Hollow Stars

by Lauryn Dyan

  “Me either.” I jibe, hopping in front of him to stop our steps. “I love this lucky bastard, you know that.”

  He grins a face-splitting grin.

  “I do and I love you, too.”

  We resume our teetering stroll, not wanting to get too far behind our group who’s come to the entrance of a piano bar. It’s an old, brick building with elaborate, black, iron fencing lining the second story, though that could describe several buildings in The French Quarter.

  We hand the broad bouncer positioned out front our IDs and pass through the open double doors. Instead of entering another dark and teeming bar, we are greeted by a vast, cobblestone courtyard with a three-tier, stone fountain smack in the middle. People mill about in the open air, both up and downstairs, either watching the crowd below or lost in their own drunken bliss.

  “This way,” Rickly says, the sound of live music drawing us across the courtyard. In the back corner, we find an enclosed space with a long bar to one side and a grand piano centered on a small stage. The room is wall-to-wall people, their faces only visible in the residual glow of the spotlight aimed at the piano player. I grip Rickly’s hand tighter so we don’t get separated in the chaos and he gives me a quick squeeze as he leads us to the bar. My drink of choice tonight is the hurricane. I figure this is the place to enjoy them, where the drink supposedly originated, and I handle rum well. So far, so good.

  I drop Rickly’s hand to push through the crowd to the wooden ledge to order and bump my shoulder into Sonny.

  “Well, well, fancy meeting you here.”

  Trecia stands squished on Sonny’s other side and they both smile at me. For once, hers seems genuine. Maybe she’s finally noticed my barnacle-like attachment to Rickly and isn’t worried about me and Ace anymore. About time.

  “This is crazy!” Sonny shouts, waving at the mass of bodies around us. It’s hard to hear over the music being pounded out on the ivory keys. “There are more people here than at our show!”

  “I know!” I perch on my tip toes ready as the bartender breaks away from his last group, leaning on the bar slightly to get his attention.

  “Two hurricanes and whatever these ladies want!” I bellow, as he tilts his ear toward me. He nods and takes their requests, but keeps giving me the side-eye while doing so. Not in a flirty way, but like he’s trying to place me. I shrug to myself and turn back to Sonny. “Having fun?”

  Her eyes flit to Davey, huddled with the rest of our guys, for one split second.

  “Hell yes,” she answers. His back is turned, his jet black hair nodding along to the music. They’ve been glued to each other tonight nearly as much as me and Rickly.

  “And you?” I ask Trecia. I’m going to take advantage of our good moods to see if perhaps tonight can be a turning point in our tense relationship.

  “Oh yeah. Our show tonight was epic. This city is amazing.”

  Her friendly tone gives me a sudden urge to wrap my arm around her and say, ‘See? I knew we could be friends.’ I might be getting ahead of myself. While Rickly and I said we wouldn’t worry about our more sober pact tonight, if my sudden urge to get touchy-feely is any indication, I should slow down on the drinks. These hurricanes are deceptively strong.

  The bartender returns with seven, blended, red beverages and my eyes go wide. We know how to party that’s for damn sure.

  He slides me three of the drinks with a sly smile. I lean forward again in confusion.

  “I only ordered two.”

  “I know. One’s from me. You’re in that band that played tonight, right? Tracing Stars.”

  I nod, maybe a little too emphatically. It’s rare I get recognized in public when I’m not somewhere tour related. It’s both startling and flattering whenever it happens.

  “I told the manager you were here,” he yells, over the din. “We’re hoping you drink enough of these, we can get you up to sing with the piano player.”

  I beam. “Fuck yeah. I don’t need the alcohol to be persuaded, but I’ll take it anyway.” I wink.

  “All right. Don’t go far, we’ll find a way to get you up there.” He pats the bar and gives the other bartender a nod to indicate she’s in charge before disappearing to the back.

  “What’d he want?” Sonny asks.

  “For me to go up and sing,” I say, trying not to sound over-eager and failing miserably.

  “That’s awesome!” Trecia trills. “You have to do it.”

  “Just try and stop me.”

  ***

  I’ve got homework for the first time in years. According to Craig, it will take more than a few, probing, hour-long sessions to repair the damage to my psyche. At the end of today’s session, he proceeded to explain how ‘taking better care of one’s self can stimulate the mind.’ Basically, the goal is to improve my brain function so it can more easily extract my lost memories from the dark corners where I’ve shoved them.

  First assignment? Increase my mental activity. Ha! I mean, when I’m lucid it’s like I can’t shut my brain the hell up. I’m always thinking about someone or something that lead me here. Apparently, that doesn’t count.

  “The mind is like a muscle,” he reminded me, and I’ve been so totally fixated on my own issues I haven’t given mine the workout it deserves. I’ve stuck it on the treadmill and left the weights and yoga mat collecting dust. Who knew I was sucking mentally in so many ways?

  To rectify this, he’s given me several, simple activities to do alone when I feel up to trying. It’s a lot of the stuff a mom would pack for her kids to do in the backseat on a long road trip before there were tablets. Crossword puzzles, word searches, and even some mad libs. He also gave me a nice leather journal for free-form writing.

  “Just sit and let your thoughts flow out on the page.” No agenda, no select topic. Just ramble and see what comes out. Lord knows what crazy is going to pour out of this twisted mess.

  I lay each activity on my bed in a neat row and stare at them blankly, unsure which juvenile task will be the key to getting my brain back into shape the fastest. They all seem so ineffectual. Like training for a triathlon by splashing in the bathtub. Isn’t there a P90X for your brain?

  I sigh and decide it’s worth a shot. At least it gives me something to do aside from watching the ceiling. I open the word searches and start with one of the harder puzzles in the back: major U.S. cities.

  ***

  The black piano brushes my butt as I bend over the mic to belt out a more aggressive version of the classic 70s hit, “I Will Survive.” My mom loves this song and, when I was little, my sister and I would both sing along with her in the car. My musical tastes have evolved since then but it’s a fun song for karaoke.

  “I love you, Kennedy!” Sonny shouts. Everyone from the tour is in the crowd yelling and cheering. When the song first started, I heard a ‘sing it sexy bitch’ I’m pretty sure came from Ace. It’s been a long time since I sang just to sing. Something silly with no angle for my career. I love the freedom and, as the last note plays, I don’t want to stop. It’s like when your favorite song comes on the car radio as you’re pulling up to your destination. Sometimes, you have to hit the accelerator and drive around the block one more time so you can sing along.

  The audience claps and hoots and I take a slight bow. I turn to give the piano player back the mic and he lifts a finger as if to ask me ‘one more?’

  “You bet your ass!” I yell to him. He signals me over to peruse his song list again. I scan it quickly before pointing to my selection. He gives a thumbs up in approval and begins playing softly to transition songs. I take this moment to say a few words.

  “I don’t know if you know this, but I’m in a band, Tracing Stars.” My bandmates and some of the crowd holler in appreciation. “And we’re out on this amazing tour with the most kick-ass bands, Run Before You Walk and Sheltered.” More applause. “I’m hoping, with a little encouragement from you, I can get those guys up here to help me with this next song.” Regardless if they know u
s or not, the masses erupt into thunderous whistling and whoops.

  The audience begins to swell and contort as my friends make their way to the stage. It’s a bit of a struggle to get everyone through the tangle of people onto the small platform, but they finally manage to claw their way up. I pull Rickly and Ace over to me as they ascend so they can be closest to the mic. Quite a few of our group can sing, but it just feels right being flanked by the other two lead singers. As we finish assembling, the piano player starts my next pick, another karaoke fav, Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer.”

  The first verse is a jumble of voices, the lyrics getting mixed up or changed in our inebriated state, but once we get past that, our words come strong and clear.

  Rickly and I lock eyes like we both recognize this is our relationship anthem. I can’t tell if our voices are harmonizing with Ace’s in the mic, but it doesn’t matter. We’re singing with raw emotion, lost in the music.

  When we reach the chorus the entire room croons at the top of their lungs, each ‘whoa’ particularly spirited and off-key. It still sounds beautiful to me.

  I snake my arms through Ace and Rickly’s elbows and notice we aren’t the only ones in some sort of embrace. Sonny, Trecia, Davey and Oli’s fingers are locked. Bert, Aaron, Nuts and Paul have their arms slung over each other’s shoulders. Trent and Jack laugh as they high-five awkwardly and bro hug. Some of our crew, out in the crowd, wedge together in a cluster and pump their fists in support.

  I want to capture this moment and bottle it. Open it up and take a swig whenever I’m down. The sensation is more intoxicating than any drug.

  As the last bar rings out, we all let out a cheer. Rickly drops my arm and grabs my face in both his hands and gives me the deepest, most passionate and public kiss I’ve ever had. In that instant, it’s like the madness and intensity around us are a magnification of our love. He is the icing on my perfect cake and I never want to taste another dessert.

  ***

  I circle New Orleans on my city word search as my eyes brim with tears. They’ve been building for some time, each city printed at the bottom of the page reminding me of some wonderful, maddening or heartbreaking experience in my past. When I get to that particular city, the one that marked the peak of my happiness, I can’t hold back the waterworks anymore. I let my pencil roll into the crack of the open book and sob uncontrollably with nothing to offer me comfort in my sterile room aside from a sad, flattened pillow I clutch for dear life, hoping if I hold it tight enough I can stop my body from shaking.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sunshine, how I’ve missed you. Craig, my father and I walk side-by-side along the sidewalk encircling the grounds of the institution. I suspect this stroll is Craig’s way of getting me in a good mood before our session, but it also checks another box off my homework to-do list: increase my physical activity. Seems exercise improves blood flow to your brain. Whatever. This is one assignment I can get whole-heartedly behind.

  We’ve been walking briskly, enjoying the mild temperature and beautiful clear sky, making idle chitchat about my dad. He’s been working remotely since we last met so he can stay close for our sessions. He drove back to LA last week for some meetings but, otherwise, he’s been at a nearby hotel. It’s oddly satisfying, having him make sacrifices for me even after all this time. I don’t say it but I’m going to try to be more open with him to show I appreciate his effort. Give and take.

  We’ve made two rotations around the fenced in yard, passing various inmates milling about when Craig signals us to a shaded table and benches to get down to business. Time for the hard stuff.

  As we settle in, Craig gives us a refresher.

  “In our last session, we established that the two of you have similarities both in the way you pursue your passion and how you lose yourself when enjoying life.”

  My eyes briefly meet my father’s before we look away awkwardly. We both seem a little embarrassed, whether by our own past behavior or each other’s, I’m not sure.

  “Daryl did most of the sharing last time, revealing what it was like for him when he first left your family. Kennedy, I’d like you to talk about what things were like for you then.”

  A lump forms in my throat. This is the kind of discussion I’ve been dreading since we brought my father into my therapy. I’ve said it before, but I don’t necessarily see the correlation between what happened to me at five and what happened to me on tour sixteen years later. I’ve committed to this though and, like all my other recent assignments, I’ll give it a try. You never know.

  “To be honest, I was in kindergarten when he left. I don’t really remember anything,” I begin.

  My dad relaxes his shoulders in temporary relief. This obviously isn’t exactly what he wants to talk about either. Craig has other ideas.

  “Perhaps you can tell us the first thing you do remember and we can go from there.”

  I shut my eyes and try to replay my life backward. What’s the last thing I can recall about my dad?

  I let out a flustered breath.

  “There’s nothing. I can’t place his face in any childhood memory. The things I know from then are all from pictures, or stories, my mother told me.”

  “Those pictures. Those stories. How did you feel about them?” Craig prods.

  “Indifferent. Detached. Almost like my mom was talking about another kid when she’d tell me something Helena, or I, did with my father.”

  Daryl shifts and looks down at his hands resting on his lap. It must not be easy to hear you were utterly forgotten. That your own flesh and blood felt nothing for you. Anger would be better than nothing. I think of my own fears that the band, the fans, my friends will forget me. I don’t just want to be that girl in the picture on the back of our first album.

  She was our original singer, but she went bat-shit crazy so we replaced her. Unlike my dad, I won’t wait sixteen years to get back to them.

  “How did you handle your father’s memory as you got older?” Craig continues.

  “Eventually, my mom stopped telling stories. The photos slipped into albums I never touched. I pretended he didn’t exist. When people asked, I brushed them off. I tried to forget he’d been a part of my life.”

  Craig is staring at me intently like he’s trying to push me towards something. I stare back, wondering what I’m not getting. What the hell am I missing?

  “Do you suppose there was ever a time you experienced sadness or pain over your father? Rather than just indifference.”

  “Probably, but I must have blocked it out of my mind.” Oh, now I get what he was trying to tell me.

  ***

  Waking the next morning, I find our bus completely devastated. It looks like the trashed room in those air freshener commercials where blindfolded people sniff around claiming to only smell fresh linen or lemon instead of stink. There are remnants of our late night munchies strewn in a path from the sleeping area back to the kitchen. Clothes are tossed everywhere, an assortment of blacks and grays that contrast the creams and tans of the bus’s interior. Empty bottles and cans huddle in every nook and cranny. The only difference between those ads and this scene are the random body parts poking out of the mess. A tattooed arm dangles from one of the top bunks. A foot with a half tied shoe protrudes from the bed below mine. A hand lies tangled in a t-shirt, the owner passed out on the floor beneath a navy blanket. I smirk in appreciation of our chaos. Last night was epic. One of those nights none of us will ever forget.

  I sidestep, carefully, any heaps on the floor that may disguise people on my way to the bathroom and then the kitchen, hopeful not to wake anyone. The bus rumbles beneath my feet heading to our next destination and new experiences. I want to take this quiet moment to let my mind linger in New Orleans. To relive and preserve the memories from last night before we get back to our usual grind. I grab a drink from the fridge and slid into the booth at the table ready to replay every detail.

  It’s all so fresh. Each image makes my whole body tingle
with delight, none more so than each instance with Rickly. If I had any doubt I loved him, yesterday washed it away. I nearly moan at the memory of our kiss. How his lips were so firm yet soft. How he held my face delicately between his strong hands as though I’m the most precious thing on the planet to him. Maybe I am. Maybe he is to me.

  I glance out the window and watch the landscape shooting by. This is all happening so fast, it will be over before we know it. The thought makes my heart constrict. I’m so relieved I didn’t blackout last night. I would never have forgiven myself for missing pieces of such a perfect night.

  I have to control my drinking and drugs. I will keep myself from going over that line again where I crossover into oblivion. I have to be aware. I need to savor every moment of this.

  ***

  Craig’s poker face is cracking. The second my epiphany was clear of my lips his pulled into a self-satisfied smile. I suppose it makes me happy to have a breakthrough but, at the same time, I also want to punch him in the face. I have a sense he knew, or suspected, I was pushing things out of my memory long before this breakdown on the tour ever happened. He could have just told me though it probably means more figuring it out on my own.

  He writes a quick note in a notebook I didn’t notice he was carrying and coos his typical ‘Good,’ before he leads us on.

  “The mind is an interesting place. It is the most sophisticated computer with specific ways of encoding and saving information. Events and emotions from back then may be stored in your long-term memory. We just need to help you retrieve them.”

  He makes it sound so easy. I’ve been trying to recall what happened on the tour since I got here, with no luck, and that was much more recent. How am I going to dig back sixteen years and produce an accurate snapshot of what I was going through as a child? Those memories are like the pictures in my mom’s photo albums—tucked away and collecting dust.