Dazed (Connections, #2.5)(11)

Pulling over near the shore on the south bluff, I stare out into the water thinking about how I dislike the beach—and yet I never used to mind it. Why do things bother me so much now—how the sand that gets in my clothes is annoying, the wind that batters my hair is always distracting, and the jellyfish I have to sidestep are no longer wonders of beauty but hideous creatures. When I was younger I loved all of those things. Even before I followed Dahlia to Laguna, I had spent many days here. My uncle’s house was hidden away on the bluff and summer after summer this beach had been our playground. My uncle wasn’t married and he didn’t have any children, so I was like the daughter he never had. My parents didn’t go on vacation—they wouldn’t ever leave work long enough—but my uncle did, and he took me with him. We frolicked on the beach, he took me into LA, and he showed me all of California. And then before returning to Chicago, he’d fly us anywhere I wanted to go—Hawaii, London, Milan, and even Greece.

But after the heartbreak of that last summer I’d spent in Laguna with Levi, I didn’t return until it was too late. For the longest time I felt like Levi took the few years I had left with my uncle from me. Now I know it was me who robbed myself of those years, because I didn’t want to go back. I wish I had made different decisions and often feel guilty that I didn’t.

I loved my Uncle Ian. Maybe more than I loved my parents. What wasn’t to love—he was fun, full of adventure, had no rules. And he was unbelievably famous. As the lead bassist for the band Dazed, he lived the life of a rock star. Rolling Stone once said Dazed was the only band ever to have more influence on music than Led Zeppelin. And I believe that my uncle was the only musician to ever command a magazine cover more confidently than Robert Plant. Dazed may never have sold as many records as Led Zeppelin, and they might not have attracted as many concertgoers, but their sound will never be forgotten. But Uncle Ian’s death put an end to his legacy—or so I thought initially.

He was diagnosed with lung cancer just before my high school graduation and only lived six more months. The cancer was ravaging his body and when we’d spoken on the phone, his optimism always made me feel that he would get through it, but I should have recognized how sick he was. When my parents told me we were all going to Laguna for the summer, I knew then that we were nearing the end and I didn’t even wince at the thought of seeing Levi. I knew my uncle needed me.

By the time we arrived, his health had deteriorated so much from when I had last seen him a few months previously. Madeline, Levi’s mother and my uncle’s next-door neighbor, had been helping him out. But when we arrived, she no longer had to. I spent every minute I could with him. A hospital bed was set up in his study and I slept on the couch beside him.

He didn’t want to die but he tried to prepare me for it. Nurses came every day, and he only got weaker. By the time the end of summer neared, he was sleeping more and more and had stopped eating solid foods. He had to talk in whispers to conserve energy. Sometimes he would hallucinate, sometimes he would cry, and sometimes he would laugh. He would pick at the sheets and I’d hold his hands to stop him. I’d stay with him for hours and just sit and talk—to take his mind off the pain.

Then summer ended and I begged my parents to let me hold off on starting school until the second semester, but they refused. So I went to USC during the week and went back to my uncle’s on the weekends. And then it happened, when I was there. On a Friday night he asked me for a sip of water and coughed it up. We both noticed it was black. I told him I was sorry I gave him coke, so as not to worry him. But that night he couldn’t swallow his pills, so the nurse gave him some kind of shot in addition to extra doses of morphine through the pump. The next morning he was awake and grabbed my hand and tears spilled from his eyes.

“My little darling, I’m dying,” he whispered.

“I know,” I cried.

After the nurses left that morning, my parents begged me to go back to school. But I couldn’t. I knew he would be gone before I got back. So instead I stayed by his side. I kept my hand in his as his breathing quickened and grew shallow. Tears leaked down the side of his face and I’d wipe them. His eyes glazed over, but I knew he saw me. When his top lip turned bluish in color, his breathing slowed even further and he was staring. I thought he was staring at me until I noticed his breathing had stopped completely. And just like that, he was gone from my life.

And now Warner Bros. was making a movie about him. I’d already met with the executives last year and agreed to consult on the movie script. I wasn’t privy to all the information about my uncle’s life, but I was confident I knew enough. I was the keeper of his belongings—awards, albums, documents, and his guitars.

The first meeting with the film producers was both a classic rock love-fest and a contentious boxing match between the biographers and the scriptwriters. The movie manuscript took over a year to come to fruition—but I read it last month and couldn’t be prouder. Rather than be involved in the day-to-day workings of producing a movie, I released my rights and decided to let them do what they do best. I felt comfortable with the direction the movie was taking and work had grown crazy with so many new demands now that Damon was overseeing Sound Music, I just didn’t have the time to dedicate to it. My attorney wanted me to add an addendum that any major re-writes had to be approved by me, but I didn’t think that was necessary. Last I heard Brett Hildebrandt had been named the director, and I was happy to know they had hired one of the best.