TWENTY-NINE
Auntsie finds me alone on the beach, sitting near the water’s edge, my arms wrapped around my knees, bare feet in the sand. I’m about twenty feet in front of the overturned lifeguards’ chair. Right where I told her I’d be.
“Hey,” she says as she plops down next to me.
“Hey.”
The boardwalk lights don’t reach the onyx waves that stretch for miles and miles toward the dark horizon. I wonder how far I could swim before I got tired. A line from The Awakening, the book I was reading when Malcolm walked into my life, pops into my head. The voice of the sea is seductive, never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander in abysses of solitude. At the time, I had underlined it for its rhythm and musicality more than its meaning.
“Why do I fuck everything up, Auntsie?” I put a protective hand over my cuff bracelet.
“Fuck everything up? What are you talking about? Back there in the studio? You made magic.”
“I’m pretty sure Malcolm and I are done.”
“Aww, Quinn, babe. I’m sorry. What happened?”
I start to cry. “I caught him going through my stuff. He said he was looking for Advil. But he wanted pills, not Advil, and when I wouldn’t give them to him, he said I was acting like his mother. His mother! He said not to save him. I said I was done. I probably shouldn’t have said that, but I was so pissed. So I threw the pills at him.” I’m talking fast and not making sense.
Auntsie puts her arm around me. “Why don’t you calm down and start from the beginning.”
I take a deep breath and start with the part about him being a recovering addict. I tell her about the painkillers he asked me to hold for him, and how I was worried about him being on tour alone. I tell her I thought he loved me, and how I thought I loved him too, which is why I decided to go on tour with him.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. On tour? Painkillers? Why didn’t I know about any of this?” Auntsie’s pissed. “If our arrangement is going to work, if you really want to live with me when the summer’s over, you have to be honest with me. That includes not withholding information.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I should have told you. I was going to tell you. But I only decided about the tour last night. It’s part of what freaked out Malcolm. I got too close.” I scoop up a handful of sand and let the grains slip through my fingers. “Part of me still wants to go. That’s crazy, right? Except I know he needs me now more than ever. Even if we are only friends.”
“There’s a big difference between what he needs and what you want. I told you I’d step in if I saw you making bad decisions. Holding those pills for him without telling me or someone who was more qualified to help him was stupid. Going on the road with him because you want to protect him? Also stupid.”
“He warned me about trying to save him.”
“Because he knows you can’t.”
“I love him.”
“I know.”
“I think he loves me.”
“I think he does too. But only as much as he’s able to while he fights his demons and tries to find his footing again. That may not be enough for you. It shouldn’t be enough for you.”
“What am I supposed to do now?” I ask.
Auntsie stands, brushes off the sand, and gazes down the beach. “You know what I love about the ocean?”
“You? Love the ocean?”
“Of course I love the ocean. Would I have spent my whole life three blocks from it if I didn’t? It’s the sun I don’t like.” Auntsie huffs and takes a deep breath.
“Sorry. Go on,” I say. I think maybe I spoiled her moment, but she recovers.
“The ocean changes every day. Tomorrow morning you can walk out here and the surf will look totally different. Sometimes the waves are soft and rolling, other times they’re fierce and unforgiving. The winds and the tides are forever reforming and reshaping the landscape. We hear that saying all the time, ‘Every day is a new day.’ But with the ocean, you can see it. It has a way of making you believe the slate really has been wiped clean.”
I reach into my pocket and dump the contents of the bag into my hand. Then I push myself up, step toward the crashing waves, and heave the pills as far as I can. I have no idea if they’ll dissolve, and I doubt what I’ve done is environmentally safe, but I don’t care. It ends tonight. I never want to see them again.
THIRTY
It’s a little past 3:00 a.m. on Sunday morning when we finally pull into Auntsie’s driveway.
On the car ride home, my phone buzzed with text after text from Malcolm. I finally turned it off. Evie, amped on adrenaline, talked incessantly for five minutes, then passed out cold. After that, Auntsie let me brood in silence. Thankfully the choir girls took their own car to the studio and left for home from there. I didn’t need any outside witnesses to my internal collapse.
Upstairs in my room, I stare out the window. The waxing moon illuminates a watery path to the other side of the bay. What good is light that’s borrowed from a star? We have too much in common, the moon and I. I avert my eyes, turn on my phone, and scroll through Malcolm’s messages.
Please come back.
I’m standing outside. Where are you?
Cat’s Eye? Answer me. You’re scaring me.
See you tomorrow?
And finally, about five minutes ago. What you said with “That Last Night”? She heard you. Forgive yourself.
Must be the Vicodin talking.
Bitter as I am, his words still produce the desired effect. They pull on my heart the way the moon does the tides. We may not be together, but we are still trapped in a binary orbit. Only Malcolm and I know what recording that song meant to us. Even after what he said—what we said to each other—I want to hear his voice, to sleep beside him tonight. I clutch my phone and consider it. He and I should have shared that moment in the studio. But he ruined that. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over what he said to me, or the way he violated my personal space and trust. The more I think about it, the more pissed I get. After all, he already let me go.
I think you should find another drummer, I type. Then I turn off my phone and lay down. My heartbeat sounds like soldiers marching in my ears. I concentrate on counting their steps and emptying my mind. I’m not doing a very good job. When I reach a hundred, I start over again.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but I wake up at sunrise. I enjoy a few seconds of peace before last night comes rushing back. My pillow is damp with a mixture of drool and tears. Perfect. Just perfect. I flip it over and hide my face and consider staying in bed for a year, maybe longer. I wonder if a stunt like that could get me into the Guinness Book of World Records. Maybe that would make Mom proud. I imagine the phone call.
“Uh, hey, Mom. You know that life plan we spoke about? I’ve decided I want to set the world record for lying in bed.” Ha! Suddenly, I need to know if my bizarre goal is achievable and who my competition is. I turn on my phone, and my heart twists when I see Malcolm never texted me back. I get the feeling that this is how I’m going to feel for a while, riding a seesaw of emotions as I waver between remembering and forgetting. My bones feel like lead. Which only makes me more determined to stay right where I am.
I breathe deep, then search to see if someone already holds the record for lethargy. Turns out, some guy in a coma in Belgium and an obese man from Kansas City, who had to be forklifted from his bed after three years, might be contenders, though neither has made it into Guinness yet.
I don’t have three years. I don’t have three weeks. Labor Day is fast approaching, and I’m about to become the bird who gets left behind by the flock when it’s time to fly south. I pull the covers over my head and block out the sunlight seeping through the blinds. I try to go back to sleep, but can’t.
I smell coffee and hear Auntsie shuffling around downstairs and remember it’s Sunday: shelt
er day. The day I was supposed to be in the studio with Malcolm and Liam as Ricky did the final mix—the last step before the tracks get mastered. The baking of Liam’s metaphorical lasagna. After that, the songs are ready for download, or vinyl, or radio, or whatever. Malcolm planned to send the finished audio files to be pressed into compact discs and vinyl records.
The thought of not being part of any of that leaves me hollow. It’s only a band, I tell myself. A band I bailed on a few hours ago without Malcolm putting up much of a fight. I put the pillow over my head again. Maybe I can outlast the man from Kansas City. Maybe I should. I close my eyes tighter and try to think of one good reason to get out of bed. I’m surprised when one pops into my head: Reggie. I picture the way he tilts his head so he can study me with his one good eye, his pink tongue lolling from the side of his mouth like a thirsty cartoon dog. There are only two Sundays left in August. Soon, I might not get the chance to see him anymore. Having failed at coming up with my own life plan, it’s doubtful Mom will let me stay with Auntsie. Who will give him baths? Take him on long walks?
I fling one leg out from under the covers and force it toward the floor. My body eventually follows. Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed, I arrive in the kitchen. Auntsie’s standing at the counter, smearing a gluten-free English muffin with SunButter.
“I think we should adopt Reggie.” My words stop Auntsie mid-smear. I don’t know how this figures into my life plan, but at this moment, it’s what I’ve got.
She doesn’t speak, only stares at some point on the wall as she licks the end of the butter knife.
Finally, she says, “Okay then.” She’s nodding slowly like she’s listening to a song only she can hear. “Let’s go make that furry guy ours.”
At first, it’s a normal shelter visit with Reggie. I brush him, play ball with him, take him for an extra long walk, during which I give him ample time to absorb his surroundings with his nose as he selects the perfect spot to do his business. When he’s finished, he kicks up dirt with his back paws and makes an agitated grunting noise, like his poop has wronged him in some way. Reggie can be very dramatic.
When we’re done with our walk, Reggie and I meet up with Auntsie, who has been inside filling out the necessary paperwork to bring Reggie home with us. We’ll be foster parents for a few weeks until the adoption is final.
“That’s it!” Ben says when she’s through. “We’ll miss our Reggie, but you’re going to make him very happy.”
When I carry Reggie out the door instead of back to his kennel, he cocks his head as if to say, “Uh, Quinn? Where’re we going?” When he sees Auntsie’s car, he begins to shiver. I can’t be sure if he’s nervous—maybe car rides equal bad news to shelter dogs?—or happy. Maybe his inner Chihuahua is getting the better of him. Those little dogs are known to be shakers.
Once we’re in the passenger seat and buckled in, he immediately climbs up toward my shoulder, tucks himself under my chin, and continues to shake while licking my face.
“It’s okay, Reg. We’re taking you home,” I say. “You’ll like it there. I know I do.”
“Then you should probably stay,” Auntsie says, glancing sideways. “Reggie’s going to need you in the fall. I think your mom would understand that.”
“She’d understand college more.”
“True. But a dog’s a good start.”
“A dog’s not really a good start.”
“Maybe not,” Auntsie acknowledges. “But I had to say something.”
THIRTY-ONE
Back at Auntsie’s, Evie’s sitting in the living room sipping coffee when Reggie bursts onto the scene. He skids like a cartoon character as he tries to gain traction on the hardwood floors, but once he hits the area rug, he finds his footing and starts doing fast loops around the couch. He yips and wags his tail as he makes circle after circle. The three of us go cross-eyed trying to take in the rocketing brown blur.
“He’s the cutest, ugliest dog I’ve ever seen,” Evie squeals.
“I know, right?” I say.
“Hey, maybe we can enter him in one of those contests,” Auntsie muses.
“And exploit his unique appearance? No way!” I say.
We’re so caught up in Reggie’s euphoria that no one notices Liam and Kiki knocking on the screen door. When they call out their hellos, I scoop up Reggie and walk toward them.
“Q! What up? Is that a dog?” Liam cups his eyes and presses his face against the screen.
“Liam, Keeks. What are you guys doing here?” Reggie and I step outside. The noon sun is beating down, heating up the thick, humid air.
Liam holds up a CD and waves it back and forth like he’s the queen of England.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Rough mix. Ricky wants you to listen and let him know if there’s anything you want fixed.”
“Why me? They’re Malcolm’s songs.”
“Malcolm’s already listened to them. He’s been there all night with Ricky. They need fresh ears. Or maybe they need someone fresh. Either way, it’s you.”
I ignore Liam’s attempt to get a rise out of me and take heart in the fact that Malcolm was at the studio and didn’t sleep at home last night. I don’t trust Malcolm alone with himself. I take the CD from Liam.
“Thanks.”
“Ricky says the speakers in the studio are too perfect. You need to listen to the rough mix in the wild to get a true sense of what the songs sound like. Listen in the car with us. We’re heading back to the studio.”
Reggie licks my face. I try to see around his furry head.
“Yeah, about that. I’m sort of done.”
Liam holds up his hand. “I already know you tried bailing. Uh-uh. No way. Not going to let you do that.”
“I’m sorry, Liam,” I say. “You guys need to find another drummer.”
“Malcolm doesn’t want to find another drummer, and neither do I. We need you for the Labor Day weekend gig. Plus, get this: Ricky thinks Malcolm should take a full band on the road. He says a solo acoustic tour won’t do the songs justice. Won’t sell CDs and download cards.”
Kiki, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet, moves closer and pets Reggie between his ears. He’s been tilting his head back and forth like he’s listening to our conversation and understands.
“He asked Liam to go with him,” she says softly. I can see the worry in her eyes. I don’t blame her.
My head whips toward Liam and I narrow my eyes.
“What about college? You’re supposed to start in, like, three weeks. You told him no, right?”
Kiki’s grimace tells me he hasn’t. College girls are one thing—groupies are another story.
“Travis is going,” Liam says.
“Well, good for Travis.” Though I have to admit, after watching him casually hand Malcolm a beer, it might be better if Liam came along on the tour. But that would be selfish. Come September, there’s only one place Liam should be.
“Travis can play bass, Malcolm can keep on playing guitar, and you can start Rutgers like you’re supposed to.”
“Thank you,” Kiki mouths.
“But it’s only a few months! I can start college in January. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Plus, not to brag or anything, but…” Liam begins.
Kiki rolls her eyes. “We all know you’re the better guitarist, babe.”
“So what did you tell Malcolm?” I ask Liam.
“I told him I would think about it. You should too.”
Kiki and I exchange a look. She knows I have already thought about it. But what she doesn’t know is that my telling Malcolm I wanted to go on tour with him triggered the implosion of our not-quite-real relationship.
Reggie barks, as if on cue.
“Reggie thinks I should stay.”
“You’re taking advice from a weird-looking squirrel n
ow, Q?”
“He needs me,” I say.
“So does Malcolm. So do I,” Liam argues. “Come to the studio with us.”
I shake my head. “I can’t. Not today. But I’ll think about the other stuff. The gig, the tour.”
“You will?” Liam’s pleased.
“Sure.” I’m worn out. I want this conversation to be over with. I want Liam to leave. I want to be alone.
Kiki hugs me before they leave.
“Malcolm was devastated last night when you didn’t come back,” she whispers in my ear. “He said to tell you the stress of being in the studio got to him. He wants you there today.”
“Tell him I need some time alone.”
THIRTY-TWO
An hour later, I get my wish. Auntsie announces that she’s taking Evie back to North Jersey.
“Do you wanna take a ride?” she asks.
“No, I’ll stay here with Reggie,” I say.
On her way out the door, Evie hugs me tighter and longer than she has in years, thanking me for the experience of recording and saying she hopes things with Malcolm work themselves out.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “As far as Mom’s concerned, I will tell her everything’s peachy.”
Peachy?
“Don’t say peachy. It’ll make her suspicious. What would Ricky say?”
Evie makes the peace sign. “Righteous. I’ll tell her things are righteous,” she says, laughing. “Ricky was the best. See you in a week.”
That’s right—Evie, Ashley, Kate, and Mom are spending the final week of summer here, which means Mom’s going to want her room back and I’ll be sleeping on the couch with Reggie. I watch him sleeping there now, his tiny chest rising and falling. That won’t be so bad.
After they leave, I’m seized with a sudden restlessness. It’s a beautiful day, but my mood doesn’t match the sunny weather. So, I close all the blinds to make the bungalow as dark as possible, then go upstairs to retrieve my electronic drum kit. Once it’s set up on the coffee table, I browse through Auntsie’s vinyl collection, looking for the right music to work out the knot in my chest that’s making it hard to breathe.
August and Everything After Page 13