My smile drops.
‘Do you know what this is?’ Dr P. holds up a metronome, used to keep musical time. He places it on top of a small table and moves it between us. ‘I’m going to have you not only focus on the pendulum, but physically shift your eyes back and forth to follow it.’
A slow smile forms. ‘You’re serious? Is this, like, a hypnotism thing? ’Cause I can tell you right now, it won’t work. I was once pulled up on stage for this show and while people clucked like chickens and did idiotic dances on command, I pretty much just sat there giving the guy a hard time.’
‘It’s not quite the same thing.’ Dr P. rolls his chair closer and leans in. ‘EMDR, eye movement desensitization and reprocessing, rests on the principle that traumatic events with high levels of toxic stress are stored wrongly in the brain. These experiences are never processed. They’re just shelved, and like all memories, certain things trigger them, but they’re distorted and overwhelming.’
‘Wasn’t that what we were doing by talking? Working through stuff and sorting it out?’ Maybe he’s getting desperate.
‘Yes, but only what you’ll allow to surface. By engaging in bilateral stimulation such as lateral eye movements, it keeps the gatekeeper busy, so to speak. Then, as I ask questions, impressions and memories materialize. And we finally can reprocess them together and store them back away correctly.’
Sounds easy enough, and yet the muscles in my back are pulling so tight, my spine’s going to separate.
‘Are you ready?’ A simple tap starts the tick, tick, tick. ‘Follow the metronome’s pendulum with your eyes.’
I watch – left then right, left then right – feeling absolutely foolish, like there’s a hidden camera and this will end up on YouTube or something. I mean, who does this?
‘Concentrate on the sound, and imagine a well.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to say, “You’re getting sleepy”?’
His lips pinch. ‘Concentrate, Libby. Follow the pendulum with your eyes and imagine a well, made of grey fieldstone. It’s in the country, set within a field of prairie grass, and stands alone. Every click lowers the pail deeper and deeper inside.’
And just like that, I see a well, I’m picturing a well.
Tick, tick, tick.
Dr P. doesn’t say anything for the longest time. I’m bored with the vision, so I’ve embellished and added a butterfly flittering about near the top. Yellow wings flutter against the warm breeze and it hovers almost in place, never gaining momentum. Now I see Bluebeard. He swoops down and swallows the butterfly. Gross. Pretty sure parrots don’t eat butterflies, but what do I know? I didn’t read the parrot care book I purchased.
Tick, tick, tick.
‘Tell me about your accident. When was it?’
I glance up.
‘No, no. Keep your eyes moving with the pendulum, Libby,’ he says with hiked brows. ‘I’d like to know about your accident.’
Of course he would. My eyes swivel back to follow the swinging arm, but I’m annoyed. ‘I can tell you about the accident without this. It’s not like I don’t remember.’
‘Just trust the process, Libby.’
Fine. My insides knot even tighter. I follow the swinging arm with my eyes left, then right, left, then right. The sound rhythmically punctuates the movement. Again I see the field, the well, and imagine the pail lowering on each tick, tick, tick.
This well is endless.
After some time he starts again. ‘Your accident. Tell me anything that comes to mind.’
‘I was in high school and it completely totalled my car.’ That’s all I say, still self-conscious and unsure. I mean, really, what else does he want to know? How I remember thinking, life flips like a switch? One moment I’m Libby London driving along, singing to my favourite jams, and the next, I’m Libby lost?
‘Keep your eyes moving.’
Left, then right. Left, then right.
‘Do you remember what caused it?’
‘Me.’ I shrug. ‘And um, loose gravel along the shoulder.’
‘OK, I want you to picture yourself in the car. Say anything that comes to mind. Just tell me what you see.’
My eyes continue moving back and forth, back and forth, but I no longer see the pendulum or the well. Instead I see the road, two lanes in both directions and normal traffic. ‘I’m driving. It was afternoon and I had on my new sunglasses. They were Ray-Bans with thick black plastic and neon-pink sides.’ They were a gift, and I liked them. Such a silly thing to remember, but this experiment is what’s really silly. I remember the accident. It’s not suppressed.
‘Good. Keep going, Libby. Concentrate on the details. What you hear, smell – be as specific as you can.’
I picture myself driving. The vision’s like Max Headroom, glitchy and distorted. I see my hands on the wheel. I have black netted gloves on, and I’m tapping them along to the song on the radio. I think I still have those gloves somewhere, actually. ‘The music’s loud but I can’t remember what was playing, just that I was singing to it.’
‘Keep your eyes moving and keep telling me what you see.’
Left, right, left then right.
I concentrate harder, and can see my hand reaching out and messing with the – ‘No, it wasn’t the radio, it was a tape. I was changing out the cassette, and when I looked up the car in front of me had stopped to turn left.’ My heart beats faster. ‘I swerved onto the shoulder.’ I can hear the gravel under the tyres, but the sound’s not in sync with the image. ‘The tyres spun out and I . . .’
Another long pause.
‘Don’t stop. You’ve swerved to the shoulder, and then what?’
‘I lost control.’ My eyes continue to travel left, then right, seeing the scene as if I’m outside of my car, watching myself. The sound plays again. Hundreds of pebbly rocks kick up in clouds of dirt and dust. ‘My tyres hit the gravel, and my car turned into oncoming traffic, and . . .’ I watch the car spin, watch myself panic.
‘And?’
Watch my life change forever.
‘Libby?’
‘I’m trying to straighten the car, but I may have overcorrected.’ I see my hands rotating the wheel round and round. ‘There’s a truck. I can see the man driving it and . . .’ I knew he was going to hit me. ‘Shit!’ I squeeze my eyes tight and brace for the impact, as if it were happening all over again.
‘Talk through it. What’s happening?’
It’s in slow motion: the wheel, the tyres, the spin, the scream. My own added to it as metal struck metal. Tears stream down my cheeks. ‘I fishtailed so he hit my passenger side. It was a truck.’
‘A semi?’
I shake my head. ‘It was, um, the tall and boxy kind. A delivery type.’ Bam. I feel the impact again, every bone jolted, and the momentum spinning me round and propelling my car off the other side of the road. That’s when my head hit the glass.
The click of the metronome suddenly fills the space. Tick, tick, tick. My heart keeps time, but I don’t want to see any more. I blink and look at Dr P.
‘Is that all you remember?’
My teeth lock hard against each other and I stand, needing to leave.
That’s all I want to remember.
Back at the store, I dig through the cabinet in the break room for aspirin. What a horrendously long and taxing day. Between Dr P.’s tick-tock-ya-don’t-stop Color Me Badd hypnotism thing and learning Seth truly is a scumbag criminal, I’m at my official Libby London limit. My head’s going to explode. My heart already has. I keep hearing Finn’s words over and over, but it’s chaotic and modulating up and down over the skid of tyres and gravel.
‘. . . Seth’s been placed on retainer with the Lander Property Group . . .’
‘. . . You didn’t sign a confidentiality agreement . . .’
‘. . . No formal contract authorizing him to represent you legally . . .’
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I pop two extra-strength, sit at the small table and wash it
down with bottled water while eyeing Jasper out front. How is it that dishevelled Jas has such a cool bachelor pad? So weird.
This whole day.
My whole life.
‘What, Libby?’ He doesn’t even look my way, just keeps refiling records one after the other as if in a trance.
I straighten in the chair and lean my elbows on the table. ‘What do you mean, what? I didn’t say anything.’
His eyes regard me from their corners, but only for a second. ‘You’re staring, so just out with it already.’
I’m both Kris and Kross, so I jump-jump up and over. You know I’m disconcerted when my mind pulls Nineties bands. Spying the Purple Rain album in Jas’s hand and seeing where he’s filing it doesn’t help. ‘He doesn’t belong under T, I don’t care if he is The Artist Formerly Known As . . . everyone always looks for Prince.’
‘Maybe I’m doing them a favour.’ Jas rolls his eyes and places it there anyway. ‘Are you going to tell me what happened at the meeting?’ He files the last album and locks eyes with me. ‘You look like someone stole your Zingers.’
‘Trying to steal the store is more like it.’ I push my hair back, shrug and walk to the register. ‘And my Zingers better still be in the break room.’
‘I left ya one.’ He follows me. ‘What do you mean, steal the store?’
It all comes out: Seth ‘the Criminal’ Merriweather, Finn ‘the Guilty’ informant and Libby ‘the Stupid’ stooge.
‘What a knob,’ Jas spits out the words, his crooked smile curled into a definite vexing snarl.
I look right at him. ‘I don’t know what to do, Jas.’
He regards me with cool blue eyes. ‘I might. Remember how you said “think outside the box”? Well, I have an idea. It’s definitely outside the lines, but might just work. Seven o’clock, OK?’
‘You have a plan?’
Jas nods.
‘Then it’s on like Donkey Kong.’
CHAPTER 16
‘Should I Stay or Should I Go?’
The Clash, 1982
Consult me later
I’m chatting with Dora over the phone, trying not to let on that I’m in a mood. Pulling the phone down, I eye the time: ten to seven. Maybe Jasper wasn’t serious about having a plan, or forgot. It was a flippant comment, and one I’ve taken too seriously.
‘I’m back, sorry,’ Dora says over the line, but then yells again to Dean. Something about how she can’t find a screwdriver.
My eyes pinch. ‘What are you guys doing?’
‘He’s putting together this baby swing – well, re-putting it together. He had it backwards, and now he can’t find the hexy thing it came with. It showed up at Mom’s from her secret admirer with a note that read, “for your new grandbaby”. I know it’s Dad, it has to be. Who else – Duncan, stop it! Hang on again . . .’
She’s off yelling about something. Then Dean’s voice can be heard, followed by a kid’s wailing. At least I hope that’s Duncan. It’s always a circus when she has him for the weekend. I slouch at my desk, eye the time again, then pick up my Magic 8 Ball. I no longer trust my mind to make logical decisions.
‘Will a miracle happen that allows me to keep Pretty in Pink?’ I whisper, then jostle it about a few times. There are twenty different answers, but I only need one and Reply hazy, try again isn’t it.
‘Will I find perfect space, then?’ I give another shake. Don’t count on it. ‘Shitastic.’
I set it down and instead check my emails while waiting for Dora. She may have forgotten I’m still on the phone, who knows? I click through the spammers and delete-delete-delete, then pause on a message from the Basket Case. He emailed me? I glance at his address and smirk. It’s from basketcase@yahoo. com. At least he’s funny.
Dear Libby,
Sorry for the late notice, but I’d love to take you out on Saturday. Will seven-thirty be OK?
See you then,
BC
Consulting the Magic 8 Ball, I squeeze my eyes shut and ask for enlightenment. ‘Should I give this last, pathetic blind date a chance?’ Shake, shake, shake – I pop open my eyes, and . . . Definitely not. ‘Well, that definitely settles it.’
Besides, Saturday night is my party. God, Saturday’s my birthday. With Dora, Dean and Finn’s set-up track record and my rotten luck, it’s safer to attend alone. I’m already on the ledge. I don’t need the push.
I type up a quick response saying I’m under the 8 Ball, at least its influence, and I’m not sure what my future holds (which is entirely true). So thanks, but maybe some other time.
Knock-knock-knock.
I walk to the door, phone tucked at my shoulder since Dora’s still blathering on about something to Dean, and swing it open with too much force. It startles Jasper, but I’m the one taken aback. He’s here – and somewhat dressed up. Still in a T-shirt and jeans, but the shirt’s plain, black and tight. He looks impossibly fit, and the deep V fiercely displays his tats on both arms and chest. I’ve seen the arm ones of course, but didn’t realize they carried over onto – ‘Sorry, come on in.’
‘Who’s there?’ Now Dora wants to talk. ‘Wait, do you have a date tonight? Is he there?’
‘No, it’s Jasp—’
‘Jasper? Oh my God, you’re going out with Jasper?’ She’s entirely too excited. I can almost feel her bounce from here. ‘Dean, guess what?’
‘No, Dora. You’ve got it wrong, it’s just . . .’ Explaining will take entirely too much effort. ‘Look, I gotta—’
‘Go out with Jas! Abso-bloody-lutely.’ Dora babbles on about how fantastic it is for me to get out there, and how much she likes him and blah blah blah . . . I’m only half-listening because she’s not saying anything new, and I’m busy watching Jasper look round my apartment. Maybe I should’ve picked up more, but I didn’t really expect him to show.
He glances over, so I wave my hand in a small circle to visually help Dora wrap up.
‘Oh, oops,’ she interrupts herself, then laughs. ‘The hexy tool was in my pocket the whole time. I gotta go, but call me after and have fun, OK? Dean, um, is this—’ The phone goes dead.
I just hope Jas’s plan hasn’t.
I was under the impression Jasper had found space; not that we’d be travelling through it. We’ve flashed to the past and landed at Starcades Retro Arcade, right round the corner on 10th Street.
Does he think this is a date?
‘Why are we here?’ The question, and my annoyance, are lost in the blips and beeps as Jasper pays the cover. It’s a one-time fee for unlimited play. No tokens. Too bad, I always liked them.
‘Come on,’ Jasper says, and guides me through with a hand near the small of my back. It’s an unexpected small thing and somewhat nice. Still not a date.
Inside the narrow space, large flat screens blast classic MTV from when they actually played videos. If ‘Video Killed the Radio Star’, then reality TV killed video. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, rock ’n’ roll,’ I mumble the iconic first broadcast words. Yeah, I miss my MTV.
My mood’s lifted slightly as we move deeper inside. The place veers to the right and is bigger than I originally thought. Asteroids, Space Invaders and pinball machines cram together in orderly rows atop dark carpet that sparkles like stars with interwoven fibre-optic lights. The ceiling does the same, creating a cool galaxy ambiance.
Jas steps to the side of foot traffic, guiding me to follow – then again, as people move from the restroom in the other direction. We’re like Frogger trying to keep from being flattened. Right now, I’d prefer to just stand still and allow the splat. It’s nice of him to try and cheer me, but . . .
‘What do you see when you look around, Libbs?’ Jasper’s lopsided smile pulls straight and wide. He doesn’t wait for an answer, which is good because I don’t have one. ‘This company has over thirty locations, and they’re growing. They’re always packed, and guess with who?’ He motions to the crowd and somehow smiles wider. ‘Our customers.’
I glance round, takin
g in the mix of indie teens that consider anything retro cool and adults who grew up in or around the Eighties. They’re the collectors with buying power. I shrug. ‘OK, so we share the same clients. And?’
‘And here’s what I’m thinking . . .’ Jasper spins so he’s facing me. ‘Since we can’t find space within the same budget as our current location, and you have an offer, why not sell?’
My stomach drops. ‘Jas, I don’t want—’
‘Wait, wait, wait, hear me out.’ He pauses to make sure he has my attention; I widen my eyes to show that he does. ‘OK, if you sell, you’re sitting on some serious capital, right?’
‘Yeah, but they want to keep Pretty in Pink open, remember? They’ll get the name, location, everything. So what I’m really sitting on is my—’
‘Ask me why it doesn’t matter.’ He leans closer, lowering his voice, but speaking fast and not waiting for me to respond. ‘Because they don’t have you, Libbs. You’re the reason it stays authentic and cool. You love it and it comes through in all the details. Business models don’t succeed, people do. It’s your passion that has grown the store into what it is. You’re the heart of Pretty in Pink.’
His words swirl warm inside, like steam from hot cocoa. It’s sweet; maybe the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me. But it doesn’t change anything.
Jas nudges my arm. ‘So I say, sell. Let them have the store. We can open with a new name. A better name, because we have you. And you’re Pretty in Pink.’
My heart lifts from his words. ‘Thanks, Jas, but . . .’ I push out a breath, flattered that someone actually gets it and understands, but it’s so frustrating because . . . ‘I don’t want a different name.’
‘OK, I know, but just think about this. Starcades has over thirty locations serving our target and shared customer base. Here’s what I propose: we piggy-back here. It would be low overhead, and offer real growth potential.’ He shifts his weight to rock on his heels as he waits for my reaction.
My brain’s still in a fog, and I’m not getting it. ‘Piggy-back?’
Holding Out for a Hero Page 16