The Woman Who Fell To Earth

Chapter 33

Venus

Arthur looked at the calendar. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath. It was June 10. His biggest audience yet would be hearing him speak tonight. He had a four-hour drive ahead of him, and still sat in his boxers, unshaven, unshowered, at 10 a.m. But that wasn't what weighed on his mind. June 10, exactly sixty-nine days since David, Brixton, had appeared to him. As much as he had prepared himself to forget this day, he could not unthink it. He'd been awake for hours, unable to push her from his mind, to push this day away. It meant nothing. It was madness. And yet, here he was, on what should have been one of the greatest days of his life, unable to concentrate on anything other than David and her sixty-ninth day on Earth.

Angie had told him to give her a few days. Besides, he didn't have time to deal with Brixton Jones and her neuroses today. He had the biggest presentation of his career ahead of him. This was it. The gig he needed to break into the big time. This was the day he was going to take over the world.

He thought back to the last time he had seen her. She sat in the hospital bed, cowering as he yelled at her, screamed at her, and for what? For being sick? For having an altruistic outlook on life and for trying to share that with him? For changing his life? For saving it?

Arthur inhaled sharply, his breath catching in his lungs. His chest heaved, his body shook, tears poured from his eyes, down his cheeks and into his hands where his face rested. How could he have done this to her? He sobbed loudly. Had anyone walked by his door, they would have heard the remorse through the walls. In fact, Rip did walk by with the final box from his move and stop. He stood still and listened. He set down the box and walked to the door, held his fist to it, poised and ready to knock. But, hearing only Arthur's cries, he picked up his box, turned away and continued out to the street.

When the last tear dried on his skin, Arthur sighed loudly and hoarsely. He blew his nose with a tissue, tossed it toward the trashcan and missed. The tissue hit the rim of the can and ricocheted into the living room. He stood up reluctantly, walked into the living room and bent over to pick up the tissue. When he did, his eyes caught sight of something white and fluffy peeking out from under the dresser. He tossed the tissue in the wastebasket and reached for the fluff. It was a white feather.

He held it in his fingers and turned it slowly, watching the air move the downy barbs in a dance. He thought of David in the angel wings, posing for art students, smiling her crazy shark mouth at the old janitor when she saw his painting. The painting still hung on Arthur's wall with its stolen frame from The Ritz.

Arthur looked at the painting. He stood in front of it and took it in both hands, removing it from the wall, setting it on the coffee table. With a determined step, he returned to the bedroom, shaved his face, showered and dressed. He stepped out of the apartment and into a taxi.

***

Brixton's body lay still on the hospital bed, her frame made even smaller in the billowy white gown. She looked remarkably like a bent and twisted David Bowie as The Elephant Man, gangly legs akimbo under a white tunic. The nurse on duty said it was pills. Too many pills. They didn't know when she would wake up. If she would wake up.

Arthur placed her painting on the windowsill, propped it so she could see it, just in case. He sat next to her on the bed, listened to the humming of the machines, watched the ventilator as the accordion sucked in and breathed out. He placed his hand on Brixton's forehead. It was cold. Lifeless. Her skin was so bloodless, it was gray, translucent. Sixty-nine days. Art took hold of her hand, feeling every bone under her skin as he cupped it, warmed it with his body heat. He wept. Tears dripped onto the IV tube, made gray circles on the white sheet, splashed on the bracelet that read Brixton Jones, not David Bowie.

He cleared his throat and opened his mouth, letting the words flow from his lips as he whispered, "In this age of grand illusion, you walked into my life out of my dreams."

Brixton lay still. The ventilator continued its pulsing, the machines continued their whirring. "Oh my god, what have I done?" Arthur sobbed. He continued to rub her hands, trying to bring life back to this empty shell. Sixty-nine days. "They don't have to bring you back," he whispered, "You're perfect the way you are. Please, please don't take her," he prayed. "Don't take her away again."

Arthur watched her heartbeat on the screen, pleaded for it to keep going. He held what was left of her wrist in his fingertips, feeling for the vein that brought her life. He felt the bump in his finger each time her pulse beat. He closed his eyes and tried to time his own heartbeat to hers. But hers was so slow and fading, and his was so quick and desperate. His throat tightened. He opened his eyes and looked at Brixton's face, so ashen. Arthur barely whispered, "Please, please David, wake up. You were right, I do need you."

Arthur pulled his feet onto the bed and lay next to her, cradling her in his arms. He felt the machine make her chest rise and fall. It was like a drum beat in a song. She lay there like a corpse.

Arthur's mind traveled to that night in the woods, when he brought the rope and the intent to die. He saw Brixton walk out of the darkness and into his life, and what shape his life had taken. She was a miracle. She was an angel. She was an alien. She was David Bowie.

He put his mouth next to her ear and sang softly the words he could remember. "Oh no love, you're not alone." His voice cracked. "No matter what or who you've been. I'll help you with the pain." The tears choked in his throat, his voice barely audible. "You're not alone." He lay his head on David's chest. He took her hand in his and squeezed. He felt a shudder from below, like an age-old boiler coming to life in a basement. He felt breath on the top of his head. He swallowed. His chest trembled. "Gimme your hands."

He didn't see David's eyelids flutter, open, her odd eyes look down toward his face, but heard her voice whisper in response, "You're wonderful."

Bowie, David. "Word on a Wing." Lyrics. Station to Station. RCA Records, 1976.

Bowie, David. "Rock 'n' Roll Suicide." Lyrics. The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. RCA Records, 1972.

Bowie, David. "Rock 'n' Roll Suicide." Lyrics. The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. RCA Records, 1972.

Bowie, David. "Rock 'n' Roll Suicide." Lyrics. The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. RCA Records, 1972.

Bowie, David. "Rock 'n' Roll Suicide." Lyrics. The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. RCA Records, 1972.

Bowie, David. "Rock 'n' Roll Suicide." Lyrics. The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. RCA Records, 1972.