by Julie Adams
Fighting Gravity
by Julie Adams
Fighting Gravity
Copyright © 2018 by Julie Adams.
www.authorjulieadams.com
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Formatting by Derek Murphy @ Creativindie
Cover image/graphic/fonts : 4 PM production/Shutterstock & Pexels & Pixabay & Brusheezy.com & 1001fonts.com & Dafont.com
For the A’s in my life. You inspire me and make my life the wonderful adventure it is.
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty One
Twenty Two
Twenty Three
Twenty Four
Twenty Five
Twenty Six
Twenty Seven
Twenty Eight
Twenty Nine
Thirty
Thirty One
About Julie Adams
One
Lily
I'm finishing my coffee, dreading going out on this gloomy day when Beth rattles her newspaper nearly making me spill the precious hot liquid.
“Sorry,” she says peering over the paper at me, her french accent making it impossible not to forgive her.
Beth's fair, willowy, and effortlessly refined. Basically, the complete opposite of me with my dark hair, eyes, and tawny skin. I can see why my brother fell in love with her, why he asked her to marry him. She's amazing.
“It's okay,” I say looking out the tall picture window overlooking the famous Paris rooftops of the 8th arrondissement.
I'm currently living with Brent and Beth. We're a cozy family version of Three’s Company. I'd like to be Chrissy but I'm pretty sure I'm Mrs. Roper.
I owe this fresh start to them, they are currently employing me and housing me for free until I find my way here.
Beth had taken over the apartment we’re living in after her parents moved to the countryside. If they weren't living rent free, I'm not sure the three of us would be here, embarking on this project. And I'm not sure where I'd be.
Lost in my thoughts I hadn't realized I'm rubbing my scars. I jerk my hand away from the ugly reminder of my past. “I gotta get going,” I say draining my mug and forcing myself out of the chair, wrapping up in a coat and scarf to brave the brisk March air.
“Au revoir,” Beth says from behind her paper, completely lost in the headlines.
I take my time on the stairs, bracing for the cold when I open the building door. As I walk, I can’t shake last night’s dream. It’s one of the worst I’ve had since moving here, and it’s left me exhausted. It’s hard to get to sleep after dreams like that. The ones that feel so real that your body reacts and your heart pounds, adrenaline waking you.
I pick up a latte from the cafe on the corner. Hoping the warmth from the paper cup will fill me until I get to the theater. Wind whips over the Seine and hits me with a cold dampness I feel in my bones.
I breathe deeply as a cluster of pedestrians bustle by me, nearly trampling me. I try to remember what the chances are that someone could be almost killed by another person twice in one lifetime.
I laugh to myself, brushing away my nerves. I’m safe here. I walk quickly the rest of the way, wanting to get out of the cold and away from the crowd.
The exterior of the theater is much as it was when it was built over a century ago. From the steps, I can see just the tip of the Eiffel Tower. I’m practically standing in its shadow. Not a bad view to start your workday with.
Pushing through the door, work is already underway for the morning. Scaffolds erected to patch holes and take down old lights and wallpaper. A crew of two marking the unsalvageable velvet seats for removal. Those that can be saved will be moved to the second level VIP section.
Brent stands in the middle of the hubbub, his hard hat thrown on the chair beside him. “It's all coming together," He says as I walk up the aisle. "You did a great job in here last night, not a speck of trash or debris in sight."
Just as the words leave his mouth, a hanging light fixture rattles as it slips free of its confines, sprinkling dust and plaster all over the stage. Brent's mouth twists into a grimace and he sighs, closing his eyes. He’s gotten used to things like that by now and recovers much better than he did six-months ago. Not even a curse word today.
"As long as they keep doing that, you'll always be paying me," I say with a smile.
His grimace turns into a grin as he chuckles. After a moment he sobers and looks at me uncomfortably.
Oh no.
"Mom called," He starts.
I nod, pretending to watch the workers patch a hole. I don’t want to meet his eyes and see him looking for any signs of something wrong.
"She's worried about you, says you haven't called in a while." He continues.
I sigh and slump. "I've been busy." It’s a half-truth. I just want to forget everything back home for a bit. I don’t want the concern or second-hand pity she got from an old friend at the grocery store because of me.
Every memory I’ve tried to forget can be rehashed with a simple affliction of a word by my empathic mother. She means well, but it doesn't make moving on any easier.
Brent is still staring at me, at a loss on how to navigate between our mother’s wishes and my reluctance.
I straighten, doing my power stance the therapist told me about. "She was worried when I stayed at home all the time, now she's worried about me going out." I fail at being flippant. It comes out too emotional.
"She has her reasons, Lily, you've been through a lot. We all just want to make sure you're okay."
"I'm fine, Brent. Getting better every day, I can actually walk down the street now without looking over my shoulder every step. I'm getting it under control." Brent nods, looking at the floor. I feel guilty, he shouldn’t have to deal with this. "I'll call Mom later and let her know I'm okay."
He smiles, relieved. "Good, she just loves you, you know."
"Sometimes you sound just like dad," I say bumping his shoulder. I don't add how much I miss him since he passed. He already knows.
“And sometimes you're a pain in the ass. Both things we can't help,” he jokes and turns back to supervise the construction.
I've been gently dismissed.
I’m glad that conversation’s over. I head out of the auditorium, making my way through the lobby with its broken chandeliers and light sconces. Flaking and peeling murals of dancing nymphs and forests. They’re like little walking companions. Even the vandals seemed to appreciate the art and left it untouched by graffiti.
I trudge up the sweeping stone staircase to the second story, my footsteps muffled by the bald and mottled red carpet that paves the circular hall around the VIP boxes.
Opening a panel in the seamless facade of the mural I step into the manager's office. It’s the only room that was m
ostly intact when Brent bought the place.
A fresh coat of paint and new furniture, made crossing the threshold feel like stepping forward through time and back into this millennium.
A big sleek desk sits towards the back of the room, Brent's laptop and papers sit on top. A pair of simple chairs assembled in front of the desk. A small sofa sits to the right of the door, it's the most comfortable place to sit in the entire building, and I’m positive I’ve already worn a print of my body into the cushions.
Pulling the little rolling desk in front of the sofa, I plop down and pull out my tablet. Lights blink from a small shelf in the corner assuring me that the internet and electricity are up and running for the moment.
Swiping on the tablet, I start scrolling through information on indie bands both here and in the states that seem to be getting buzz on social media. I make notes of any worth pursuing once the venue’s up and running.
Some of the artists are really talented, and others are novelties with one schtick or another that earned them recognition. One band is simply mediocre and made up of handsome young men that seemed to cash in on that fact. No judgment. If given the opportunity to skate by in a career based purely on my looks- not including hustling in the sex industry- I might seriously pursue it.
Yawning, I drain the last of my latte. There’s never enough caffeine. I’m always tired, either on the verge of just waking up or ready to sleep.
My therapist said insomnia was to be expected and that eventually, the nightmares would subside until they were only a rare occurrence. And the nightmares have gotten better, but I still have them several nights a week, and they're so vivid I can barely go back to sleep.
I lean back and close my eyes. That feels better than good, it feels divine. If I wasn't supposed to be working I could take a nap. Brent wouldn't mind, but it doesn't feel right to take advantage of blood and sympathy that way, not when I’m trying so hard to convince everyone I’m fine. I know I’ll get there indefinitely, I’m still on the journey and not yet at the destination.
The door pushes open and Beth walks in with coffees in either hand. She hands one to me with a big I’m-the-best grin.
"You are amazing you know that? If Brent wasn't marrying you, I might." I say taking a sip of the warm liquid.
"Get in line." Beth sasses, pointing to her imaginary line before dropping into Brent's office chair. That would be Brent's sense of humor rubbing off on her.
"I found some bands that might be a good fit for opening night," I tell her tapping my sheet of paper. “There's only two. And they're not great, but they aren't terrible either.”
Beth sighs and leans back in the chair, rocking it back and forth on its base. "If there ever is an opening night. The renovations seem to be moving at a glacial pace. I'm ready to open as is and call it Parisian Shabby Chic."
I wince, laughing. "The decor could draw a certain kind of crowd but the lawsuits you'd get from falling debris would put you in a hole."
"Why couldn't your brother want to open a record store?" She asks. Brent had wanted to live his life around music and this was his way of doing it.
"It'll all be worth it in the end. When the stage looks ready for a soprano to belt out her big opening note, but instead you get powerful rock gods turning the scene on its axis in their skin-tight leather pants."
"And if that goes belly up, we'll turn the place into an all nude male review." She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “Those were my terms when we bought the place.” Her eyes light up as a light bulb goes off in her mind. "Let's find dancers!"
I nod excited, dragging a chair around to her side of the desk as Beth types in “exotic male talent” into the browser.
This is definitely not the worst job I’ve ever had. Sign spinner outside of a mobile store takes that top prize. It's hard to be fancy when it’s January and you can’t feel your fingers. I lasted three days before they “decided to go in a different direction.” That direction was someone who could actually stand the cold and spin the sign.
Somewhere between oiled up shots of hunky men in various states of undress and a few sporting 1980's satin animal print thongs, We’ve fallen into hysterics and can't stop laughing.
The stage names alone are worthy of a booking. Richard Long Dong, Peter Cherry, Brock the Jock. Not exactly steaming up my fantasies with those monikers.
“I thought they'd be... sexier,” I snort.
“This isn't Vegas, you get Magic Michel here.” She quips and I lose it.
Something clatters below and our laughter stops abruptly as shouts reverberate up through the floor. I give a quick jerk of my head and make for the door, running down to the auditorium to see what's happening.
Brent's standing on the stage arguing with one of the crew in French. An ancient fixture used for theater sets is laying on the stage, debris surrounding it. Workers are watching the scene unfold in near silence.
I know just enough French to get through basic daily interactions. I try following along but I'm only catching phrases here and there as they speak rapidly. Dangerous. Cursed. Ghost.
Beth stands beside me, arms crossed watching every little movement waiting to see if she'll have to step in. She's beautiful and sweet, but can be tough as nails when needed. She's the real boss here, able to wrangle everyone in line.
The man throws his arms up exasperated and storms off. Leaving Brent standing there angry and about to burst. He kicks a bucket of tools off the stage, they clatter and crash, echoing through the space.
I take a deep breath, my heart going a mile a minute. My anxiety ratcheting up at the situation. I don't handle yelling and loud unexpected noises well these days.
Beth seems to notice and wraps an arm around me. She doesn't say a word, only lets me know I'm not alone and that's really what I need most. I don't need council or a talking down, I just need to know I have support.
Brent looks at us and growls in frustration. I know he feels like an asshole. "It's alright, he'll cool off." He says through gritted teeth.
"Yea, sure," Beth replies coolly, obviously not caring if the man ever returns. She looks at me, "Come on, let's get back to the office, it's freezing down here."
I nod, hating how foolish I feel. I hate the way the anxiety makes me act, how it hinders my life, the way it makes me dread things most people wouldn't think twice about. Mostly, I hate the way it makes other people treat me.
At the door to the office, Beth finally unloops her arm from mine.
"I think I'm going to go to the dressing rooms for a bit," I say with a shrug, trying to make it sound casual through my embarrassment. Truthfully, I just need to be alone right now.
"Okay," Beth says giving me my space.
"Let me know if you need anything," I say so it doesn’t sound so much like I'm flaking on my job.
Beth only nods and gives a tight smile. She knows I hate the coddling but she's naturally inclined to comfort.
I turn and go before she can.
The dressing rooms are behind the stage. Large cavernous rooms that once acted as dorms for dancers and singers, back when housing the talent was common.
My favorite room in the whole place is the Prima Donna Room. It's the private room for the star of the show and the most luxurious.
Somehow it still smells freshly clean while most of the other rooms smell musty from years of being shut up. The floral wallpaper has started to yellow and peel. And the floorboards have lost their once brilliant gloss.
Some of the furniture is still intact, although in various states of disrepair. An antique cherry wood dressing table sits in one corner, probably worth a month's rent. Along another wall hangs a three-panel mirror, the glass still intact.
Most magnificent of all is the massive bed frame carved into the shape of a swan. So big I wonder how they got it into the room or if the entire building had been constructed around the piece. The mattress has long since been thrown out or I'm sure it would be a
very popular place to sneak off and nap.
This room is my refuge when things become too much around me. No one seems to want to go near it. Even though it stays remarkably warm compared to the rest of the building.
I put in my earbuds and take a seat in a cheap fold-out chair I'd brought in a few months ago. Pulling out my pen and pad I begin to write. The words are slow to come as I try to visualize any place but here. Soon, they come and with them a sense of escape, the weight lifting from my shoulders. The pen moving across the page a therapeutic exercise.
Repositioning myself, I prop my feet against the bed frame and curl deeper into the chair. It's becoming downright cozy in the room. Warm and quiet with the exception of the distant sound of power tools.
My eyes begin to grow heavy as I try to keep up with my thoughts. I can feel my head begin to drop, my eyes burning to close. Then I just give into it. Relaxing into the chair and the comfort of the sleep I’ve been so deprived of.
In my dreams, I wander empty streets alone in the night, under street lamps not nearly bright enough. Every shadow becomes a sinister figure ready to attack. Ready to claw at my hair and dig at my face.
My scars are opening up, bleeding as if someone else willed them to. I clutch at my face, my fingers not enough to stop the blood.
I begin to panic and sob. I call for help but my voice is only a croak of a whisper as I run down the streets of Paris, only it’s not the real Paris, but a twisted Paris that melds with the landscape of my hometown.
My shoes slapping against the pavement is the only sound. A sick feeling twisting in my gut, I'm running in the wrong direction. Home is the other way. How did I get turned around?
I cry out again, a whimper of a sound.
Somewhere behind me comes a different sound. I slow and listen prepared to hide.
It's a voice, deep and smooth. It's singing a song much lighter than my dream feels. That it is a man's voice brings some relief.
It's not her.
He's singing a song from the 90's telling me to hold on. The baritone of the notes seems to vibrate the air around me. I walk towards it, the streets not nearly as frightening now that I'm not alone.