by Lauryn Dyan
Daryl’s eyes are wary and he rubs his pants uneasily. I’m guessing this isn’t what he expected when he signed up to help his loony daughter. Maybe he was picturing those inkblots and anger bats?
“Let’s try a technique called cued recall,” Craig suggests. “Daryl, I’d like you to describe your life with Kennedy, her sister, and mother in great detail. The home you lived in; some activity you did together consistently; a final memory of your time together. Hopefully, this will trigger something for Kennedy.”
My father bobs his head weakly in agreement, but as he glances at my face, something there makes him nod more firmly and with resolve. Perhaps it’s my thinly veiled skepticism. He said he wants to help me. Time to prove it.
“Kennedy, listen carefully,” Craig instructs. “Try to picture what he’s describing. If anything comes back to you, even just a feeling, please share it.”
“I’ll try,” I offer, and focus on my dad, mustering all my will not to avert my gaze. Our eye contact to date has been awkward and fleeting but now I hold it in an effort to bore into his mind and see what he’s seeing. If I stare hard enough, perhaps an image will appear in the black of his pupil.
“We had a small, ranch-style home in Phoenix,” he begins. “Cream siding with forest green trim. There was a single orange tree out front that shaded the girls’ windows in the afternoon.” This I remember. We lived in that house until I finished grade school, after which we moved to a better neighborhood.
“Kennedy’s room was this light purple,” Daryl continues. “Not quite lavender, but close. She picked it from the paint swatches her mother and I brought home. We laid them all out on the table—pinks, purples, yellows—and let her decide. She was so sure of herself even back then. She didn’t waver. Even when we asked if she was positive and held up other options, she was adamant in her choice. Her strong will made me proud.”
I smile in spite of myself. My room stayed that purple until the last box was packed. My next room was purple, too, just a darker shade. I thought it was oh so mature. In reality, the color was too bright to be anything but the choice of an immature pre-teen.
Craig studies me to see if this has sparked anything but I shake my head. It’s pulling up images from the past, but nothing I’ve forgotten, just things I haven’t thought about in a while.
My dad has stopped talking, his eyes distant like he’s watching these memories play out again before him. His face is relaxed, his smile soft, and I wonder how he could have walked away from something that gives him that content of an expression. After a moment, he blinks and snaps out of it, remembering he has more to tell.
“Your sister’s room was soft pink with a mural of white flowers. I couldn’t stand pink but your mother insisted, and it really was the right choice for her.”
“I remember the pink, but not the flowers. Mom turned them into clouds and added rainbows at some point at Helena’s request.”
His voice comes out an octave lower.
“Ah, I see...” The words carry a hint of sadness. Of course things changed after he left but, I guess, our rooms will forever be preserved in his mind the way he’s describing them. The brain is more like a time capsule, holding onto things from days gone by.
He recovers.
“Every night after your sister was born, I’d read to the two of you in her nursery. You’d sit on the rug, by my legs, while I’d hold the baby in the rocker with a book until she fell asleep.”
I can almost feel the soft pink, shag rug under my knees; the hard set of my father’s leg as I leaned against it. There’s more, like something is trying to peak from behind the iron curtain. I sit silently, afraid to scare it away as he goes on.
“When Helena was asleep, I’d kiss her on her forehead and you’d stand up and kiss her, too. You always insisted on staying in the room until I’d laid her in her crib. Then you would take my hand and we’d turn out the lights and head to your room for bed.”
I can sense it. The warmth of his hand. The soft light in the room winking out. The darkness as we’d step into the hall. Then there is the emptiness; the quiet. Sitting in that room while my sister slept. Falling asleep on that rug, clutching the leg of the old chair.
There are tears slipping down my face. The heartbreak all too fresh.
“Kennedy, are you remembering something?” Craig asks, soothingly. I can’t look at my father. All I see is a blur of green from the grass that stretches from here to the fence.
I swallow.
“I stayed in her room, every night, after you left. After mom was asleep, I’d sneak in and curl up on that rug and cry, wishing you were there to read to us. I clutched that wooden chair like it was the last piece of you I had.”
I bite my lip to stop its quivering, unable to go on. I refocus on the men in front of me. My father’s eyes are glistening and Craig is stoic, his triumphant smile from earlier long gone. The atmosphere hangs heavy around us. I understand, now, why I didn’t want to remember this. The ache in my chest is so palpable, I swear you could see it if you took an X-Ray. If this is what I have to look forward to when I get behind that wall in my head, I’m not sure I want to tear it down after all.
***
That session was the equivalent of an emotional bitch-slap. It’s difficult to accept there are things hidden in my head that can hurt me so badly. Whenever I’ve imagined what might have happened during my blackouts, I’ve always pictured crazy shit a drunk person would do, or vindictive and appalling acts committed by someone else to get me locked away. Things that would make me embarrassed or angry and vengeful. Even when I’ve thought about Rickly betraying me, he always had some ulterior motive that made me more pissed than sad. What if that’s not the case?
Some of these thoughts I wrote in my journal when I retreated back to my room, but I stopped halfway through to curl into the fetal position. Now, I’m simply trying to will the pain back behind the blackout curtain. It’s out though, and it can’t be put back in.
My one consolation is that this is what I wanted. Not this memory in particular, but to get a piece of my lost consciousness back. This is a good thing. It’s progress. It means it’s okay to hope because, if I can get that memory back, then there’s a chance I can recover pieces of what got me here. Of what went so terribly wrong the longer I stayed out on that tour and slowly lost all control.
Chapter Seventeen
“Would you like something else, miss?” asks the polite waitress with the single blonde braid. I shake my head and sip my lemonade, wondering if it’s time to go. Samantha dragged us out, again, to talk about our cover song, which we’re set to record in a few days. The label contracted out a small recording studio in Atlanta, so we’re going to squeeze it in before our show. Thankfully, our schedule is light between now and then so we can practice it on the bus.
Everything seems good there. We sent Orphan ten song options and they landed on The Used’s “All That I Got.” One of my favorites. Samantha’s usually tight jaw had relaxed when I accepted the news without incident.. Now she’s trickling down her to-do list reminding us of upcoming commitments and things she’s been working on. I’ve been attempting to listen but these kinds of details aren’t my thing. Plus, I took a Vicodin before we left. I couldn’t bear to be here sober but I’m still following the rules since I only took one and I’m not mixing it with alcohol. I settle back and dream about New Orleans…
“And Canada is solidified,” she concludes, to which my daydream comes to a screeching halt. I’d almost forgotten about our northern leg in the craziness of the last few days.
“And by solidified, you mean you’ve used all your talents to get Sheltered on the tour with us?” I ask.
Her jaw re-clenches as she looks at the rest of the band before responding.
“No, I’m afraid not. I tried, but it’s non-negotiable.”
“Nothing is non-negotiable,” I counter. “We’ve got something special here. We all know it. I’m worried not bringing them will ruin thi
s perfect chemistry that’s been multiplying with each show.”
She inhales sharply through her nose.
“I understand. You’ve all grown extremely close but the label is concerned about ticket sales in the new market and is adamant we make the swap.”
I open my mouth to protest again but she cuts me off.
“And frankly, I have more important battles to fight right now. You need to prioritize where you want to dig in your heels.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, the label wants you writing. They want to see progress on the next album. I’m holding them off but I don’t want to piss them off at every turn.”
“Kennedy, let’s just give them something,” Sonny chimes in to try and defuse the tension. “You’ve got a few ideas. We can mess with them whenever we’re stuck on the bus.”
I hesitate. In truth, our night in New Orleans has inspired me and I’ve started writing bits and pieces of a new song, but it’s nowhere near ready. I’m worried mentioning that to Sam will make her like a dog with a bone.
“We’ll make it work. I’ve got some ideas too,” Davey adds, when I pause.
Shit. As the rest of the band murmurs words of agreement, I fold my arms in defeat. I’ve been outnumbered. For once, I hope I’m not right. I don’t want to force a song and have it suck and I don’t want to leave Sheltered and have the tour lose its spark. Sometimes, you shouldn’t mess with what’s working.
***
I stand in the doorway to the rec room, unsure where to go. Another piece of Craig’s homework: socialize. Apparently talking to other people can ward off nasty things like depression, stress, and other horrors that kill an open and positive state of mind. I seriously have my doubts. I worry interacting with people who are equally, or more messed up than me, might just amplify my despair. Plus, what if I say the wrong thing and they go all psycho and bash me over the head with a board game?
I carefully scan the room. I’ve never really studied the patients that closely before. It’s quite an eclectic group. There are men and women of all ages, races, and sizes. Several congregate around the TV, which is on cartoons again. Shocker. There are a handful of loners dispersed throughout the space wearing equally blank expressions. I used to be one of those comatose statues. I step forward to let an orderly pass and nearly jump as I bump into a squat, older man who was hidden behind the open door. He’s so fixated on the fake tree by the wall I wonder if he’s going to start talking to it. So far, not liking my ‘friend’ prospects.
I casually stroll further in. Two women talk animatedly in the far corner, but they’ve pulled their chairs together in a way that doesn’t welcome outsiders. That leaves me with two non-statue-like options: the middle-aged man by the window reading a book, or the young girl with a pixie cut hunched at the table writing.
I decide to try the girl first, my palms suddenly sweaty. I never had issues meeting new people, or keeping up a conversation, until I got here. Now, talking seems like a chore. I’ve almost forgotten how to have a normal, unforced chat.
Attempting to appear nonchalant I approach the table, tilting my head down to sneak a peek at what she’s writing. I stop dead in my tracks, nearly stumbling from my slippers’ poor traction. Oh shit. Cereal names. It’s my crazy pants neighbor and she’s scrawling the same words over and over onto a devastated piece of paper. Right now, she’s tracing the ‘Os’ in Cookie Crisp so hard I’m sure those two circles will be etched in that table for eternity. I have to wonder what in the world made her so obsessed with breakfast food, but I’m not willing to find out. What if she only responds to me with brand names? I’m not sure what I’d say if I ask her how she is and she answers ‘Fruit Loops.’
I back away slowly, hoping I don’t look like I’m fleeing. It’s not her fault she’s like that...maybe.
That leaves the middle-aged man with the book. Not to age discriminate, but he’s not ideal. I talk to enough older, male adults right now. I’d rather befriend someone who can give me a different perspective than Craig, or my dad, but I guess you never know.
I walk over and sit in the maroon chair opposite his and gaze out the window. Another lovely day. I should have walked the yard to find someone to socialize with.
I turn back ready to ask the guy about his book when another orderly appears.
“Time for your session, Andy.” Andy sets down his reading material and looks at me for the first time, seemingly unaware I’d taken the spot across from him. He gives me a brief, warm and friendly smile but, in an instant, he’s gone. So much for having some human interaction.
***
“Gin!” I declare triumphant. For once, I’m talking about the game and not alcohol. Rickly and I lay on our sides in my bunk with a pile of cards between us while the rest of my band and a few others hang out streaming a movie, reading or screwing around with their phones. The atmosphere reminds me of those afternoons spent trying to kill time before a big, high school party. Lazy but aware something more fun is coming once the sun begins its descent.
We’re chugging along on a long stretch of road toward Jacksonville, Florida. Rickly, Aaron and, surprisingly, Trecia opted to ride with us. The rest of Sheltered ended up on RBYW’s bus, unable to handle the eight hour drive in their smelly van. They made their manager, Dustin, drive it with a roadie. They ought to burn that piece of shit van in an empty field and ride with us the rest of the tour, but there aren’t enough bunks and not everyone is as keen to share. I suppose they’ll probably need it to drive home when their shows are done anyhow. The thought twists my stomach like someone wringing out a washcloth.
“Ugh, I suck at this game,” Rickly complains, but the smirk on his face tells me he doesn’t really care.
I toss my cards in the discard pile.
“You could always cheat,” I joke. “Stick a queen under your shirt or something. I might be too distracted by a glimpse of your sexy body to notice.” I lean in and give him a kiss.
“Tempting,” he murmurs.
Our lips move gently back and forth, our tongues sliding together for an instant before we pull apart, all too aware of the people lurking outside my bunk’s curtain. I settle back and take in his beautiful face and dysfunctional hair and I’m overwhelmed with the sudden urge to cry. “Seriously, I can’t believe we only have a few more weeks before this is over. I don’t want to cross that northern border without you.”
He dramatically lets his head fall on his arm. “Whatever shall you do?” he says, with mock despair.
“Shut up, I’m serious.”
His voice returns to normal.
“I know, but it’s done. You tried. Trust me, I wish I could be there as much as you do you, possibly more. It’s okay though. We’ll get signed with, or without, Canada. Then, when you get back, we can celebrate with lots of booze and sex.”
“Mmm...you promise?”
“Hell yes.”
I smile. We’ve never talked about what happens to ‘us’ when the tour is over. This is the first time we’ve alluded to a future. I want it as much as I wanted this tour when Tracing Stars first started playing live back in Arizona.
I decide to take advantage of this discussion to venture further into unknown relationship territory. “Maybe, after all the drinking and kinky sex, we can spend some time home together. I’d love to get to know the rest of your world.”
He runs a hand through his hair, angling his head down toward the cards. He drops his fingers and pushes them around before meeting my eyes.
“Sure, I’d like that. My family really wants to meet you.”
Meeting the family, big step.
“That would be nice,” I say, carefully, not sure how much to push this. He’s usually pretty dodgy about family, but this might be my only chance to naturally ask the question that’s been bothering me since we visited Ace’s house in Texas. “Why didn’t you tell me about your brother?”
His face betrays a hint of sadness before he shrugs. “I don’t know. There was
never a good time. We’re all about having fun and partying. I didn’t want to bring things down.”
“That makes sense, but there’s more to us than that. Maybe, in the beginning, we were all about booze, and sex, and drugs, but not now. You’re not going to scare me away by bringing up something real.”
“I know. I decided to tell you about him a while ago but it was still hard to get the words out. When Ace’s stepdad asked me about my family, I saw this chance to finally spit it out. I should have told you separately.”
“It’s all right. I’m just glad I know. It’s easy to hide that stuff here. Being on the road makes you feel separated from it. Like we have two different lives.”
“It does. When I left, Jared was about to start another round of treatment. He still looked like him, not all worn down from the medicine. I picture him that way now. Like, while I’m gone he’s not going through all this shit. He, and everything in my other life, is frozen in time until I get back.”
I nod, understanding. I imagine my mom still lives the same day-to-day life with my sister as when I was there. The two of them dressed in shorts and tank tops, going to the pool and then back to school shopping even though, by now, the clothes have morphed to jeans and Helena has been in school for at least a month. I can’t believe she’s a senior. Soon, she’ll be an adult with this whole life ahead of her. I feel compassion and a twinge of pity for Rickly’s brother. He was in that position once too, and things hadn’t turned out how he’d planned.
“Maybe he will be the same when you get home. Is it bad?” I ask, gently.
He shrugs again.
“They say his outlook is promising, but you just never know. They caught it early and it’s not aggressive. It hasn’t spread anywhere since they started chemo.”
“That’s good,” I say, unsure what else to add. I don’t have a lot of experience with cancer or any other disease for that matter. My small family is fairly healthy though I only really know my mom’s side.