Sing Me to Sleep

by Angela Morrison

  chapter 27

  TREATMENT?

  I hate my mother for telling me all that crap about my father.

  I hate him for calling me damn ugly.

  I hate Derek.

  I hate music.

  I hate singing.

  I hate pasta.

  I hate Lausanne and Lake Geneva and stone benches.

  I hate Scott.

  I especially hate AP econ.

  I fall asleep before I finish the list—before I come to the only person I really hate. This morning I stare at her in the mirror and see the truth.

  It messes you up. Derek’s famous advice about sex. We didn’t even manage to do it, and we’re utterly messed up. I’m massively messed up.

  And Derek? What about Derek? Crap, he’s messed up, too. Why would he curse me out over his T-shirt? Does he really never want to do it with me? Am I that gross after all? I think back through it all, over and over and over.

  Was it that Band-Aid on his stomach exactly where it was in Lausanne that made him angry? It’s so not a mosquito bite. Could it be a scar? Why the Band-Aid then? Is it a needle mark he doesn’t want me to see? What kind of scary drugs do you inject into your stomach? Over and over, exactly in the same place?

  The whole thing is so, so disturbing. I don’t even know how to feel anymore. What I wouldn’t give to peek under that little flesh-colored vinyl strip.

  When I see Scott at school, I break my date to study with him.

  “He won’t let you?”

  “I’m not being fair to you. I’m with Derek. Nothing is going to change that.”

  Scott closes his locker with a clang, steps so close I can smell his citrus cologne, and whispers, “We’ll see.”

  The rest of the day, he’s funny, cute, friendly Scott again. He brings his econ notes to lunch and goes over the stuff in Chapter Six with me. In choir he can’t get his tenor part. He scoots his chair up against mine and leans over so we’re almost cheek to cheek—so he can hear me sing his part better.

  “Why don’t you hate me?”

  He shrugs his shoulders. “Masochist.”

  I laugh. “Thank you, Prince Charming.”

  “Any time, Beauty.”

  Here he is saving me again. I should love him. I really should. I wouldn’t have made it through the day if not for him.

  As I drive down to choir, all I can think about is that Band-Aid on Derek’s stomach. Guys don’t use Band-Aids. If it was a cut or a mosquito bite, why would he care if I saw it? Why is it still there?

  It all seems . . . medical.

  The Band-Aid.

  The cough.

  The weight loss.

  The pale, pale skin.

  The mysterious disappearances.

  Even his advice about doctors. Those pills he’s always popping. Dumb Blake and his idiot drug habit.

  It all adds up. Not to an addiction, but to an affliction.

  I couldn’t live if you left me. And what did he say? Don’t put that on me.

  Is he planning on leaving me because he’s . . .

  No, that can’t be right. Oh, gosh. He could be sick. Really sick. Not just allergies or a cold that goes away.

  For an ugly second, I worry if I could catch it. What is it? Could he have HIV? That’s why he won’t—no, no. Not that. Diabetes. They stick themselves all the time. It’s probably just that. Are diabetics pale? Do they cough? Maybe it’s leukemia. He can go to a hospital and get treatments. He’s going to be fine. People recover from leukemia. Bone marrow. He just needs new bone marrow.

  It will get worse before it gets better.

  That fits.

  He can’t be that sick, though. Most of the time, he’s fine. He just coughs. It’s bronchitis or something. Maybe mono. But mono’s catching. He’d tell me if he had mono.

  What disease makes you cough?

  Just dumb stuff like colds, flu, pneumonia. I had that once. I coughed forever. Old smokers cough. But that doesn’t work for Derek.

  Why won’t he just tell me?

  I can’t bring it up—confront him. Not for a while. Not after last night. We need to get back to where we were before I threw him out. Oh, crap. I threw him out.

  Late in the night after choir, I check for Derek online, but he’s not signed on. I write him a text about wanting his body. I’m still kind of crazed. Delete it. Simply send, I miss you, and go to sleep.

  In the morning, I check my cell. Nothing gushy and sweet in reply. No voice-mail messages. No posts. No email. I’m scared. After everything that happened Monday night, I need to know that he’s all right with me—that we’re all right—before he slips off into that awful nothingness. I promise not to ask about the phantom Band-Aid on his stomach. Crap. It could have been there all along. He’s always got a sweatshirt on. Or a thick leather jacket. We’ve been dating for a few months now, and I’ve never been close enough to him to see his bare chest. Isn’t there something wrong with that? I feel dread in the pit of my stomach. His anger. His violence, even. There’s just so much about Derek I don’t know.

  But I won’t ask. I promise to be the perfect, pure thing he asked me to be back in Switzerland.

  What else can I do? I love him.

  Days go by.

  Weeks.

  How can he expect me to bear this? I’m helpless, delusional, don’t know where he is, what’s happened to him, what’s happened to us. Are we messed up forever? This silence shakes me up. It’s so much longer and louder than before. I can’t break into it.

  Stuff starts showing up on his profile. He hasn’t posted since before that night with me, but his friends start adding messages. There’s one from his AYS ex: You’re going to make it. I love you. That one makes me scream.

  Blake posts, Hang in there, bud. It’s going to work this time.

  There’s a bunch of Come back soon! and We miss you! kind of stuff.

  At least I know he’s alive somewhere. I don’t post. No way. Too public. Too humiliating that I don’t know what’s happening. That he doesn’t want me to know. Won’t let me know. I stuff his inbox with private messages that get more and more pathetic as each day passes.

  It’s sounding more medical—scary medical. I’m so stupid. If I would have joined the AYS like Derek wanted, I’d be chummy enough with those girls to have a link independent of Derek to find out what’s going on—no matter what he’s told them I can’t hear.

  I think about phoning Blake. Try it once. He doesn’t answer. Derek’s orders? I don’t know.

  How can he do this to me? Just cut me off. I’m his girlfriend, aren’t I?

  Maybe not.

  His ex posted “I love you” on his wall for all the world to see.

  Maybe he’s back with her. Maybe he thinks I’m with Scott. Maybe he’s paying me back.

  No. He believed me that night. I’m sure. I have to keep believing. He’ll appear in my driveway on his bike like he always has before. Be patient, keep loving him—keep resisting Scott.

  Scott’s not making it easy. He’s there at school, every day, warm and friendly and real. His muscular shoulder is right next to me all the time, bumping into me. He’s always joking around. No way can I let him suspect what’s going on with Derek. If he offered to comfort me, I’d let him and then what would I tell Derek?

  I delude myself, pretend everything is cool and that I know where he is and what’s up. I send Derek a dozen texts every day, email him what’s up with me. No questions. No complaints. He’ll be back. Any day. Any second. I almost convince myself.

  I download the sheet music he sent me for “Beth’s Song,” study it, hum the melody with a pen poised ready for inspiration, but I can’t fool myself that much. I throw down the pen and stare at the wall.

  I search my room—gather up all my pathetic efforts at song writing that I meant to burn. Maybe I can pull something from one of these. I read through my scrawls.

  I’m bones, blood, and flesh

  Not clay to be pounded. . . .

&nbs
p; I bleed when you wound me. . . .

  Can this be me?

  Taking the stage for gold dreams. . . .

  Touch the sky?

  Who am I kidding? . . . The dream turns to dust

  As I bow to do your bidding. . . .

  Can she be beautiful?

  Will all the people love me ? . . .

  Beautiful prince who says

  He’ ll keep me warm—

  I come to the verse I wrote after the prom about Scott: The scent of you on my fingers / Makes me crazy while it lingers.

  Scott loves me. Scott wants all of me. He doesn’t expect me to do this stuff I just can’t do. It’s way too hard to go on with this masquerade. I grab “Beth’s Song” and tear the pages in half again and again and again.

  It’s too late, anyway. Derek’s broadcast is this weekend.

  I go on the Amabile guys’ Web site and print off the details. I told him I’d be up on the train. If he’s anywhere, he’ll be there. I don’t know if I have the guts to confront him, maybe lose him, but I have to see him again soon or I’ll lose my mind. I Google it and manage to buy myself a one-way ticket online. I’ll get a taxi to take me where they’re singing and make Derek take me home.

  What will he do when he sees me there in the audience invading his turf? That’s how it feels. I know it’s stupid. Why am I going? Why don’t I just leave him alone? Call Scott. No. Derek wanted me there. Correction, he wants me there.

  Saturday evening our early Christmas concert to celebrate our debut CD’s release is packed. Halfway through our first number, Scott slips into the back and stands by the usher. He smiles at me and gives me a thumbs-up. I smile back at him and feel like I’m totally betraying Derek.

  We get through the first half and swish off the risers, a mass of shimmery crimson in our gowns that still feel new and special. We file out of the room. I hope the people in the audience don’t want their money back. I’m singing fine, but I can’t find the magic that transforms me and the power to bring them along. Our CD is for sale in the foyer. Maybe I’ve just killed its success.

  We crowd into the big room in the back of the building with faded Bible pictures taped to the wall that we use for a dressing room. It’s better than the basement, but not by much.

  I pick up a water bottle and go over to a window, stare into the dusk while I gulp it down. I set the bottle on the sill and put my forehead against the cool glass.

  “Hey, Beth—look what I found.” Sarah waves me over to an old TV in the corner. “It’s them. Oh, gosh, there’s Blake.”

  I turn and stare at her.

  “Did Derek tell you they were going to be on TV?”

  I feel like I’m moving underwater, but it’s thick, like honey, won’t let me through. Somehow I’m across the room peering through the blurry TV at Derek in his tux standing in the middle of his choir, singing at the movie premiere in Toronto. He’s incredibly pale. Almost blue. Maybe it’s the lighting. He looks ultrathin, too.

  Crap. He looks so sick. How could I have been so blind all this time? Blinded. That’s what it was. Totally blinded. I saw what he wanted me to see.

  Sarah turns to me. “Derek looks awful. What’s wrong with him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She looks at me funny. Other girls crowd around now, pushing to see. While we’re watching, Derek sways and pitches forward. He’d be flat on his face if the two guys next to him didn’t have quick reflexes.

  I make a weird startled sound.

  The camera cuts away to the director. Mr. Tall Wispy Beard keeps going like the guy I love didn’t just turn white as death and keel over. When the camera goes back to them, the boys are singing as if nothing happened, except Derek and his two rescuers aren’t in the picture.

  The whole choir stares at me. I’m frozen. I’ve got to move. I’ve got to get up there. Now. How far is it? Will Jeannette get me all the way to Toronto? Of course. She’s solid, but how will I find him?

  I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care.

  I thaw enough to hold out my hands. “I need cash.”

  Girls in long shimmering red run to purses, shove fives and tens in my hand. Meadow’s got a stack of twenties.

  I grab my purse and jacket and head to the back door. “Tell Terri I’m sorry. You guys can do it without me.”

  “Your gown! ” Leah calls. I’m not supposed to go outside in it, but to hell with that. I’ll try not to drag it through the snow and mud in the parking lot.

  I push through the door and plow smack into Scott.

  He catches me by both elbows. “How did you know I was out here?”

  “Let me go, Scott.” I try to wrench away. “I have to leave.”

  “Are you okay?”

  I can’t answer him.

  He still doesn’t let go. “Listen, Beth. I’m just going to say this one more time. I’m here. Look around.”

  “Let me go! ” I flail my arms and break his hold. “I don’t have time for you, Scott.” I turn and rush away, cringe at how cruel those words echo in Scott’s stunned silence behind me.

  He shouldn’t have gotten in my way.

  He shouldn’t have gotten in my way.

  He shouldn’t have gotten in my way.

  If I say it enough, I’ll believe it. Maybe even he will, too. As much as my heart is racing for Derek, I don’t want to hurt Scott. I care for him—more than I should. And I owe him. He’ll never know it, but he rescued me again and again during this impossible blank time.

  As I speed up I-94, the numb shock that got me out of the concert and onto this freeway pushing Jeannette to her max speed warps into absolute terror. What ravaged Derek like that? What’s taking him away from me? He said it would get better. I believed and believed and believed. Crap. He just fainted on TV, and they all kept on singing.

  I’m going to find him and force him to tell me everything. No more nice, purring Beth making believe everything’s fine, waiting and waiting and waiting. The Beast is loose, and she’s not going back in her cage.

  My cell rings as I’m passing that dumb giant tire marking the outskirts of Detroit.

  “What in the world—”

  “I don’t even know, Mom. It’s Derek. I’ll probably stay up there.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll call back when I know.”

  I get all the way to the border before I realize I don’t have a clue where I’m going. There’s a line of cars way backed up, so I start dialing Blake’s cell. Over and over and over. He finally picks up.

  I yell, “Where did they take him?”

  “Beth?”

  “I’m on my way. What hospital?”

  “They’re going back to London.” Blake’s voice is maddeningly calm.

  I pound on the steering wheel with my free hand. “All the way to London? Are they crazy?”

  “The bleeding stopped. He’s okay.”

  “Bleeding?” Oh, my gosh. “Are you in the ambulance with him?”

  “What ambulance?”

  A car honks behind me. “Stop confusing me.” I pull Jeannette forward.

  “His parents took him back down to the lockup in London.”

  “Crap—he’s in jail?” Is it drugs after all?

  “Geesh. You’re stunned.” Blake laughs. The creep laughs. “You know that’s what he calls the hospital.”

  “The lockup?”

  “We sprung him for this weekend. He refused to miss it.”

  I’m pressing the phone so hard into my ear it hurts. “He was in the hospital! ” I yell into the phone.

  “How can you not know that?” Blake yells back at me. “He practically lives there.”

  I pull forward again as a sleek black sedan rolls through the border crossing.

  Blake is still ranting at me. “What kind of a crap girlfriend are you?” His vicious tone rips me apart. “You should have been there with him every second you can. He needs the motivation to hang in there. Look at today.”

  “It’
s not my fault.” I bang the steering wheel with my hand. “You can’t blame me. He doesn’t tell me anything.”

  “Oh, sheesh.” Blake doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “You don’t know.”

  The cell slips in my sweaty hand. I grapple with it, get it back jammed to my ear. “Tell me what he has, Blake.” My voice cracks. “I’m going crazy.” I’m trembling, trying to control myself from breaking down with the shock that’s starting to register.

  “Forget I said anything.” The jerk hangs up on me.

  I throw my phone into the passenger seat and pull forward. Three more cars to go. Two more. One more. My turn. I pull up to the Canadian border booth thing and roll down my window.

  A friendly looking guy in his twenties puts his hand on my roof and leans over to speak through the window. “Passport, please.”

  “Passport?” The Canadians up at our crossing at Port rarely want ID.

  “You locals need to learn.”

  I fumble in my purse and grab my wallet. “Please.” I shove my license at him. “My boyfriend’s in the hospital.”

  “You’re in love with a Canadian?” Oh my gosh—is he flirting?

  I just nod.

  He gives me back my license. “I hope he’s okay. Godspeed.”

  I get a lump in my throat as I drive off. I sniff and rub my eyes. Pull it together, girl. You’ve got to drive. I glance down at my gas gauge. Shoot. All I’ve got are American dollars. I pull off at one of the gas stations in Windsor past the border crossing. They’re happy to take my dollars—rip me off on the exchange. I buy a big bottle of water and some gum. I should eat, but the smell of stale chips, cookies, and jerky blended with diesel churns my tense guts into knots.

  As I head up the 401 in the deep cold of a black night, I try to stay calm, but the border guy undid me. Tears attack. Burn my eyes and face. It starts to snow. Dumb snowbelt. Stupid Great Lakes. Stupid winter. I so don’t need this tonight. I follow the signs to London, push Jeannette up to seventy-five, as the snow falls thick and fast, deadening the sound of our passage, but it doesn’t muffle the way I’m crying. Snot runs down the back of my throat and then over my lips. I catch it before it drips off my chin and stains my blood-red gown.