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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
- 6
- 7
- 8
07.

Marshall
went into the office for a couple of hours the next morning, and he was already
long gone by the time Tara woke up. She laid in bed for a few minutes, snuggled
up to the pillows that smelled so much like Marshall with her eyes closed and
her blankets up to her chin, until the pressure in her bladder roused her.
After she peed, brushed her teeth, and took a long steamy shower beneath the
massaging jets, she dressed in more of Marshall's clothes and gathered her own
dirty clothes up. She was almost certain there were a washer and dryer in the
basement, though she had no idea how to get to the basement, but her
clothes were in desperate need of being washed.

For a
brief second, she thought about calling him at work, but she knew he must be
swamped after taking a day and a half off. The night before, limbs tangled on
the sofa in the small sitting room off of his bedroom, they'd talked until the
sweat dried into their naked skin. He did most of the talking, and she didn't
mind. She'd imagined hearing his voice so much, lying in the near-darkness of
her bare studio apartment in Boston, that it was something close to euphoria to
lie here in the semi-darkness of his sprawling house in Detroit, actually
hearing and touching and feeling him. It was easier to confess in the darkness,
and a combination of that, good weed, and great sex had loosened him
considerably. She didn't think he'd been as honest with anyone in a long time.

"I'm
sick of being a workhorse." His voice was almost wistful. "I want to
spend more time with the girls, but I'm in too deep. Too many people depend on
me. I've gotta sign checks, sit in on recordings, meet with new artists and
ones that have already signed, keep my promises, keep the peace between these
egotistical motherfuckers that argue over whose shit smells sweeter. I've gotta
deal with so much fuckin' bullshit, Tara, and I don't ever get a little chunk
of something for me. I created all of this, this is my empire, but it's not
mine anymore. If it were, it'd be a lot easier to just walk away for awhile,
you know?"

"I
know," Tara had murmured, not sure if she did.

"I
wish I could be... I don't know, normal. Isn't that fuckin' crazy? I wanted all
of this, wanted it so bad I was willing to sacrifice just about fuckin'
anything to get it. And once I got a taste of it, I had to have more. I
couldn't sell a thousand albums; I had to sell ten thousand. Then I had to sell
a hundred thousand, then a million. I thought I was God's gift to this fucking
world, and look at everything I sacrificed. I sacrificed you."

"Marshall-"

"Okay,
so sacrifice wasn't the right word. And I wouldn't trade Hailie or Laney for
the whole fuckin' world. Think about how different our lives would be if I
wouldn't have left you for Kim."

"You
didn't leave me for Kim," Tara said, trying to keep her tone light. "I
left you when I found out about Kim."

"Same
difference. I wasn't tryin' to hide it. I didn't give a fuck."

"That
was a long time ago, Marshall," Tara said. Her tone wasn't so light
anymore.

"But
it happened, right? It changed everything. Imagine if I would've married
you."

Tara's
eyes had closed, her jaw clenched. He had absolutely no idea how many times
she'd imagined that very thing. Something hot burned its way up her throat and
into the back of her mouth. "What good would that do?"

"But
I don't know, Tara. We fought a lot, too. You were younger than me, and I
thought that meant I was smarter. I don't think it mattered who I married, it
was bound to end up a disaster. I was a disaster. I was hooked on dope, I was
popping ecstasy five days out of the week, drinking Hypnotic like it was water,
fucking anything with tits and a tongue ring. I didn't eat, didn't sleep, just
rapped and got fucked up and fucked. I'd come down long enough to go home to
see Hailie, and Kim would be in my ear, bitching and yapping because I was
never there and she heard I was fucking some bitch and was I fucked up? And I
thought, who the fuck is this bitch, thinking she can tell me what to fucking
do? So we'd scream and I'd push her and she'd punch the shit out of me, and I'd
end up putting holes through the wall of whatever house or apartment we were
living in, and she'd tell me to leave, so I would. I'd back out of the driveway
with the radio blaring so I couldn't hear her begging me to come home. And to
think, we lived that way for years. It's no wonder she got hooked on
cocaine, it's no wonder she stopped giving a shit about me or herself or even
Hailie."

Tara
hadn't known what to say. She'd never heard Marshall talk like this before, and
she realized belatedly that he'd been holding it in for years. He was human
too, the great Slim Shady, and he needed a little release. He needed to be
honest sometimes, too, without beefing it up and rhyming it and setting it to
music for the entire world to snatch up and devour. He needed to talk to
someone who knew him, the real him, and not the rapper or the actor or the
businessman or the father. He needed someone who knew Marshall. And Tara
knew Marshall better than just about anyone.

"I
thought of you," he said after a few minutes. Tara was surprised; she'd
thought he was done with the confessions. Not that she minded! She loved that
he was telling her this, loved that he was trusting her and that he was taking
a little of the weight off of his shoulders.

"Did
you?" she asked, trying to encourage him.

"All
the time."

"You
never wrote a song about me."

"No,"
he said, finding her foot with his hand and squeezing it. "I thought you
deserved better than a song about you by Slim Shady. I was too angry then. I
would have fucked things up beyond repair."

"It
could never get that bad," she whispered.

"Maybe
it already has, Tara. Ever stop to think about that?"

"What
do you mean?"

"I
mean... I mean that you and I, maybe we had our chance. I'm too busy for you,
Tara. You deserve someone who can... I don't fucking know, do all that sappy
shit that girls like so much. Bring you home flowers and take you out to
five-star restaurants and I don't know, trips to Paris or whatever rich couples
do. I can't do any of that. I'm spread so thin that I don't even have time for
my girls, and they're first priority. You know, I haven't even seen Nate in
months. Months. We used to see each other every fucking day."

"What
do you think I'm asking out of you?"

"That's
just it, Tara. You're asking for me. I don't know if I can do
this."

"Do
what?" She tried to keep the hurt out of her voice, but it was there.

"Be
with you, Tara."

"Who
said anything about that?" She tried to remove herself, pick herself up
and sit back down on a beach in Mexico with a pink drink in her hand, a convertible
VW Beetle parked behind her, wearing nothing but a bikini top and a wraparound
skirt. She closed her eyes again and breathed deeply, imagining the way the
warm seawater would crash against the sand in front of her, misting her with its
sprays, and she could almost feel the salt on her skin when Marshall spoke
again.

"Nobody
said anything," he finally said. "But we always do this. Always. We
don't see each other, and it doesn't matter for how long. A week, six months,
ten years. And we settle right back into this... thing. And I'm not saying it's
your fault, because it's just as much mine. But maybe this isn't the right
time. Maybe in five, ten years-"

"Cut
the shit, Marshall," she finally said. "I have cancer. I'm sick, and
I could die." She heard his breath hiss, but she was too angry to care.
Now, absently taking her dirty clothes out of her duffel bags and sorting them
on the carpet, she could smile. But last night, smiling was the last thing from
her mind. "I'm not trying to use that as a trump card, either, Marshall,
so don't get the wrong idea. But I might not have five years, ten years.
And who said I was trying to have a relationship with you anyway? I came here
because I love you, yes, but that doesn't necessarily mean that I'm in love
with you and I came here disillusioned by all the time we spent away from each
other. I know what you're capable of giving a woman, and it's not very fucking
much. You blame it on your career, but you know what? You've been this way
since you were eighteen fucking years old, and I don't buy it for a minute that
it's because you're so damned busy. You just don't want anyone to rely on you.
You don't want to answer to anyone, and you don't want to ask anyone any
questions."

He
laughed humorlessly. "You've got me all figured out, huh?"

"You're
fucking right I do," she said, yanking herself out from beneath him and
sitting on the edge of the sofa. "I've had you figured out since I was a
kid, and you know, one thing can be said about you. All your fame, all your
millions of dollars, all your little prot�g�s that follow you around like
you're some kind of fucking lord and master? They haven't changed you. Not one
bit. You have so much to give someone, Marshall. Look at everything you give to
the kids who come into your studios, broke but full of talent? You give them
encouragement, financial backing, and knowing you, you probably give them
someplace to stay and food to eat and weed to smoke if they need it. But from
your perspective, that's not committing anything of yourself. You don't
see that as emotional support, you don't see that as sharing a part of
yourself. You see it as being a boss. Well, newsflash, Marshall, you've got a relationship
with those kids, you're seeing those kids. Maybe not romantically, but
you are, and you're too blind to see it."

"Wha-"

"No,
you shut up, Marshall. You shut the fuck up and listen to me. You whine and cry
about how fucking busy you are, how thin you're spread, but you don't stop and
think about anyone else! I could die, and I don't whine half as much as
you! Oh, poor Marshall, with the millions rolling in and the entire fucking
world snatching up every album released with your name on it, no matter how
tiny the print. Poor Marshall, with his clothing line and his record company
and his publicity stunt beefs and the cute little girls. Oh, poor, poor
Marshall. But I don't feel sorry for you. I don't feel sorry for you at all.
You could take a day off if you wanted, you could come home a little earlier.
Do you think all CEOs sit around until ten thirty at night signing orders for
blank CDs? Do you think that all executive producers commit themselves to five
or six albums at a time? Are you fucking crazy? You could do everything you're
doing right now, make just as much money, and be home twice as much. But you
don't want to. You've got it stuck in your head that you're this important businessman,
that your entire little empire would crumble at your feet if you weren't there
eighteen hours a day to monitor every Goddamned thing that happens in that
building, but let me take a wild guess, here, Marshall - you were gone
yesterday, and I bet the building is still standing, huh? I bet you made some
money yesterday too, huh?"

"Tara-"

"Shut
the fuck up, Marshall!" She stood up, groped for a light switch,
finally found it, and started pulling her clothes on angrily. "I don't
want hear your stupid fucking excuses. That's all they are, excuses. Well,
sorry for fucking expecting a friend. I guess you're just not capable of
that anymore, either. I guess every time a woman shows up here, no matter how
long you've known them or what's going on in their life, you can't just help
them without assuming they want to marry you and take trips to Paris with
you. I wanted to see you, Marshall. I wanted to fucking see you, I
wanted someone who cared about me. If you remember right, I'm not the
one who climbed on you, I'm not the one that grabbed a hold of your hair and
got some wild look in my eyes. If you don't want to fucking be with me, that's
great, Marshall. That's great. I don't need you to be my boyfriend. But I
thought it'd be nice to have a friend."

"Can
I talk?" he asked after a few minutes, watching her stuff her clothes into
duffel bags.

"Yes."

"I
feel like an ass."

"You
are an ass."

"Tara,
stop. You're not leaving. We both know it."

"The
hell I'm not."

"Where
are you going to go?"

"I
don't fucking know. I'll go to the emergency room and be admitted. It's better
than being here, and at least I'd get some fucking sleep."

"Stop,
Tara."

"You
don't have time to tell me what to do."

"What
do you want me to think, Tara? What do you want me to think you showed up here
for? Huh?"

She spun
around, eyes flashing. "I don't know, Marshall, because I'm sick and my
mom is dead and my husband left me and I don't have anyone else in this fucking
world to go to? Do you think I came here because I wanted your nuts?"
Disgusted, she turned back to the pile of clothes on the floor. "Thanks,
Marshall. That makes me feel real fucking great."

"I
didn't know you were sick at first!"

"But
you do now, don't you? You know I'm sick now, you took it upon yourself to find
me some high-priced fucking doctor that I can't afford on my own, and then you
tell me that you don't have time! Make up your fucking mind, would
you?"

"I
never said I wouldn't pay for your doctor-"

When she
turned that time, there was fury in her eyes. Her features were twisted with a
bitter rage. "Are you fucking shitting me, Marshall? Are you
fucking shitting me?"

"What?"

"Do
you really think after you've just humiliated me like this, I'd let you give me
one single dime? I didn't come here for your nuts, and I didn't come
here for your money. If I'd have known you were still such a fucking asshole,
I'd have stayed in Boston."

She
zipped the bag up, threw it towards the door, and stomped into the bathroom.
Still naked, Marshall followed her and watched her scoop her toiletries into
her makeup bag. "Stop, Tara. Stop packing your shit."

"You
lost your privilege to speak to me," she snapped.

Her back
was to him, shoulders trembling with anger, when he wrapped his strong arms
around her. She tried to fight him off for a minute, but he was too strong and
too determined. "Stop, Tara. Stop. Calm down, baby."

She
froze. Marshall had never, never, called her "baby" before.

"See?
Calm down before you give yourself a stroke or something."

"Let
me go."

"I
don't want you to go."

"I
don't understand you!"

"I
don't understand me, either."

"You
don't want me to go, but you don't have time for me? You want me to stay in
your guest room for the next five or ten years, Marshall, while you pay for my
doctor? Is that what you want?"

"No.
No, Tara. It all came out wrong."

"I
don't think it did. I think it came out exactly how you wanted it to, and when
I didn't cry and beg you to rethink it, you had to find another tactic."

"Give
me a little credit, Tara. I don't need to hear you cry and beg. I know how you
feel, okay? I know how you feel about me."

"You're
a bastard."

"Stop
it, stop being so mad."

"That's
easy for you to say."

"Look,
you can keep packing if you want, but you're not going anywhere. I'm going to
find some boxers, and I'll be right back." He let go of her and padded out
of the bathroom. Tara couldn't move; she was frozen, so confused her head hurt.
Her stomach was starting to hurt. She put the lid down on the toilet and sat
heavily on it, looking down at her bare toes. What was going on? What was he thinking?

He came
back in the bathroom in a pair of sweats and socks, his chest bare. She was
sitting on the toilet, leaning forward so that her hair fell over her face. His
voice sounded broken. "Come in here and talk to me, okay? I promise I
won't be an ass."

She
looked up at him with shiny eyes. "I don't want to hear anything you have
to say."

"Come
on, Tara." He extended a hand. After twenty seconds, she took it.

"Listen,"
he said once they were sitting on the bed. "You're right, okay? I don't
want anyone to depend on me. You're right. It scares me. You know how hard it
is for someone like me to have two little girls relying on him for everything?
These girls, they need so much. I try, Tara, but it's rough. And now
you're back, and fuck. I love having you, Tara. I loved waking up next to you
this morning." He didn't tell her that he hadn't really slept because he'd
felt an inexplicable urge to just watch her all night long. "But
I'm just me. I'm not romantic, I'm not sweet or sensitive or any of the things
a woman wants. I can hardly pull up enough patience out of the bottom of my gut
to sit and listen to my receptionist tell me that she had a fight with her
husband or something. I don't know what it's like to have a healthy
relationship, okay? I haven't had many shining examples. I don't know what it's
supposed to consist of. And how am I gonna figure it out now, Tara? I'm past
thirty, an old man. I'm too tired and worn out to spend my money. I want... I
want you, Tara. Okay? But I don't know how that's going to work."

"It
just takes effort."

"I
can work my ass off, Tara. That's one thing I know how to do."

She
looked up, sensing that there was a 'but.' He didn't disappoint.

"But
I don't know how to work something that isn't physically tangible."

"What
do you mean?"

"I...
Fuck. I don't know if I can explain it. I can work myself into the grave for a
paycheck, for an album, for a finished product. But what's the finished product
here? What am I working towards?"

She
laughed. "If you don't see that, Marshall-"

"I
don't. You have to help me, Tara. You have to help me figure out what I'm
trying to do here, okay? It's not easy for me. Look, I want to be with you. But
let's give it some time. I'm not used to you being around yet, Tara.
Let's give it some time, okay?"

"Five
years?" she asked, not caring if she was being petulant.

"Not
five years."

"You
hurt my feelings."

"See?
That's what I don't know how to deal with. I'm not good at this, Tara. I don't
know what to do when I hurt your feelings. You say that, and my first instinct
is to leave."

"It
doesn't have to be that complicated, Marshall." She wiped a tear away and
sniffled. "You could just hold me, tell me you're sorry. Could you do
that?"

"Come
here," he said huskily, and did just that.

Tara
smiled when she thought about the - could it have been tenderness? - he showed her. She knew it was hard for him to lay there in
the dark with a crying woman in his arms, but he did. He kissed her without
pressing for sex, he even ran his fingertips over her bare back until she fell
asleep.

Maybe,
she thought. Maybe things could be okay. He'd always had potential. Maybe now
he could live up to it.
- 6
- 7
- 8
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