by Adam Zorzi
“Sorry. I just have so many questions that aren't going to be answered in normal conversation. Ours isn't a natural situation. There's a reason I need to know everything all in one sitting. This can't be easy for you and I'm afraid of what your answers might be. I don't want to hurt you, but I'm cautious.”
He nodded as if he understood. “Got it. What else?”
“What did you do before you died? Did you live in Richmond? Were you married? Did you have kids?”
“Softballs.” He exhaled. “Fair enough. No, I was never married and never had kids. You're the only woman I've loved. Ever.”
No man had ever told her he loved her. She was thrilled and frightened.
“How can you love me? I probably wasn't even born when you died.”
He shrugged. “Everything after I died and before I found myself standing in Vinyl is blank. Deep inside me, I knew there was a woman I was meant to be with, to love, and to share music. When you walked in, I knew that woman was you. It sounds cheesy, but it was love at first sight.”
LouLou shivered. She'd felt an immediate pull that was beyond lust. She hadn't felt she was destined to be with Gregg, but she wasn't a ghost who'd been waiting around for forty years.
“LouLou, I'm not good at being a ghost. All I know is I'm transparent and I show up at Vinyl at a regular time. I don't know whether I subconsciously control that or not. I don't know if I can. Tonight I found myself at Vinyl and then walked here. I didn't fly or space travel here.
“There was a TV show I remember called Bewitched about a witch married to a mortal. If she wanted to go from her suburban home to visit her uncle on Mars, she just twitched her nose and boom! she was on Mars, partying with her uncle.”
LouLou excitedly moved forward on the sofa. “Yes. I've seen Bewitched in re-runs. The witch had an Aunt Clara who kept ending up in places when she'd intended to go somewhere else.”
Gregg laughed. “Exactly. Clara wasn't good at space travel. I can't do it at all. Maybe, if I concentrate or find another ghost to ask, I might learn. I'd probably be like Aunt Clara at first, but eventually get the hang of it. I assume I'd think about where to go and transport myself there. Right now, I can't.”
Gregg sat on the sofa. “I don't know anything else about ghosts. I'm Gregg Waites. Ghost. Between the time I was alive and when I showed up at Vinyl, time moved without me. I don't know about what happened in the world after I died. I only know what I knew when I was alive. That's true of actions, too. If I couldn't do it when I was alive, I can't do it as a ghost. I don't have special powers like laser fingers or mind-reading. I'm the same person I was, and that makes me about forty years out of date. Skylar has helped some. I've learned a lot about how music progressed from listening and from hearing what you do. I can't believe some of the gadgetry that exists. I feel like I'm a time traveler even though I'm not. Things like being able to listen to music on a portable telephone the size of a deck of cards is sci-fi to me. I grew up with rotary phones. You probably don't know what they are. I'm often confused. I'm awed. I'm sometimes overwhelmed.”
What a hard time he'd had. LouLou leaned into him and took his hand. “That must be awful.”
He squeezed her hand gently. “It's odd. Mostly, everything is wonderful, but I have to act normally. I can't act surprised when I see someone watching a movie on their phone. To me, movies are in theatres with popcorn.”
“We're perfect for each other, then. I love movies in theatres. I love the smell of popcorn.”
Gregg and LouLou sat in contented silence. Finally, LouLou asked the most important question.
“If you don't have human needs like eating and drinking, how can you have sex?”
“Argh. I knew that was coming and I don't have an answer except I really, really, really wanted to make love with you.”
That was a pretty sexy revelation.
“Ghosts exist for a reason. We can't be at peace until we get what we need. I need you, and I need to put my music out there. You're the reason I'm neither alive or dead. I'm here to love you.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
LouLou wanted to fling herself in Gregg's arms and make love right then, but she held back. From what she could tell, Gregg had been candid with her. He'd told her he loved her. No man had ever loved her or told her he had because of Sick. If Gregg was brave enough to tell her he was a ghost, she had to explain why she'd not reciprocated his feelings. She stood and stretched. She headed to the bar to refill her glass with ice and water.
When she returned to the couch, she put on her comfortable cornflower blue cardigan that some said matched her eyes. She curled her feet under her and wrapped the sweater around her. When LouLou spoke, her voice had no inflection. She sounded as though she were trying to disassociate her voice and what she was saying from herself.
“Remember when I told you I couldn't get close to you? Before I left on the Asian tour?”
He nodded.
“I have a serious illness. It's about as scary as being a ghost. I was diagnosed with schizophrenia when I was sixteen. I've been hospitalized several times—sometimes for as long as two or three months. I haven't had an episode in almost three years because I take medication to keep the psychosis away. Every day. Several times a day. I inject myself just like heroin users do. It's powerful stuff. I live by the clock. I can't miss doses. If I do, I could have an episode. A violent episode.
“I call it Sick to separate the disease from LouLou. Sick haunts me because I do things I wouldn't otherwise do when Sick overtakes me. Anxiety that I might have an episode is always with me. Always. Nothing can get between me and my medication schedule.
“That's why I hole up before and after tours. Before, I check my itinerary against the amount of meds I have, make sure there are doctors I can see in places I'm playing, and rest. I always rest before a tour. The tour itself is fine. I give myself time between gigs, and the gigs are fun. They make me feel alive. After the tour, I inventory where I am on my medication schedule and rest. When I got back from Bangkok, I slept thirty-six hours straight and missed doses. I called my psychiatrist immediately and got back on track. I really live by my medication schedule. Healthy food—no junk, exercise, and a solid eight hours of sleep help. I stop what I'm doing and rest if I feel the least bit tired or exceptionally anxious.”
LouLou had hunched herself in the corner of the sofa, so Gregg put his hand on her knee. “That's why the car accident frightened you. I thought you were over-reacting. Now, I understand why. My not telling you why I wasn't hurt must have scared you shitless. Sorry.”
She nodded. “I took an anti-anxiety medication, but the longer you stalled, the more anxious I became. If Roy hadn't come when he did, I would've kicked you out.”
“I'm sorry.” There was nothing else he could say. He'd triggered her without knowing why.
“Roy and Sara are more than my friends. They take care of me. Not officially, but they keep an eye on me. Roy always, always has fresh, healthy food for me. He knows by now what's best nutritionally and for comfort. The two of them are saints. Their kids are angels. I probably wouldn't be able to live as independently as I do without them.”
“Good.” He nodded. “Good.” He paused as though a light bulb had come on. “That's why you don't drink.”
LouLou nodded vigorously. “Alcohol and those meds create an ogre.”
“That's why you pushed me away romantically.”
She nodded again without speaking.
“I don't understand. Don't people with schizophrenia have relationships? You have friends. Why not a man?”
LouLou calmed herself before speaking. Deep breaths. Sips of cold water with ice.
“Psychotic episodes are horrifying. When they happen, I truly believe whatever the voices in my head are telling me. They always say I'm in danger and must protect myself. The worst I feel is anxiety until the episode ends. When I'm well again, I don't remember anything that happened.
“I'm violent. I've committed crime
s. Theft. Larceny. Arson. I hurt myself in committing those crimes. Scarred face. Broken ribs. Dislocated shoulder. So far, I haven't hurt other people, but my episodes have become increasingly violent. Everyone around me is in danger.
“My parents must have been traumatized over the years. They got me help as quickly as possible once they realized my illness wasn't behavioral. They made getting well easier. They were wonderful to me, but they must have been in pain seeing their daughter in terribly agitated states. They fear me. I recognize no one during the episodes. I wouldn't be able to stop myself from hurting them if the voices told me to. If I believed my dad was a ninja warrior who was going to kill me if I didn't kill him first, then I would kill him. It's horrifying.”
She looked at her hands, the hands capable of doing irreparable harm.
“If I'm lucky during an episode, I can be loaded up with meds, put in a single hospital room, and have restraints. Even with soft restraints, I find what's left of wrist burn when I recover. That tells me I was thrashing violently. It takes about two months for a full recovery. Sometimes more. Even when I'm well, I feel just beneath the surface of life. I don't have clarity.”
Gregg looked at her strong hands which could elicit such beautiful music out of the piano.
“So Gregg, I've never put someone I cared about in that path. It's too dangerous for a man and for me.”
Gregg didn't speak for a few minutes. “Has an episode ever started around your parents or Roy and Sara?”
“Maybe around my parents when I was young and they got me to the hospital immediately. Never around Roy and Sara. Like I said, I don't recall anything after they're over. I've been told the most recent ones start in odd places after I've been off my meds. Until I was on my own, my parents always made sure I took medication.”
“Couldn't I make sure you took it?” Gregg asked.
“It's too much. Too much responsibility to ask of someone. I've always wanted a lover, a man with whom I can be a partner. I don't want him to be my nurse. He'd resent it eventually, and I'd be humiliated. Sick runs my life, Gregg. I don't live normally. I tire easily. I can't be stressed. I have a rigid schedule of meals, rest, and exercise. “
He pulled her to him. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry you have such a monstrous illness.”
“Monstrous, it is. A monster lives inside me, and I have to keep her at bay.”
Gregg shifted to be closer to her on the sofa. She remained curled in the corner. “I'm different. You can't hurt me physically. You can think I’m a ninja, a space alien, or a serial killer, but you can’t hurt me. You saw that car aim at me. It passed through me. You've seen me walk through the wall of your loft. I'm invincible.
“As for the rest, you don't need a nurse. You don't have one on tour. You're diligent. You have alarms and reminders and doctors to keep you on schedule. I don't care if you have to be on a timetable or need naps. Time means nothing to me. I couldn't resent you for what I don't know or feel.”
He pulled her to him and kissed her softly—her forehead, bruised temple, eyelids, cheeks, nose, and mouth. He held her until she was completely calm.
“I'd like for us to give a relationship a try.”
LouLou looked at him. Her tears were almost dry. “You're right. The obstacles to my having a relationship don't exist with you.”
“Does that mean you won't push me away?”
“Yes, I think we're a perfect pair,” she said as their lips found each other.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Their secrets drew them closer. LouLou let Gregg lead her to bed. Her secret was exposed, and he was still here. His secret was out and she didn't care. Their lovemaking had a fresh intimacy that LouLou had never experienced. Afterwards, they lay entwined in bed. Gregg ran his fingers along her body. “Tell me about your ink.”
“I love to draw. When I was thirteen, I started using my body as a canvas. This feather,” she pointed to a single precisely detailed purple, grey, blue feather on her left arm, “was my first. It made me feel calm to look at it. Sometimes, I imagined it tickled. This was next.” She took his hand in hers to trace an intricate vine of green and white honeysuckle winding from her right hand up to her elbow. “And this was third. Right before my first episode.”
He traced perfectly peeled layers of a red onion with lines of white and purple on the inside of her left forearm. “Why an onion?”
“Because I was sixteen and thought I was deep and complicated. Knowing me required peeling layers of defenses. Just like every other teenager who listens to brooding music, wears black, and reads Beat Poets.”
“Who?” he asked.
“Ginsberg, Burroughs, Kerouac.”
“I just thought they were post-World War II. I didn't know they had a name. Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt. Please show me the others.”
“These,” two matching razor blades drawn vertically along her wrists, “were done after I found out that schizophrenia meant medication for life, the never-ending possibility of an episode hanging over me, and never being normal. No happy family with kids. No full-time job. Devoting myself to staying sane.”
“I'm sorry. It's awful.”
“It is, but I've learned to cope. My parents couldn't have been better. They helped me through hospitalizations and medication adjustments, arranged for tutors so I could graduate with my class, and basically got me through high school. They encouraged me to maintain friendships, date, and do normal stuff. They didn't hover, although they must have been more terrified than I was.
“They suggested college outside DC in a sleepy city and a school that offered arts and music. I went to Virginia Commonwealth University for two semesters and had another episode. I never went back.”
She looked down at her wrists. “People are wrong about cutting wrists horizontally to commit suicide. The razor has to be parallel to the vein to make a serious slice and bleed out. I put them there in case an episode was so bad that if I wanted to kill myself, I would know how.”
“Oh, LouLou.” Gregg kissed both her wrists. “You talk about this like you're detached from it.”
“I am. Sick isn't me. It's an illness that has to be monitored, like diabetes. The psychotic episodes aren't me. The illness hijacks my body until I'm treated. I never remember anything about them.”
“Tell me about the rest of your ink,” Gregg whispered. She was grateful he didn't belabor the topic of Sick.
“After the diagnosis, I wrote phrases instead of drawing.” She pointed out words in French, each phrase with a different script, crawling up her left and right sides. “I tried different styles of calligraphy with each.”
“What do they mean?”
“This is miles to go before I sleep, this is to die; to sleep and that,” she turned slightly, “means life is rounded with sleep. Those are on the left side. The heart side. They were done at different times, but I was fixated on sleep. I don't know whether I equated sleep with peace or with death.
“The darker ones are on my right. She rolled back and point to each—weight of pain. I purposely put LOVE FADES in all caps. Demons in my head is scrawled in bold.
“Now, the pièce de résistance.” She flipped onto her stomach so he could see the beauty of her back. A phoenix rose from just above her waist until its red wings spread across her narrow shoulders. Its head raised itself up to her neck. The shadings of orange, pink, and red were delicately blended with traces of purple, blue, and yellow.
Gregg didn't say anything. He traced the bird with his finger from her waist to its head. “It's beautiful. I've never seen anything more beautiful. It's art.” He kissed the head of the bird.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“You did this?”
“I designed it and had a friend do the ink. It took several months. Both of us wanted to get it right.” She loved having the phoenix on her back. She could always rise. No matter how bad things got, she hoped to rise above Sick.
“It's happy.”
“Yes, I'm a su
rvivor. I've had episodes that left me in a bad place, but I seem to overcome them.”
She rolled over and kissed him. “I'd like to see your new compositions I missed when that car literally sideswiped us off track. Let's see how many pieces we can do. Come tomorrow before lunch and Gregg, please come through the wall. I don't want Roy or Sara to see the door to the building open without a person's hand on the buzzer.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lou and Gregg worked until mid-afternoon. The new pieces didn't require nearly as much revision as his first pieces. LouLou sketched out a schedule that would allow them to record four pieces for her to add to her tour program.
“I need a break. Roy left a fresh salad with tuna and avocado. Iced tea, too. Do you want to stick around while I eat?”
“Sure. I'll take another look at the coda.”
She put her hand on his arm. “Rest your mind. Leave it.”
Gregg looked around the apartment. “You don't have a TV.”
“No. Never have. I get news from newspapers online. Roy knows all the local news. I listen to the radio. When I want to chill, I read.”
“Do you mind if I turn on the radio to check baseball scores?”
“Help yourself.”
LouLou savored her salad. She wondered if Roy and Sara had a secret vegetable garden or a really good produce provider. She speared a chunk of avocado and thought about what a good sketch a whole avocado would make—rich, dark green skin, lighter layers fading to a core. She'd ask Roy to give her a whole one.
“A final determination has been made about the fire at Commonwealth Psychiatric Hospital in Petersburg…”
LouLou shot off the barstool and shut off the radio. “I don't want to hear that.”
Gregg stared at her.
“I spent time there. I know it first-hand. I don't want to hear or read about it either.”