by Lauryn Dyan
“Yeah,” he concludes, his blue eyes glazing over like he’s withdrawing again like the other day when he retreated to his van. I rest a hand on his side to try to anchor him here.
“Well, I can’t do anything about it now,” he adds, as my touch jars him back to the present, subject closed. “What do you say to getting out of this bunk? Let’s round everyone up to play a drinking game like bullshit or kings cup. I suck at this gin crap.”
I laugh to keep the mood light.
“You really do. Sounds good to me. I’m pretty sure I slept off that Vicodin when I napped. I’m ready to put my drinking shoes on.”
“Perfect.” He gives me one quick kiss before sweeping up the cards, drawing the curtain and hoping down out of the bunk.
***
Suddenly, I snap alert, back stick-straight on my bed in the asylum. The sun outside my window is just fading to a purplish-red bathing everything in the dingy gray of dusk before the hall lights come on. How did I get back here? I don’t remember anything from the rest of my day after my failed attempt to meet new people. Or a new person. I was only aiming to meet one.
I lean forward and rest my head in my hands. Whenever I think I’m making progress, I lose another chunk of time. My sessions are going well. I’m doing my stupid homework. Shouldn’t my mind be getting sharper? I’m tempted to tell Craig it’s not working, though I did have that breakthrough with my dad so, perhaps, I shouldn’t throw in the towel yet. Maybe I can reuse that memory tactic to figure out what happened today.
What did he call it? Cued recall? How can I remember that and not my lunch? A part of me hopes someone is effing with me and making me crazy. Otherwise, I’m not sure I can overcome this.
Okay, concentrate. I picture the last place I was, i.e. the rec room, in great detail. The random patients scattered about. Miss Loony Tunes scrawling cereal names. An older man reading a book. He left with an orderly, leaving me alone. Something about him sparked a memory from the tour, but I can’t remember what. Shit, it’s like this itchy sensation inside my head. The memory is there right below the surface and I need to scratch it out.
The tour. What reminded me of the tour?
“His book!” I release my head from my hands and clap them together once in victory. It was a battered paperback of The Great Gatsby, just like the copy Oli was reading on the bus on one of our longer drives between stops. Everyone was giving him a hard time about it. ‘We’re not in school, dude.’ He hadn’t cared. Said he always wanted to read it. We did get him to set the book aside though to play drinking games. I remember him yelling ‘bullshit’ at Trecia and then nothing. Both the old, and the more recent, memories stop there.
So cued recall part two is pretty much a bust. I got a small piece back, but not enough. I’m at a loss for what else to do. I hope Craig has more tools to stimulate my brain because I need more ways to knock the images loose.
The sun has finally set and the hall lights flip on but it’s still a bit dark in my room. I crawl out of bed slowly to switch on my light. My shiny, new journal sits on the nightstand just begging to be written in, but I slide it in the drawer obstinately. Enough of Craig’s crap for today. Instead, I flop back on my pillows and stare at my ceiling. Those damn tiles help me lay out my issues better than any paper. Gives me nine set spaces to rebuild my story.
I start with the bottom row. I’m in the middle with Craig and my dad on either side, pushing me toward the next level above. Up there are my homework assignments, sessions and breakthroughs. The things that mostly make me feel like I’m making progress. Those six boxes make a strong set but the three tiles above them carry a dark weight that pushes everything down in an attempt to smother me. I still don’t know what belongs there in the darkness. My mind? Rickly? The rest of my friends? The pictures swap and change quickly.
I let out a huff. This sucks. My eyes scan back and forth like I’m wiping the slate clean. It’s on the second pass that I notice an anomaly. There’s a scratch or something in the corner of the top right tile, furthest from me and the door. I don’t remember seeing it before and I’ve stared at these rectangles long enough to have memorized every flaw. Like the crack in the one in the bottom corner. Or the uneven bend in the middle, left tile like it was bent before it went into place. This mark is new.
I stand up to exam it, approaching cautiously as though it’s a wild animal. Hopefully, it’s not a goddamn spider.
Unfortunately, it’s much worse. I stop directly below it and find a crudely carved K. Right on the ceiling in my freaking room. Could I have done this earlier today during my blackout? I look around the bare space. All of the furniture is bolted to the walls, or floor, and I’m surely too short to reach those tiles without a substantial boost.
My heart pounds. Someone was here, in my personal space, and left a K for me to see. I withdraw slowly to my bed but my eyes stay glued to the mark. Every fiber of my being wants to scream but that’s what this asshole wants. For me to lose my shit. The cry bubbles in my throat and I have no clue if I can continue to stifle it, or if it will erupt.
Chapter Eighteen
The word catatonic repeats in my head like a skip on a record. Somehow, I’m managing to keep myself together. At least in the sense I didn’t scream bloody murder last night, even after an irrational paranoia set-it that someone was watching me through the jagged edges of that crude K, waiting for a chance to attack. No one ever did. The only assault was one to my eardrums when my crazy neighbor burst out ‘Coco Puffs!’ at an ear-piercing decibel. Today, in the sleep-deprived light of day, I want to shut down and it’s taking all my will to continue not to let go. I can’t be a zombie again.
I tuck my knees up to my chest as I settle further into the maroon, leather chair by the window in the rec room. I’ve been sitting here for hours in what is rapidly becoming my spot. It’s the perfect place to look out of the glass and still have a complete view of the room so no one can sneak up behind me. The burly orderly sent to fetch me for my session had no choice but to approach from the front. I’d told him, in as an authoritative tone as I could muster, I wasn’t feeling well and to tell Craig I wasn’t coming. I’m trying hard not to be counterproductive but, in a way, canceling may be the only way not to backslide. If I were to meet right now, and get a taste of some horrible forgotten pain, I might lose my shit entirely. Today, I need a break.
I gaze out my window at the sparse clouds crawling across the powder blue sky. There’s an airplane flying high above them I long to be on, heading anywhere to outrun my problems. It makes me long to be high in more ways than one, and as the plane disappears, I remember wistfully the days when I’d pop Xanax like Skittles to calm my nerves.
In a way, I wish whoever is messing with me would just make an appearance and try to finish the job so I’d know what’s real. This constant confusion over what is actually happening to me is getting old.
As if in answer, a whoosh of air goes out of the chair across from me as someone takes a seat. I recoil involuntarily but, after a cursory glance, find it’s just another patient. I avoid making eye contact but her head is cocked to the side like she’s trying to catch my attention.
“Kennedy? Hello, are you in there?”
Hearing my name in a stranger’s voice forces me to acknowledge her. I turn back to the uninvited visitor prepared to either jump and flee or punch the asshole in the face should the situation warrant it.
The girl before me is probably around my age. She’s wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt, like me, and a yellow robe that looks great next to her dark, caramel-colored skin. I don’t remember ever seeing her before but that could be a byproduct of my inattention or she could be new. She meets my guarded expression with a concerned and friendly smile that makes me ease up a little. She doesn’t look like she’s about to shank me. “I’m here,” I offer, slowly. Her concerned smile morphs into one of relief.
“Oh good, you seemed completely zoned out.” She shifts to a more relaxed posture in her chai
r, slinging her legs over the armrest and grabbing the tie on her robe to spin like a propeller. I glance around nervously, making sure there’s an orderly close by in case shits about to get crazy.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?”
She drops her yellow terry cloth tie and her eyes go wide as they meet mine.
“Seriously? It’s me, Lita. You don’t remember?”
I shake my head and lift one shoulder apologetically.
“Wow. You really do blackout. Well, again, I’m Lita, and we sat here yesterday in these very chairs and talked for over two hours.”
Oh holy hell.
***
It’s the middle of the night and confusion has me anchored to the bench at the bus’s kitchen table. It’s dead quiet except for the faint sound of music snaking through the silence from the bunks where everyone must be asleep. Did I just wake up here? I’m sitting up straight under the one solitary light still on and I don’t have that groggy, disoriented sensation you get when you wake up after passing out. That dreadful moment when you realize you didn’t fall asleep in your bed and you need to trudge back there before the hangover kicks in. I’m totally alert like I flipped a switch from off to on.
I have no idea what happened after the first round of cards. I remember a lively game of bullshit, everyone crowded around this table calling each other out when they thought someone was bluffing. There was laughing and jibing and drinks being passed out left and right. So what happened next?
I’m like Sherlock Holmes hunting for clues. I pick up a few of the cards still scattered on the table, the box to put them away nowhere to be seen. A few are sticky from spilled booze. Evidence points to drunk people but nothing to tell me why I’m here alone.
My back is stiff from sitting for who knows how long and, as I stretch widely, I find another clue. Black Sharpie all over my arms. Fuck, that shit is so hard to get off. On occasion, I’ve been the Sharpie’s victim when I’ve passed out first on the bus, but not sure this is that kind of tagging. There’s nary a crass penis drawing in sight.
In fact, there are no pictures, only words, and there’s something vaguely familiar about them. One side reads: ‘Only one could melt my colder heart, it changed you.’ Totally sweet and angsty in that teenage, lovesick way. The other side is darker: ‘Warm fingers around your neck, maybe I hate you.’ I read it again, each line taking on a rhythm. I know this. It’s a song. I sing the lyrics and it clicks. It’s called “Colder Hearts” by this band Red Sky we know from Arizona. Duh, it was written right there.
Jeez, was this done for fun or is it some kind of message? No one’s up to ask. A yawn overwhelms me and I decide to save my investigation for tomorrow before we work on our shit. The glowing numbers on the microwave clock read 3:40.
I pick my way to my bed, carefully, unsure if the piles of clothes on the floor hide sleeping people. The music I heard before gets louder as I approach the bunks and pass Jack’s bed. He likes to sleep to music but he must have forgotten to put in his headphones tonight. Sounds like Death Cab for Cutie.
All the curtains are drawn closed except mine. Hopefully, that means Rickly left the ‘door’ open for me and he’s not off somewhere else pissed. I climb up quietly and spot his lanky, sleeping frame pushed up against the wall with just enough room for me to squeeze in. Phew. That’s at least a good sign.
I manage to sneak in and onto my back with minimal jarring and exhale with relief to be back in my bed. I rub my tired forehead and when I move my hand, I do a double take. Scrawled next to the hole of shame on the ceiling is more Sharpie. It’s a mirror image of the last line on my arm, though the handwriting seems like it might be from a different artist. I read it again as my breathe hitches: ‘maybe I hate you.’ Dark and black and looming down on me. What. The. Fuck.
***
Uninvited sunshine seeps through the tan curtain around my bunk forcing me to crack open my eyes. My head throbs from drinking last night, and I have every intention of flipping over onto my stomach to sleep it off when the ominous words scrawled above me jar me wide awake. I can’t believe someone wrote that in my bunk. Who was it?
Beside me, Rickly lies sleeping with his hair falling across his forehead and his breath coming slowly and evenly. His face is so angelic bathed in the muted light I can’t imagine it was him. If it was, why would he sleep next to me? Seems sadistic.
I slide out of my bunk carefully, shimmying under the curtain rather than pulling it aside. The smell of coffee beckons me to the kitchen. I want prescription level painkillers, but decide after yesterday I’ll go with some plain over-the-counter ibuprofen. I plan to hit this hangover with a handful of pills and caffeine. Then I’ll start the third degree.
Sonny, Jack and Aaron are seated hunched at the table gripping their coffee mugs, looking a lot like I feel. I offer them a tentative smile. Sonny returns it and then rubs her head like the action hurt her brain. Jack grunts and Aaron nods. We’re a fun group.
I make a cup that’s more sugar than coffee and plop down beside Aaron in the booth. His tattooed bicep reminds me of my faux-tatted arms. I should have put on a sweatshirt, but I suppose getting the evidence out there as quickly as possible might be the best way to get some answers. No one else looks doodled on, though the guys have so many tattoos, a Sharpie would probably just blend in. No one seems to notice my new art.
I nurse my coffee waiting for my energy to replenish. As I near the bottom of the cup, Trecia comes up from the back.
“Morning,” she mumbles, and goes for the pot. It’s almost empty and she politely begins to make more. Is she evil bitch by night, considerate tour mate by day? It seems like we’ve been making progress on shifting from frenemies to pals but, perhaps, she’s been masking her true feelings. She likes spending time with Sonny; maybe she asked her to play nice. Sonny’s always had my back in a quiet, diplomatic way. She’d rather talk it out and play the mediator. I, on the other hand, tend to go nuclear. Once a snotty, drunk bitch ‘spilled’ her vodka cranberry on Sonny at the bar and I threw my drink in her face. Sonny would have just gotten me a napkin.
As the pot gives a final gurgle, Rickly emerges all tousled hair and blurry eyes. He spots me and shuffles over to slide in beside me in the rapidly crowding booth.
“Rickly, can I get you some?” Trecia asks. He nods with a yawn and she fills him a cup and then proceeds to refill everyone else’s. Is she being too nice? I can’t decide. We haven’t spent a ton of time together without Ace. Normally, his presence makes it awkward. Now it’s almost more awkward without him here to make us uncomfortable. She might just be a good person and I never noticed.
She pulls up a stray chair and the six of us sit zoned out until I break the silence, the caffeine propelling me to speak.
“So, who’s the tattoo artist?” I ask, lifting my right arm. I intentionally reference the less disturbing lyrics. The other arm makes me shudder, the word ‘hate’ perfectly positioned in the middle of my forearm so I can’t help but stare at it.
Glances are exchanged before everyone chuckles. Rickly points over at my limb that floats in the air across the table.
“Well, that side, babe, that would be you.” I swing my arm around to give it a closer inspection. I didn’t notice before because it’s so messy, but it does look vaguely like my handwriting. All the letters are distorted, but the T’s and the S do match my scrawl.
“And this side,” he continues, lifting my left arm and then snaking his fingers down to entwine and hold my hand. “Was me.” My deer-in-the-headlights expression causes him to laugh more. “You made me. The song came on Davey’s iPhone and you said it was one of your favorites back in the day. You sang it at the top of your lungs, grabbed a Sharpie, and joked it was going to be your new tattoo. Halfway through you realized you can’t write right-handed, so you made me finish. Your exact words were ‘write or I’ll wrap my warm fingers around your neck’.” He smirks and kisses my cheek. “You said it in a lovable, endearing way of course.”
“You don’t remember?” Trecia asks, surprised. She’s usually not around for the Kennedy post-blackout recap. No one else at the table seems shocked I’ve forgotten, though Rickly’s crinkled brow betrays a twinge of worry.
“Not really,” I admit. “I remember the card game, at least the beginning, and crawling into bed. The middle is missing.”
Rickly’s grip on my hand tightens.
“So much for not blacking out,” he says, low to me. Based on the sharp look Sonny shoots him, it wasn’t low enough.
I shrug.
“Must have been the Vicodin-booze cocktail. I thought the pill was out of my system when I started drinking. I guess I was wrong.” He studies my face and something in him softens. He loosens his grip and rubs my hand with his thumb.
“No biggie. I’m sure we’ll both slip up now and then.”
“You guys are trying not to blackout?” Aaron asks, a hint of wonder in his voice, almost like we said we saw a unicorn. Showing restraint on a rock tour is rather unique.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “Just trying to avoid unnecessary drama. Plus, I don’t want to forget any more of our time on the road.”
He purses his lips considering this.
“So, the middle?” I remind them.
“Oh right,” Jack jumps in, eager to fill in the blanks before Sonny. “Nothing too unusual. We played drinking games pretty much the whole night. You had everyone fetching you drinks, and we were all too drunk to object.” He snaps his fingers in my face. “You’d snap at us like this and say ‘wench, fetch me my beer.’ It was funny at the time.”
Sure, why not boss everyone around? But making them play bartender shouldn’t have been enough to make someone hate me. Or maybe hate me, if there’s a difference.
“It was funny till we cut you off,” Aaron finishes. “Nah, I’m kidding. You actually ended things yourself. Said you had a busy day today. You and Rickly went to bed around two and the rest of us weren’t far behind.”