by Grey, Priya
She looks surprised. I guess she didn’t see that coming.
I point my finger at her and hiss. “Jeanie, I’m paying you a thousand dollars an hour because you’re supposed to be some amazing therapist. But from what I can tell, you’re an overpriced hack. And if you’re not going to prescribe medicine to help me sleep, than what the fuck are you good for? I think it’s time you get out of my house.”
After a stunned silence, Dr. Jeanie Mendelsohn finally replies, “I see.” Looking visibly flustered, she gets up from her chair and walks out of my study. I follow her out. As we walk the long hallway to my kitchen, and toward the back entrance of my house, she advises, “I think you need to start facing what’s happened, Melody, and not run away from it. You need to accept that there are certain things you can not change.”
“Well, the one thing I can change,” I respond, “is therapists.” When we enter the kitchen, I open the door leading into my backyard. I don’t use the front door of my house anymore. I don’t want those paparazzi assholes surrounding the front gate to get video of me. As I fling the backdoor open, I’m surprised to see Suzie standing outside. She has her set of keys in her hand.
“Hey, Melody.” She then notices Dr. Mendelsohn standing next to me. “Hi Jeanie.”
“She’s leaving,” I say sharply. “For good.”
Dr. Mendelsohn walks past me; her face is red and angry. I motion Suzie to come inside. Once she’s in the house, I close the door on Jeannie.
“You need to find me another therapist,” I tell Suzie flatly as I walk toward the kitchen counter island.
“Seriously?” she replies. “I thought you liked her?”
“She’s a hack. Remember when she thought I had a sex addiction problem?”
“Well, I kind-a-thought you had one too, ” Suzie admits.
“Really?”
Suzie shrugs. “Just a little one, not a full blown addiction. But face it, Melody, you had a hard time keeping your legs together.”
“I haven’t had sex in a year!” I shout. “I do not have a sex addiction problem!”
“Before the accident, it was debatable,” Suzie replies.
“Whatever,” I grumble. “Just find me a therapist who actually knows what he or she is talking about, okay?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” She places a bunch of letters on the counter.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Fan mail.”
“Seriously?”
Suzie nods.
“Haven’t they heard of email?” I ask.
Suzie rolls her eyes. “Melody, you haven’t replied to fan emails since the accident. You’re not on social media anymore. Some of your loyal fans really want to hear from you. They want to know how you’re doing. I think it’s cool that some of them actually took the time to write you a real, physical letter.”
I stare at the stack of envelopes resting on the counter.
“Can you reply for me?” I ask.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s bad karma. Plus, I think it would be good for you to start writing again, even if it’s only letters.”
Suzie is the only one who can tell me what to do. Maybe because she’s my lifeline to the outside world. Since the accident, she takes care of everything for me. She’s the only person I trust.
“I’ve got a plumber coming by tomorrow to take a look at the toilet upstairs,” Suzie says as she studies the calendar on her phone.
I look at her with worry. I don’t like to interact with strangers. I don’t like them staring at me. “You’re going to be here to deal with him, right?”
Suzie nods. “Yes, I’ll be here. I’m just reminding you. And don’t forget we have an appointment with Dr. Henry this Wednesday. It’s a consultation before the next plastic surgery.”
I sigh as I take a seat on one of the stools surrounding the kitchen island.
“I’m sick of doctors,” I mutter.
“Well, you only have two more procedures to go,” Suzie says, her tone always positive. “Pretty soon you’ll be able to take off that mask.”
The thought of exposing myself to others frightens me to death. Once the plastic surgery is done, I’m still not sure I’ll be able to take off this mask. My face is always going to look weird, scarred.
“I’m going to the store now,” Suzie says. “Is there anything else you need that’s not on the list?”
“Oreo Cookies,” I reply.
“Got it.” Suzie adds it to the list on her phone. “Now, remember, tonight I’ve got a date. So, I can’t come over for movie night.”
I nod. Every Monday night, Suzie comes over to watch a movie with me. I’ve lost touch with everyone else in my life since the accident.
“Okay, hon, I gotta go.” Suzie gives me a hug before she leaves.
The door closes behind her. Then I turn toward the stack of letters. I sigh as I remove my mask and place it on the kitchen counter. I reach for one of the letters. I’m about to open it, when suddenly, I stop. These letters are addressed to Melody Swanson.
She no longer exists. She’s dead.
I raise my hand and gently touch the patchwork of skin on my face. I can’t go back to being the person I was, the person these fans remember. I don’t know who I am anymore. But I’m definitely not her.
I’m nobody. I’m just a freak.
If I read these letters, I’ll be reminded of everything I’ve lost. I place the letter on the counter and walk out of the kitchen.
It’s 9 pm. I’m about to sit on my living room couch to watch a movie, when I decide to grab a bottle of wine from the kitchen. I notice the stack of letters still resting on the counter where Suzie left them this morning. I know Suzie won’t stop bugging me until I reply to some of them.
Damn it! She’s such a pain.
Although I know I’m going to regret it, I grab a bottle of pinot grigio from the refrigerator and sit at my kitchen counter. I snatch one of the letters from the pile and quickly open it. The letter is from a young girl named Jessica Alvarez. She’s sixteen and lives in Eugene, Oregon. She says she misses me and describes how important my music has been in her life. She hopes I’m doing okay since the accident. She writes that she hopes to hear my new album soon and see me on tour again.
I open a few more letters. Many of them echo the same sentiment. People miss me, hope I’m doing well, and can’t wait to see me on tour and hear my new music.
I don’t know what to write back. I’m at a loss for words. I glance at the remaining pile of unopened letters. I can’t keep doing this. These people have expectations that I just can’t meet anymore. Too much has changed. I’m no longer Melody Swanson. Don’t they understand? I’m just a jumbled body of deformed skin. I have nothing to sing about and no desire to ever perform again.
The bitterness overwhelms me, and I swipe the pile of letters to the floor. I pick up my bottle of wine and head back to the living room. In darkness, I sit on my sofa and drink straight from the bottle.
I can’t go on like this anymore.
As I sip from the bottle, that scary thought creeps into my mind once more. Maybe I should try again? Kill myself. I just need the courage to follow through. I still have some pills left over from last time.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I don’t want a dog.”
“Honey, he’s adorable.”
I stare at the puppy laying in my lap. He’s a two-month old English bulldog, with a light brown coat and white spots. I look at my mom and dad. They flew in for a surprise visit. I’ve been avoiding talking to them for months.
The only way they managed to see me was by showing up at my gate this morning and ringing the intercom. I had no choice but to let them in, or they might have talked to the reporters camped outside. When I opened the back door, I was surprised to see my mom holding this puppy in her hands.
“They say dogs are therapeutic,” my father advises.
“And a ton of work,” I reply. “I can’t deal with that right
now.”
My parents take a seat on the couch, on either side of me. My dad pats the bulldog and he begins to lick his fingers.
“Take him,” I say, trying to hand the puppy to my father.
“No,” he says shaking his head. “If you insist on staying locked up in this place, you should at least have some company.”
“Your dad’s right,” my mom affirms. She stares at me through her crystal blue eyes. “You can’t be alone forever.”
I look down at the puppy. He’s got a scrunched-up, wrinkly face and oversized paws. He looks at me with affection and places his front legs on my chest. Then he begins nudging my facemask with his short snout.
I freak out.
I quickly hand the puppy to my mother and stand up. I anxiously check that my mask is on properly.
“Are you okay, honey?” asks my father coming up behind me. He places a hand on my shoulder.
I quickly shrug it off.
“I think you should go,” I say, turning around and facing him. I notice the stunned expression on both my parents’ faces.
“We thought we could stay the weekend,” replies my mother.
I shake my head. “Not going to happen.”
My father steps forward. “Sweetie, we’re really worried about you.”
I laugh sarcastically through my mask.
I’ve been supporting both my parents since I was eighteen. When I originally started in the business, they were both my managers. But I fired them four years ago when I discovered they were stealing from me. My mom and dad had funneled over fifteen million dollars into an offshore account without my knowledge. When my accountant uncovered their scheme, he immediately called me. I told my parents that I never wanted to see them again. But they threatened to write a tell-all book about me. So, I agreed to keep them on the payroll on one condition: they had to sign a non-disclosure agreement that stipulates they will never talk to the media. The fact that they’re telling me they’re concerned about my well being is sort of a joke. They just want my career to continue so the money doesn’t dry up. Loving, caring parents I do not have. They’re a pair of sharks as far as I’m concerned… and I’m sick of it.
“You two don’t give a shit about me,” I snap. “You’re two of the most selfish people I know. I’m your meal ticket, and you’re afraid it might come to an end. But don’t try to come off like you actually care about my well being. You never have! When I was getting sick during my first tour and suffering from exhaustion, who showed up with uppers for his daughter to take? You did, Dad!” Then, I point my finger at my mom. “And when the label said they needed me to lose some weight before they’d consider signing me, who showed up with diet pills and held my hair while I vomited into the toilet after lunch everyday? That’s right. You did, Mom.” I point my finger at both of them. “You two are the worst fuckin’ parents a kid could ask for. But you won the lottery because your daughter can sing a tune. But those days are over. My signing days are done. That’s it! Over! The money train has finally reached the end of the tracks. Now get the fuck out of my house.”
Their faces turn pale white. They exchange shocked looks. My mother clears her throat. She places the puppy down and slowly gets up from the couch. She straightens her red skirt and then approaches me. Her face is cold, icy. “I gave birth to you, you ungrateful –”
“What do you want? A fuckin’ medal for opening your legs.”
She smacks me across the face. My mask slips off and I cringe at the stinging pain. I look up and see the stunned expression on my mom’s face. I turn and see the same expression on my father. My face! They’ve seen my face and they’re horrified! The look in their eyes says it all. I look like a monster.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that, Melody,” says my mother, stepping forward, her voice shaking.
I scramble backward, away from her. I hurry to readjust my mask. When I sense it’s back in place, I yell, “Get the fuck out! Now!”
My parents look at each other and finally decide it’s time to go.
I lead them toward the kitchen in silence. I open the back door and raise my arm showing them the way out.
“I’m sorry, Melody. I shouldn’t have done that,” repeats my mom, her voice low, filled with regret.
“I never want to see you again,” I hiss.
I slam the door in their faces.
Suddenly, I hear whimpering. I storm into the living room and see the puppy scrambling around on the couch.
“Shit,” I mutter.
I scoop him up and run with him to the backdoor. I step outside and hurry toward the driveway. The gate is closing as my parents take off in their rental car. I notice some cameras peering through the slits in the gates.
“There she is!” I hear somebody shout. “It’s Melody!”
The reporters outside my house go crazy. “Melody! Melody!” they scream hysterically. I glance over and see a guy dangling from a tree, pointing his camera at me.
Totally freaking out, I scramble out of view and hurry inside my house, cradling the puppy in my arms.
I slam the door behind me and lean against it, trying to catch my breath.
The puppy huffs in my arms and begins licking my hand. I look down at him and sigh.
“Now I’m stuck with you,” I complain.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“What are you going to name him?”
“I’m not. I want Randy to take him when she leaves.”
“But he might help you; like your dad said, as a form of therapy.”
I shoot Suzie a look. She shrugs in response. “I’m just saying. Anyways, he’s so cute. Look at that mug. You have to keep him.”
I look down at the puppy resting in my lap.
“So, it’s settled; you’re keeping the dog,” says my agent, Randy, as she takes a seat on the chaise opposite me. “Now, it’s time we talk business.”
I look at Randy in disbelief. “Nothing’s settled. I’m not keeping the dog.”
“Melody, you haven’t written a song in over a year,” my agent replies. “Your dad may be a motherfucker, in more ways than one. But he does have a point: dogs are proven to be therapeutic.” She crosses her long legs and stares at me.
“I don’t want a dog,” I whine.
Suzie steps forward and takes the puppy from me, holding him close to her face. “You’re so cute. How could anyone not want you?”
The bulldog licks Suzie’s face and she giggles.
“I have an idea,” I say. “Suzie, why don’t you keep him?”
“He’s so adorable,” she replies as she scratches the puppy behind the ears. Then Suzie’s face turns serious, like she’s realized something. She looks at me and shakes her head. “Nope. Randy and your dad are right. Dogs are therapeutic. You need this puppy, Melody. All you’ve been doing for months is moping around this house. This cutie pie is just what you need to get out of your funk. He’ll help you get out of your head.”
She hands the puppy back to me.
I stare at the puppy’s wrinkly face and then look at both of them. “A dog is not going to help me write a song.”
“Then what will?” asks Randy. “I know you’re not done with all of your treatments. But we should get things in place for when you’re ready to face the world again. The label said they’re still behind you a hundred percent. They want to go all out with the next album. Pull out all the stops.” She takes a breath and shrugs. “How about this; keep the dog for a week. If you don’t write a song during that time, then Suzie can take him.”
“There’s not going to be a next album,” I protest. “I’m not performing live ever again.”
I get up from the sofa and hand Suzie the puppy. I walk toward the bay window looking out on my backyard. I notice my reflection in the window, the white mask covering my face. I look like the Phantom of the Opera.
“I’m not going to let them promote me like some kind of freak,” I mutter.
“They’re not going to promote you like
a freak,” responds Randy. “The whole world wants to hear your next album. This accident has only brought you closer to your fans. Don’t you understand that, Melody?”
I scoff. “Closer to my fans? Once they take a look at me, they’re going to run for the hills.”
“Stop it,” says Randy, getting up from the chaise and joining me by the window. “Melody, you’re going to have to face them sooner or later. Or do you plan on staying locked up in your mansion for the rest of your life and have Suzie do everything for you?”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” I reply. “Suzie, you don’t mind, do you?”
Suzie, who’s still holding the puppy, looks down, and shakes her head.
“Come on, that’s not being realistic, Melody.” Randy places her hand on my shoulder. “After a few more rounds of plastic surgery, you’re going to look brand new. And when your fans hear your new songs, you’re going to pick up right where you left off. You can put this whole nightmare behind you.”
I shoot Randy a look of disbelief.
“Randy, you make it sound so easy.”
“I know it’s not going to be easy,” she replies.
“No one says it’s going to be easy,” chimes in Suzie.
I stare at both of them. They just don’t get it. “The doctor said no matter how many operations, there’s still going to be scarring,” I tell them. “The only difference is that I’ll look a little less hideous than I do right now. Do you want me to take off this mask? Because trust me, if you saw what I really looked like, you’d both turn away in disgust. You should have seen my parents’ faces when they saw me without the mask. They were horrified.”
“Maybe you’re making it seem worse than it really is. You’re being too critical,” says Randy.
I feel a knot of anger growing inside me. I just want to be left alone. I don’t want anyone telling me what I should do, or that I’m overreacting. They don’t understand what I’m going through.
“Melody, I’m just –” begins Randy.
“Trying to get your ten percent,” I snap, cutting her off.