I choose a path and sit on the edge of the bed. I don’t look at him because I know I won’t like the anger and accusation in his eyes, so I face the wall instead, staring in silence, daring him to physically remove me from his presence. I am fairly confident he won’t because I know where he is right now and it’s a place that rarely has the energy for such things.
“It’s a curtain,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t respond, but I know he’s listening. I turn and glance at him briefly so he knows it, and has to accept the fact that I’m not leaving until I’ve finished my speech.
“Depression, that is,” I continue. “People who’ve never experienced it think it’s a mask, but it’s not. It’s a curtain. And when it falls, it shuts you off from your life, plunging you into complete darkness. There you stand, arms flailing around you, reaching for anything to find your way back. But after exhausting yourself, grasping at only more darkness, you give up and drop to the floor in resignation.
“And so you sit. You and the blackness. You and the accusations. You and the self-hatred, the lies that become truth, the failure and pain and hopelessness and black thoughts that twist through you, impaling you to the floor. There you bleed, alone in your black hole, convinced the audience on the other side of the curtain has given up and gone home. The show is over.
“Before you know it, you realize the curtain has turned into a cement wall, and you couldn’t escape the darkness even if you wanted to, but by now you don’t care anymore. What’s the point? There’s nothing waiting for you on the other side, and even if there was, you’re such a useless waste of space that you wouldn’t dare to contaminate the world outside with your cancer anyway.”
I stop, my eyes burning, my voice heavy in my throat.
“You feel like crying all the time but you rarely do. Depression isn’t sadness; it’s numbness. You don’t have the energy for sadness. You can’t sleep. You don’t eat. You have no desire for the things you used to love, but it doesn’t matter because you can’t love anyway. You feel nothing, just a dull, heavy ache that makes it hard to breathe sometimes, let alone get up to start the search again. You fantasize about disappearing, just erasing your pointless existence and sparing the Earth from your toxic presence. By now you’re so exhausted just from the effort of living that there’s nothing left to live it.”
I wipe my face now, the tears dripping down my cheeks. I had almost forgotten about Luke. I’d stopped talking to him somewhere along the way, lost again in the caverns of my own backstage nightmare. But when I remember, I don’t give him a choice. Too many people had let me choose.
I lie down on the bed beside him and take his hand. I can tell the action has startled him, but he doesn’t pull away. I squeeze, holding tight, warning him that he’s crazy if he thinks I’m letting him do this alone. I don’t expect him to respond. In fact, I hope he doesn’t. I hear the soft sound of his breathing as he stares at the ceiling, my words disrupting the void around us.
“It’s Depression, Luke,” I whisper into the darkness. “And it’s lying to you.”
∞∞∞
“Did you ever try to kill yourself?” Luke asks finally, after a long silence. I had begun to wonder if he’d fallen asleep.
I consider his question for a moment. It’s a simple question with a very complex answer.
“Consciously?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“Yes. Did you knowingly try to kill yourself?”
“No,” I answer honestly. “No, not on purpose.”
My answer has an effect. “By accident then,” he concludes, and I squeeze his hand again. I hadn’t let go and I don’t plan to.
“No, it wasn’t an accident either. Somewhere in between.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I made destructive choices to escape without caring where I was escaping to.”
“You didn’t try to kill yourself, but you didn’t care if you did.”
“Something like that.”
“Drugs?”
“I picked fights.”
“Picked fights?”
“With my dad, my boyfriend, strangers, whoever got near me. I wanted them to hurt me. I wanted them to hate me as much as I hated myself. I wanted them to punish me for existing.”
“And did they.”
“Sometimes.”
“Your boss at the grocery store?”
I quiet. “No. That was something else.”
“I’m sorry. You don’t have to talk about it.”
“I know. I will one day, but not now.”
It’s his hand applying the pressure this time, and I’m relieved for a variety of reasons. I turn toward him and wrap my arm around his chest, pulling him close to me. “I know Depression, Luke, and I know you want to be alone, but I’m not going to let you. I can’t make you let me in, but you’re going to have to get used to the fact that I’ll be here when you’re ready.”
He still hasn’t moved, and I can see his eyebrows knit together in the dim light as he continues staring at the ceiling.
“I’m not who you think I am, Callie,” he says after another pause. “If I let you in, you’d know I deserve my prison.”
Day Seventeen: Part I.
I get the frantic call early in the morning, before I’m showered, dressed, or sufficiently roused by my cup of black tea. Definitely before I’m equipped for drama. It’s Shauna, and if I don’t get over to the café in the next five minutes, the cops will be involved.
My heart stops long before she confirms the disruption involves Luke, and I have my jeans and sneakers on by the time we end the call.
I can hear the yelling as I approach Jemma’s. Evacuated patrons and random bystanders are huddled on the sidewalk, attempting to peer through the door, the windows, each other, with looks of fear and curiosity.
“Excuse me! Please! Let me through!” I cry, pushing past them.
I hear some curses, but also warnings as I plow forward. There’s a crazy homeless guy in there. No, he’s not homeless, just a café regular who’s lost his mind. He’s trying to rob the place.
I glance back in surprise at that one, I can’t help myself. Still, I don’t need more speculation, I need the truth, so I don’t ask and continue my journey.
By the time I get through the crowd and into the café, there are only a few brave patrons left, mostly the regulars who have come to expect such erratic behavior from the weird chair guy who turned out to be someone important. The rest of the witnesses are staff members. Both Darryn and Shauna are on today. Lucky them.
“Why can’t I have it? You have a hundred of them!” Luke cries. The Chair is firm in his grip. A table is overturned, a shocked audience curved around the scene. The manager has her hands up in surrender, using her managerial crisis training to try to calm the crazed guest. The problem is, he’s not crazy.
“Luke!” I call, rushing toward the front of the circle.
His desperate eyes turn on me, rooting me several feet away.
“What are you doing?” I ask, forcing myself to take a step forward. He moves back. “They’re going to call the police. They’ll arrest you,” I reason.
He shakes his head, eyes dark. “So what? They should.”
I soften and cover more of the distance between us.
“You don’t want that,” I say.
“You know I do,” he replies, the pain starting to replace the anger.
It hits me harder than I expect, the transformation, the bitter consequence of my attempt to reach him yesterday. My speech was supposed to be a cautionary tale, not an instruction manual.
“Luke…”
“Leave me alone, Callie!”
I shake my head. “No!”
“I said, leave!” he cries, swinging the chair in my direction. I duck away, surprised by the outburst, but not prepared to give up. His aim was too bad for him to have had any intention of hurting me. The others don’t realize that, they don’t know him well enough, and gasp at the new vi
olence. I can see Ailee dialing the phone.
“Luke, please! This won’t help you escape! You want to hide? How will you hide with the cameras and reporters? You really want another mugshot for the tabloids?”
That argument has an affect, and I can tell what I said means even more to him than I’d thought.
He glances around the room again, suddenly seeming startled, and drops the chair with a curse. Another string of expletives slips from his mouth as he locks his hands on his head in distress.
“We’re sorry. So sorry!” I explain to the manager who’s look is somewhere between fear and fury. “It won’t happen again. You won’t see him back here.”
“I better not!” she hisses. “We will call the cops the second he touches the door.”
I nod, completely understanding her position, and turn back to Luke. He’s broken again. No longer a threat, just a terrified stranger staring at a chair.
“I need it, Callie,” he whispers as I approach. His eyes search mine, willing me to understand, to help him. “Please, just explain it to them.”
“I know, Luke. But it’s not going to help you. It’s not,” I reply softly, taking his arm.
He shakes his head, angry tears in his eyes. “Please. Please!” he repeats, one last desperate appeal to the manager.
She glares at him, but waves her hand with a curse. “Fine, take the damn chair. Just get out of my restaurant and never come back!”
I’m still not sure it’s a good idea for him to permanently possess the haunted object, but at the moment, it keeps him out of jail so I have no choice but to accept it.
He sighs with relief, and I see the visible change as a weight seems to lift from his shoulders. He picks up the chair and heads toward the door. I apologize profusely to every face I can’t avoid and do my best to clear an awkward path.
∞∞∞
We walk back to his hotel. Him with his chair, me with my apologies to those we displace on the sidewalk as we march past. I don’t know what to say to Luke, so I remain silent, focusing instead on making sure we arrive safely at our destination, still afraid the manager called the cops after all, and they’ll be showing up any minute to take the crazy rock star into custody. I’m sure he’s legally drunk, so the media would be merciless with that report. As it is, I’m almost certain bystander photos and recordings of his outburst are going to explode into the pop culture conversation anyway, fueling the thirst for celebrity blood with another tragic train wreck.
The Chair will be famous now, too.
I don’t think Luke understands that yet. What he’s done, the firestorm he’s just exposed himself to hasn’t registered, but it will soon, and I suck in my breath at what he’ll face. The ghost chair will now be legend, encased in speculation, investigated with a rabid persistence that will scrape old wounds raw.
I glance back at his face, and am surprised at the stern concentration. Maybe reality is starting to settle in his mind as well, or maybe he’s simply trying not to trip with his heavy burden, but either way I have hope that once we’re safely home we can reason through this. The present. The future.
The doormen give us a strange look as we approach, eyeing the chair with their characteristic skepticism, but it’s in the hands of Luke Craven of Night Shifts Black, so they respond by opening the door a little wider than usual. I’m sure my reception would have been less accommodating.
“Mr. Craven! A new purchase? Please let us help you with that!” Mara Jacobson cries, rushing toward us as we enter.
“Thanks, Mara. I got it.”
She glances at me, her expression more veiled than usual, and I give her a stiff smile.
“Thanks, Mara. We got it,” I repeat just to watch her squirm.
She does, but has no choice except to nod in defeat. “Well, of course if you change your mind, let us know,” she says, and Luke barely acknowledges her as he continues toward the elevator.
I follow him in, shifting to allow him enough room for his chair, and he finally lowers his burden to the floor. He shakes out his arms and stretches as the elevator boy pushes the buttons. Despite everything, I can’t stop the slight grin of amusement as I watch the poor teenager try not to react to the strange scene. Luke seems to notice too, and when his eyes catch mine, my grin breaks. He returns it, and I suddenly feel safe again.
“Thanks, Aiden,” Luke says, slipping him a bill larger than anything I’d ever tipped a server at a restaurant. Aiden will not be talking about the chair, that’s for sure. I give him a smile as well as I exit onto Luke’s floor and follow him to his door.
I can see him struggling with the chair and push past him.
“Here, I got it,” I say, producing my own key and sliding it into the slot.
He gives me a grateful smile, and I hold the door for him as he shuffles past me.
I’m about to speak when I realize he’s lost in his head again. This time it’s not sadness, but the same concentration I saw on the sidewalk journey.
He stands at the top of the step leading into the giant, open living area, surveying the space with an intensity I’ve rarely seen before. I don’t dream of interrupting, and watch him from a distance, curious about the latest glimpse into his confusing mind.
First he moves an end table against the wall and places the chair in the empty space beside the couch. He studies it for a moment, but isn’t happy, and moves the end table back. Next, he tries the space under the bar. He’s even less satisfied with that.
“The office,” I suggest gently.
His head shoots up in alarm, and I suspect he’d forgotten I was here.
“I have an office?” he asks, and only the serious expression on his face keeps me from laughing. I figured as much.
“Second door on the left. After the extra bedroom.”
He hesitates, staring at the chair.
“It’s yours, Luke. No one else should have access to it.”
He nods and removes it from the bar.
I follow him down the hall, completing our strange parade, and watch as he tests the doors to each room. How long has he lived here and he never even bothered with them?
“Wow, you’re right,” he observes, moving inside and turning on the light. “I should do more paperwork,” he jokes, and I almost laugh that I’d had the same thought.
“There’s a nice filing cabinet, too, for you to keep it organized.”
He gives a wry smile, and I return it. Then, he focuses back on the chair. He moves a fake plant in the corner and puts the chair in its place. He steps back to admire his work and nods in satisfaction.
“Perfect,” he says. “Good call.” Then he turns to me with a quizzical look. “You know my suite well.”
I shrug. “I’m a poor girl. This place was worth exploring.”
He nods, but doesn’t chastise me. I don’t know if he forgives me or just doesn’t care. Maybe both.
“Anything else I should know about?”
I grin. “Actually…” I take his hand and pull him from the room. We move back to the first door, and I push him into the guest room.
“Can you please explain that?”
He laughs, and I love that life has finally returned to his eyes. “I wish I could, but I have to admit that this monstrosity threw me for a loop as well.”
I sigh with mock disappointment. “You’re supposed to be my guide into all things ostentatious and ridiculous.”
He gives me a sheepish grin. “Sorry. If I had to guess, this suite was custom built for someone who is no longer here.”
“Someone who felt the need to offer their guests multiple showering options,” I observe.
I continue to stare, still fascinated by the absurd luxury, and can feel his amusement. I blush when my gaze catches his.
“You’re dying to try it aren’t you,” he teases, and I swallow.
“What? And you’re not?”
He laughs again and moves into the room. “The shower or sauna?”
“Both?”
>
He grins and opens the glass door, inspecting the many buttons and knobs. He triggers two of them and the steam unit buzzes to life. He closes the door and steps back as bursts of hot air begin filling the sealed glass case.
“Not now!” I cry, laughing at his crooked grin.
“Why not?”
“I don’t have clothes or anything!”
“Here.”
He moves to the closet and removes a luscious robe that’s more enticing than any blanket or comforter I’ve ever touched. “I’m sure there’s shampoo and whatever else you need in the real bathroom right through there.”
“You’re not serious,” I breathe. “You are serious!”
He shrugs, tosses me the robe, and closes the door before I can respond.
∞∞∞
Luke is lounging on the couch when I emerge from the guest room, wet and relaxed, wrapped in my cozy robe.
“Thoughts?” he asks with a knowing grin.
I return it and drop on another section of the massive sofa. “Surprisingly effective as a shower. Verdict is still out as a wall of a bedroom.”
He laughs and motions toward the bar.
“You want something?”
I shake my head. “No thanks.”
He shrugs and finishes off his glass before relegating it to the end table beside him.
“You know, I was thinking, you can keep some stuff in the guest room if you want. For the next time you feel the need for a shower in the middle of the day.”
I stare at him for a moment. He’s not looking at me and already seems to be worrying more about working up the energy to refill his glass than anything to do with me. I have no idea what to make of the shocking offer he’s already seemed to forget.
“Sure, maybe at least a change of clothes,” I manage as casually as possible.
He nods, and finally pushes himself up from the couch.
Will he even remember he made the offer later? I try to guess how drunk he is, but it’s almost impossible to tell with him.
“I’m having some people over tonight,” he continues as if he hadn’t just dropped the bombshell that’s left me reeling.
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