It takes all of my acting abilities to keep a straight face. “You’re right, Daddy. I’m sorry you can’t come, but it’s true. Isaac knows Boston really well, and he’ll be glad to see his alma mater again.” I pat Daddy’s hand for emphasis. “Even if he does have to tote around a whiny teenager. Maybe he can pretend I’m his little sister.”
I giggle. Daddy gives me a funny look but smiles in return. Behind him, Mama shakes her head.
I call Dave with the news as soon as Daddy and I return from dinner.
Silence.
Then…“Ho-ly shit! I bet Ike’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat. No, wait. Knowing him, he’s pacing around his house. ‘I must be responsible. I must not have fun. This is serious business.’ I can hear him now.”
I flop back on my bed and laugh at Dave’s impression. He’s probably right. Across town, I hope Isaac’s in the throes of a panic attack.
“Daddy mentioned you, too. Said he didn’t trust you to watch over me.”
“Oh, I’d watch over you. All of you.”
“He thought the same thing.”
“And he didn’t about Ike? Is he blind?”
“Um, well…he doesn’t think Isaac thinks of me that way.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. He thinks we’ve been arguing.”
“Uh-oh.”
“We did argue...”
“And?”
“And I slapped him. And hit him in the stomach. And there may be a kamikaze plant involved.”
He groans. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
“And then I bit him.”
“…”
“On the lip.”
“…”
“And then he bit me back.”
There’s a heavy sigh on the other end of the phone.
“What am I going to do with you, Stella?”
“I was hoping you’d still be my friend? I understand if you say no.”
“Aw, kitten, you know I can’t say no to you. I’ll still be your friend.”
I let out a gust of air, unaware I’d held my breath the whole time.
“So,” he continues in a breathy falsetto, “what are you going to wear?”
“Um, I hadn’t really thought about it. Just what I usually wear with the orchestra, I guess. Black shirt, black pants.”
“Oh, no, this won’t do! How about one of those long, flowy black skirts that all the hipsters wear, but then whammo! You hit ’em with black thigh-highs underneath. The kind with the stripe up the back…”
“Ahem.”
“And stilettos…”
“Dave.”
“What?”
“You know what.”
“…”
“Hellooo?”
“Yeah. Gimme a sec. I’m playing it in my head, and it’s good. Really good.”
“Dave!”
“What? Oh. What were we talking about?”
“Goodbye, Dave.”
“No, wait! I wanted to ask you about your plans while you’re up here. I have to work Friday, then I’ve got a family thing I can’t get out of that night, but I was hoping to show you around Saturday.”
“What, I’m not good enough to meet your family?” I’m mostly kidding. Mostly.
“No, actually—”
“It’s fine. Saturday’s fine. I’ll probably be too tired and spastic to do anything Friday night anyway.”
“Whatever you want, kitten. And good luck. I know you’ll do great. And if you don’t, well, that’s what the thigh-highs are for.”
“You’re such a hornball!”
“Bye!”
I roll onto my side and stare at my closet door. What am I going to wear? Black pants and shirt, definitely. I need to be comfortable. Maybe some kick-ass boots. No, we’ll be doing a lot of walking. Definitely keep it comfortable. Just…comfortable.
Do I even own a pair of thigh-highs? No! No.
This is a business trip. The most important one I’ll ever take. I really need to focus and get my head out of the gutter. If I screw up this audition, if my shoulder doesn’t cooperate, if the panel isn’t impressed, if I don’t get in, if I have to stay around Mobile, if, if, if… My head spins.
I open my closet and paw through the hangers. I find what I’m looking for. A black gauzy shirt with a low, draped collar and three-quarter sleeves. Black dress pants. Behind those is the blue dress I wore to the symphony the night of Isaac’s guest performance. What a perfect night that was, when things were just a little less complicated. When I thought we were mostly just friends, and the only thing that really mattered to me was getting into the NEC. I open my sock drawer and find a pair of respectable black patterned trouser socks to go with my respectable (boring) shoes.
I’ve made my decision. Now that my anger has subsided, I decide I won’t further complicate my life by mooning over a guy when I should be focusing on fulfilling a lifelong dream. I’ve worked too hard to mess up now.
Yeah, right.
I flop back down on my bed and stare at the ceiling until the sun fades and shadows creep across the walls.
***
Monday morning comes too soon, and I have to go back to school. It’s just as bad as I thought it’d be. I’m given a wide berth in the halls, and even my teachers avoid me. By the time I’ve finished physical therapy and stepped into my other therapist’s office, I’m drained. I so don’t want to deal with this right now. There’s a rose-scented bubble bath calling my name, but first I have to survive this, and then face Isaac.
The room is softly lit and reminds me of a man-cave, complete with dark paneled walls, a soft leather couch, and a coffee table covered in two-year-old issues of Sports Illustrated and Psychology Today. It smells of burnt coffee and Old Spice. I settle into the cushions and wait my turn. The door to the inner office opens a crack, and I hear Dr. Jordan’s muffled voice.
“Yes, next week. Goodbye.”
The door opens all the way, and a middle-aged woman shuffles out into the waiting room. She looks me up and down, sniffs, and heads out the main door.
“Julianne, how are you?”
I never know how to answer. Fine seems pretty safe, politically correct. I don’t think he wants to hear Great! Except that I see my mama every time I close my eyes, and even when they’re open. In fact, she’s standing in the corner right there! You doing okay?
Inside his office, the man-cave continues with burgundy and dark green furniture, dark wood frames surrounding his diplomas and certificates, and fake Tiffany lamps with dragonflies on the shades. The only touch of the feminine is a giant matted print of a magnolia. I bet it’s the victim of a 1980s living room redo.
He settles in a chair across from me, flips over to a fresh sheet of yellow tablet paper, and scribbles something at the top. “Today was your first day back to school, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Friday you were a bit agitated. Are you still feeling that way now?”
Agitated, that’s funny. That’s what I’ll tell Isaac, that I was “agitated” and not to blame for my actions. I must be smiling, because Dr. Jordan cocks his head. I look over his shoulder to the bookshelves behind him. There have to be hundreds of volumes—Ethics in Psychology and the Mental Health Professions, Adolescents, Sex and the Law: Preparing Adolescents for Responsible Citizenship—that one has promise—Measuring Suicidal Behavior and Risk in Children and Adolescents—huh. I wonder if R.J. has read any of these. Do they hold the cure for whatever’s wrong with me, with Mama?
There’s a breath in my ear.
“No, darling daughter.”
I leap off the couch at the sound of her voice and dive under Dr. Jordan’s desk. The shaking starts in my head and works its way out to the rest of my body. I wrap my arms around my knees to make it stop but it won’t, so I rock back and forth.
No, no, no, nonononononono…
“You’re not here,” I whisper. “You can’t be here.”
I close my eyes to try to shut her
out, but images from that night flash on the back of my eyelids. I put my hands on the sides of my head, try to squeeze her out, to make the pain stop, but it just hurts worse and I cry out. The images won’t stop.
Makethemstopmakethemstop!
I hear my name, but it’s faint.
I hear it again, closer now.
“Sweetie? Juli?”
There’s a touch on my knee and I jerk away, shove myself as far as I can into the darkest corner under the desk. I put my head between my knees and hear a low animal wail I don’t recognize. I’ve never made that sound in my life.
“Sweetie, it’s Daddy. I’m here, baby. It’s okay. You’re safe. It’s just me and Dr. Jordan. I’ve come to take you home.”
Mumbling. And another low rumble in return. I can’t make out the words because of the echo. More mumbling, clearer now.
“Sweetie? I’m going to touch your arm, okay? It’s me, and I just want to touch your arm. I’m not going to hurt you. Ready?”
A strong hand encircles my forearm. I flinch, but I don’t back away. More rumbling.
“Juli, I need you to come out of there. Dr. Jordan says you need to go home and rest, but we can’t go home until you come out. Do you understand?”
Do I understand? Understand what? What? What? What?
Strong hands wedge under my armpits and lift. I have no energy, no fight. I’m dead weight in Daddy’s arms. He puts me on the couch, and Dr. Jordan’s face appears above me.
Touch. Touch. Rumble.
“Her pulse is returning to normal. She’s not in any danger, so I don’t think the hospital is necessary, though I’m going to give you a prescription. And no school. Don’t send her back to school for the rest of the week. You should consider cancelling her trip to Boston, too.”
No! No! I struggle to make my mouth work. I want to go! I’m going!
“I have to go to Boston!”
Both men stop talking to look at me.
“Julianne, how are you feeling?” We’re back to Dr. Jordan’s original question.
“Like I got hit by a semi. Are you going to let me go to Boston? Can I still go, Daddy?”
I sit up and Dr. Jordan hands me a paper cup of water. I take a sip and make an effort to still my shaky hands.
“Julianne, do you know what just happened?”
“Um, no? One minute I was sitting here looking at your books and the next Daddy was hauling me off the floor. When did you get here?”
“About two minutes after Dr. Jordan called to tell me you’d had a psychotic break.”
“A what?”
“A psychotic break,” Dr. Jordan says, “is when someone temporarily loses touch with reality. I’m surprised it didn’t happen earlier…considering. Just try to relax for a minute.”
He and Daddy put their heads together and Dr. Jordan hands him a white slip of paper. Daddy nods and puts his hands on his hips.
“Come see me tomorrow at one o’clock, Julianne. No school. No stress. Just rest. Can you make it to the car?”
“We’ll be fine, won’t we?” Daddy speaks to me like I’m a small child. It might be nice to be a child for a little bit. Maybe that’s the way to get Daddy to pay attention and realize what she did to me is not okay. I am not okay.
At home, he helps me to my room and sets a glass of water on my nightstand.
“I have to run to the pharmacy. Will you be all right for a few minutes?”
“Sure, Daddy.” I curl up into a ball on my bed. I rub my face into the familiar scent and softness.
“I’ll only be gone a few minutes. Your cell is on your table. Call if you need me.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
So sleepy. I trace the pattern of the wallpaper first with my eyes, then I lift a finger and run it over the intricate lines. The design is so pretty, like a tattoo in white relief on the pale blue background. Damask, I think that’s what she called it. If I wasn’t so tired, I’d carve it into my arm with the scissors. Oh, but the scissors are gone now, confiscated. I can’t be trusted with sharp objects. Guess I really am like a child now. That makes me giggle.
“Sweetie? Who are you talking to?”
Daddy’s back. But he just left.
I hum “Variation 18” of Rachmaninoff’s Paganini. Isaac says it’s overdone—and he’s right—but I still think it’s so pretty. I wave my hands in the air, playing a keyboard above my head. Daddy grabs my hands and squeezes. I hum louder, mimic the sweeping violins. He looks upset, but I’m puzzled. After a moment, he releases them. He hands me a fat pill and some water, looking expectant.
“Oh, you want me to swallow this?” I giggle.
If I take enough of these, I’ll be like her. Wouldn’t that be ironic? That makes me giggle even more. When I stop, I stick my tongue out as far as it will go and place the pill on the end. Slowly, I reel it into my mouth and knock back the water.
“Down the hatch! Do I get a sticker for being a good girl, Daddy?”
His face drains of color, but he’s silent as he removes my shoes. He picks up the folded blanket draped over the window seat and settles it over me. I lie back and pull the blanket up to my chin.
“Thank you, Daddy. Nighty-night!” I giggle again.
And that’s the last thing I remember until I wake up at lunchtime the next day.
My pillow’s wet, and I can tell someone is sitting on my bed.
“Sweetie, you awake? You were crying and screaming.”
“Was I?”
I don’t remember a thing. I don’t remember dreaming, and I don’t know why Daddy looks at me like a dangerous animal that’s escaped from the zoo.
“How do you feel?”
“Groggy. What—what happened?”
“You don’t remember?”
“No.”
“We have to go to Dr. Jordan’s in an hour. Why don’t you shower, and I’ll have lunch waiting when you’re done.”
I narrow my eyes at him. Who are you and what did you do with my Daddy? I’m pretty grossed out when I look down and see yesterday’s clothes, so for once, I’m happy to obey.
Lunch is grilled cheese and tomato soup, my favorite. I should go psycho more often if this is the reward.
“It’s Tuesday, right?”
“Yep.” He takes a big slurp of soup.
“And I leave Thursday morning. Wow, I lost a lot of practice time. Did you talk to Isaac?”
Translation: What did you tell him? What did he say?
“We’ll talk about that at Dr. Jordan’s.” Slurp, slurp.
My hands automatically clench into fists, but I purposely relax and moderate my voice before I answer.
“I’d really like to talk about it now, Daddy.” There, that was normal. Not angry, not confrontational. “I don’t want to argue, and I don’t want to fight. I’m not sure what happened at Dr. Jordan’s office, but I know this—I have to go to Boston. I have to audition. If you ever want me to be happy, if you want me to have a chance to get away from this, to get well and move on, then you have to let me go. I know there’s no guarantee I’ll get in, but I have to try. Otherwise, I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive you or myself.”
For the first time I can remember, he looks me right in the eyes. They’re the same blue as mine and R.J.’s, but it looks like someone drained out some of the vibrancy.
“And what about your mother? Can you ever forgive her?”
I look away. I expected him to fight me, not bring up her again.
“It’s too soon. I don’t know. I don’t think it’s fair to ask me that right now.”
He sighs and stands up, taking his dishes to the overfilled sink. “You’re right. I should leave that to Dr. Jordan. We need to leave in five minutes. Will you be ready?”
“Yes.”
“See you outside.”
I swirl the spoon around in my soup and make myself a promise—I’ll hold it together until after the audition. After that, I can have all the “psychotic breaks” I want, but until then, I’ll fight for my
sanity like I finally fought against her.
I lost that first fight—I don’t intend to lose this one.
Chapter Sixteen
I seriously think my jaw bounces off the floor a couple of times when Dr. Jordan tells Daddy he should let me go to Boston.
“It was just a matter of time until it happened. Up until yesterday, Julianne, you hadn’t dealt with the trauma. Your brain hadn’t fully processed what happened. By having that break, you essentially hit the reset button. Don’t get me wrong, you’ve got a lot to work through, but I don’t think you’re in any danger of a recurrence.”
I nod—the appropriate response—but I don’t tell him Mama stands in the corner. At least she hasn’t whispered in my ear again. Oh yes, I remember what happened yesterday. As soon as I stepped into the inner office and saw the bookcases, it all came back. I’m not convinced the danger is gone.
That night, I’m afraid to go to bed. Without the time-warp pills Dr. Jordan prescribed, the nightmares come back. But I don’t want to take the pills, either. They put me smack-dab in the middle of my own zombie apocalypse—Night of the Living Dead Girl, that’s me.
I call the only person who’ll understand, the only one who can calm me down and bring me back from the brink.
“Hey there, gorgeous.”
“Hey yourself.”
“You ready for Friday?”
“Ready as I can be. Listen, I need a favor.”
Here it comes.
“Anything.”
What, no joke?
“I—I can’t sleep. Nightmares. I have sleeping pills, but they do funny things and I don’t want to take them. Play me to sleep?”
“You’re lucky you caught me at home. Did you have something in mind?”
“The Etudes-Tableaux?”
“You got it, kitten.”
I hear him set the phone down, and he begins. I put him on speakerphone and place my cell on my nightstand. I nestle into the pillow and close my eyes.
It’s so beautiful I want to cry. When I die, I want this playing in the background. I want this to be the soundtrack of my afterlife, spinning out into eternity.
What was Rachmaninoff thinking when he wrote this? What heartbreak was he suffering? Was it anything like mine?
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