Lowdown and Lush

by Selena Laurence

  My own voice is shaky when I respond. “I don’t want to leave you—”

  “Then don’t.” He takes my hand in his, caressing my fingers one by one, as if he’s never touched them before. “We can fix this.”

  “How?” I ask. “I love you, Michael, but I need more than just you and music in my life.”

  When his hand grips mine, I can feel the desperation leaking from his skin. It’s so strong that it almost has its own presence in the room.

  “Can’t we just see how things go? Maybe over time, something will develop. We’ll get settled, get your career launched, and we might feel differently in a year or two or three.”

  “You mean I might feel differently, right? Because I know you, Michael. You’re as stubborn as the day is long. You have no intention of rethinking your view on this. You’re just hoping you’ll wear me down.”

  I can tell by the look in his eyes that I’ve hit the nail on the head. I pull my hand from his. He turns his back on me and starts pacing the room.

  “You just can’t do this, Jen. You can’t throw away what we waited so long for over a hypothetical issue years into the future.”

  I shake my head. “It’s not hypothetical to me at all,” I tell him. “The baby I’m going to have someday is very real to me. The details might change—hair color, weight, how many hours it sleeps at night—but the foundation of that child is real to me. That baby is waiting for me to be its mother. That’s as real to me as you are.”

  He places his arms against the door of the room, leaning stiff-armed against the soundproof tiles. “You have to understand—I can’t. I can’t curse a kid that way. I know my dad says he wouldn’t give me up no matter what, but I wonder if he’ll feel the same if I end up insane. If I did that to a kid, I could never forgive myself, Sunshine. I’d rather they never be born than live like that. You don’t understand. You’ve never seen it.”

  “No, I haven’t, but you have no proof that it would happen to you or your child. You just have fear. I understand where you got the fear from—your mother was a very sick woman who did horrible things—but by denying yourself the most important things in life, you’re letting her win. You’re letting fear decide how you’ll spend your days. I don’t want to live my life in fear, Michael. I won’t live it that way.”

  He turns to face me. “Jenny, you need to trust me on this stuff. You’re young. You’ve just started your career. It’s going to take you places you can’t imagine, show you things you didn’t know existed. By the time you’re my age, you might have a completely different worldview, different goals and objectives. And if you don’t, we’ll deal with it then. Don’t make a decision now that hurts both of us.”

  This is the second time in as many months that I’ve faced down a man I love and refused to give in to his demands. I wonder if there’s something wrong with me, or if all women face these moments. Times when men who profess to care about you think they can tell you how to live, what to think and feel. I might be young, but I know a few things and I believe in them and their importance to my life.

  One is music. Now that I’ve spent this time in the studio with professional musicians, writing songs, telling stories with melodies and my own voice, I know that I need music in my life. The other is family. I miss mine—desperately—and I love Michael’s. His father, Joss, Mel, Tammy, and Walsh. Family is everything to me, and I know that I want one of my own. Parents, children, friends, siblings—I want it all. Big Christmases with a dozen people, brunches like Tammy has on her back patio, family in my house, in my music, in my life.

  I swallow and take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Michael. I didn’t let my daddy talk me out of my music. I won’t let you talk me out of my family. I may be young, but I know what matters to me. I won’t change that. Not even for you.”

  He looks down at the floor as he speaks one final time. “I guess I was right when I thought I couldn’t give you what you need. All I have to offer is me, and kids aren’t part of that.”

  When he clears his throat, I realize that he’s as close to breaking down as I am.

  “I’ll send Sonny back in. There’s only a little bit of guitar work left to record. I can do it separate from you. I’ll have Tammy do up a schedule of these last few days and then we’ll get you a flight back to Texas so you can see your family. I’m sure they’ll be glad to have you home.”

  After Michael walks out on me yet again, everything inside goes numb. They say that shock is the body’s way of avoiding something so traumatic it can’t handle it all at once. I know that the loss of Michael is something my heart can’t deal with right now, so everything inside me is dead. I fear the day it roars back to life and I’m faced with the greatest tragedy I’ve ever known.

  Mike

  A BROKEN heart. I realize I lived with one for twelve years, and it was only mended for a few weeks before Jenny smashed it to pieces again. The thing is that, when Loretta broke my heart, she broke me too. And because of that, I can’t be what Jenny needs. What she deserves. I knew this. I knew it and I let all the sunny, whole people convince me otherwise—my dad, Joss, Jenny. It was a rookie mistake, one I won’t make again.

  We get Jenny’s album finished, and Tammy and Walsh put her on a plane to Dallas. We’ll do the rest of the work via e-mail and Skype. Sonny can handle most of it, serving as an intermediary between Jenny and me. And now, she’s gone, and I’m in Portland. Just me, my old man, and that broken heart.

  It’s no different than it was before I had Jenny, but it feels so different—so lonely, so empty. I’m miserable and I know that, if I got loaded and fucked a few dozen women, it would alleviate the pain some, but I keep remembering Joss’s words to me in that bar. I keep remembering what Jenny would think and feel if I were with other women. Even if we’re not together, I know it would kill her, and no matter what’s happened, I can’t bear to hurt her. Something’s happened to me since I fell in love with her—when she hurts, I hurt. It’s utter crap, but true nonetheless.

  The one bright spot in my month is that Colin is coming to town. I volunteer to pick him up at the airport when he flies in on a Friday night.

  The passengers stream out of the concourse at PDX, and I remember that the last time I saw Colin was at the end of Jenny’s summer tour. He’s been sporadic in communications since then, and we’ve all been worried about him. Tammy has a big dinner planned at her house and I’ve been forcefully instructed to bring him straight there from the airport.

  “No stopping at strip clubs on the way, Mike,” were Tammy’s exact words.

  I’m surprised again at the healthy, lean, blond guy strolling toward me. Colin was a pothead for so long that we sort of wrote him off in a lot of ways. Where Walsh was a child, needing constant supervision and intervention when he was drinking, Colin was a perpetual adolescent. He was able to manage his own life in the most basic ways but never took on anything beyond himself. He’d show up for a show but never help book a gig. Come to rehearsal but get high during the breaks.

  Now, Colin’s been clean for nearly a year. He went to Hawaii, learned to surf, got spiritual with the natives, and has been on the celebrity philanthropy tour circuit. He’s played with other do-gooders like Bono and John Mellencamp, raising money for everything from Amnesty International to FarmAid. In between, he helped us out with Jenny’s gigs and Mrs. Stallworth with her boarding house. Colin’s grown up. I’m just hoping he hasn’t grown up more than I have.

  “Dude!” he shouts as he reaches me, causing everyone within twenty feet to turn around and stare at us. Half of them recognize who we are now.

  I give him a bear hug and a slap on the back. “Damn, it’s good to see you, man.”

  “That’s the truth,” he returns. “I missed your ugly ass.”

  I see the sideways glances of several people and know it’s time to make our retreat. “Let’s get on out of here. Tammy has a big welcome home planned.”

  “Sweet. I have bags to get at the carousel. Let’s grab
‘em and hit the road.”

  Once we get to the car, I hit the pertinent questions. “Your parents in town right now?” I ask.

  Colin’s folks are true free spirits, moving from place to place to take different jobs, usually working for some sort of human rights group or Habitat for Humanity—that kind of shit. They spent Colin’s last two years of high school in Portland, but they’ve only been here part of the time since then.

  “Nah. They’re on a reservation in Montana teaching school for the fall semester.”

  I push the gas in the old Explorer. It moves like a drunken snail. I really need to decide if I’m staying here so I can get my truck brought out or buy a new car.

  “And you spent the last two weeks on the Save the Oceans tour?”

  “Yeah, and I played with Luc Nellos for a couple of shows. He couldn’t stop talking about how great Jenny’s going to be.”

  I feel that pull inside my chest that happens whenever anyone mentions Jenny’s name. “Yeah, she’s going to kill it.”

  “You want to talk about it?” he asks. He knows we’re not together, but that’s all.

  “No. Nothing to say. She has her dreams and they’re not mine.”

  “Truth.” He says it, but I can tell from the look on his face that he doesn’t buy it.

  “And Marsha?

  “What about her?” His words are innocuous, his tone says, “Don’t fuck with me.”

  “Just wondering how she’s doing.”

  “Why would I know? I’m not her keeper.”

  “Shit. Are you ever going to admit what the hell’s gone on with you two?”

  He looks out the window for few moments. The sky is cloudy, heavy with moisture, and Colin is uncharacteristically somber.

  “It’s not my story to tell,” he mutters. “You’ll have to ask her.”

  “Well, that’s not likely to happen.”

  “Probably for the best,” he answers and I know that the conversation is over.

  WHEN WE arrive at Walsh and Tammy’s, everyone is already there. Mel and Tammy give Colin big hugs, the kind they’d never give me. I’d be jealous, but I know that Colin’s earned it by being a good guy and a good friend to both of them. I’ve been an asshole and I still feel the sting of their disdain when we spend time together. But I know you make choices in life and you live with the consequences. Nothing else to it.

  “How’s he doing?” Walsh asks as we sit down outside on the patio, a beer in my hand, an O.J. and club soda in his.

  “Good. Still won’t talk about Marsha but otherwise seems to be fine.”

  “What the fuck?” Walsh asks, shaking his head. “How long is he going to keep this up? Spending half of his time down in Texas when there’s no reason to, denying that it’s because of Marsha. He won’t talk to her, he won’t talk to us, he takes off for a new concert or festival every few weeks. What the hell’s he going to do with his life now? His career?”

  I’m taken aback by Walsh’s tone and his words. “Uh, what the hell are any of us going to do with our careers, dude? You have some plans I don’t know about?”

  “No. Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like a dick. I guess I just see you starting this production label, Joss doing his solo stuff, and I’m not sure what the hell Colin and I are supposed to do. I mean, at least he’s playing for some good causes. I’m not playing at all.”

  I look around at Walsh’s perfect backyard, his perfect patio, and his perfectly pregnant wife, who’s walking toward us with a perfect plate of appetizers. He has enough money to last the rest of their lives. He could easily spend his days with Tammy and his kid, travel the world when it suited him, and never work again. But he loves the music as much as the rest of us, and life without it won’t be enough.

  “You’re just taking a break. You and Tammy have been through a lot. You’re in a good place now. It’s okay to take a rest, regroup, enjoy each other, get ready for the little dude.”

  He looks at me thoughtfully. “Thanks, man. I appreciate that. But I do jones for it, you know? I mean, doing Jenny’s gigs this summer gave me a taste, but I miss the real deal. The rehearsals, the performances—hell, even the press. And I worry. I know Tam and I have plenty of money, but I don’t want to be out of the game so long I can’t get a decent job. I need to know I can take care of her and Pax, come rain or shine.”

  Tammy arrives and sets the platter down on the table adjacent to us. “You do take care of us,” she exclaims, her brows furrowed.

  “I know, sweetheart, but I’m talking long term.”

  Her fingers weave into the back of his hair as she sits on the arm of his chair. “I don’t have a single worry, Walsh. You’ve taken care of me since we were fourteen. You always will.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, baby,” Walsh answers, rolling his eyes at me.

  Tammy doesn’t get it. I do. I may not be that kind of guy, but I get the need of most guys to feel like they can provide for their woman and their brood. It’s pretty universal.

  “Now,” Tammy says in her commanding way, “I need Mike in the kitchen for a few minutes to help me out.”

  Walsh raises an eyebrow in question.

  “Uh, me?” I ask, perplexed.

  “Yes. You’re the only Mike here. Come on.”

  Jenny obviously domesticated me more than I realized in those few weeks because I’m on my feet in a moment, no snarky comeback even grazing my lips. What the fuck?

  “Have fun,” Walsh sings, smirking.

  I give him the finger before following Tammy into the house.

  The kitchen is warm and smells like freshly baked bread. One thing about marrying Tammy—Walsh will never starve to death. Mrs. D. is like a one-woman restaurant, and she taught her girls to cook. I could do with more meals like I get at Walsh and Tammy’s.

  “Take a seat,” she tells me, pointing to the barstools at the island.

  I do, and she stirs something on the stove, adjusting dials and things on the big, old contraption.

  “Your mom was sick,” she states without preamble.

  “She was bipolar,” I clarify. “And a mean bitch,” I add.

  “I had a nervous breakdown. I mean, you know that. You were there—in the hospital.”

  Reminders of Tammy’s stay in the hospital and what I did while she was there are the last things I want to discuss. I bite back, “What’s your point?”

  “My point is that I know a little bit about mental illness. I’ve had to learn about depression. I’ve never been manic, but I have seen the other side, and it’s not pretty.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” I quip.

  “What do you know about bipolar disorder?”

  “That it makes you alternately manic and depressed. That it makes you unbearable. That it makes you unlovable.”

  She finally stops fussing with the stove and the food and comes over to sit on the other barstool next to me. “I did some research on bipolar disorder and I asked my doctor about it.”

  I’m stunned. “Why?”

  “Because you’re letting your mother’s mental illness destroy your life and Jenny’s and you don’t have to.”

  “Tammy. You don’t know what you’re talking about—”

  “Mike? Shut up for a few minutes and listen. For once.”

  I make a zipping motion across my mouth and glare at her.

  “Do you know what causes it?”

  I shrug. She told me to shut up, so I will.

  “Genetics play a part, but there are other things that contribute. Stress, trauma, environment. They’ve done studies on twins—identical DNA, but not identical lives—and one of them could have it but the other won’t. Just because it runs in your family doesn’t mean you’ll get it.”

  “Doesn’t mean I won’t either.”

  She scowls at me. Oh, right. Shut up.

  “The huge majority of people with bipolar disorder aren’t violent. What your mom did? That’s the exception, not the rule. Maybe she had oth
er problems that hadn’t been diagnosed. Maybe she was just a unique case. But whatever the story, there’s no reason to think that, even if you did get it, you’d behave like her.”

  She stops and takes a drink of water from the glass sitting on the countertop in front of us.

  “Was your mom ever on meds?”

  I put my hands out to the sides to indicate that I’m not allowed to speak.

  “God, you’re such a pain in the ass. Just answer the question.”

  I smirk, then say more seriously. “She was on and off them. The longest time she stayed on them was when I was in first and second grade.”

  “And was it better?”

  “Of course. She was like a real mom those couple of years.”

  “Well, the medications today are even better, and there are all sorts of other things to do too—holistic treatments, nutrition, exercise. Once I found out I was pregnant, I had to quit taking my medications, but I’ve been fine. Even with the pregnancy hormones, I’ve been doing well, because I have a whole team of people working with me—a therapist, a nutritionist, an acupuncturist. And if, after Pax is born, I need to go back on meds, I will. But it could be that the combination of these other things is all I need for the foreseeable future.”

  I shift in my seat, feeling impatient and frustrated. “Tammy, what’s your point?”

  “My point, Michael, is that you’re not your mother. Her disease is not your disease. Even if you do, at some point, develop bipolar disorder, it’s not her bipolar disorder. You have a different life, different genes, a different environment, resources she never did. And if you get off your dumb ass and get Jenny back, you’ll have a partner who loves you and will make sure you get the best treatment should something happen.”

  “Why are you doing this?” I can’t help but ask, my heart racing with possibilities that shouldn’t even be considered.

  She thinks for a moment. “Because it’s scary, but no one should feel like they can’t live the life they want because of a mental illness. The days of asylums, where we locked people up and took away all their chances at living a normal life, are long gone. This is the twenty-first century, Mike. Quit acting like it’s the nineteenth and trust modern medicine to protect you and Jenny and even your kids. No one else wants to deny you this chance. We’re all rooting for you. If you can’t trust yourself, at least trust the people who love you.”