she fucking died? How was he supposed to make sense of
that shit with her in some drug-induced coma, let alone after he buried her in
the fucking ground? Why couldn't she have grown some nuts and told him to his
face, when she was awake and able to help him figure it all out?

He went
down to his Navigator and smoked a blunt, then drove around Detroit aimlessly.
He stopped at a gas station that advertised pay-at-the-pump, filled the SUV up
with gas, and kept driving. It was dark by the time he pulled into his own
garage, and he went upstairs to shower and sleep without seeing the girls. The
nanny's car was still parked in the driveway, so he knew they were awake. She
didn't leave until they had fallen asleep and she made certain the guard that
stayed in the apartment above the garage was awake. But he couldn't look into
Hailie's face right now without breaking down and sobbing like a bitch. He
couldn't look into the face of his little girl because somewhere in Boston, she
had a brother, a brother that looked like her.

He
showered, shaved, brushed his teeth, and took two of the sleeping pills in his
medicine cabinet. Then he went into his bedroom naked, found a pair of baggy
navy-blue sweats, and turned his bedroom light off.

He slept
in one of the guest rooms that night, sleeping with his face buried in a pillow
that smelled absolutely nothing of Tara, with absolutely nothing but Tara in
his dreams.

Author's
Note: Thank you so
much for all of your comments, guys. :) Keep 'em coming, please! Nothing, and I
do mean nothing, inspires me like looking at the review page.
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