“Emily?” Margot asked, grounding her back into the reality of the freezing four-by-four bathroom. “Are you going to be in there long? I need to shower.”
Emily opened the door. Margot stood there, the picture of composure, back from her morning run without a drop of sweat upon her. Not even a wisp of her blue-black hair that framed her pointed chin and strict cheekbones dared to disobey her.
Margot had once explained that she was a perfect genetic combination of a painfully beautiful Filipino mother and a never-to-retire Marine captain father. The resulting agile mind for figures, coupled with such an agile figure, continued to discombobulate the most seasoned of her physics professors, long after she had finished her PhD.
“So has she returned yet, or is she officially declared a spoil of war?” Margot asked, meaning Zoey, of course, who, as of two a.m., had not surfaced.
However, there was no judgment in her voice as to their roommate’s whereabouts. The creak of Margot’s bedroom door opening in the early morning hours was not an unfamiliar sound in the apartment, although not a common one. It was inevitably followed by the fumble of heavy shoes and the curses of a man stumbling and trying to dress while being led to the front door. For as long as Emily had known Margot, none of her men had ever been invited to stay for breakfast. They had, according to Margot, never earned the right.
“No sign of her. You remember she knew one of the musicians? She could be in L.A. by now for all we know.”
Margot looked askance at her as she shut the door behind her. Emily padded across to the kitchen, the walls of their soon-to-be-vacated apartment looking depressing and worn now stripped of Zoey’s vibrant canvases. At first, the apartment had belonged to Margot and Zoey, but Zoey’s tiling work often took a back seat to the creation of those canvases and other forms of her “art,” and Margot felt that the third bedroom/closet should be put to better use. Whether Emily was the first to respond to their ad, or the only one, didn’t matter; their friendship was instantaneous. Even Margot’s incongruous shrine to every Catholic saint imaginable (courtesy of her mother, who never stopped trying to lure her back to the church), with its prayer cards and little plastic figurines which sat peering out from the mantle, did not dissuade her.
Emily had finished her first cup of coffee when Margot reappeared wearing a black turtleneck and obedient slacks, waving her phone over her head. “She has good news and bad news—which do you want first?”
“The good.”
“Oh, ever my little optimist. All right, please bear in mind this is highly subjective, but the ‘good’ news is that she has a line on a ‘killer’ apartment—her words, not mine. But that she has to—” she paused to scroll down the message and read further “‘—experience it in natural light. Dirt cheap, available right away. Tell Em it’s near her work and has charm out the wazoo.’”
“And the bad news?”
“It seems we’re all going to the ball, Cinderella. She got us reserved seating at The Lost Boys’ show tonight, compliments of this Christian of hers. And it seems they also want to take us out for drinks afterward.”
“No.”
“I’ll give her this, she works fast.” Margot poured herself a mug of coffee.
“No…no, no, no.”
“Listen, if I have to go, you have to go.”
“No, you don’t understand. I can’t go. I can’t—I don’t have anything to wear. And I have to—I have—Vandin has a paper that he’s submitting and I have to finish editing the bibliography. Drinks? Where?”
Margot’s mug stopped midway to her lips. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing. It’s just that it’s so sudden. To invite us, and he doesn’t even know who we are, what happens if he, if they—”
“Yes?”
“I mean, it’s one thing to look up there and watch them play, but to have to talk? I don’t think I’m ready for that—I mean, what would we say? We have nothing in common.”
“We’re going out for drinks, not giving them a kidney. And seriously, we’ve suffered through worse for her before. All we have to do is endure a few hours of noise and the obligatory first drink and then we leave. That’s it, just drinks. It’s probably a good thing that we meet her little musician and his friends and make sure she hasn’t made a complete fool of herself yet.”
“There’s nothing little about him.”
“Excuse me?”
Emily floundered. “The drummer—the drummer’s tall,” she blurted out in the vain hope that Margot’s guarded intrigue in the Irish drummer, with his battering arms and sly banter, would effectively detour the direction of the conversation and put an end to her increasingly critical stare.
“Statistically, I’d say he falls onto the far end of the bell curve, yes,” Margot offered into her coffee mug. “At least when it comes to talent, that is. But he looks unwashed.”
“True. But didn’t Newton or somebody say something about opposites attracting?”
“Attractive? Well…I suppose he might be in a James Joyce, John Lennon, rebel-as-artist sort of way, if you like that sort of thing. But I need a mind functioning within all that…noise. And somehow, that man couldn’t have both—it’s not statistically possible.”
“What? Look at you. Why can’t that happen with a Y-chromosome?”
“Because it can’t, and even if it could, it ultimately comes to down to someone sacrificing to make it work. And women are engineered to sacrifice, it’s in our DNA. Whereas the best of men, no matter how talented or intelligent or attractive, will suck you dry and then complain to you about the aftertaste. Trust me. Men aren’t engineered to sacrifice or to stay around, especially men in bands, so it’s better to leave first before you end up making a huge mistake.”
“But we’re just talking about drinks here.”
“My point, exactly. So I suggest you be ready to go by seven.”
Emily sometimes hated having a genius for a roommate.
As Emily entered the Skellar, she pinched herself to verify she was indeed awake, and as an extra precaution, scanned the club to make sure the audience looked firmly of this century. At her side, Margot took no notice, or if she did she didn’t say a word. She hadn’t said a word about Emily’s attire of a blue-black velvet jacket and treacherously high pumps donated with relish by Myra for the occasion who claimed they made Emily look exactly like a feminist fairy tale princess. Margot was used to her friend’s bohemian style of dress, herself opting for a leather jacket and appropriately frayed jeans as did the rest of the crowd. Her black, tight-fitting T-shirt, however, bore a bright yellow radioactive symbol on it in apparent warning.
The same as the previous evening, the dark room was packed. Within seconds of reaching the tables they were whisked along by Zoey, who nabbed them each by the arm and escorted them to one that bore a reserved VIP sign. She must have come home at some point during the day, thought Emily, because she was done up in a macraméd peasant dress and white go-go boots. No sooner had they taken their seats than she launched into the description of their new apartment.
“But a house?” Emily said after finding out the details. “We barely make enough between us to afford our current place. How much is the rent?”
“It’s cheaper than our place,” said Zoey, “that’s the beauty of it. And it’s a Victorian. And it’s an apartment, not the whole house, so don’t start worrying about cleaning and all that because there’s no need. It’s getting some work done.”
Margot barked a laugh. “Sounds like it’s getting Botox. What do you mean exactly when you say ‘work’?”
“Nothing that we can’t live in,” answered Zoey a bit too quickly. “Wait till you see her—the wainscoting, the fireplaces, the light, and there’s even this little garden, and we share a conservatory in the attic.” She began to sketch the layout on a nearby napkin and continued on in an orgasmic Architectural Digest fashion about the vintage Chambers stove and the window seats, but all Emily could hear was one word: sh
are.
“Whoa, whoa…share?” Margot interrupted before Emily could open her mouth. “You mean to tell me we’ll be living in a apartment with God knows who traipsing through it every day to make sure it doesn’t collapse on our heads, plus we have to live with other people?”
Just then a body walked onto the stage, and Emily’s heart skipped a beat. She nearly snapped the stem of her wine glass between her fingers. But he was only there to check equipment and quickly left.
Why was she so nervous? She had until midnight. Wasn’t that true of all fairy tales? Then this fantasy of hers would return to just that. She didn’t want to think about it anymore, the reality of expected disappointment. All she wanted were beginnings and hope and happiness, not what she knew would come once the last encore was done and the lights came up and they said hello. But what happened if they did hit it off? If he found her beautiful and charming and intelligent? Was that so farfetched?
Suddenly the lights dimmed, and Emily’s heart began to make its way to her throat via her lungs. Her hands were sweating and freezing all at the same time. The room was beyond capacity at this point. Bodies were everywhere, all holding their collective breath.
Again, the metal-studded girl scurried on stage to announce the band. The door opened up from the side of the stage, and The Lost Boys entered. Wild applause rang out.
Christian was the first to take his place. He grabbed his bass from its stand and fiddled with it, while Simon followed and snatched up his sticks, getting comfortable behind his barricade of drums. Both were wearing low slung jeans and dark T-shirts. They grinned as the crowd cheered and raised their hands in greeting.
Andrew was the last to come on stage, not because he wanted to make an entrance, but because he was speaking quickly to the girl who had introduced them. He made a motion with his hand to the audience, nodded in understanding, then jumped up onto the stage. The applause was deafening.
His fans were back in droves. He seemed a bit puzzled by the number of shrieking women but just shrugged his shoulders and welcomed the crowd.
“Thank you. Thank you very much. It’s a pleasure to be back here at the Skellar tonight. You have a charming city here. I’ve been told that the natives are quite friendly.”
The natives erupted in screams. He grinned back. It still disconcerted her to hear his clipped British accent from the Mediterranean combination of blue eyes, tan skin, and dark hair.
“The first song we’d like to perform for you tonight is from our forthcoming album. We finished recording it back home over the holidays. Hope you enjoy it.”
Christian smiled back at Andrew’s nod, and Simon set the beat on the drums. Zoey let out a whistle of delight, while Margot sat perfectly still.
By the middle of the third song, the audience was feverishly pressing in around the stage. Zoey hauled them closer, not satisfied to have to stand on the chairs to see the band like so many others were forced to.
After the song ended, Andrew put aside his electric guitar and took up his acoustic. The mood of the room shifted with the dimming lights. He stood before the microphone, all riled up from the previous set, his legs still rocking through his tattered jeans. His Doc Martens were tapping a beat, slow and steady. He strummed a few chords and hummed to himself, tuning his guitar.
He seemed ready now. Emily stood straighter, high on her toes, willing his eyes so filled with fire to find hers in the darkness. Please see me out here. I’m here. I’ve always been here.
At that precise moment his eyes meet hers. His strumming faltered. Emily immediately pulled herself into the shadows, unable to breathe, unable to move any further. Then he blinked as though shaking himself out of a stupor.
“Forgive me,” he said, his voice a bit strained, “thought I might be losing my mind there for a moment. But just in case I’m not mad, this next song is about a girl. It’s always about a girl, isn’t it?” He sighed and glanced at the floor. “Well, this one is, because it has always been about her.”
He began to play.
When the heart breaks there is no sound. There is only the sensation of threads of hope held taut and cut. Then the ghost pain comes, pain that exists in their absence.
She couldn’t stay. She couldn’t stand here and watch him sing of his love for another woman; it was too painful, too humiliating. What had she been thinking? What fantasies had she spun to get her to this point? How ridiculous had she become?
Blindly, she reached for her coat. She had retreated only two steps when she accidently knocked into a group of startled students. One of them, angered at being nearly pushed into a table, shoved back into Emily, sending her flying into a nearby waitress who bore a large tray of drinks. The impact knocked the tray from the waitress’s hands and catapulted its contents clear across the stage. In the uproar, glasses shattered and ice scuttled everywhere. Andrew barely escaped being hit by a beer bottle that crashed near his feet.
Frantic, Emily tried to help the waitress up but was pulled off balance, causing them both to tumble to the floor at the edge of the stage. Skinning her elbow across the cement, she cursed loudly.
Despite the mayhem, Andrew’s eyes narrowed as he scoured the darkness. He muttered something unrecognizable, then his eyes met Emily’s. He froze and his face blanched, “You? No. Christ, it is you! Bloody hell.”
The sharpness of his voice sent a shock down her spine. “What?” she managed to get out, struggling to retrieve her coat from the floor.
“You’re here. How did you find me?” he demanded more loudly now, ignoring the crew attempting to clean up the debris around him. “How?”
She took a step backward. She felt all the eyes in that room glued to the specter she must have made standing there, mortified, holding that blackest of blue coats. She felt his glare most of all, demanding an explanation.
“I didn’t…I’m sorry.”
“But it’s you,” he insisted, beyond vehement now, pushing aside the microphone stand. “It can’t be you.”
Panicked, the memory of her own words haunted her—the words she had spoken on that damp park bench the first night she saw him. He had recognized her after all. His personal stalker had crashed his show. How the hell had she descended to these depths?
Suddenly it all became too much. The riot of her emotions and the crush of the walls closed in on her and choked the air from her lungs. Gasping for breath and desperate for escape, she shoved the onlookers aside and escaped toward the exit. Zoey and Margot shouted her name in confusion.
She did the only thing she could do—she ran. She had to get out of there. Humiliated, she ran into the black, cold, foggy street. She ran until she couldn’t move anymore, couldn’t drag herself another foot. Ten blocks she ran, fighting back tears. She ran until she collapsed against a vacant alley, her lungs on fire, her body bent over and panting.
And there, under the fog and a fizzling street lamp, clutching her coat about her shoulders, she realized: she had lost one shoe. She slumped down the wall and stared up into the night sky, feeling the trail of a hot tear down her cheek. To hell with those stupid fairy tales.
5
* * *
BLOOD POUNDED IN HIS EARS as the world spiraled down into a pinprick of soundlessness. She was here. I am here. She was here. I am here. Here. Andrew could feel the words echo in the reverb of his guitar and pulsate under his fingertips. He was either hallucinating or truly going mad this time; both were valid options. But he knew, without any doubt, that she—his muse—had stood before him, close enough to touch, and that was the only reality that mattered anymore.
Then she had vanished and left him speechless, holding his guitar and what little remained of his sanity. The empty place that she had filled narrowed to a kaleidoscopic lens with each frame holding her image, the backdrop ever changing, her clothes different in each view, but always with the same expression on her face—as if she were staring at an old photograph, the kind you would hold to your heart long after you had finished gazing at
it.
Without thinking, Andrew threw his guitar to the ground and leaped off the stage. The shocked audience stumbled apart to make way for him, then surged back in a wave, not wanting to miss any part of the excitement. Shoulders smashed into his and long nails tore at his hair as he struggled to pass. The last thing Andrew heard as he made it to the exit was Christian’s voice announcing, “Going to take a break, folks!”
At the door, the bouncer gaped in confusion at the sight of the wild guitarist, but Andrew ignored him and pushed past the velvet ropes and out into the night. Immediately, the chill and fog hit him square in the face, and his eyes teared and fought to adjust to the darkness. All he could see before him was a street littered with the dregs of people out on a Saturday night, almost translucent under the streetlamps.
Scrambling for what to do next, he felt his legs begin to pump. He ran. Harder and harder. But to where? Up two blocks, back down three. Where are you? Where are you? Was he shouting the words, or was he thinking them? He couldn’t tell.
Like a madman he scoured the streets for her, for that black coat, that delicate face. She couldn’t have gotten very far; she had to be near some storefront or trying to flag down a taxi, something. But all he could see were the ghosts of Haight Street, hands shoved in their pockets, as though each was wanting to be somewhere else.
After several more futile minutes spent searching for her, he slammed his foot against a nearby newspaper stand, then cursed and collapsed down on the curb, listening to his heart pound out in three quarter time: she—was—here, she—was—here, she—was—here. A lifetime of searching and he had finally seen her. The realization should have instilled in him some sense of vindication, should have made him want to climb up to some rooftop and proclaim it to the world. See, I’m not mad. I’ve been right all along. Screw you all! But having the contents of his mind made manifest before his very eyes only kept him cemented to the curb. It was one thing to deal with the desires of one’s subconscious, but quite another to have to handle a living, breathing girl. How was he going to approach her? How was he even to say hello? What happened if she wanted nothing to do with him and kicked him to the curb where he sat huddled now? Hell, how was he even going to find her?
Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story Page 6