“I’ll make it ten. Happy?”
No, not really. That was way too easy. “Did I miss something?”
“You tell me. I did ex-act-ly what you suggested.”
If he didn’t cut the sarcasm he’d owe her a bottle of tequila, too. A good one.
“Against every instinct of my being, I took your advice and left Marianne alone since yesterday afternoon. I even slept on the control room sofa.”
“That thing is seriously comfortable. I’ve spent many nights there, and—”
“She’s not answering her cell. Where is she, Jade? Where the hell is my wife? Is she at the house?”
He hadn’t run over to check?
“What was I thinking leaving her alone?” The slapping noise at the other end of the line suggested he’d walloped his forehead.
She waited for the sound of a projectile chair. If he trashed her control room on the morning they were expecting megastars at the studio, swear to the music gods she would lock him in the closet with the spiders, the old analog tapes, and the lingering smell of pee left over from some guitarist’s incontinent pit bull.
“Jade?” He sniffed.
Holy crap. Was he crying? “Hey, you did the right thing. There’s no manual for loving someone with faulty brain wiring, and bottom line: our mental health matters, too.” Jade crossed the parking lot and walked through the opening in the living wall of bamboo that concealed their world. Instead of turning right to the front door of Nightjar Recording Studios, she turned left and followed the stone path lined with solar lights that led to the deck of Marianne’s funky little house. Correction: Marianne and Darius’s house. Although if Darius had taken to sleeping in the studio, how much longer was that true?
“I was fried every which way when I left here yesterday,” she said. “Turned off my phone and implemented full radio silence.”
He didn’t need to know about the trip to orthopedic urgent care to get her finger splinted. Admittedly Marianne had been a hot mess of remorse, but still: master bedroom door slammed on index finger; index finger now broken and throbbing; index finger nonfunctional, which would mean developing contortionist skills to work the console. Washing her hair this morning had been more challenging than a course on American Ninja Warrior.
“Please tell me I didn’t screw up, Jade. Suppose something . . . bad has happened?”
None of them talked about the bad. Hadn’t even hinted at it since Marianne and Darius’s tailor-made wedding vows when Darius promised to tell the truth in AA—that he wasn’t an addict; he was drawn to the comfort of the group after flunking out of anger management classes—and Marianne promised to take suicide off the table because she loved him enough to live. True love, the last great hope. If you believed your tarot deck had been stacked with that baloney.
“Stop right there, boss. You’re burning out and not listening to Aunty Jade. We need rested minds to be the bipolar police. Have you slept?”
“I catnapped. If anything has happened to M—”
“Darius, I’ve got this. Hang tight while I rattle her cage.” Dealing with Darius was no different than troubleshooting in front of clients. It was all about faking her engineer om. “And if you’ve been in the studio for the last twenty-four hours, might I suggest following me over to the house for a shower? I hear deodorant’s the bomb.”
Jade paused under Marianne’s arbor. A poison ivy vine had begun to weave into the passionflower. Poison ivy creeping back onto the property was not a good sign; neither was the empty base of the hummingbird feeder, black with mold and filling up with dead bees. And the elephant ears in the huge ceramic pot definitely had the dehydrated droop. As did all Marianne’s prehistoric-looking plants, their heads hanging in the July heat. Even the metal garden art and Junkanoo-colored birdhouses looked wilted. Nature didn’t do much for a Bronx girl, but every summer this garden was a tropical sanctuary. Not today. Today Marianne’s pride and joy looked neglected. Possibly abandoned.
“Jade? You still there?”
“Yup. Watching some cute little frog hippity-hopping into the pond.”
“Can you please hippity-hop your ass over to the house and find my beloved?”
“On it. My guess? She’s still asleep. Probably snoring like an old truck without a muffler.”
Darius failed to clock her faux pas: Marianne never slept this late. She called it maintaining a quasi-normal persona. And Darius never missed a trick. What the hell was going on with those two?
He paused. “How were things last time you saw her?”
“Intensely Marianne-ish.” Jade glanced down at her bandaged index finger. “Listen, I don’t mean to pull the I-know-her-better-than-you-do card, but I’ve been with Marianne since I was sixteen. Do the math, Darius, that’s nearly half my life. We’re not the only ones who need to withdraw when her illness explodes. Trust me, if she’s in bad shape, she doesn’t want us hanging around looking all bummed out.” She took a breath and waited. Darius didn’t reply.
“Maybe she’s been up all night reorganizing her shoe closet and had to run to Home Depot for more shoe trees.” Plausible enough for a woman obsessed with shoes. Except that Marianne’s new red Miata was still parked under the carport.
“And her phone?” Darius said.
“She forgot to charge it.” On purpose. Marianne’s manic-depression danced to a tune only she could hear. Dig deep enough, however, and there was always an explanation that made sense in Marianne’s fractured mind. And an uncharged phone screamed, Let there be no contact. For a crazy person, Marianne was anal about charging her phone.
“Did you guys mic the drum kit after I left?” Jade stepped up onto the wooden deck and stuck a nonbandaged finger into a plant pot. Bone dry.
“Yes. The drummer plays with balance and feel. Has great groove.” Darius’s voice was flat; his mind was not where it should be—on setup day. And not with any old band but Media Rage minus their drummer who, following a highly publicized police chase, was back in rehab with a broken arm (given the CNN footage of the car he’d rolled, he was lucky not to be a paraplegic). The nonrehab members plus the ghost drummer would be on Nightjar’s doorstep within the hour to lay down basic tracks for their new album in a weeklong block-out session that would lead to two more sessions. And serious money. The label was paying for Darius’s expertise, but he’d insisted they were a package: he was going to produce; she was going to record and mix. Had he only agreed to the gig for her, or was he ready to return to his glory days? A legendary LA engineer in the nineties, Darius went off the reservation in some born-again walkabout to “rediscover raw music that came from the soul.” What he’d discovered was Marianne. And Nightjar.
The former music legend gave a long sigh. “The drummer also helped me move the baffles. You’ll be happy to hear we’ve created multiple musician-friendly spaces—if that’s what our stars demand.”
“You go, boss.” The huge partitions used to isolate sound were way too cumbersome for her to manage, even with casters. “And the amps?”
“Arrived this morning.” He paused. “Did you check on the band’s flight?”
“Yup. Landing in five and Sasha’s already at the airport. I told her to be Princess Charming or else I’d kidnap her pet turtle and force-feed him non-organic lettuce. I’m hanging up now. See you in a few.”
She slid open the deck door. “Hey, it’s me. Anyone home?”
Her phone made the ticker tape ring tone reserved for Darius’s texts. For so long it had been just her and Marianne in the studio plus a string of misfits from Girls In Motion, Marianne’s brainchild. The nonprofit group had become a safe haven for teens in crisis, giving countless girls a second chance at life and a first chance at being around music. Now Girls In Motion was Jade’s baby until the new executive director was trained, and in the studio she answered increasingly to Darius. Most people mislabeled him a dickish genius, but most people hadn’t seen him sitting on the floor with Marianne after that car crash, cradling her while she
’d cried herself inside out.
Double shot of espresso? Darius had texted.
On it.
Total lie. No way was he getting a double, which would make him twitchy as hell. He needed focus so that he could read the band and figure out everyone’s hang-ups. Then discern whether the band wanted to perform together or record separately. It was all about creating comfort zones, keeping clients relaxed and on their game. Recording was as much about psychology as science or art, which was why Darius and Marianne made a killer team. They understood the personalities that were drawn to the drug of music; they knew how to manipulate the emotion of sound.
Holy shit, she loved her job.
Another text came through from Darius. You’re a doll.
Remember that when I’m due for a pay raise.
She closed the door behind her and walked from one room to the next, calling. The house that pulsed with Marianne’s moods 24/7 responded with silence. There was no Marianne echo.
“Dammit,” Jade said, scratching a fresh mosquito bite under the hem of her black miniskirt. “Where the hell are you this time?”
Take out the bipolar brain chemistry, and she and Marianne were as alike as two people without shared DNA could be. Marianne was also a survivor. That was the invisible umbilical cord that connected them. When the going got tough, self-preservation kicked in and they ran. Although in Marianne’s case that usually meant camping out in her shoe closet.
“Marianne?” Jade swallowed hard. “Mama Bird?”
No answer except for the squelch of her rubber-soled canvas boots on the white oak kitchen floor. A clutterless environment, the kitchen was devoid of personality and tchotchkes, and the countertops were clear but for Darius’s high-tech coffee machines and gizmos. Give her a mess any day: piles of thrift store bric-a-brac and secondhand books that screamed, I have a space called home, and I don’t have to share.
Jade opened the fridge. It was empty but for a row of bottled water and the birthday cake with three slices missing. Although she was the only one who’d eaten her portion. Darius merely speared his repeatedly with a fork, and Marianne claimed she wasn’t hungry. In addition to not watering her garden, Marianne had stopped eating.
The fridge was supernaturally clean. Shit. Hadn’t she specifically told Darius that forcing the interns to clean the house smacked of intern abuse? Or—she chewed that spot inside her mouth—was this mania at work? Despite the new drug combo, Marianne had entered some weird, unstable cycle Jade had never seen before: crying one moment, laughing the next. It was like mania and depression squished together into one big vortex.
Holding her breath, Jade opened the cupboard door that hid the garbage can and peered inside. Phew. Empty except for two take-out containers. No evidence of a Marianne cleaning frenzy.
The air-conditioning whooshed on, and Jade jumped. Yesterday she and Marianne had been as pissy as a pair of beauty pageant contestants slugging it out over a tiara. Truth be told, she’d been feeling a little PMS-y. What if Marianne, the emotional dowsing rod, was simply feeding off her mood? This, whatever this was, could be her fault.
“Marianne?” Jade called up the free-floating staircase that hung like an accident waiting to happen.
Nothing. Marianne was not upstairs in the huge open-plan office she shared with Darius. Jade turned down the hall and knocked on their bedroom door, her smudged handprint still visible on the frame. “Honey?”
Swallowing, she reached for the doorknob. Locked. She pulled out her phone.
“You’ve found her?” Darius said.
“No, and you need to come over.”
He hung up.
Jade scrolled through her texts. Nothing since she’d muted her phone to spend what remained of her Thursday reading Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca in peace. The word library, scrawled on the back of her hand with a black Sharpie, stared at her like an accusation.
The front door slammed open and Darius catapulted down the hall, his black hair streaked with gray flying in all directions. He shoved his face up close to hers, and yes, he needed a shower.
“What’s going on?” he said.
“It’s locked.”
He rattled the doorknob. “What happened to your finger?”
“Slammed it in the car door.” Jade rolled her eyes. “Such a klutz.”
“Babe?” Darius bashed on the door. “You going to let us in? The band’s due in an hour and I need you to work your magic with what’s-her-face. Their manager thinks she might be a high-functioning sociopath like Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock Holmes.”
He fell silent as he bashed in his bedroom door with two Rockettes-on-steroids kicks. Had he done this before with his first wife—an alcoholic—after she’d gone on a bender?
Jade raced into the room and stopped at the foot of the king-sized bed, neatly made with the six-hundred-thread-count linens Marianne ordered annually from England. She insisted anything less made her want to scratch off her skin. Marianne never made the bed. If she was manic, she couldn’t slow down long enough to do it; if she was depressed, she lacked the energy. When she was neither, she didn’t care.
While Darius blew hair from his face, Jade moved quickly to block his view of the nightstand where Marianne’s medical alert bracelet lay. Reaching behind her back, Jade eased the bracelet to the floor with her fingers and then nudged it under the bed with her foot. No need to fuel the situation with more Darius drama.
He shot toward Marianne’s shoe closet, and Jade ran into the master bathroom. One solitary pill container sat between the two sinks: Xanax for Darius. Marianne always left her meds out—lined up as a constant reminder. Jade opened every drawer in the cabinet under the sink. Nothing. Nothing! Marianne’s meds were gone.
Jade’s mind tore through a hundred explanations crashing into one realization: a three-time suicide survivor was alone with a stash of pills. Six months ago there would have been a logical explanation; but six months ago Marianne would have said she thought about suicide the same way she dreamed about the taste of alcohol and that thinking didn’t equal action. And now?
What was the yoga breathing Marianne had tried to teach her? Breathe and count, or count and breathe? Or give up and scream obscenities like Darius? Which would so not help because if Darius suspected she was freaking out, he would join in.
“Our wedding picture’s gone from my nightstand. The one with the three of us.” Darius appeared in the doorway, hands clawing at his hair. “And I can’t see her travel bag, which was out on the floor yesterday. You okay?”
“Yup. A-OK. That’s a great sign—I mean about the picture. She loves that picture.” And Marianne loved her Queen Bee weekender travel bag. Maybe she’d skipped town for the weekend—with the mood stabilizers and that new antipsychotic she needed the way a car with the oil light on needed oil. Maybe they were overreacting.
Darius frowned at her. “Nothing makes sense. She never goes out through the deck door. And why, for Chrissake, would she lock the bedroom door?”
That question was easy: to stop other fingers from getting smushed.
“I guess I should log on to my support group and ask for advice. They totally nailed it last time she did something a little out of left field.” Lame, but it was the best she could offer.
“You’re in a support group?”
“Aren’t you?” Jade pulled out Marianne’s makeup bag and rifled through its contents. Overnight bag and meds missing. Couldn’t-live-without eyeliner not. Maybe they weren’t overreacting.
“You’ve been my support group since they kicked me out of AA. She’s left me, hasn’t she? Tell me what’s going on, because I’m drowning in quicksand and . . . What are you doing?”
“Speaking of running away, don’t panic, but her meds are gone.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” He slapped the wall and then cradled his hand, his face creased in pain.
“I told you not to panic.” She nodded at his hand. “Need some ice for that?”
�
��No.” Darius collapsed onto his knees and hung over the side of the bath. “I think I’m going to puke.”
“Not in front of me, you’re not. I don’t do other people’s vomit.”
He made a choking noise, which was totally fake.
“Come on, hurling up last night’s dinner isn’t going to help.”
“I didn’t eat last night.” He twisted himself around to sit on the side of the tub.
“Well, that wasn’t very smart. You’re not making good decisions for yourself.”
“Really. I hadn’t noticed.”
“You did get Marianne’s permission to talk with Dr. White, to tell him what we were seeing at home, right?” Jade said.
“I tried and she threw a suede boot at me. Thankfully she missed, which is the reason I skipped dinner. I wasn’t coming back over here so she could practice her aim. Or did you forget my first wife was a psycho?”
“Marianne isn’t a psycho.” Jade spoke as slowly as she could.
“I know. I don’t mean that, but it’s like she’s ripped up the rulebook. I don’t know what to do, think, feel. All I want is to help. To understand, to be there for her. But I’m the enemy, and it’s killing me, Jade. Loving Marianne is killing me.”
“I know, honey. Which is why you have to try and get Dr. White to talk with us.” Jade walked back into the bedroom, yanked the portable phone off his nightstand, and returned.
“Psychiatrists must be used to family members calling in a crisis. Here—” She scrolled through to the first number she’d programmed in when the phone was new and handed it to Darius. He grabbed the phone without bothering to look up.
“This is Darius Montgomery, Marianne Stokes’s husband.” He stood. “I need to speak with Dr. White.”
Jade made the keep-it-going hand signal they used in the studio; Darius scowled and turned his back to her. “I don’t care if he’s hiking on Mars with Mick-fucking-Jagger. My wife has vanished with three months’ worth of meds, which I know because I refilled her prescription on Monday. This is an emergency. Emergency with a capital E. Get ahold of him. Now.”
Echoes of Family Page 2