One Last Song

by S. K. Falls

  When he was gone, Zee sighed. “That’s how you can tell the ones who can’t cut it in our world, you know,” she said to me. “Pity. They try to drown us in it.”

  Pierce took a sip of his drink. “They never last, do they?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I decided to take a cab home because I could tell Zee was tired, even if she wouldn’t admit it. I finally pretended to have to stop by Walmart to pick up some late-night snacks so she could leave without feeling guilty. Pierce rode with her.

  Drew waited with me as I stood on the sidewalk outside, letting the snow dust my head and shoulders.

  “You look good in snow,” he said, casually twining his hand with mine.

  I laughed, my cheeks heating up as I tipped my head back to look at him. “Are you drunk?”

  He stepped in closer, blocking out the streetlight that glowed orange in my eyes. “Maybe just a little tipsy.” He smiled. “I really meant what I sang in there.”

  “Which part?” My words were just a breath, curling into the air.

  He brought his head down to mine, so our noses were almost touching, and sang softly:

  And then you beckoned, said, “Come with me”

  I followed without a word…

  ’Cause your eyes, they’re secret, so hidden, so dark

  And your lips, they tremble with the words of your heart

  Emotional awareness wasn’t my strong suit. I didn’t know what about those lyrics resounded with me so much. What I did know was that there was something in Drew’s voice as he sang, something knowing, that reached out and touched every one of my secrets. Those words seemed to have been written about me, about us, about our impossible meeting.

  I wasn’t one of those girls who cried at every emotional thing they saw or heard; I’d never been that way. That might’ve explained why, when the tears cascaded down onto my cheeks, I felt with my fingers to see what the hell was going on with my eyes.

  “Hey,” Drew said, catching one of the tears with a fingertip. “Are you okay?”

  I opened my mouth to say I was, but all that came out was a sort of sob-hiccup, and more tears. Drew responded by putting his hand around my waist, pulling me to him, and covering my mouth with his.

  I’d like to say that in that moment, I kept my head. That, in spite of feeling safer than I’d ever felt before, in spite of feeling more loved than I ever thought I had any right to feel, I remembered that I was lying to him. I wish I could say I was mindful of the fact that my entire existence in his life was only because of a huge untruth, and that I intended to extricate myself from him and the rest of the group. I’d like to say that I stopped the kiss.

  But in that instance, the only thing I felt, the only thing that mattered, was how hard I was falling for Andrew Dean.

  I was falling for this scared, lonely, broken, brave man who sang songs about wearing masks and chance meetings and secrets, who lulled me into a whole new universe using nothing but his voice. I wanted him, all of him, and I pretended that I belonged. It was the biggest lie I’d told up to that point, and for someone whose entire life was carved out of lies of different colors and shades and shapes, that was saying a lot.

  When a horn rang out in the stillness of the night, we broke apart.

  “Someone called a cab?” the driver said, smirking out of his window.

  “Yes.” I turned back around to look at Drew. “I have to go.”

  He put his finger on one of my eyebrows, just a featherlight touch. “Can I see you again tomorrow?”

  I nodded because I couldn’t speak.

  * * *

  When I got home, I had absolutely no recollection of the journey there. The cab ride was spent in a sort of cotton candy time bubble, soft and sweet. I kept replaying Drew singing the song to me, the way he’d held me closer, kissing me in the snow.

  I paid the driver and walked into the house. The lights were on in the living room and the kitchen. I was pretty sure I’d turned them off before heading out.

  “Dad?” I looked around, but I could already see that the place was empty. He was probably still upstairs in his study. Why had he left all the lights blazing? It was Mum’s pet peeve, the waste of power. I turned to the fridge to get myself a bottle of water when I saw the note.

  Saylor,

  Had to go to police station. Back soon.

  Dad

  The police station? I checked the time on my cell phone: a little past midnight. Why the hell would my dad go there at this time of night? Even though he was a criminal defense attorney, his clients were high profile enough that they bypassed the whole “lowlife sitting in a jail cell” phase and went straight to the “meet with my four-hundred-dollar-an-hour attorney at a five-star restaurant” one.

  I went upstairs, but the door to my parents’ room was open and the lights were off. Mum wasn’t back from wherever she went either. I took my cell phone out and texted her.

  Dad went to the police station. Is everything okay?

  I waited, but there was no reply. After a full ten minutes, I texted my dad to ask him the same question. Again, there was no answer. I felt my palms begin to tingle. Something was very wrong. I had a creeping feeling along the skin of my arms and legs, like I always did before I had to undergo a painful medical procedure of some kind. I had this inherent sense of something unpleasant coming, something undesirable that I lacked the power to stop.

  I considered texting Drew, just to talk to him, to let him reassure me, but I didn’t want to unburden on him so soon. I felt bad texting Zee because she’d looked exhausted at Sphinx. And to be honest, I didn’t know her that well.

  Is that the truth? a voice inside me said mockingly. Isn’t the real reason that you don’t want to use them? Because you know you’ve already done enough damage simply by being in their lives. But I really wasn’t in a mood to entertain the voice right then. So I went into my room and pulled out my book on multiple sclerosis. I had some reading to catch up on anyway.

  Symptoms a patient diagnosed with MS could expect:

  Dizziness

  Numbness

  Tingling

  Tremors

  Fatigue

  Slurred speech

  Blurred vision

  I didn’t think I’d have too many problems pretending—most of these occurred when you fell in love. And if I wasn’t there yet, I knew I was perilously close.

  I heard the front door open and stood up to see what was going on.

  “Jesus Christ. It’s a fucking nightmare.” Dad, and he sounded more pissed than I’d ever heard him sound.

  “Well, it’s not your nightmare.” Mum, her voice completely flat, like a sheet of aluminum foil.

  “Actually, it is. You’ve made it my nightmare. Do you have any idea how this looks for me?”

  I heard Mum coming up the stairs, and I stepped back into my room, out of sight. She shuffled by me, her clothes rumpled, her hair beginning to frizz. I’d never seen her look so… downtrodden. I tasted the word on my tongue, like a bitter pill that didn’t belong. My mother was cold, sleek, beautiful, marble. “Downtrodden” wasn’t a word you’d ever use to describe her. Not usually.

  I heard Dad banging away, opening and closing drawers. He was probably pouring himself a drink. He was a Jack Daniel’s guy when things got really bad or really good. The last time was after he won a case that allowed him to buy his second boat, The Kindred Spirit. He’d been crazy about it for a week afterward, and then hadn’t ever talked about going out on it again. I didn’t know if he even still had it.

  I came out of my room and turned left, meaning to go talk to Mum. Her bedroom door was closed. I knocked softly and opened it.

  The lights were all off, but I knew she was in there because I could smell her tea rose perfume. Only this time, it seemed to be soured by something tangy and metallic. Fear?

  In the light from the hallway, I saw their enormous four-poster bed in the corner. The all-white covers were virtually undisturbed except
for a small lump on the left side, where my mother lay, buried under the comforter.

  “Mum?” I stepped forward. It was cold in there; colder than in the other parts of the house. “Mum, are you okay?”

  There was a long silence, and I thought she was going to ignore me. But then she turned over. I could just make out her face in the dim light. She was on her back now. “Yes. I’m fine.”

  “What happened? I got Dad’s note, that he was at the police station. I… I texted you guys.” I didn’t want to sound needy. Nothing drove her away faster than the stench of my neediness.

  A sigh. She sat up, turned on her bedside lamp, and took a sip of water from the glass on her nightstand. “We were busy. I’m sorry we didn’t respond straight away, but there are some things more important than you, darling.”

  It stung, as she’d known it would. “I know that, I just wanted to—”

  “I got charged with a DWI.” She said it like she was flinging stones at me. Her words were quick and hard, her chin thrust out, her eyes holding mine.

  I waited for the punch line. “DWI. That’s not, um…”

  She sighed again and put the glass to her forehead, as if the pain of dealing with a stupid daughter was too much to bear. “Driving While Intoxicated. Yes. It’s the same thing as a DUI, just a different acronym.” She set the glass down, looked at me, her eyes bright and cold. “Anything else you fancy asking dear Mum?”

  I wanted to ask a million other things. What was she thinking? I mean surely, surely they had the wrong person. Mum, in her cashmere and pearls, with a DWI. It didn’t add up. Drunk drivers were those bastards who killed perfect families of four and ruined lives. They wore wifebeaters and actually beat their wives. They were rednecks, uneducated and poor. They weren’t lawyers’ wives who assembled dollhouses for fun and played Bunco on Saturday nights.

  But I just shook my head. “No.” The word came out a whisper, floated to the floor like a feather. I took a step back, then another.

  My mother turned out the lamp, plunging us into darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Early the next morning, I made my way downstairs. I’d barely been able to sleep the night before, tossing and turning, examining the words in my head: DWI. Alcoholic. My mum. It didn’t make any sense.

  I found Dad at the breakfast nook, staring at Mum’s newest not-yet-assembled dollhouse and drinking his health juice. He looked up as I walked in, and he offered me a wan smile.

  “I never got her hobby,” he said. “Fixing up dollhouses, painting them, and then throwing them away. Why go through all the trouble?”

  I shook my head. “Is it true? About the DWI?”

  He took a long drink and then looked at me. “Yes,” he said simply.

  It felt like a punch to my stomach again. I swallowed past a lump in my throat. “What… what are they going to do? Will she have to go to jail?”

  “No. It’s her first offense and she’s got a hell of a lawyer.” The smile that flashed on his face fell off just as quickly. “They’re going to suspend her license and she’ll have to take some classes. Show them she can handle her drinking, that sort of thing.”

  Handle her drinking. Isn’t that what drunks said? I can handle my drinking. I can stop when I want. It was like the worst, most clichéd joke in the book.

  On the counter, Dad’s phone buzzed. I was closer to it, so I looked at the screen. It said Preston.

  “Someone named Preston,” I said, handing the phone over.

  “Christ,” Dad muttered. “The guy can’t take no for an answer.”

  “Who is it?” I remembered Mum and Dad arguing about a Noah Preston earlier.

  “Some liberal asshole lawyer who wants a meeting with me to discuss HB 798. He wants me to withdraw support for it. Claims it infringes on the civil rights of the common criminal.” HB 798, a legislative initiative spearheaded by my father and a few other lawmakers, had become something of a hot-button topic in our community. It dealt with extended rights for white-collar criminals, many of whom my dad represented. Some people, apparently like Noah Preston, felt it was biased against lower-income prisoners. Obviously my dad and his clients refused to entertain that notion. He snorted and stood, palming his glass. “Not going to happen. I’ll be in my study.”

  I wondered if he should be drinking if Mum wasn’t going to be allowed to anymore. Shouldn’t he quit in a show of solidarity? But my parents were never solid about anything. They were amorphous when it came to our family, floating around the house to the corners where there was the most space, the most emptiness.

  I went back up to my room and slid out the book on multiple sclerosis. Playing with the curling edge of one of my bandages, I began to read.

  * * *

  A half hour later my phone buzzed, rattling against my nightstand, and I jolted awake. I must’ve fallen asleep reading. My heart seemed to know who it was before my brain caught up—it thrummed like a hummingbird’s wings.

  Good morning. Sleep well?

  Drew. I smiled, even though my mind flashed with a picture of Mum in bed, telling me she’d been arrested for drunk driving.

  Yeah. You?

  Like a baby. You kiss well.

  I could feel myself blush at the memory.

  Going to Ptwscptt Psrk. Come queh me?

  I squinted at the misspelling.

  A minute later: *Prescott Park. And *with. Sorry.

  Of course.

  * * *

  I washed up and checked on the drained abscesses. The original packing that Dr. Daniels had put in was still intact, and now it was blood-soaked. I didn’t know how long I should leave it there for maximum impact/infection, so I hadn’t dared take it off even though it had been three days. I could feel the beginnings of a fever in the pit of my bones. I didn’t want to risk another vomiting incident, so I downed two ibuprofen, just to get it under control. I could always let it run its course afterward, once we were done with the park.

  When I was dressed, I went to check on Mum. She was in her craft nook with her new dollhouse, affixing gold-patterned wallpaper to one of the tiny walls. She glanced up as I walked in.

  I got an orange from the fruit bowl and sat down beside her. “I’m going to Prescott Park with a friend.”

  “A friend?” Her voice was cold. Was she just feigning interest so I wouldn’t whine about her not caring?

  “It’s a boy. His name’s Drew.” I poked my thumbnail into the orange peel, filling my lungs with the fragrance as I began to strip its skin.

  Mum turned over another piece of wallpaper and started to dab glue on the back. “I see. And how do you plan to get there?”

  Setting pieces of peel on the table, I began to build up a small tower of them. I ripped off a segment of the fruit, squeezing it too hard. Juice dripped into a paper cut on my finger. “I’m taking the car,” I said, staring at her as my cut sizzled in pain. “It’s not like you can drive it anymore.”

  She stiffened, her hand going still. The glue began to dry. “You do not have permission to drive my car.”

  My mother had always been passionate about me not driving. I’d never been able to get a straight answer out of her about what she was afraid might happen, but I suspected she thought I’d purposely wrap it around a tree just so I could sustain major injuries. She was probably just concerned what that’d do to her car.

  I laughed and popped a slice of orange into my mouth. Once I’d swallowed, I said, “Oh, really? Why not? Because I might do something totally stupid and irresponsible like drink and drive?”

  Even as I flayed her with my words, she sat there unmoving, refusing to look at me.

  Leaving my orange peel on her work desk, I walked to the mudroom and got on my jacket and boots, and grabbed her car keys from the key hook.

  “See you later.” I opened the door to the garage and walked to her car, which sat waiting like a silent, obedient horse.

  * * *

  Before I began driving, I texted Drew.

/>   I’m coming over now. Is that okay?

  He texted back less than thirty seconds later.

  YES.

  Once I was driving down the freshly plowed highway, I looked around for something to drink. Mum usually kept a case of water bottles in her car in the winter, since the weather pretty much ensured refrigeration. I felt around in the backseat with my hand until I had the plastic bottle by its neck. Setting it between my thighs, I twisted the cap. There was no resistance to it, as if it hadn’t been sealed well. After a moment of indecision, I realized I was too thirsty to really care.

  I spat the first disgusting mouthful all over the steering wheel. It wasn’t water in the bottle, it was straight alcohol—probably vodka. At the first stoplight, I turned right and pulled into the parking lot of a gas station. Going around to the backseat of my car, I pulled up the carton of water bottles.

  I began to open them one at a time. None of them were sealed because she’d opened every one, emptied out the water, and filled them back up with vodka. I’d been driving down the road with open containers of alcohol in my car.

  With a small cry, I threw one of the bottles on the ground. The cap flew off and alcohol gurgled out, making a small stream on the icy ground that sparkled in the muted sunlight. Fuck her. Lying, selfish bitch. I heaved the carton of bottles out of the car and, walking to the big Dumpster, tossed the whole thing in. Rearing back, I kicked the Dumpster with everything I had, once, twice, three times. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw some of the customers gassing up their cars, gawking at me. Without looking at any of them, I got back in the car and began to drive again.

  Once I’d slid into Drew’s parking space, I ran to his apartment and knocked. I had to stamp my feet as I waited because I hadn’t bothered getting my jacket on before I got out. I just wanted to go, to keep moving, to not think.

  Drew opened the door and peered past me, at my mother’s silver BMW. “Whose car is that?”

  “Mine,” I said, turning to look at it. “It’s mine now.”

  Drew’s eyebrows knit together at my tone. After only the slightest hesitation, he said, “Sweet.” Grabbing his jacket, he strode out with me.