No, because getting to know someone isn't easy when you always lose friends. It's just a few minutes into our date, and I already want to punch myself for overstepping. "Sorry. I hear being with me is a challenge. I'm rather fond of that, though I'm told it's not necessarily a compliment."
When Mom expresses understanding she does it with personal contact, so I touch Rosalyn's hand in a way that hopefully shows I'm here if she wants to talk, but also don't want to make a federal case out of it.
Niles gives my hand a double pat as if gently saying, "There, there." The intended display of comfort provides a welcome distraction. He often makes little bits of contact but it's never anything that can be read into. A touch to the arm, a touch to the shoulder—all of them never long enough for me to get a vibe of interest beyond friendship. But this is only the second date, and the pace is refreshing. He's dead on with the trust issues. The thought of getting close to a man still freaks me out.
The houselights dim, and I push away the negative thoughts. I used to allow myself to be happy, and I will be like that again.
Niles and I sit in a café booth where he attempts to build a pyramid out of sugar packets. My thumb flicks the seam of the paper sleeve on my coffee cup as I reflect on his earlier mention of family. Where it can lead concerns me, but a cathartic conversation really would be nice. I want to trust again, and, in the metaphysical sense, Niles feels like he's always trying to be a good person. "So, you mentioned family earlier."
His eyes rise from his project. "Sorry. I probably shouldn't have asked that question. I'm still willing to go first if you're in."
"Sure. Why not?"
"How about we play bits and pieces? I'll tell you a little something then you tell me a little something. When either of us feels it's going too far, we quit. Sound good?"
"I can deal with that. You have to start though." I take a swig of coffee while hoping to swallow down my sudden case of jitters.
Niles grabs another sugar packet and shakes its contents to the bottom. He then bops it on the table a few times so it will stand up on its end. "My grandparents mostly raised me. Your turn."
"My dad raised me. You mentioned your mom in the car the other day. What happened to her?" He places the sugar packet in a row next to two others.
"She was there. My grandparents were retired, so I stayed with them while Mom worked her ass off to get me the best education possible. I was what you could call a bit of a problem child. What happened to your mom?"
Problem child?
Upon completion of the first layer Niles smashes down a packet of sugar to smooth it. He then lays it across the top. Somehow the packages underneath remain perfectly stiff. Amazing.
Was the term problem child related to narcotics? Drug damage would explain a lot about his oddness. Then again, I'm not at all one who has the right to question the source of oddities. "Mom died when I was nine," I offer. "Your dad?"
"He bailed when I was four. I barely remember him. Actually, I think it's more that I choose to forget. What happened to your mom?"
"Lung cancer. Are your grandparents still alive?"
"Yeah, they moved here to help Mom when Dad left. Now they are back in Mill Valley where they belong. What about your dad? Where is he?" Niles places two more sugar packets on top of the crossbeam. Of course the whole thing crumbles. He snickers. "Yeah, I know. I often attempt the impossible because I like to believe I can overcome anything."
He seems to shrug off his words, but something in his eyes conveys a deeper meaning. I can't help but think he's encouraging me to overcome whatever it is that makes me not want to have this conversation. "Dad died from prostate cancer five years ago. Siblings?"
Niles plops his hands onto the table and twiddles his thumbs. He's completely lost after the collapse of his sugar tower. "Nope. Just me and Mom." I slide him the packet of M&M's he declined before the movie. Gingerly he pours the contents onto the table so they won't roll off. "You?" he asks.
"None, although I don't think siblings could get much closer than Jacqueline and I."
"You're lucky." Niles places his index finger on a brown M&M and pushes it aside. He then guides a yellow one into a different area as he rotates through all the colors.
"Yeah, I suppose I am. Jacqueline's parents kind of adopted me when Dad passed away. We had already been close since we were kids." My hand darts across the table to snag a yellow M&M. "You have too many." Niles gives an appreciative smile. "Anyway, my dad was in a band with Jacqueline's dad when we were toddlers. With our dads being musicians and her grandfather being a world-renowned guitarist, music became my sanctuary. Jacqueline's grandfather and I can talk about music for hours. He's got all kinds of crazy, old knowledge."
Niles pops enough yellow M&M's in his mouth to even them down to match the amount of dark brown ones. Next he starts alternating between eating the two. "Her grandfather's famous? Anyone I may have heard of?"
"Yeah, I'm betting you have. George Quinn."
Niles abandons his candy-devouring mission and sits erect. "The George Quinn? From St. Mary Shelly's Revival? That's Jacqueline's grandfather?" I give a little nod as his lips part in awe. His eyes search the sky as he takes a moment to absorb my words. "Jacqueline Quinn … That name doesn't really fit her."
Okay, that's nowhere near where I thought Niles would go with that one. "No, her name is Marsden."
Niles adds eating the green M&M's into his rotation. He's reducing them down so that he will have the same amount as he does light brown ones.
"Huh." Marsden. Jacqueline Marsden. Yeah, that's better.
Wait. No way.
"Her dad is Dante Marsden? Are you serious? The session musician? The one who was raised by Vincent Marsden, the famous producer? The guy is connected to pretty much everyone I idolize."
Huh. If I rub a green M&M across the table with the tip of my finger it leaves a colored streak. Does Jacqueline know she's lucky, or do people with both parents accept that as a way of life? Do her parents fight or do they always make kissy faces? Are they more like The Conners or The Cunninghams? Does a yellow M&M smear color too?
The scrape of a yellow one across the table brings the same result. Cool.
Whatever happened to Chuck Cunningham? He went MIA, just like my dad. No one seemed to miss him. Did he also forget they existed?
Niles looks to the M&M's whose color ratios are now balanced and begins dragging them, one at a time, under his finger along the textured, beige table. The coating smears off of the confections and leaves a bright trail, thus turning the table into a canvas. The beautiful scene begs for preservation, so I grab a sketchpad from my purse and start capturing Niles.
Niles's glance sheepishly rises. "Can I ask you one more question? You don't have to answer now, but if you would eventually, I'd really appreciate it."
I give him a little nod.
"What was it like to have a dad?"
Niles has no idea what he's just asked, or the impact it has on my heart, not because of what it means regarding my own father, but the chord it hits regarding the last two years. All children should have their parents to guide them through life. My father was there for me until the day he died and never missed a single moment of importance. Not only did he pick up the pieces for both of us when Mom died, but he shaped everything about me, starting with giving me my name and ending with final words that encouraged me to be myself. Sometimes when my resolve in that area falters I try to blow off the pain like I am stronger and bigger than everyone else because it hurts just too damn much to disappoint him.
My eyes begin to water, and I swallow back sorrow. I miss my family. Even though she had long passed, I used to talk to Mom on my private telephone line to Heaven. When Dad died I would talk to him too. Then life changed, and it was easier to not think about family at all. I really wish I could bring myself to pick up that phone again and talk to the people I miss.
"Rosalyn? Are you okay? Did I take it too far?"
I dab away tear
s I hadn't been aware I was shedding. "No, Niles, I needed this conversation and didn't know it. How about we spend the rest of this evening making plans for our next adventure?"
His boyish grin returns, and everything inside me gets all glowy. Niles reminds me of the happiness of being a kid and the joy felt when making a new friend. If there is one thing I need, it's to remember the simple joys adults so easily ignore. Niles is already good for me.
I Wanna Take You Higher
Through my earbuds, Sly and the Family Stone play a funky rhythm, wanting to take me higher. I hum along as I crawl into bed. Something about this sentiment makes me think of the amazing date I just had with Niles.
Actually, right now everything makes me think of Niles.
Hmm … Niles …
Niles is really cute.
The blankets cover me, bringing toasty warmth.
Niles has fun tastes.
My arms wrap around my pillow, making me wonder how it would be to snuggle next to him.
Niles is sweet.
My body cruises over the earth on a cloud.
Niles is quirky.
Mmm … I like quirky.
Niles is kind of hot.
Mmm … I love hot.
The iPod shuffles, and the soft, orchestral sounds of The Moody Blues bring heaviness to my eyelids as the world fades.
Clang!
The clash of cymbals propels my startled body forward. The iPod's shuffle, taking me from smooth melodies to a pounding drum line, kicks me awake so I can be enlivened by "Circles of Iron" by Love Machine.
My feet hit the carpet with my mind fully alert. The bams of my heart remind me of the sleepless night I tried to contact the man who just woke me. It's the same man in the unfinished drawing that sits on my battered desk over which my father wrote so many songs. Something about the drawing beckons me. While it stays perfectly still, I swear it's trying to flap itself off the desk and into my hands.
I grab it and stare. Why does it match my vision perfectly, yet feel so empty and lacking? I've a desire to add something to the eyes, but I always stop short of adjusting them. Those eyes call to me here just as they do on the album cover. They sound like a voice from within the walls of this silent house.
Impulsively I add wild flowers of pink and purple to the background. Now it looks right, but it feels as if it has already been hung and sits off-center. The sketch gets tacked over my desk next to the one of Niles at the café. As if I've slipped them into the perfect frame both drawings appear enhanced. Maybe Peter needed color to bring him to life. I pick up his album and stare at his image under the golden swirls. Why can't I let go of this man?
The faint sound of a bluesy piano seeps into the bedroom. That's odd. Why is Jacqueline up at this hour?
With the album still in hand, I head down the stairs and follow the sound toward the family room. Jacqueline is probably–
Oh, holy crap!
Inside the dark room, a stream of moonlight seeps between the curtains, acting like a spotlight illuminating where I have twice sat with the Ouija board. The music seems to emanate from the beam. That's it. I'm out of here!
I turn to flee, but the music grows louder, and the moonbeam brightens. Now it all hits me. I'm not the only one who has been doing the summoning. I, too, am being called.
A whisper-soft touch glides over my hand. It's startling, but instead of causing me to jump in fear it brings about peace. I take pause and listen intensely to the tune. What song is this? I'm gonna feel really stupid when I figure it out.
I have an inclination I'm being guided toward the closet. While humming I grab the Ouija board and set it up. My fingers tap along on the planchette. If I could just turn up the volume…
Oh, I'm not tapping the medley. I'm tapping the piano fill. This is totally Fats Domino.
Suddenly the planchette moves. Saw with your eyes.
Ohhhhh, crap. My hands jerk in fear. My voice comes out in a rapid whisper. "You saw with my eyes last time?"
Without a touch the planchette zooms.
Yes.
Uuuh … Is … Is he here? "I'm sorry. I got scared." Yeah, scared because I felt my body was being taken over, which is why I should have myself committed for saying, "Maybe we should try again."
A grip enrobes my hands and thrusts them onto the planchette.
Pull.
"What?"
The throbbing of my pulse increases in my temples, reminding me of a scratched record whose speed is set too high. Peter commands through the board, Pull me to you.
A surge of adrenaline hits as my mind reaches out and yanks. Creaks and cracks fill the air as if a large egg is breaking open and bringing a new creation to life. A pulsing, gold light ripples before me with a high-pitched wind whistling through the crack. It swirls into my hair and whips it back. My energy feeds off of the emerging force—a force that screams I need it. I become desperate for it, wanting it to engulf me. My focus intensifies, and the light blooms with a brightness that burns my eyes and forces them shut with the help of every muscle in my face.
I can't dig any deeper. I can't pull any harder. I can't—
My hair drapes back down and a tender energy replaces the winds of chaos. A whisper, laced with an East London accent, travels through the darkness. "Thank you."
My eyes creep open. "Peter?" I stand and step back, an automatic response of fear.
"You can see me? Really?"
I'm awestruck both by the ghost and by my idolatry. Holy Rock and Roll Heaven! "Yes, you're hazy, but you are here. How is this happening?"
"I've no idea. You must be some type of angel."
"Dear God!" I mutter while looking down at the board. What have I done? An urge to put it away, as if in doing so my actions will be undone, brings me to my knees.
"Well, I may be exquisite, but God is a little much for comparison." Peter chuckles while dusting off his blue, brocade jacket that covers a white shirt with ruffles on the breast that match those on the cuffs. "Seriously, how do I look?"
It's not the fact he's totally cute that gets me, it's those damn black, drainpipe trousers and boots. These little things make me just kind of go all freaky fangirl. "Exactly like you did when you died." The pace of my voice matches the racing of my feet as I make for the closet and tuck the board away. Now what? I peek back at the man and my heart goes haywire again. That's Peter Lane!
"That's awful! I was charred and peeling like a burnt sausage."
Finally, I force myself to get a solid look at the man. "No, you look like before you were barbecued."
"Without the bags under my eyes, I hope. I was terribly in need of sleep that day."
"No, actually your eyes look rather … magnetic." And hypnotizing. Not to mention something about them is putting both my heart and my hormones in a spin like I'm under attack by my boyfriend drawer come to life.
"How rude of me not to have asked your name." He steps forward, and I try not to gasp.
"It's—It's Rosalyn."
"Like The Pretty Things song?"
"No, the Bowie version." Peter seems confused. Duh! Of course he would be. "You knew him as David Jones."
" 'The Laughing Gnome', guy? You mean that tall, skinny, bloke actually amounted to something?"
"He kind of helped define an entire movement, but yeah, when you come right down to it, I was named after The Pretty Things song, especially since Bowie just ripped it off. Seriously, if you're going to cover something, why not have a little fun with it instead of going straight for the rip off? I mean—" Wait, why am I babbling about David Bowie to the ghost of Peter Lane?
There is something rather striking about this girl. Then again, she's the first being I've laid eyes on, living or dead, since I made the biggest decision of my existence—one that still seems barmy. How long has it been? Years? Decades? A century? Is there still time to complete my dastardly little deed, or has the whole mess been in vain?
"Peter, how is it possible you are here?"
; A complicated question. The answer is still a bit of a mystery. The why of it better explains the situation. "I've unfinished business." If I got here because this girl thought of me, can I get to Jane by thinking of her?
It's time to thank the angel responsible for my release and embark on the journey for which I've waited so long. My devotion to Jane stops my lips just shy of giving Rosalyn's cheek a kiss of thanks. Who could blame me for wanting to though? I'd be a fool not to long to kiss the silken cheek of this beautiful creature.
Peter looks perplexed, as if something about me brings forth questions. His hand extends towards my chin. While the caress lacks physical contact the sensation makes me swoon as if a hundred butterflies have fluttered out of my heart.
Peter's face hones in on mine, and the proximity of his lips puts a tingle onto my cheek, leaving me clamoring for more. Dear God! Peter Lane almost kissed me!
"Rosalyn?" Jacqueline's voice startles me.
A pretty, dark-haired girl in a slinky, blue nightie enters the room. She looks right at me yet misses me entirely. Pity. I certainly can't miss her.
My body flickers and slightly fades as I attempt to leave, yet my mind remains fully in the room. Again I try to force the fading. God, please take me to Jane.
My ability to fade slows and adds to the heaviness of my heart. Maybe I need to address business first. I summon my anger from within and focus every bit of hate on Stoddard. I'll get the bastard that wronged me. Maybe I didn't have the power when I was alive, but all the stories about ghosts who are hell-bent for revenge must have some merit. I haven't spent years surrounded by a black nothingness for no reason at all.
Finally my mind and body both float away. "Goodnight, Rosalyn."
"Rox? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Jacqueline. I'm just suffering from boredom, insomniac style."
Peter's voice hangs in my head as if he were still here. My eyes scan the room one last time before I grab his album and follow Jacqueline off to bed.
Scary Modsters... and Creepy Freaks: A Rock and Roll Fantasy (The Rock And Roll Fantasy Collection) Page 6