Voices Carry: A Rock and Roll Fantasy (The Rock And Roll Fantasy Collection)

by Diane Rinella

  I grab my phone and start dialing. This is crazy.

  Bailey’s sigh-filled hello sounds as if she is trying to disguise pain. I don’t want to be in that boat anymore and instantly let loose. “How is it all we have in our lives are men that hurt us, careers that are shadows of the ones we want, and each other?”

  I can sense her looking to heaven like I am. “Time and again I have asked myself this,” she says. “Yet I can never find an answer other than I have been a fool. I guess you don’t feel much different right now.”

  I fall back onto the bed. “I can’t believe I let Jason snow me.”

  Bailey sniffles, and I don’t find the tiniest bit of consolation in knowing I am not the only one hurting. We both deserve better. I wish I could be there to comfort her. “At least you didn’t have huge, neon signs flashing in front of you. Carlos being a moocher and taking all those weekends away with the boys should have tipped me off.” Again Bailey sniffles and follows it with a prolonged sigh. “Thing is, before Carlos lost his job he was so dedicated, both to me and to it. Maybe since he thought work dumped him like a rotten fish, I would turn around and do the same. That’s why I feel bad for trying to get him to move out of my place, because I see myself as being as bad as he feared.”

  I so get where she is coming from. “It is as if Jason thought because his body was betraying him, it was easier to let me think mine was too, sort of like misery loves company. It’s all so twisted. God, Bailey, how will I ever trust again?”

  Bailey braves words between sniffles. “I don’t know. I mean, not every man is that way. There are more good people like us, right?”

  I can’t help but think about the mistakes of my past and how horrible I will always feel about them. “Sometimes I’m not so sure how great of a person I am.”

  Bailey is quick to offer support. “Katherine, you can’t let Jason get to you. We are good people. In fact—” Bailey pauses, and I wonder if the connection has failed until I hear her catch her breath. Suddenly, Bailey sounds enlightened. “Oh God, Katherine, we are so stupid.”

  “For dating those losers, yes.”

  Due to her tone, I can envision revelation in her eyes. “No, we are missing the entire problem. Carlos slipped into depression because he gave his all to something. When it failed him, he let what he lost swallow him up. It’s less intimidating for a good-looking man to put himself out there for women than for a man with less than desirable work skills to face rejection, time and again, by faceless businesses that won’t even call him in for an interview. All I did was try to support someone I love through hard times, and that says a lot about my character. However, now that I know the rest of the story, whatever problems come next are as much my fault as they are his. When it comes to Carlos, I have always been true to who I am, which meant supporting him when he was down. Unfortunately, I have not always been so wise when it comes to me.”

  Bailey continues while sounding as if she now understands the meaning of life on Earth. “He put himself in this position and now he thinks if he denies all of his actions, I will continue to eat out of his hand and support him. It doesn’t matter why he cheated. There are better things for me—things greater than I can ever imagine—and I won’t find them by sitting here and suffering with his lies. It is time for me to take risks because that is the only way I will shine. Mark my words, Katherine, I will come out on top!”

  I wish Bailey’s enthusiasm were contagious. Instead, I feel my heart pull back. I want to take a risk and find the great things that await me. The thing is, right now I feel what I need to explore most may be in my head. However, maybe it is a part of me that is struggling to get out. I have a lot more questions to ask myself. “You know what, Bailey? I believe you. You’ve given me a lot to think about. I’m gonna go for a drive and clear my head a little more.”

  “Hey, you okay?” she asks, sounding as if some of her fire has caved to concern.

  “Yeah, you are right about this not being our fault. In fact, you are right about a lot of things. I’ll see you when I get back.”

  Crawling From The Wreckage

  Note to self: Never, ever, hang out with Dale for an entire weekend again. Merely the memory of some of the women he attracts makes me want to dump a gallon of Raid over my head.

  Yet he failed to bite—not even a nibble. I’m certain he puts up a front. I don’t believe for a second he enjoys all this traveling either. The man must be miserable.

  Is it possible he has a hard time approaching what could be the right woman? Does Mr. Star Salesman / Mr. Womanizer have a timid side?

  For hours I have lain here while staring at this hotel room ceiling. Pondering Dale’s life has taken my mind off of my own issues. Even if I could manage to get some sleep, I’ll regret it when my alarm goes off in an hour.

  I am sticking to my original scheme of having Dale drop me off at the airport and let him think I am heading home. I'll then rent a car and spend the day popping into the places I heard Katherine frequents. I have no idea when she is returning, but since I am here I might as well stick to my plan and hope for the best.

  While driving to the theatre on Saturday, I felt the same buzz of energy I did at the airport. When I asked Dale what we were near, he pointed to the left side of the freeway. “Over there is the best damn burger you’ll get anywhere in the world. Behind us is suburban hell. Even you don’t want to go in that direction to save your life.” He then gave me a nasty once over, which I now see through. “Come to think of it, maybe you do. Tucked behind that patch of trees on our right is Majestic Studios.”

  After getting his confirmation that the buzz occurred near Katherine’s work, I clicked the camera button on my cell phone each time I felt it. My vacation photos show only the inside of my pocket, but each one also has its location tagged. It was so double-oh-seven of me I should have been wearing a tux. If I follow through on this buzzing thing, maybe I can find something definitive and end this madness once and for all.

  The room twists a bit as my feet hit the floor. Lack of sleep must be taking its toll. When I get on the plane tonight, I have got to take something to knock me out. My butt nearly falls into the desk chair, and the glare from my laptop seems to pierce into my head and make my stomach flip. Maybe I ate something bad last night. I wonder if Dale is sick.

  It is of no surprise that a map of the area from the first picture looks familiar since it is near Katherine’s work and I looked up the area long ago. The location of the next shot is near Harblano’s, the restaurant where I saw the photo of her having dinner with Jason. The sickness in my stomach deepens at the thought of his smarmy hands on her.

  Knock it off. You don’t know squat about Jason Day, so cut out the bad mouthing. Stay positive, even if it pisses you off that you have to.

  The map that picture number three brings up also correlates to my existing notes. It’s near where one of the tabloids said she was seen having lunch with her friend.

  Oh, son of a bitch!

  My head drops into my hands. Of all the stupid—

  “Crap!”

  The only sign that I have some level of sanity is I stop myself from flipping out for fear the cops will get called on the screaming nut in a hotel room. I’m not double-oh-seven; I’m a data mining marketing guy. I preprogramed myself into thinking I’m sensing Katherine when all I am doing is recalling places I already noted she has been. God! How sick am I?

  Amber believed in residual energy, so I convinced myself I felt Katherine’s. But no, that’s not all. One of the reasons I convinced myself I didn’t fit the profile of a schizophrenic is because I’m not displaying odd behavior. Not only did I drop everything to go to Canada to stalk someone, since when would I ever go to a psychic, let alone believe her?

  Come to think of it, I first heard Katherine not only after seeing her on the TV at Mulligan’s, but also after hearing Darla on the phone. She said, “Escaping your situation only takes listening to your inner voice.” I am such an idiot! Not only
did I plant a seed in my head, I let it sprout. Given that, I’ve probably twisted ninety percent of what Jennifer said into what I wanted to hear, if she and shirtless guy even exist at all. I mean, she looks like freaking Stevie Nicks. That has to be in my head. The only logical explanation for any of this is the last time I was in Warped Records, one of those stacks in Vinyl Heaven toppled over and I have spent the last few days knocked out while inhaling the fumes of musty cardboard. That place is such a disaster they may not find me for a month.

  Standing puts my head in a spin that has me falling onto the bed and dropping my head between my legs. I’m sick—truly sick. I’m a mentally ill stalker who has also become physically ill through stress and lack of sleep. I’ve crossed over the threshold into madness.

  I turn to heaven for answers. “Amber, are you behind the voice? Are you punishing me for trying to move on? Please, tell me what I need to do for this to end.” I fall back, and hot tears of exasperation stream down the sides of my face. My body prickles in fear that I have lost it.

  Silence. Nothing but silence.

  Silence that reminds me of death.

  The rays of the sun peek through the crack in the curtains and land on my hand. The image of it holding a gun comes to mind. Was that fantasy? What is my reality now?

  Bile burns its way up my throat, and my hand trembles as I lift it to my temple and recall the cool steel pressing against me. This time the voice in my head is my own. “Pull it. Pull it and be done.”

  I jerk and fling my hand as if tossing the gun across the room. Without a blink, I am up and headed for my suitcase. These images of suicide must be my brain telling me I feel guilty for surviving, so I need to beat this before it defeats me. Amber and I have unfinished business to take care of.

  The fluffy clouds hanging above weep tender tears as I pass through the wrought iron gates of the Detroit cemetery. I probably should have brought more than a single, pink rose, but holding them reminded me of a wedding bouquet and the vows I started writing the night after we became engaged. They are still fresh in my mind; ready to blurt out when she walks through a chapel door that will never open. When it comes to Amber’s death, I’ve always been in a damned if I do, damned if I don’t situation.

  The tears burning my eyes blur the headstones below, turning the ground to a fuzz of green and grey. When I see tree roots, I’ll know I’m nearly there. But if I look up, my mind will envision her funeral all over again.

  I can’t witness her mom doubled over the casket and screaming. I can’t handle feeling Amber’s little sister holding my hand and crying into my shoulder. I was so wrapped in misery I couldn’t even think to console her. I don’t want to envision her brother looking like he was about to lose his mind because his parents wouldn’t stop freaking out about every breath he and his sister took, fearing one of them would be next.

  With each step, the memories become more vivid. They grip at my lower back and yank me towards the gates, yet I keep moving forward.

  Brown enters the haze of green and grey—roots from the tree I’ve dreaded reaching. The breath I grab to prepare myself is far too shallow. Then again, I don’t think I could ever take one deep enough.

  One row.

  Two rows.

  Three.

  “Hi, honey.”

  In my mind, the splattering of grey clouds solidifies into a muggy mass as I set sight on Amber’s headstone. The fresh sprays of yellow and pink carnations on each side, along with the bright polish of the stone, make my spine shudder with the feeling our pain happened yesterday.

  I take a seat at her feet and look to where I imagine her head is. I can’t do this while facing her headstone. Not only should she be alive, our last names should have been shared long ago.

  I want to tell her about life in Los Angeles, and the job I suck at. I want to share how life gets crazy sometimes, so I go to the record store and give Shane a bad time regarding his taste in music which isn’t all that different from mine. There’s also how I’m beginning to figure out the score with Dale. Most of all, I want to be sure she knows how I love and miss her, and that my heart has a hole in it so deep I am not sure it can be repaired. But as the heat of tears burns its way down my face, I choke out calm words I never saw coming.

  “Dammit, Amber, you were everything that mattered in my life. We fell in love at eighteen. The night I turned twenty-one, everybody wanted us to go out, but we chose to celebrate on our own. Being with you was so perfect I wanted to spend every night of my life that way. My heart wouldn’t let me say goodnight until I proposed.”

  The sting of tears burns so badly I squeeze my eyes closed in hopes of flushing out the pain. We didn’t just get engaged that night; we laid out our future and how we would make every dream come true. “We planned to get married when we were twenty-three, and to start a family when we were twenty-five so we could be done by thirty. Our kids would be out of college before we hit our mid-fifties, so we could retire by sixty. We knew what type of jobs we wanted, how much they needed to pay, the maximum our mortgage could be, and how much we would put in savings each month for our retirement and for the kids’ futures. It was all planned out to the letter, and then—”

  My skin grows cold. I will never understand how a simple moment changed so many futures.

  “Then you wanted ice cream. Out of the blue, you popped up and said, ‘Thin Mint.’ It was so unlike you.”

  My throat begins to burn from the sickness building in my stomach. I hate how petty pain can make people, but I can’t fight it. Or maybe I can but am tired of doing so. “I offered to come with you, but you said studying had gotten to you and you needed to clear your head. For some crazy reason, even though the store was only about a mile down the road, you got on the freeway. Some idiot decided texting about a business deal was more important than protecting your life. By typing a single word, he shattered all our dreams.”

  The vision of what I heard happened has never left my mind. I’ve tried everything to erase it, yet it won’t even fade. “You were just getting on. He swerved over and knocked you into the concrete barrier. You tapped it and spun, and then another car hit you head on. Some jerk may have put his stupidity first, but you were the one who wanted ice cream, and you wouldn’t let me go instead. Unlike what I would have done, you chose the freeway and didn’t take the city streets.” I force out the words I have wanted to scream at her for so long, because dammit, even in death I have let her hold back my self-expression. “Everything is ruined! It’s Monday night, and we should be seated around the dinner table with our family, but I’m alone because you wanted ice cream!”

  I can’t take being still any longer, so I pace at her feet, tossing my arms out and then slamming them down in frustration. How could she let this happen?

  “We always decided everything together, but that night it was all you. Together we had decided where to live. We set the wedding date and picked out your engagement ring together.”

  My finger of blame gets pointed down at her head. “But you alone decided you wanted ice cream, and you alone decided to take the freeway! It’s terrible, rude, and selfish of me, but I’ve never found forgiveness for what happened the one time you acted alone. Now, because I am angry with somebody who is dead, I may be projecting myself into a situation that is making me lose my mind. I’ve been hearing voices, and now I think I killed someone—that I was the driver in a car accident. Do you have any idea how much pain you wanting ice cream has caused?”

  My knees hit the ground. The bulk of my anger has been released, but pain still reigns over me. I need answers, and dammit, I will beg them out of someone.

  “Every time I think I’m close to letting go, something stops me. I thought moving to Los Angeles would break the pattern. I even started dating. I couldn’t find the right woman, but at least I was trying. The last time I had a chance with someone, her name turned out to be Amber. I’ve been hearing voices ever since, and now I’m getting visions. This has to be because of you!�
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  Again I point blame at her only to turn my finger around and jab it into my chest, punctuating every point of my demise. “I’m going crazy! I’m hearing things! I’m hallucinating and seeing a crackpot psychic! I flew to Canada. I convinced myself I felt buzzing because you believed in that sort of stuff. Dammit, Amber, why the hell did you have to die?”

  My sobs of desperation turn to wails of agony, driving me to crawl up to caress her headstone, collapsing me onto the ground and hugging the earth. The source of my pain lies six feet beneath me, and as desperate as I am to hold her again, I know I never will.

  “Make it stop!” shudders through sobs. “Make it stop!”

  What do I have to do to bring this suffering to an end? I try to calm myself enough to halt the sobs, but it is all I can do to lower my voice in prayer. “God, please, the voices, the visions … Amber, I know none of this is your fault, but can’t you please take the pain away?”

  I lie with my heart against the ground that separates us, waiting to hear a blessing of forgiveness for a crime I didn’t commit—letting my pain bleed into the dirt while hoping it will somehow wake Amber and I from this nightmare.

  Then something overcomes me—something I have always known, yet have never been able to vocalize. So much guilt comes with my words I can barely get them out. “Something about being with you made it easier to keep the real me hidden in the shadows. We may have wanted the same things, but I never felt open-spirited with you. I have not been able to say it before out of respect for you, but now I need to face it out of respect for myself. I was never the person you wanted me to be, nor can I ever be. That is just the way it is.”

  Silence slinks in. There are no voices—no sounds at all—anywhere. I raise my head and see a car drive out the gate. Its tread on the gravel is barely discernible. Maybe I have been blessed with peace.