Hollow Stars

by Lauryn Dyan

  Chapter Twenty

  Ugh. Where the hell am I? I rub my eyes with one hand as I push myself up to a seated position on an unfamiliar, black, leather couch. I’m surrounded by mahogany-paneled walls adorned with band posters and records. The coffee table to my right is littered with music and entertainment magazines and there’s a big, unattended, black desk positioned facing a glass door. Looks like some kind of waiting room but it’s way too cool to be a doctor’s office.

  “Eh hem.” A throat clears behind me. I swing my legs off the couch and plant my flip-flops on the rich, crimson rug. Samantha sits with perfect posture in an adjacent, royal blue chair with her legs crossed and cell phone poised midair as she types furiously. “Welcome back,” she says without looking away from the screen.

  I massage my forehead with the palm of my hand in an attempt to release the images of what happened last night. I’m still in my same clothes but the bottom of my light, skinny jeans look filthy. Sand. The last thing I remember is walking hand in hand with Rickly down to the beach. The moon was so bright I could see his smiling face perfectly as we touched the cool water for the first time. We kissed gently as the waves lapped around our feet, trying not to giggle as the earth ran out from under us. How the fuck did I go from there to here?

  Samantha finally lowers her phone to let her eyes bore into me.

  “Well, that was quite interesting,” she begins.

  “What’s that?” I ask, poorly hiding my exasperation. I have no patience for her haughtiness right now.

  “Your little stunt last night. You’re lucky we got you out of trouble so you could be here. The label would have had your head if you cost us studio time.”

  Studio time. We’re at the recording studio in Atlanta to do our cover. Holy shit, I blacked out, or passed out, all the way from Florida to Georgia. I don’t believe it. I barely drank last night. I was trying so hard to be good.

  “Samantha,” my voice is strained. I’m doing my best not to be bitchy since it sounds like I fucked up. “I don’t remember anything.”

  She exhales through her nose.

  “Kennedy, you are so talented. You’ve got to get it together or you will lose everything.” She waves a hand encompassing the studio. Thank God the receptionist isn’t here to witness my scolding.

  “I’m trying. I only had two beers last night. Rickly and I made a pact not to get blackout hammered anymore.”

  “Well, that’s going fabulous.” I flinch at her harsh tone and she softens. “I’m sorry. I’m just worried. No one else is giving you any tough love and it seems like you could use it.”

  I nod and settle back into the plush couch cushion, not wanting to take the conversation further right now. I’m sick of forgetting stuff and then having to hear about it from someone else.

  “And you had more than two drinks,” she adds, a bit of her high and mightiness back. “Or, at least you tried to.”

  “Did I?” I ask. Looks like I’m going to have to get the play-by-play after all.

  “Yes. That’s why you got in trouble. You went to a convenience store on the boardwalk and bought a bottle of tequila. You tried to drink it on the beach and got busted by security. Jacksonville has a no open container law.”

  “Hmm, I don’t remember that.”

  “They were going to give you a warning but you were particularly feisty, to put it mildly. They were about to take you to the drunk tank but, thankfully, Sonny called me and I got down there in time to smooth things over.”

  My irritation with Sam fades a fraction. She still sounds like a chiding parent, but at least she saved my ass last night.

  “I’m sorry. I thought I had things under control.” Really I did, yet I don’t recall much even before the hard alcohol. Two beers should not have made me blackout. I didn’t take any pills yesterday other than my birth control. The warning label may list all these potential, rare but serious side effects, but belligerency and memory loss aren’t included.

  “Luckily it all worked out this time but, next time, that might not be the case. I suggest you not let there be a next time.” She all but wags a finger at me.

  “Right.” I’m not going to apologize again, at least not to her. I’m not the first rock star to screw up and almost get taken to jail.

  “Was everyone else ok?” I ask, as she turns her attention back to her phone.

  “Everyone? It was just you and Sonny when I got there.”

  “Huh, we were out with Rickly and Davey,” I mumble, confused.

  She sets her phone in her lap.

  “As far as I know, they were on the buses by then.”

  How weird. I can’t believe the guys would just abandon us on the beach in the middle of the night. Perhaps bitchy Kennedy was mean to more than just the cop. “How’d I get here?”

  “I drove you back to the bus and Sonny and I helped you stumble to your bed. I wasn’t there this morning when the band tried to get you up but they said there was no rousing you. You at least swatted and cursed at them so they knew you were alive. Oli and Jack carried you in here. You’ve been out about an hour.”

  Fuck me. A hint of panic creeps into my voice.

  “Are we still good on time to do our cover?”

  “Yes. Everyone’s still prepping. I’ll give you a few minutes to clean up and then you ought to warm up. Bathroom’s that way.” She lifts her manicured hand and points down the hall before she stands and goes through the door to the recording area.

  I shakily get on my feet and stretch. It’s not unlike me to get out of control but, usually, I see it coming or understand why it happened. This time, it’s like it was out of my hands.

  I dust off my pants in a failed attempt to make them not like look shit. They’re going to need a good wash. As I rub a dirty spot by my waistband, I feel something in my pocket. I pull out a crumpled paper the size of a business card and read the name: Squid Ink Tattoo. Uh oh.

  ***

  “Nothing lasts forever and neither will your fame.” I say it to myself again. Lita has vanished, nothing but a smooshed patch of grass left in her place. I must have had a mini-blackout or gone into a temporary state of shock after her story because I don’t remember her leaving. The sun above me hasn’t shifted much so, at least, not much time has passed.

  My mouth and my mind sting from repeating the harsh statement. It evokes some deep seeded feeling of devastation I must have been repressing. I can sense the edge of the true memory working to cut through the thick, iron curtain. Something about Lita’s re-telling doesn’t sit right but, maybe, it was just hearing my own story from a stranger’s lips. I wish I’d at least been more descriptive when I told her. A few more details on the setting might have been enough to make the string of words and feeling of pain meld and form the memory.

  I do remember part of a night on the beach in Florida. It was the first night I truly got suspicious of my blackouts. The next day, no one could give me all the details on what had happened. Now I know that someone, or everyone, from that night kept the truth from me.

  ***

  I’ve stripped down to my hot pink undies in the studio’s bathroom. Thankfully, it’s a single stall so there’s no threat of someone walking in and catching me contorting like a twisted pretzel to eye my ass in the mirror above the sink. I see no evidence of a new ‘no regrets’ or ‘pork chop’ tattoo. I sigh with relief and twist back to face away from the mirror. Something just isn’t right about last night. I don’t understand how I blacked out with so little alcohol in my system. My tolerance cannot have slipped that much since I cut back on the booze.

  Satisfied with my search, I shake out my clothes, wash off my smeared eyeliner, and redress before I head out the door toward the recording area.

  When I step into the mixing booth, Davey is already perched on the other side of the glass in the sound studio with his all-black guitar. He doesn’t raise his head in my direction when I enter and I wonder if it’s because he’s concentrating on playing or because he’
s pissed.

  Jack saunters over and plants a hand on my shoulder.

  “There’s our crazy little drunk, back from the other side.” He grins warmly and I give a weak smile thankful not everyone is mad at me.

  “That was a close one,” Oli adds, as he lounges on another leather couch by the back wall and twirls his drumstick amused.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” I offer, as I take a seat in a swivel chair and grab an open bottle of water off the mixing board. I don’t care whose it is.

  Sonny comes and sits next to me in the last open spot near the sound equipment as Jack heads back toward Oli.

  “You doing ok?” she asks, quietly, her big eyes wary.

  I shrug. “I don’t know how I got so fucked up. I remember dinner and some of walking along the shoreline and that’s it.”

  “Hmm...” She hums contemplating. She glances at Davey and then back at me. “Well, you and Rickly went down to the beach by yourselves while Davey and I stayed for one more drink. Then we lost you guys for a while. Rickly texted and said you were meandering around the boardwalk but we had no clue where so we split up to find you guys. Davey stumbled on you first.”

  She hesitates and I bump her lightly with my shoulder.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure. When I met up with the three of you by the beach, you were pretty upset but said you didn’t want to talk about it. I asked Davey, but he didn’t know what was up. Rickly seemed just as confused.”

  “That’s weird. Where’d you find us?”

  “On the boardwalk, in front of a tattoo parlor and hot dog stand. Most of the other shops were closed.”

  Ah, so that’s where the Squid Ink card came from. I must have swiped one.

  “I could tell you wanted away from the guys, so I told them we needed to go to the gas station for girly stuff. They bailed before I could say tampon.” She laughs and I let out a small chuckle. Men cannot handle periods, especially here. It’s like they aren’t supposed to exist on the road. Even Oli, who has those two sisters he helped take care of, gets so embarrassed his cheeks turn as red as his hair when the subject comes up.

  “I asked what happened when we were alone, but all you said was you wanted to erase it from your memory. That’s when you bought the tequila...” She trails off. I know the rest.

  “I guess I was successful because I don’t remember a damn thing.” But I wish I did.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “How have your assignments been coming?” Craig asks, as we settle in our seats in his office.

  I lift one shoulder.

  “So, so. I’ve done a few puzzles. I haven’t had much luck with journaling. The food here sucks, but I eat. I walk around for exercise. I finally talked with another patient.”

  “Lita. I saw you the other day in the rec room when I was between sessions. Looked like you were deep in conversation.”

  I hesitate, unsure if I want to tell him I lost that first day. This is a safe space, right? I need to be honest if I’m going to get better, or at least that’s my theory. I could lie, but that won’t help me uncover any more of my memories, it’ll just dilute the ones I have.

  “So I hear,” I hedge.

  “You don’t remember?” he asks, evenly. I shake my head. “I’m sorry to hear that. How does that make you feel?”

  This again.

  “Helpless. Frustrated. Angry. The usual.”

  “Anything else?”

  I shift in my chair. “I may be a songwriter, but my vocabulary is only so big. That about covers it.”

  “Are you ready to give up?”

  My eyes go wide with surprise. Score one for Dr. Obvious.

  “Absolutely not.”

  He offers a rare, small smile.

  “Good. I noticed you didn’t say resigned or defeated, which is not what we want. Anger and frustration are powerful emotions. They show you still care. We can use those.”

  “I hope so, because sometimes I’m not sure how much more I can handle. At some point, I’m worried my blackouts won’t be just dark pockets of forgotten time. I’m terrified one day that’s all I’ll have—darkness.”

  ***

  “Shit,” I say, under my breath. I just stumbled on a mic cord for the second time on stage. I’m a little out of sorts. Performing usually comes so naturally, but my movements tonight are more jerky than fluid. The shadows of my blackouts haunt me, making me shrink away from the dark places where the stage lights don’t shine. I can tell the band senses my strange mood, too. Between songs, they cast me quizzical looks as if to ask what’s wrong. I use one of the three ‘S’s’ to reply: shrug, smile or shake my head.

  The crowd is still mostly into it, thankfully. Everyone else is being extra animated to make up for my mellowed antics. I watch in appreciation as Davey jumps off his amp. It’s comforting to know they still have my back up here.

  I didn’t get a chance to talk to anyone else about last night after we recorded our cover. We rushed straight from the studio to the venue, Samantha chatting our ears off about our schedule tomorrow. I zoned her out completely after she uttered the words ‘early morning interview.’

  I also haven’t seen Rickly all day, which may be adding to my funk. Typically, he and I have some physical contact before our sets. There’s an ache in my chest for him right now, which is new. It’s like I miss him terribly and we’ve only been apart twelve hours. Love sucks sometimes.

  I sing our final note and anxiously sprint off the stage for the first time. Usually, I don’t want it to end. Tonight, I have more pressing issues to deal with. It’s time to find my other half and try to piece together more of what happened last night. I need to stop this blacking out chaos before it gets out of hand.

  ***

  Group therapy, yikes. I haven’t been for over a month. They tried to make me go twice a week when I first got here and it had not gone well. The first week I stared at the wall and ignored anyone who spoke to me. Not even a fleeting glance. When they still made me go, I shifted my approach. Silence wasn’t working so I made a great show of being bat-shit crazy. How? I sang. I sang anything that popped into my head from “Happy Birthday,” our song “Never Fucking Leaving” which I found ironic, or just my own stream of consciousness. At my final meeting, I serenaded the window for three minutes. Needless to say, I was too disruptive for them to let me come back.

  The plan was always for me to return when I was in a more cooperative state but, it’s been so long, I was hoping Craig had forgotten. Unfortunately, he’s got a great memory and, at the end of our last session, he decided to add on to my homework. While happy I made an effort to talk with Lita, he was concerned I could only remember one of our two talks.

  “You’ve been so cut-off from new people, your mind may be hesitant to let anyone in. Let’s continue to work on that,” he’d said. Basically, take another stab at group therapy.

  It’s not a bad idea, but I have these bleak preconceived ideas about what it will be like. Honestly, between playing deaf and then deafening everyone, I heard nothing anyone had to say the times I went. I imagine they’re either bitch and moan sessions or worse, touchy-feely group hug circles where people weep uncontrollably. I blame TV for these thoughts. Hopefully, I’m wrong.

  As I sit in my folding chair, in a circle of nine people including a facilitator, I force myself to keep an open mind. I need help, no doubt about it, so I’m willing to give it a shot. Craig said many people who participate feel that way. Most are actively trying to get better, which makes me hope this can’t be all bad. I push my pessimism out of my head as the leader, a female with a name badge beneath her broad shoulders that reads Hayley W., signals us it’s time to begin. She’s young, but has this posture of confidence that makes me believe she can control the group as long as I don’t start singing like a lunatic.

  “Welcome back, everyone. We have two new people joining us today. Kennedy, who was with us briefly once before. And Jade who was admitted last week.”

>   I tentatively smile and exchange looks with the group, as does a guy in his late twenties four seats down from me. He’s got blonde hair like Rickly’s and, while the similarities end there, the sight of his golden locks stabs my heart like a knife. That must be Jade. I notice Lita isn’t here. I wonder if she’s lucky enough not to be forced to come?

  “Everyone in this group is suffering from a memory issue,” Hayley continues. “Some have official diagnoses, some do not. We help to support each other through conversations about what you’ve been through and what lead you here.”

  Well, shit. Maybe I should have listened last time. I never considered there were other people with similar issues to mine here, though I imagine there’s a wide spectrum of memory problems.

  “Kennedy, Jade, you won’t be asked to share your story today, but I encourage you to take part in the discussion after Pete speaks. Pete, why don’t you tell us a little about your condition first? Whenever you’re ready.”

  Six heads swivel toward the middle-aged man with a dark complexion that perfectly matches his mocha eyes. Pete, I assume. Jade, too, follows the synchronized neck turns and soon we’re all staring at Pete. The skin above his lip moves as if there’s a serpent slithering beneath it as he runs his tongue over his teeth several times before he begins.

  “I’m Pete.”

  I almost expect everyone to say “Hello, Pete!” in unison, but it doesn’t happen.

  “I’ve got debilitating OCD. I used to cope with it fine, but as I’ve gotten older, it’s gotten more severe. Anxiety strikes over the smallest things, and I can’t let them go until I’m absolutely sure they’re resolved.”

  “Can you give us some examples?” Hayley asks.

  He licks his teeth again.

  “Well, it probably sounds trivial but I’m always worried there’s something in my teeth, even when I haven’t eaten in hours. I brush my teeth repetitively and, when I don’t have a toothbrush, I use my tongue to check there’s nothing there.