by Caisey Quinn
I glance longingly at the stage, wishing I could stay to watch my Bluebird finish her set.
She’s amazing. She’s captivating and strong and her voice is this haunting mix of sweet and sultry I never knew she was capable of. She is capable of so many things, so much more than being held back by a bartender with a record and a junkie for a mom.
I sigh and walk around the bar, apologizing to the woman whose drink my mom just knocked all over the place. I signal to Jake to replace it on the house and he’s Johnny on the spot, handling it quickly and apologizing profusely as he cleans up.
He shouldn’t have to apologize. This is my fuckup. My mess. My problem.
“Let’s go home, Mom,” I say, taking her elbow sharply.
“Easy, kid,” her “date” warns. “She’ll leave when she’s good and ready.” He knocks over the drink of the man behind him and I can see the impending bar brawl behind my eyes. If I don’t stop this it will ruin Dixie’s show. If I do stop it, I’ll miss her show.
The verdict is in. I’d rather give her the moment even if I can’t be a part of it.
My mom’s friend is a few inches taller than me but older and clearly out of shape. He’s broad, with a beer belly and yellowing teeth and already bruised knuckles that tell me this isn’t even his first fight this week.
“Care to discuss this outside?” I tilt my head toward the door and he smiles, a predatory scowl with a hint of anticipation. This is what he really came for.
Violence.
I don’t know why, but it has always seemed to surround me. To find me. Like it seeks me out for some unidentifiable reason.
As I practically drag my mom outside, leaving Dixie’s angelic voice inside, the heavy weight of dread settles on my chest.
This is my life. There’s no escaping it. No cutting ties or starting over or a future. It’s bleak and it’s bullshit but it’s true.
Dixie deserves so much better than this.
She will have better than this.
Even if it kills me to let her go.
Several bruised ribs and a possible concussion later, I tuck my mom into her bed. She’s out cold and snoring and her “friend” is probably still unconscious in his beat-up blue Ford pickup where I left him. His face will likely take a while to heal and his pride might, too. When it does, I know he’ll be back for round two.
I’ll be waiting.
For a few long minutes, I watch her sleep. She looks so tiny and fragile.
Part of me wants to be angry with her, for doing this to herself, to me. For all of it. But I know why. I get it.
My mom was abused in the worst way from the time she was old enough to form memories. When I was younger, she’d get sober for a while and come clean about why she did what she did.
She’d been molested, beaten, tortured, and eventually put into foster homes, where she’d been locked in closets for days, urinated on, and starved nearly to death.
She’s still completely terrified of enclosed spaces and her pain is still my pain.
I know why she does what she does. She gets high to forget, to get numb, to get some type of relief from the trauma and the pain and the horrific nightmares that have plagued her ever since. Only they aren’t just nightmares. They’re memories.
Sporadically over the years she would get on these healthy living kicks, swearing over and over that she was done for good with the meth or the crack or whatever she’d binged on that time. She’d clean the trailer from top to bottom, replacing all the empty boxes of off-brand Pop-Tarts and week-old pizza lying around with actual groceries when the state put money on our food assistance card.
“We’re going to be okay, baby,” she’d say. “You’ll see.”
I saw all right.
Each and every time, I would be stupid enough to hope. That this time would be different. That this time her sobriety would stick.
It never did.
It never will.
Deep down I know this. There was always a boyfriend who’d hit her and trigger the memories, or a packet she’d find in a pair of dirty jeans. There was always something. A few times it would be me. I’d snap at her, say something hurtful, and send her spiraling. I will carry the guilt for this forever. Maybe that’s why I can’t leave her, why I can’t just walk away and stop trying to protect her from the evils she brings on herself.
She and I are the definition of hopeless.
Just like when I was a kid, I make the same, stupid wish I always do. That she’ll stop this and get better, be better. But I’m not a naïve kid anymore and I know this is unlikely.
The sun is coming up and I need sleep, but I decide it’s not just time for me to get my shit together, but way past time for her too. I pull out my phone with the intentions of searching local state-funded rehab centers and see several messages that nearly cause me to drop it.
Dixie: Where did you go? I looked for you after . . .
Dixie: Your boss said you left with a woman. So . . .
Dixie: I hope you had a good night, Gav. I’m worried about you but maybe don’t call me or stop by for a while, okay? I need some time.
Fuck. Me.
And just because the shit cake of life always has additional hidden layers, there are more.
Dallas: Robyn and I came home early to see Dixie’s show. Where were you? Did you know she could sing like that?
Dallas: Call me, man. 911.
And one more.
Unknown Number: You’re an asshole, Garrison. Plain and simple. Tonight was the final straw. I’m done watching you pull this shit on her.
I know that the last text is from Jaggerd McKinley, just like I know the sky after a night of rain is the same shade of stormy blue as Dixie’s eyes.
I will deal with him later. In person.
Right now I need to call Dallas, so I do.
It rings and rings until his voice mail answers.
When the beep comes, my mind blanks and I’m at a complete loss for words.
“Hey, man. It’s me. I . . . it just, shit got crazy last night so I had to leave early. Hate that I missed you. Call me later.”
My voice sounds like I had gravel for breakfast but I’m too tired to care. Dallas might think the worst, which sucks. Thanks to McKinley, Dixie will probably think the worst now, too, which sucks far more than Dallas possibly being pissed at me.
I lower my battered and exhausted body into a kitchen chair and place my elbows on the sticky table. Propping my head in my hands I decide the only thing I can do is just wait for Dallas to call me back. Maybe he can figure out a way to get Dixie to talk to me. Maybe he can tell me what I should say, help me figure out how to tell her that I love her more than anything in this world but that I love her enough to know that I am not what’s best for her.
She was beyond amazing, the epitome of an incredible performer last night, and she needs to follow her dream, not stay here in this nothing town waiting on some local piece of shit who will never get his act together. But I know her. I know exactly how deep she is capable of loving and forgiving. She would wait. For me. Forever if needed.
When we were kids, my stuff tended to break on a regular basis. My bike, my shoelaces, my book bag. You name it, mine was crap. It wasn’t secondhand, it was fourth or fifth or sixth hand, usually donated from the local Junior Leaguers, Goodwill, or a counselor digging through our school’s lost-and-found box.
Dallas is one of those people who are constantly in motion and typically he slows down for no one—though I suspect that is changing these days. But Dixie always waited for me without fail. She never once left me behind.
I’d tell them to go on without me while I dealt with my mess and time and time again, I’d look up to see her bending down to help me.
Acidic pain stings my eyes at the montage of memories playing in my sleep-deprived head. Dixie at nine years old handing me food from her parents’ funeral reception. Thinking of me, a stranger, in literally her darkest hour. Dixie at eleven, giving me half her sa
ndwich at lunch when she found me smoking to cure the edge of hunger behind a rotting oak tree. Dixie at thirteen helping me fix the chain on my bike when it broke and Dallas sped off without me. Dixie at fourteen, leaving a party with her friends to come hang out with me while I cried and raged on like a lunatic when my mom nearly OD’d for the second time. Her face, her beautiful heartbroken face a few months ago when she realized I was home and hadn’t called her.
It dawns on me that that night was the last time she played music live until now. And I ruined this show, too, by bailing on her when she needed me. She’s always been there for me and I’ve done nothing but cause her pain. I’ve used her like the other women in my life, just in a different way.
I drag her down.
I drag the band down.
The only two people in the entire world who try to pull me up, and all I do is yank them into the pathetic pit of Hell that is my world.
I saw the love shining in her eyes at the bar, the excitement glowing on her face, and the joy beaming out of her eyes. She loves to play music. She loves to perform.
Worst of all, she loves me.
She’s the only reason I even know what love is.
And I have to break her into a million pieces.
Sitting there at the dirty kitchen table, I know it as sure as I know my own name. It will be the only way to make her let me go. To make both of them finally let me go so I can slink back into the gutter, where I belong.
I’ll have to use her one last time.
13 | Dixie
“SO YOU THINK it was the blonde? The same one you saw him with a few months ago?” Robyn sits on my bed hugging a pillow to her chest and waiting for me to answer.
“That’s what the barback said. His boss said he left with a woman; the barback piped up and said a belligerent blonde he knew was making a scene and asking for him.”
“That’s fucked-up, Dix.”
I pick at the fringes on the edge of my favorite pillow. “I know.”
“Especially since he made such a scene right before with the kissing and all that. It’s like he wants to stake his claim on you for the world to see, keep every other guy away, but then he can’t deal with the rest of what comes with that.”
“I know.”
She tosses her hands up and the pillow tumbles down her lap. “I mean, seriously! What the fuck is his damn deal?”
“Your kid’s first word is going to be a swear word if you’re not careful.”
Robyn glares at me. “Do not change the subject, Dixie Leigh Lark.”
“Sorry.”
She rests her back against my wooden headboard and sighs. “I’m sorry, too. He just frustrates the hell out of me.”
“Ditto.”
“I mean, the way he was watching you like a hawk at the wedding and the reception, the way he has always watched you as if you are his and only his and he is protecting you from all the world’s evil—it’s beyond infatuation. It’s like, I don’t know . . . borderline obsession. Then he just straight-up bails without so much as a word—with another woman! That plus the not calling you when he was back in town, this pregnant lady’s patience is running slap out.”
I smile because Robyn is so . . . Robyn. If she’s your friend, she is one hundred percent committed. She is angry on my behalf and I don’t know if it’s the pregnancy hormones or what but I’m pretty sure she’s angrier than I am.
I don’t even know if I’m angry. I’m just sad. Hurt. Confused.
The show was beyond incredible. It was one of the best nights of my life and I felt so alive. All I wanted when it was over was to see him, to wrap my arms around him and celebrate my euphoria from performing. I wanted to tell him that I was ready for the band to get things going because I finally feel like me again.
But he was gone. Just . . . gone.
“This isn’t okay, Dixie,” she says, a warning edge to her tone as if she thinks I don’t realize this. “I see you over there working up a million excuses, but it’s time for him to grow up. He needs to understand that he can’t just pick you up and set you down whenever he feels like it.”
“I know,” I mumble, closing my eyes and burrowing back down in my covers.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
I’m expecting it to be something about Gavin so I’m confused when it’s not.
“Have you ever thought of moving into the master bedroom? I mean, all the upgrades to this house are beautiful and this room is nice and it’d make a great guest room. But it’s your childhood bedroom, love. You’re a big girl now and the big bedroom is just sitting empty.”
I glance around my room. Faded lavender walls sparsely adorned by white weathered wooden shelves my grandmother refurbished to match my headboard. Old desk my grandfather gave me to do my homework on.
“Huh. I guess I never really thought about it.”
“Can I tell you why I think that is?” Robyn looks nervous, like she’s worried her answer might hurt my feelings.
“Shoot.”
She takes a deep breath and I can see her mentally organizing her thoughts the way only she can. I suspect all information in her brain is color-coded and cross-referenced.
“Dix, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you’re kind of living in the past. Please know I say this with love, but honey, you’ve outgrown it and that’s okay. You need to move into the current century and I think the reason you haven’t done anything about that is because deep down, you know this is a temporary pit stop in your past. Eventually you are going to have to face the fact that you were born to perform. You need it. The world needs it. I know it’s hard to let the past go—hello, I married my high school sweetheart. But sometimes it’s necessary.” She sighs and pats my hand gently before continuing. “Dallas and I had to grow up, we grew apart, and then we grew together. We are still growing, in friendship and in love and as people. In my case, literally.” I smile when she pats her expanding belly. “I want that kind of love for everyone, especially for you. But I can’t stand to see you hurting like this, stuck like this, bogged down by the past. Your face last night . . . you were so excited when you came offstage and my heart broke for you when I watched you realize he wasn’t there. You just . . . you were crumbling. Piece by piece. I could see it. Dallas could see it. Everyone with eyes could see it. You kept the mask on for us, but I want you to know that you can break apart. You can fall down. We will be there to pick you back up. I promise.”
I don’t know what to say. Everything she’s said is true so I just keep quiet, swallowing the lump of emotion currently clogging my airway.
“Girl, you rocked it last night. Hard-core. We were all blown away and I’ll admit, I didn’t know you had that in you. I don’t know if you knew you had that in you.”
“I didn’t,” I interrupt, my voice hitching on the last word.
“Right. Well, now you do. You’re coming into your own now and everyone saw that. And now it’s time to do something about it. But first, something has to give with Gavin and I don’t know what it is, but he needs to either be there for you and make you a priority, or bow out gracefully. For your sake, for the band’s sake, and for his sake because I suspect if he hurts you like that, Dallas might murder him. I really don’t want the father of my child to spend his life in jail.”
“I think he just . . .” I search for the right words, but how do you explain what’s going on in your head when you can’t even understand it yourself?
“ . . . needs to make an actual choice. It’s time, Dix. For what it’s worth, I think he loves you as much as he is capable of loving another person, but he made his choice last night and for whatever reason, it wasn’t you.”
A thick knot of emotion keeps any more excuses from escaping.
“I’m sorry,” Robyn says while patting my hand. “I don’t mean to say that it will be easy, because I know it won’t. But it’s time to move forward. With or without him.”
I nod because
she’s right. “I know.”
Robyn stands to leave but then she stops abruptly. I have a mini panic attack that she’s going into preterm labor or something but she gives me a sad smile.
“Remember Billy Gleason? From middle school?”
I nod. “Yeah, the freckle-faced asshole who heard the boys shortening my name and started calling me ‘Dicks’ and drawing penises all over my stuff.”
Robyn laughs softly. “Yeah, him.”
“Dallas heard him teasing me and beat the crap out of him. He was suspended for three days and Papa was superharsh on him those days, making him do slave labor at home from dawn till dark.”
Robyn nods. “Yeah, about that. It wasn’t Dallas who beat him up. Billy, I mean.”
I feel my forehead wrinkle in confusion. “Yes, it was. Busted him up pretty bad, actually. He had to get stiches in his cheek and lip and eyebrow, if I remember correctly. Billy carried my books and my lunch every day for weeks and pretty much spent the remainder of sixth grade apologizing to me.”
Robyn looks at me like I am clueless. “I know. I remember. But it wasn’t Dallas that made that happen.” She tilts her head to the side as if contemplating not telling me the rest. But then she finishes. “It was Gavin. Dallas took the fall because Gavin had already been in trouble one too many times that year.”
I feel as if my entire life has been a lie.
“Seriously?”
She nods. “Seriously. And there have been . . . other things, other times when Dallas took the fall for him because he thought he was doing the right thing. But you and I both know that won’t be possible forever.”
“What are you say, exactly?”
“I’m saying that there is a darkness in Gavin, a side of him that is dangerous to people who care about him. To Dallas and to you. He hurt that kid, badly. For teasing you. And he let Dallas take the blame and deal with the consequences.” Robyn continues before I can argue. “Gavin’s always had it rougher than any of us, but you need to know, Dixie, that his salvation is not on your shoulders. The battle he’s fighting this time is his and his alone—and hopefully he’ll conquer his demons, but if he doesn’t . . . you will be okay and we will be here for you. And him.”