Hollow Stars

by Lauryn Dyan

  I gasp and my eyes snap open. Was that a daydream or a memory? It felt so real. Or is my paranoia simply expanding to my friends? Damn this song, and the me that wrote it. I need more information but there’s no way to get it. It’s like trying to communicate with a twin that only speaks Greek. The one thing not lost in translation: deep down I know more about what happened to me.

  ***

  After helping set the table, we’re assembled in Ace’s parent’s formal dining room. The atmosphere of the house is so utterly different from our current lives, it’s like we’ve gone back in time to simpler days. The soft light from the gold chandelier plays off the sage walls, lace curtains and mahogany table like a glint from a long past era. Even the cream colored dishes, with their subtle twining vines look vintage. Very retro-chic.

  And, man, can they cook! My stomach is full of steak and mashed potatoes, fried okra, and cornbread muffins made from scratch. I’m not sure how I’m going to eat the pie Ace’s mom just announced for dessert but I’ll sure give it a try.

  This is the first meal I haven’t accompanied with alcohol in a while. Ace’s parents aren’t big drinkers so they offered us sweet tea, milk or lemonade instead. I hate tea in all forms but the lemonade is great. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was hand squeezed.

  I slump in my high back chair, enjoying my food coma. Oli, Rickly and Ace have similarly crumpled in content. If I didn’t love our nomadic existence so much, I could see the appeal of settling down to live a normal life like this.

  “So Rickly, tell us about your family,” asks Ace’s stepdad George. We’ve already discussed me and Oli, so it’s his turn in the spotlight.

  He shrugs one relaxed shoulder.

  “Not much to tell. My parents are still together in Arizona. I’ve got an older brother and sister. They’re actually twins.” I pull myself out of my stupor to listen more intently. He’s always been a bit dodgy about his family, and as his girlfriend, this is an area I should be more familiar with.

  “Are you close with your siblings? Poor Ace here is an only child,” George jokes. His lightly lined face crinkles so fondly at his stepson, you’d never realize he wasn’t his biological father.

  “Very. I talk to them almost every day, usually over text or social media.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I interject. I wonder what he’s told them about me.

  He smiles.

  “I’ll introduce you sometime. When they found out we were dating they read, or watched, everything they could find about you online. They’re anxious to interview the real deal.”

  “That’d be cool. Anytime.”

  Rickly gives a short nod and tilts his head down as he runs a hand through his hair, hiding his expression. “Yeah, I’m waiting for the right time. My brother doesn’t like to Skype when he’s going through chemo.”

  The room goes completely silent, even the air stills. This is obviously news to us all.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Ace’s mom says.

  Rickly shrugs again.

  “He’s only been doing it on and off the last couple years. He was, like, half the size of my sister at birth and has always been more prone to getting sick, but we didn’t find the cancer until he was in his early twenties.”

  Suddenly, my heavy lunch threatens to climb back out my throat. What a shitty girlfriend am I not to know about my boyfriend’s sick brother? I picture my own energetic sister, my heart unable to imagine her as anything but the healthy, determined, busy bee she’s always been.

  “Anyway,” he goes on. “Jared, my brother, he’s a tough guy. He’ll be fine, I know it.”

  Everyone nods emphatically, but no one comments. It’s not our place to crush or boost his hope. He needs to define that for himself.

  A moment of somber silence passes until Ace clears his throat.

  “Hey mom, we have to go in about an hour. How about that pie?”

  “Oh, yes, honey. Let’s dish it up. I made all your favorites: apple, pecan and peach.”

  I cast one concerned look at Rickly, but he seems back to his old self.

  “Peach? I love peach pie,” he says. And like that, we return to our 1950s throwback afternoon.

  ***

  I grip Rickly’s hand, tightly, the whole drive back. He’s been very quiet, hardly participating in our idle chitchat, and while he doesn’t say it, I assume he’s thinking about his brother.

  It’s like I’ve had a huge awakening. Somehow, on this tour I’ve forgotten that the people around me have lives outside the music. That it’s not all playing, getting smashed, and screwing. They have real problems waiting for them when they go home. Problems that may even haunt them here on the road. I want to be supportive, to get to know everyone deeper than I already have the past few months. I consider my tour mates a part of my family, even Trecia, though I’ll call her a distant, bitchy cousin.

  This only solidifies my resolution with Rickly to be more sober. Drinking is a good way to get people to open up, but getting hammered is a quick way to forget everything they’ve said. Add this as a motivator to walk my careful line.

  We hit New Orleans tomorrow and I worry about how our pact will hold up in that city of debauchery. Perhaps it’s better to put things on pause for a day than to fail? I glance at the beautiful man sitting next to me and decide I’ll do whatever he wants to do because that’s what really matters.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Those damned ceiling tiles. Who knew the most boring thing in an institution could become the canvas for me to scrutinize my life? I stare at those nine rectangles, swapping faces in and out of my game of who done it tic-tac-toe. What is the combination that leads to my defeat? Rickly, Davey, Oli? Rickly, Sonny, Jack? Perhaps a female assault: Samantha, Sonny, Trecia? I just don’t know. Maybe it’s the whole board, and maybe it’s no one.

  My vision, or whatever it was from yesterday, has me fixated on the past analyzing everything that happened, and everyone who would have motive to paint me as a crazy person. Some are obvious. Hello, I kissed your secret crush, Trecia. And some are a stretch. Sorry, I broke your bass string screwing around in the studio, Jack. Nothing seems deplorable enough to elicit this harsh retaliation.

  If there is a conspiracy, I’m still convinced Rickly’s at the heart of it. We were so distant by the end of the tour; our relationship hopelessly fractured. He didn’t even say goodbye after that hazy night I lost it all. I pull at my t-shirt as though I can pull the broken heart in my chest back together with the help of the flimsy material.

  If he’s not involved, or anyone for that matter, then I have to face the reality of what happened between us. To own it was no one’s fault but my own that I lost him. He might have been my soulmate and I blacked him straight out of my life.

  ***

  My bunk on the bus seems roomy without another person there when I wake. Rickly decided to sleep in the van last night claiming he needed time with the guys but I suspect he just wanted to avoid further talk of his family. There, in the overcrowded smelly-mobile, he could pretend he never said anything and distract himself with man talk. I didn’t push him to stay with me when he decided to go. I understand the avoidance thing.

  As I pull back my bed’s hideous tan curtain, I’m greeted by the warm, New Orleans sun streaming through the bus’s front windows. I’m a little proud that I actually know where we are without having to ask. Score one for more sober Kennedy.

  Today is set to be a busy day. We’re doing a live radio spot on Bourbon Street, an interview with a local music magazine, and a record store signing before our show. Samantha said something about the interview being at the spot or store, but even if two things overlap, it’s still a packed agenda. No time to talk to Rickly about his life. I make a mental note to at least check in with him on our partying plan before the first shot hits our lips.

  I hop down from my bed to get breakfast and the sound of voices wafts to me from the kitchen. The rest of the band I presume but, when I get to the galley, I only
find Jack and Oli at the table. They’re whispering but stop as soon as I walk in.

  “Am I interrupting?” I ask, with a yawn.

  “Nah,” Oli says, his voice low. “We’re talking about Samantha pacing back and forth outside.”

  “I doubt she can hear you through the walls,” I joke, and they give a half-hearted chuckle.

  “I don’t know, seems like she always knows everything about us, even before we tell her,” Jack replies. It’s true. She does have a good pulse on us. I don’t mind though, I figure it’s her job.

  “She is like a damn psychic,” I concede. “Where are Sonny and Davey?”

  They both shrug and go back to watching Sam. I lean over Oli to peer out the window and see why they’re so fascinated. She is pacing, but it might be better described as marching, each step heavy and deliberate. One cigarette welding hand waves in the air as she talks, making her look like she’s blowing smoky kisses.

  “Wonder what’s up her ass?” I mumble.

  “Could be anything. She takes everything so seriously. Maybe our schedule got messed up or something,” Oli conjectures.

  I raise one shoulder to say ‘oh well’ and turn around uninterested to get something sugary out of the cabinet to eat. Whatever’s bugging her, if it has anything to do with us, we’ll hear about it soon enough.

  ***

  “So Kennedy, we’ve discussed a few different aspects of your blackouts. When they started, when they changed, and how your father has a similar predisposition for them. How do you view blackouts now?”

  I shift in my chair. It’s not particularly comfortable. I wish this office had a couch. Isn’t that standard for shrinks? Or is it like inkblots, something stereotyped by Hollywood?

  I’m not really feeling my session today. I chock it up to a mixture of my mental distress and the weather. The threat of rain has us stuck inside. It’s the kind of day where you just want to curl up under your covers and overindulge on TV. Only, instead of binge-watching Netflix, I want to replay scenes from the tour in my head. It’ll have to wait though.

  I’m at a loss for how to respond to Craig’s question. I want to say something deep and insightful about blackouts, but all I say is that they still suck. His bald head creases unimpressed. I don’t blame him. He tries to push me toward a more intelligent answer.

  “How so?”

  I sigh. “They seem inescapable. I thought if our sessions went well, they’d subside. No such luck. Then my father comes in and drops the bomb blackouts are embedded in my genes. It’s like I was hustled. Blackouts lured me in when I was young. Made me feel fearless and free. Then they swooped in and took all that confidence and fun away.”

  He nods and jots down a note. I hate that. I wish he’d say what he’s thinking.

  “What would you like to do about this?” he asks.

  I grip the wooden arms of the chair to suppress the urge to slap him for making me state the obvious.

  “I want to make them stop. To fix my mind so I can get back to my life.”

  “And your lost memories? How do they fit in?”

  “They’re an important part,” I admit. “I can’t return to my world without a better understanding of everything that happened to me during my dark periods. If I leave without a clearer picture of how I got here, I could end up right back where I started.”

  “I agree. I’m glad you want to find those missing pieces. That’s what I’d like to work on next. To be honest, though, we may not get everything back. The mind can be extremely protective of its secrets, especially if it’s hiding them out of self-preservation.”

  I give a half-hearted smile.

  “Anything is better than nothing, which is what I have now.”

  He turns up his lips in a slight grin of encouragement.

  “I’m glad you’re willing to dive back in. I was concerned after your last episode you might not want to seek out those details anymore.”

  I try not to flinch at the mention of my late-night panic-attack.

  “Are you ready to tell me what happened?”

  “No...and, yes. I want to forget it, but that seems like the opposite of what I’m trying to accomplish.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “I’m not sure if what happened was real or imagined, but at the time it felt legit. It was my name. I heard it whispered outside my room. Maybe it was the air conditioner hissing, or a neighbor shouting something from down the hall, but it sounded like ‘Kennedy.’” I shudder as I mimic the haunting voice. “As it got louder, I thought I saw a shadow cross my door. I was so scared someone was coming for me, I couldn’t control my hysteria.”

  “Fear can be our most powerful emotion and it’s often hard to control or rationalize away once it’s taken hold,” he states. “You don’t sound convinced it was real now though. Do you doubt what you heard and saw that night?”

  “I do now.” Which is true, not something I’m just saying to make myself sound less crazy. “I can’t trust my mind.”

  “You mentioned ‘someone was coming for you’, similar to what you told me when you first arrived and said ‘someone was doing this to you’. Do you still think that’s true? That you’re here because of another person?”

  I fiddle with my robe tie that dangles over the side of the chair before I answer.

  “I don’t know anymore. Maybe someone. Maybe multiple someones. Or maybe no one. Either way, discovering the things that happened on the tour, whether they intentionally landed me here or only contributed to it, are the key to how I get out.”

  ***

  New Orleans is such an amazing city. So much culture and life swirling about. Even the air thrums like its electric.

  We had a successful radio spot on Bourbon Street meeting fans and tourists while handing out beads. It’s not Mardi Gras, but the tacky souvenir is still an everyday staple. There were no girls flashing though, much to the disappointment of the guys. Hell, even I was a little disappointed.

  Everyone from the station was so friendly we decided to have a late lunch with them. We’re sitting outside at an open-air restaurant watching the street performers, on the other side of the wrought iron fence, morph the crowd of tourists into concentric circles around them. The fresh air, jazz music, fried seafood (everything here is fried and heavily sauced) and blended hurricanes are melding to form the perfect afternoon. It feels like we’re on vacation, which sounds weird since people might assume the whole tour is like a long vacation.

  “What does this tattoo represent?” the female DJ asks, trailing her thin finger slowly up Davey’s exposed arm. Sonny sits across from me, her fleeting glances at the pair next to her betraying her agony over the blatant flirting. She’d never admit it bothers her since she’s supposedly over him, but that doesn’t mean I can’t distract her by focusing all my attention on her and the male DJ at the head of the table. The more we drink and talk, the less she looks Davey’s way so, hopefully, I’m helping like a best friend should.

  I’ve been a little neglectful of Sonny since I met Rickly. While we still spend a significant amount of time together, it’s different than before. Nine times out of ten, when you get me, you get him. His name also tends to dominate our conversations, which used to consist more of gossip, music and reminiscing. I don’t want to be one of those girls who only cares about her boyfriend, so I make a note to be a more attentive friend. Add it to my growing list of things to make a better me.

  “So when’s the next album coming out?” the male DJ asks.

  Samantha perched at the other head of the table puts down her phone and shoots me a poignant look. I ignore her.

  “Soon. We’ll have a lot to sing about after this tour,” I say, with a raise of my glass that sweats in the heat of the day. Sonny raises hers as well. “Here, here.”

  The DJ laughs and relents.

  “Fair enough.”

  We all take a long drink and the rest of our lunch passes in superficial conversation and fascinating people watching until
we are ushered off to our next stop.

  ***

  I bound off the stage, my body buzzing with adrenaline and pride. The New Orleans crowd was particularly rowdy and their energy was contagious. It might have been one of our best shows to date and, based on the coat hanger smiles on the faces backstage, everyone seems to have greedily absorbed the fans’ excitement like a dry sponge.

  “Hey gorgeous,” Rickly says, grabbing my hand as I dance by.

  “I like the sound of that,” I purr, as I swing around and plant a quick kiss on his lips. I go to pull away but he draws me back in for one more, deeper smooch. I flush, elated as I settle back on my feet, leaving my hands resting on his shoulders.

  “So, how are we going to do this tonight?” I ask, playfully, not wanting to bog down our good spirits with buzz-killing rules.

  “Mmm...our more sober pact. Perhaps tonight we go with the flow? See where the night takes us? Let’s just avoid anything that usually makes us testy.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking. So no tequila for you, sir.”

  “And no Jack Daniels for you, little miss.”

  I offer another kiss to bind our agreement before we float through the doors to change and hit the town.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I can’t believe this,” Rickly says, the street lamps and lighted signs reflecting in his sparkling blue eyes as we stumble along Bourbon Street. We’ve been bar hopping down the crowded roadway littered with inebriated tourists for the last couple hours and we are officially smashed.

  “What’s that?” I ask. We’ve been having so much drama free fun with all our friends my face has been frozen in a permanent smile. No one’s drifted off into a subgroup tonight. It’s like we all want to stay as close to each other as possible. Not break this magical bubble we’ve created for ourselves in the shadow of the Big Easy.

  “This.” He flourishes to our hyperactive tour mates bouncing happily through the crowd. “And you,” he adds, using his free hand to caress the side of my face, the fingers of his other deadlocked with mine. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I’m not sure how I got to be such a lucky bastard.”