All the Lonely People

by Jen Marie Hawkins

  “Come on, I’ll show you around.” George motions toward the back of the store. “Your mum tells me you’re a budding guitarist.”

  My muscles stiffen to statue proportions. This is just like Mama: saying things that misrepresent me to increase my palatability. I haven’t attempted to play since that first psychiatrist convinced me it would help me deal with my grief. Turns out, I suck at it, and since Pop died before he could finish teaching me, it was a pretty demoralizing idea.

  “Not really,” I say. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Well, maybe it’s time for you to pick it up again.”

  I smile and nod. Zero intentions whatsoever of touching Pop’s guitar again.

  A few patrons thumb through faded album covers as we make our way to the sales counter. Half the store has used records. The other half has shiny, cellophane-wrapped new ones. Old red phone booths sit in the corners of the room with Listening Station written on the glass in chalk marker.

  “My office is in that corner, just there,” George says as he finishes up my tour of the store. Just inside his office, a huge framed photo of a beautiful woman with dark hair hangs above the desk. I know without asking that it must be Julia because of the eyes. Big, apple-jolly-rancher green eyes, just like Henry’s. I turn away.

  There’s a timeless, eclectic vibe about Fox Den, with its dark shelves and framed album art and festival posters. I scan the list of acts on the one for the 2013 Boomtown festival, and see it listed there, halfway down: Walrus Gumboot. I smile, suddenly feeling at home. I knew I’d be staying above a quaint music store, but my imagination underestimated the level of charm.

  The front door opens and a momentary rush of street noise filters in. Henry retreats to the cash register, sinks onto the stool there, and pops a peppermint in his mouth. He opens an old, tattered book to a bookmarked spot.

  I stare a hole through the side of his head, but he doesn’t notice.

  He has so many things to attend to tonight. Yeah. So busy. He doesn’t look up from his book—something called Ley Lines of Britain—as we walk past him.

  George leads me down a hallway at the back of the store, then up a creaky wooden staircase. There’s a little orange bundle curled in the corner of the first landing, and it takes a moment to register that it’s alive.

  “This is Felix. Namesake for the Fox Den.”

  I stoop next to him. He opens his sleepy amber eyes, then stretches and yawns. I couldn’t be more instantly smitten if you dumped a bag of puppies on my head. Felix stands on dainty paws and his white-tipped tail perks up.

  “Patrick told me he was a rescue.” I reach a tentative hand toward him so he can sniff it. He does. His little nose is wet. “How old is he?”

  “Oh, I guess it’s been about five years now,” George says.

  “He was hit by a car when he was a wee kit. We nursed him back to health, and after that he wouldn’t leave us.”

  “Did you get him at an animal shelter?”

  George shakes his head. “No. An old friend of the family found him and brought him to us. Then we lost him to an accident a couple of years ago.” He bites his lip, as if deciding what to say next. “That’s one of the reasons Felix is so special to us.”

  Ugh, poor George. Both his wife and his friend. I focus on Felix instead of doing that annoying apology thing people do when death is mentioned. Like we are programmed to acknowledge it, lest we be marked. Like silence isn’t enough to convey the suckage. When I tell people Pop died, they say I’m sorry. I always want to say Oh, did you kill him? and walk away. But that would make me a jerk, so I don’t.

  The little fox presses the top of his head into my hand like an eager cat might.

  “We can’t have pets at home because my mom is allergic to everything.”

  My fingers comb the silky fluff behind his ears. I pull my hand back and stand before Felix is ready for me to. He places a paw on top of my foot and cocks his little head with expectation.

  “She’ll have plenty of snuggles for you later, Felix,” George says. “We’re busy now.” I laugh as he motions around. “The lounge, the kitchen, and my bedroom are here on the second level. Your room is on the third.”

  We ascend another flight of stairs. The boards moan beneath our feet as we step into a narrow hallway. In one direction, subdued light from a window illuminates the floor. A metal ladder is bolted to the wall in front of it and leads to a ceiling hatch.

  “The dark room is up there.” He points. I pause, wondering if that’s an English term for an attic. In the other direction, two wooden doors with old-fashioned knobs lead to bedrooms.

  “You’ll be staying in Patrick’s room,” George says. “I guess he told you that.”

  I nod as he leads me inside. The bed is made neatly with white linens. There’s a dresser with mirror, a desk with an old record player, a bookshelf in the corner stocked with old records, and an acoustic-electric guitar propped on a stand.

  I do a double take and I think I see stars.

  It’s a Gibson Jumbo, with a Sunburst spruce finish and P-90 single-coil pickups. It’s just like the one John Lennon played. I twitch at the sight of it. Pop would’ve drooled over a guitar like that.

  “Please do be aware,” George says, “that you’ll be sharing the loo with Henry. He’s promised to be less disgusting.”

  This snaps me out of my inspection of the guitar. I follow him into the adjoining Jack and Jill bathroom, long and hallway-like, with entrances from both upper bedrooms.

  “Just make sure this door is locked when you come in.” To demonstrate, he presses the button on the doorknob that leads to Henry’s room. I make a mental note to never forget to do that.

  George sets my bag on the floor beside the bed and, after offering me food and tea—which I politely refuse—leaves me to rest.

  I put my phone on the charger, then pull out the urn in my bag and set it on Patrick’s desk. It’s made of dark gray titanium, with a tongue-and-groove locking lid, which destroyed me the first time I saw it. So dull and gray and depressing. So final.

  Once I was medicated and able to semi-function again, I started collecting stickers and decorating the urn: A Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club sticker. An all-you-need-is-love sticker with a rainbow heart on it. A yellow submarine. A cartoon rendering of The Fab Four. I thought it’d be an appropriate theme for the lead singer of Walrus Gumboot, internationally known Beatles cover band. Almost none of the titanium is visible now, except on the lid.

  I run my fingertips over the smooth, curved surface of the stickers.

  “Please tell me you’re not in there,” I whisper. “I know you’re trying to tell me something. I’ll forgive you if you’re really just incognito on this side of the pond.”

  I push the urn aside and take a deep breath.

  The letter I’ve hidden for three years now whispers to me from my wallet. When I wait a few weeks between readings, it almost feels like talking to him. Now that I’m sitting in the city of his heart, there’s no more perfect time to absorb his words once again.

  Chapter 7

  : Goodbye :

  October 9, 2018

  * * *

  Dear Jojo,

  * * *

  I was 17 when I saw this city for the first time. The Salvation Army declared me an adult, gave me a bus voucher and a slap on the back. I’m sure they were quite weary of me ping-ponging through foster homes, only to land on their doorstep again. I used to be much harder to get along with, you see. So off I went to London, with nothing but the clothes on my back and a duffle. Popped into a pub by Tower Bridge and made nice with some uni girls who gave me a covert place to stay for a few weeks. Don’t tell your mother, but it was in their dormitory. When their resident chaperone finally discovered me there, it was a catastrophe—I’ll tell you that story someday when you’re older.

  For the first six months, I had the time of my life working odd jobs and couch surfing. It was no way for a proper adult to live, but I had no
plans to become a proper adult. I was so in love with the people of this city, and still am: the toothy bartenders and the raven-haired uni girls and the elbow-patched professors and the starry-eyed children. Even the endless rain left the streets looking like polished silver. I think God knows London rivals heaven, so he makes it rain all the time out of spite.

  Just like with any place I’ve ever been, the restlessness welled up and I had to move on. Like the Beatles, I followed the sun. And that led me to your mother. Ever since leaving, though, I’ve been lured back. There’s something special about it you have to experience to understand. So as I walked in the rain this morning, I made a decision. This is the last time I’ll come here alone and let descriptions suffice. Next time I visit, you’re coming with me. No more delays. We’ll fly out before you start high school. We’ll go to Menier Chocolate Factory and gorge ourselves on brownies. We’ll dance on the glass floor at the top of Tower Bridge. I’ll sneak you into Blackfriar’s Crow to watch us play a set. We’ll forget our umbrellas on purpose so you can feel the way this rain washes away bad feelings and leaves you with nothing but gratitude. You have my word.

  * * *

  Love,

  Pop

  * * *

  PS - I picked up a little something for you today.

  Chapter 8

  : Golden Slumbers :

  EVERYTHING IS SMOKY.

  Blue and purple lights slice through the haze. There’s a vague awareness that I’m floating somewhere outside myself, so I close my eyes and find my center. I zero in on the rough texture of the microphone against my chin to bring me back. As I brush my bottom lip against it, it roars. A deafening kiss. My eyes snap open.

  The black stand defocuses beneath my gaze, and a sea of blurred faces spread out before me. Everything is eerily void of sound. I try to blink into focus, but the room is a murky smear. Pop whispers, Play away.

  My guitar strings brush away the quiet with the melody to Eleanor Rigby. I think, for a fleeting moment, there are drums coming from somewhere, too—but no. It’s only my pulse hammering the doot-doot-doot-doot. I’ve never performed for a crowd before. But for whatever reason, here I am. I open my mouth to sing the opening lines as the smoke clears.

  The grooves of the table, the condensation rolling down the beer glass, the tattooed forearm reaching for it—they all sharpen. Every detail materializes one pixel at a time, until the photo before me is in high definition. Vivid. I know that tattoo. The letters. The delicate curve of the Js, the feminine roundness of the Os. Jojo. It’s him. There at a table in the front row, staring back at me. Eyes alive and full of I’ve-been-here-all-along mischief, as if we’ve only been playing hide-and-seek.

  Pop.

  I knew this day would eventually come. But my fingers stumble and get confused. The song changes. The sad soul of Eleanor Rigby morphs into the upbeat jingle of When I’m Sixty-Four. The audience rumbles and whispers. I look down at my hands, but they aren’t moving. Of course they aren’t. I would never choose this silly song. I’ve only ever used it as a ringtone for…

  Dylan.

  A jolt sends me back to my body and I open my eyes in the dark. A dream. I was dreaming. I reach for my phone, irrationally angry that Dylan interrupted before I could see more. I manage a groggy hello.

  “Finally!” Dylan shrieks. “Thank God. I was starting to get worried. Your mom’s been blowing my phone up.”

  I squint. The clock on my phone says 5:37 a.m., and some quick sleepy math resolves it’s after midnight in Asheville.

  “Sleeping,” I mumble and flop back onto the pillow. “It’s early. I was dreaming about Pop—” Tears throb at the base of my throat. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a good cry, since I’ve even been able to.

  “Oh no,” he says. “One of those dreams? Like the ones before?”

  I squeeze the blanket in my fist, wishing I’d never said anything. The one time I tried to tell him about Pop and the dreams, he tiptoed around the implication that I might be a teensy bit crazypants. He said that sometimes, when tragic things happen to us, they warp our perception.

  He also thinks my aura-reading nonsense (his words) is a byproduct of an overactive imagination, plus a touch of lingering depression. Never mind that I’ve seen auras for as long as I can remember. Since before. Something I inherited from Pop. That’s how I knew they were real; we both saw them. We’d people-watch everywhere we went and take notes.

  As frustrating as it is, I can’t fault Dylan. Not really. He’s the only child of an ER physician and a psychiatrist. He sees everything through the lens of medical practicality. His aura has always been skeptical gray, so it’s not like I can expect much else. I do appreciate that he keeps me grounded in the now. Even in the moments I don’t want to be here. Arguing with him is stressful, though, so I change the subject. I tell him about my lost luggage instead.

  “Were your medications in there?”

  I stiffen. “Yes. But I’ll have it in a day or two.”

  “Do you think… not taking them… caused the dream? Because you know, last time…”

  I’m silent. He doesn’t know I haven’t taken them since I packed. Three days ago.

  “Tell me about the dream.” He switches gears, voice soft like a padded room.

  “I don’t want to talk about it. None of it made sense, anyway.”

  I have a rule. I don’t divulge details until after they’ve happened in real life. I’m afraid if I say it out loud, the spell will be broken and they’ll never come true.

  I yawn into the phone.

  “Go back to sleep,” he whispers. “I’ll call you later.”

  I don’t object. I have a dream to get back to.

  But when I finally fall asleep again, I dream that I’m drowning.

  Chapter 9

  : From Me to You :

  I START MY first full day in London by reading the guilt-trippiest email in the history of the world.

  * * *

  To: Jo {jojobee@att.com}

  From: Mom {krisbry@buncombecountyhospital.com}

  3:33am EST (8:33am GMT+1)

  * * *

  Josephine,

  I was pleased to hear you made it safely to George’s. He filled me in, don’t you worry. It’s clear that you want independence, because you’ve done nothing but push me away since I agreed to let you take this trip. Hint taken! I can’t control you. You have to decide who you’ll be in this life. Will you be a woman of integrity? A woman who keeps her word? It’s out of my hands now.

  We’re both going to be busy. I’m putting in extra hours at the hospital, and I’ll be showing Patrick around when I’m not working. We won’t have much time to talk, so I’m giving you a pass. You don’t have to check in with me. You don’t have to call me. I’m sure Dylan will keep me in the loop, and George will let me know if something of importance comes up. Have fun. These five weeks are all yours.

  -Mama

  Sometimes I wonder if my life would be easier if I wasn’t an only child. At least then my mother would have fifty percent fewer hours to micromanage me.

  Even though I am busy all day—George gives me a set of keys, walks me through routines, trains me on the operation of the store, and then invites me to eat dinner with him and Henry when it’s all said and done—I can’t enjoy it or fully immerse myself in any of it. I’m too distracted by Mama’s Jedi mind trick. She put a damper on my very first day here.

  So by the next morning, when I’ve had time to stew on it for a solid twenty-four hours, I decide to call her bluff.

  Chapter 10

  : Junk :

  GOOGLE TELLS ME it takes an airplane twelve hours to get from Bangkok to Heathrow.

  But it’s been nearly a week, and I still don’t have my luggage. George let me borrow some clothes, and I am super weirded out that they belonged to his dead wife. And they’re all too tight and too long, which made for some really uncomfortable workdays stooping and bending and sorting albums.

  Instead of
moping, I’m going to pretend my luggage is gone forever. I’ll re-make myself in London. No meds. No helicopter mother. No former wardrobe. No remnants of my previous life. You know what the Beatles did when they got sick of suffocating expectations? They re-birthed themselves and made what Rolling Stone called The Best Album of All Time. I’ve decided that my time in London will be my very own Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.

  The GPS in my phone narrates directions to a little place called Switcheroo, a thrift store three blocks into the heart of Southwark. The bell dings as I enter and breathe the musk of the secondhand store, hear the low hum of the fluorescent lighting, see the disorganization of the racks. It’s a treasure hunt.

  Sometimes the life of clothing interests me as much as the clothing itself. Maybe someone wore this elephant tee on a safari in the Serengeti. I put it down and pick up another. Maybe a boundary-pushing explorer wore this beanie to base camp on Mount Everest. Or maybe—and I gasp when I see it—this faded blue Beatles tee, with the album cover of Help! on the front, was worn by a fan in the street for the 1969 Apple rooftop concert, the last time the Beatles performed live together.

  $76 US dollars will get you two shirts, a dress, a cardigan, pajamas, flip-flops, and a pair of jeans in a UK thrift store. I’m feeling pretty satisfied with myself, so I duck into Joy, a women’s clothing store, and buy underwear and socks. They cost almost as much as my Switcheroo loot, but alas. Some things cannot be thrifted.