Adult-FanFiction.org : Celebrity

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
- 8
- 9
- 10
09.

Marshall
wasn't a romantic.

But for
the first time in his life, he wanted to be. He wanted to be the type of guy
that could bring home emerald earrings or a diamond necklace without it being
totally out of character. He wanted to write love songs and sappy poetry. He
wanted to kiss her all over her body and murmur sweet nothings in flickering
candlelight. There were nights when he'd wait until after her breathing had
deepened and her body relaxed against him before he poured his heart out the
only way he could, whispering freestyles against her hair in the pitch-black
darkness of his bedroom.

Tara's
tangent had made him realize a few things, and he was ashamed of himself. His
family was neglected, and he tried to change that. He took each of the girls
out on "dates." Hailie went with him on a three-day trip to Los
Angeles, and after the meetings that took up most of his mornings, they'd go
shopping or out to eat. He took Laney to the studio with him and let her make
her own song, then got it printed on a gold album for her to hang on her
bedroom wall. They were happier than he'd ever seen them.

But he
knew that he couldn't take all of the credit for their happiness. Neither of
the girls had ever had a solid, positive female role model before. Tara was
strong and sweet, polite and feminine, patient and funny. He was surprised at
how quickly the girls bonded with her. He'd come home from work to find them
bent over fashion magazines or homework or cookbooks, laughing and talking
quietly. When she felt sick, they laid with her on the couch or in Marshall's
huge bed watching chick flicks and eating ice cream out of the carton. Tara was
good for them, and he knew that they were good for her.

Tara felt
sick more and more as time went on.

She went
to the doctor often, discussing treatment options. Dr. Cardwell was a good man,
honest but gentle, and he didn't let Tara get discouraged. Marshall missed most
of her appointments at her insistence. "No, Marshall," she'd say when
he told her he'd come with her. "Go to work, okay? The girls like you
being home at night and if you're gone all day with me, you're going to be
stuck there 'til midnight. I promise I'll call you and let you know what I find
out, okay?"

They
bickered, but they always had. They argued over the messy bathroom and how long
her showers lasted; they argued over what to watch on TV and where to eat
dinner, whether or not he should buy her a cell phone or a new car (he ended up
buying her a video phone and a Mitsubishi Galant), whose car to take to the
store and how much weed he smoked. Marshall loved how she looked when she was
frustrated. Her face would turn pink and her eyes would narrow while she
clenched her fists and told him he was an ass or a bastard or a son of a bitch.
"I always want to fuck you when you're mad at me," he'd tell her, and
he usually did.

Somewhere
in the back of his mind, he knew that things couldn't keep going the way they
were forever. They couldn't keep coasting on the uncertainty of what the other
wanted. They couldn't keep from talking about their past and their future. And
they couldn't pretend that Tara was as healthy as he was. Sooner or later, he
knew, he'd have to face up to reality. It was a day he dreaded.

Something
woke Marshall up just before dawn one morning, and he yawned into his pillow.
The digital alarm clock beside his bed read 5:13, and in the gray darkness
before sunrise, he looked over at Tara beside him.

Only...
Tara wasn't beside him.

He
realized what woke him up. The bathroom door was pushed closed, but a thin
border of yellow light silhouetted the heavy oak door. He could hear her
throwing up.

He waited
for her to come back to bed. The toilet flushed, the faucet turned on and then
off, and the light switched off. She walked quietly across the room, slipped
into bed, and was still.

"Tara?"
he asked quietly. "Are you okay?"

"I'm
fine," she said. "I didn't know you were awake."

"Did
you puke?"

She exhaled
a sound that would have been a laugh if she wasn't so worn out and tired.
"A little."

"Come
here," he said, hating that he sounded gruff when he asked her to let him
hold her. Why was it so damned hard for him to be affectionate? But not
even noticing the gruffness, or maybe used to it, she turned into the crook of
his arm without saying a word.

"Are
you okay?"

She
shrugged against him. "I'm sure I will be."

"Is
that the first time you've puked?"

"No,"
she said quietly.

"Why
haven't you mentioned anything about it to me?"

"You've
got enough to worry about, Marsh. Let's not do this tonight, okay? I'm
tired."

"It's
not night anymore. It's morning." He frowned in the darkness. "Why
haven't you told me you've been puking?"

"Because
it's not a big deal."

"Does
Dr. Cardwell know?"

"Yes."

"What
does he think?"

She
sighed. "I don't want to talk about it, okay?"

"Tell
me, Tara."

She
rolled onto her back. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough to see her
stare at the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles above them. "He says it's a
sign that the tumor is blocking my intestine. He wants to do the surgery almost
immediately."

"Oh?"
His voice was tight and hard. She tensed beside him.

"Don't
get pissed off, okay? I didn't tell you because I'm not ready for
surgery."

"Are
you ready to die?"

"Stop,
Marshall."

"I
am definitely not going to fucking stop."

"You
are going to stop. If you don't, I'm going to leave."

"Where
the fuck do you plan on going?"

"Anywhere
where you aren't."

"Great.
Great, Tara. Go. I'm not going to fucking stop you this time. I'm so fucking
mad at you-"

"Why?
You can't control me, Marshall, and you can't control my disease."

"Neither
can you!" he yelled, and she flinched. "Fuck," he said in
a lower voice.

"Don't
wake the girls up."

"I'll
wake the fucking girls up if I want to."

"I
swear to God, Marshall, I'm not fucking listening to this tonight! Are you
fucking kidding? Really? I just got done throwing up, I'm tired, I don't feel
good, and all I want is for you to be a fucking normal boyfriend and I
don't know, put your arms around me, tell me it's going to be okay, let me be
sick without driving me fucking batshit crazy!"

"Who
said I was your boyfriend?" he snapped.

"Fuck
you, Marshall." She threw the covers back. "I'm not putting up with
this right now. Any other time, maybe. Right now, no. I'm not dealing with
it."

"From
the sounds of it, you're not dealing with anything."

"Forgive
me, Marshall, fucking forgive me. I have a lot on my plate right now, okay? Do
you want me to tell you everything I'm dealing with, because I think you've
forgotten? I have to deal with you, first and foremost-"

"Tara-"

"If
you cut me off again, I swear to God and everything Holy that I'll knock you
right in your fucking face," she snarled. He shut up. "I have to deal
with you, Marshall fucking Mathers, loving you with every fiber of what
I am, loving you so much that I hate you, while you throw up into my face every
time we argue that I have absolutely no claim to you. Fine, whatever. I've
dealt with that for a long time now. You hate to be tied down, so fine, wander.
I deal with it. You fuck me, I make you dinner, we take showers together, you
confide in me, I hold it all in and I don't say a word. I don't know if you're
fucking anyone else, and I don't ask either. I know you haven't committed
yourself to me, fine. Whatever. You're free to do whatever you want, Marshall,
and I just sit here with Hailie and Laney and wait for you to come back. We
smoke weed and fuck and talk and you pass out while I get up and puke all
night, and you're not my fucking boyfriend. So that's what I'm dealing with,
Marshall, just when it comes to you.

"And
then let's add in the fact that I've got intestinal cancer, this terrifying
disease that could kill me before I've even got a chance to get used to the
idea that I'm sick. There's a tumor the size of a grapefruit blocking my
intestine. My body isn't digesting food, Marshall. I throw it all up because it
can't pass through my intestine. I haven't gone to the bathroom in two weeks
because there's nothing there. Everything I eat sits in my intestine until I
lay down, and then I throw it up. Did you know that? Of course you didn't. You
don't want to talk about me being sick, and that's fine. Whatever, Marshall.
Pretend I'm not, that's fine. Every time I tell you something less than
pleasant, you get all stony and smoke three blunts and make me feel guilty for
being sick. So I don't say anything, and fine. I'm dealing, right?

"So
the doctor wants me to have surgery. It's my only chance. Part of my intestine
has to be removed, and he thinks that the cancer might have spread to my liver,
so I'm going to need radiation or chemotherapy after the surgery. I'm going to
be so weak I have to stay in the hospital. My body's going to be so worn out
from surgery and losing part of a really important organ and dealing with
whatever chemicals or radiation they decide to pour into me that I might sleep
twenty hours a day. Fine, whatever. I might die, okay. But you know what,
Marshall? Guess what?"

"What?"
he asked quietly, a sour taste in his mouth.

"I
might die before I get the chance to see my son again." Her voice broke
and she pressed her fist to her mouth, struggling for composure. It took a
minute, but the trembling subsided. "I might not ever see Cameron again,
Marshall. I might die, and he'll grow up thinking of all the awful things I'm
sure Rob and his little bitch have pumped into him. That is what I'm
dealing with, Marshall. So when you say I'm not dealing with anything, why
don't you use that fucking head on your shoulders for more than a pretty
decoration and think about what you're saying?"

She got
up and left the room. He didn't move for more than an hour.

Tara
drove aimlessly in her pajamas and Marshall's huge puffy jacket. The heat was
turned on full-blast. It felt like it was scorching her eyebrows, but she
didn't care. She was cold deep inside, where an ache in the pit of her stomach
had turned into a ball of freezing fire three days ago. The doctor kept
insisting on emergency surgery, but she put him off. The surgery was dangerous.
She could die. How could she die without seeing Cameron one last time?

She came
to a stop in front of a green light before she realized what she was doing. An
Explorer swerved around her with the horn blaring and she pulled into a parking
lot, stopping in the center of four parking spaces. Her arms and legs shook.
She felt light-headed and dizzy, her mouth was dry, her heart raced. She was
starving to death. She could eat until nothing else would fit down her throat,
and she would still starve to death.

"Mama,"
she whispered to the empty car. "Where are you, Mama? I need you right
now."

The car
was still empty. What did she expect, half-delirious with pain and hunger and
sadness? Her mother to appear beside her in a flowing white gown, wings, and a
glowing halo? She put the armrest up and leaned over into the passenger seat,
her body bent awkwardly across the front seats. "Mama," she cried.
"Mama, where are you? I'm so alone, Mama, I need you."

Marshall
waited for her for almost three hours before he started getting worried. As
soon as he sent the girls to school, assuring them that everything was fine, he
called the doctor's office. They hadn't seen her. Dr. Cardwell's nurse sounded
very worried. "Her body isn't digesting food, Mr. Mathers," she said,
the implications nearly overwhelming. "A human body can only function for
so long without some form of nutrition."

He called
her cell phone a hundred times, finally getting so frustrated with her cheerful
voicemail message that he threw his own phone against the wall. He wanted it to
shatter, to knock a hole in the plaster, to do something besides bounce
off with a dull whack. He smoked blunt after blunt, but he couldn't
catch a buzz no matter how much he smoked. He was furious, worried, and ashamed
of himself, scared - where could she go? Where could she be?

He was
dying without another human voice. He was dying without her.

Finally,
he picked up the phone and dialed the first number that popped into his head -
Dre's.

"I
ain't heard from you in a minute, homeboy," Dre said when he answered the
phone.

"I've
been busy," Marshall said.

"So
I hear. You and Tara fuckin' on the regular now, huh?"

"When
are you coming to Detroit again?" Marshall asked instead of replying.

"I'm
kickin' it at the crib for a while, the ol' lady's bitchin' because I was in
New York all week. Why?"

"Shit,"
Marshall finally said. "I don't fuckin' know."

"What's
goin' on, Em?"

He told
Dre everything, talking for so long he was surprised Dre hadn't told him to
shut up or hung up. When he finished, there was a long silence.

"Chicks
aren't like us, man," he finally said. "You can't get pissed at them
like you do. Sounds like Tara's got enough to fuckin' worry about without you
throwin' fits."

"I
appreciate your honesty," Marshall said dryly. "But aren't you
supposed to be on my side?"

"I
am on your side," Dre said. "That's why I'm tellin' you like it is.
You love her, right?"

Marshall
laughed. "If that's not fuckin' obvious-"

"You
gotta say it, man."

"Yeah,
okay. I do."

"Say
it, dawg."

"I
love her."

"So
what are you fuckin' yellin' at her for? You shoulda just picked her ass up and
taken her to the hospital instead of making demands. She's dealin' with all
this shit by herself, right? And she's scared she's gonna die before she gets
to see Carter-"

"Cameron."

"Okay,
Cameron. She's scared she's gonna die before she sees him, and hey, like it or
not, man, that could happen. Cut the girl some slack, dawg."

The phone
finally rang at two-thirty that afternoon. Marshall grabbed it before the
caller ID picked up. "Tara?"

"Is
this Marshall Mathers?"

He
groaned. The last thing he wanted to deal with was a fan getting his house
number. "Who the fuck is this?"

"This
is Officer Michael Robinson with the Detroit Police Department."

Marshall's
heart stopped. "This is Marshall Mathers."

"Sir,
do you own a gray Mitsubishi Galant?"

Oh,
God. Oh, no. Oh, God. "Yes."

"Do
you know a Tara Allister?"

"She's
my girl." He didn't care if the cop would hang up and call The Star,
he didn't care if he went on Entertainment Tonight, he didn't care if
anyone found out. He was so fucking terrified that something had happened to
his Tara that he wanted to get on top of his house and scream to anyone without
a ten-mile radius that he loved her.

"We
found her in your Galant. Unconscious."

"Was
there an accident?" Oh, God. Oh, no. Oh, God. Oh, no.

"No.
She was parked in an empty lot."

"Where
is she now?"

"Tara
was taken by ambulance to the University medical center. Do you know where that
is?"

"Yeah,
thanks."

He made
it to the hospital - a twenty minute drive when he was speeding - in twelve.

He parked
in a handicapped spot, left the doors unlocked, and skidded into the emergency
room lobby. The nurse at the registration desk looked at him in surprise.
"Can I help you, sir?" Her eyes widened when she realized who he was.
"Aren't you... You're..."

"Yeah,
I'm fucking Eminem, isn't that fucking great? I need to see Tara
Allister."

The nurse
opened her mouth to say something, the star-studded glare still in her eyes,
and he cut her off. "Immediately," he said.

"Of
course, sir," she said, flustered. "Follow me."

Tara was
still in a tiny curtained-off cubicle. Marshall blew up at the head nurse.
"Get this girl out from behind a curtain and into a private room!" he
yelled before he even saw her. "Now!"

"Sir,
that's simply not-"

He tore
his wallet from his back pocket. "How much fucking money do you need to
get this girl out of your nasty fucking emergency room? Is five hundred enough,
or do I need to go to a fucking ATM?" She stared at him, gaping. "NOW!" he roared.

"Marshall,"
Tara said weakly when he ripped the curtain back. "Don't be so mean."

"You're
in so much fucking trouble," he said, trying to keep his voice from
shaking with relief. She's okay, she's okay, look, she's alive, she's pale
but she's fine, look, she's okay, she's not dead. "Don't you ever
fucking do something like that to me again, Tara, I fucking mean it. I swear to
God I'll beat you fucking bloody if you ever even think of doing
something like this to me again."

She
smiled at him. "Could it be, Marshall? Eminem, Slim Shady, Marshall
fucking Mathers, worried?"

"You
think it's funny, you bitch?" he asked, bending over her and kissing her
roughly. "I'll show you worried. Wait until I get you home, I'm putting
you on a Goddamned leash. Has a doctor been in here yet?"

"No,"
she said.

He
stomped to the nurses' station. The head nurse looked up at him in fear.
"Yes, sir?"

"Where's
a fucking doctor?"

"Um,
the doctors are seeing other patients right now, si-"

"Point
at a doctor."

"I
don't see one."

"I
suggest you find one."

"Sir,
you really have to calm down. It doesn't matter how much money you have, you
can't just expect to be given special treatment."

"The
fuck I can't," he said. "Point at a doctor. Right now, or I start
screaming for one. I can be loud. Do you know who I am? Do you really want me
to cause a scene?"

She
looked at him disapprovingly, then past him at the busy hallway.
"There," she said, pointing at a young woman in a white coat.
"That's a doctor."

He ran up
to the doctor. "Hey, hey, wait."

She
turned around and smiled. "Hi, can I help you?"

"No,"
he said, steering her towards Tara's room. "You can help my girlfriend,
though."

"I
can't... What are you doing?... Sir, you really cannot-"

"I'm
Eminem," he said. "I really can."
- 8
- 9
- 10
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Up From Here