by Lauryn Dyan
“Two?” I say confused. “Did I go to bed at two?”
Rickly stops rubbing my hand.
“You did. I crawled in first and then helped you up since you were too tipsy to get in without a pull.”
“And you’re sure it was two? Did you hear me get back up later?”
His eyebrows pull together in concern and the others simply shake their heads. “No...did you get out of bed in the middle of the night?”
“I must have. I was sitting at this table at nearly 4:00 a.m. I saw the time on the clock.” I point to the green numbers on the microwave. “I don’t remember anything before that.”
My friends exchange a look.
“That’s weird,” Sonny says. “To be fair, we were all passed out by then so we probably wouldn’t have noticed you moving around again. Maybe you needed water?”
“Maybe, but I didn’t have a cup.”
Everyone goes silent, unable to give me a better theory of what happened. I haven’t even told them the part that makes the whole thing weirder.
“So,” I lead in carefully, purposely avoiding aiming my question at Rickly. “None of you know who copied this uplifting line onto the ceiling of my bunk then either?” I don’t want Rickly to assume I’m accusing him, but his proximity to the harsh scribble is fairly damning.
As they process the words ‘maybe I hate you’ on my left arm again, eyes go wide or mouths drop open.
Jack collects himself first.
“No, but that’s some messed up shit if they meant it.”
Everyone nods and I realize no one here has any answers.
Chapter Nineteen
Lita. The letters roll around in my head as I attempt to drum up some snippet of our talk yesterday. I’ve got nothing. I’ve never met another Lita, so I was hoping just the sound of her name would jog my memory. Now it’s sounding strange from repeating it over and over. Like saying ‘liter’ with a foreign accent.
She and I moved our reunion outside. After she dropped the bomb about our heart-to-heart, my chest tightened automatically and I started breathing in short, spastic bursts. The fear of another breakdown caused me to abruptly jump up, just like the crazy person I’m supposed to be, and run for the door mumbling something about air. Lita followed me at a much more reasonable speed eventually catching up with her long-legged stride. I hadn’t noticed she was so tall from her lounged position in her chair.
Now we pace side-by-side in silence. I appreciate her giving me time to process this. With the initial shock over, I remind myself I need to tread lightly. I don’t know why she’s here so best to keep my foot out of my mouth. This is my shot at discovering a new clue. My blackout song lyrics still play in my head daily but they haven’t given me any new insight.
I casually give her the side-eye as I try to decide where to begin.
“So, I hate to make you relive our conversation yesterday, but I’m hoping you can fill in some blanks for me,” I start. She offers a reassuring smile and there’s something friendly and inviting about her heart-shaped face that makes me see why I would have picked her to confide in. “Who initiated things?”
“Mmm, both of us, kind of. When I came in the rec room, you smiled at me from your seat by the window. It’s the first time anyone other than staff has acknowledged me in a friendly way since I got here. I came over and introduced myself.”
“Did I seem...normal?” She raises one eyebrow quizzically, so I clarify. “I realize that’s a strange question since you’ve never interacted with me before, and we are in an institution, but I mean in the general sense. Was I acting like a nut job or like a regular person you’d meet on the street?” Damn, I’m rambling. I just have this fear if I don’t get all my questions out in a hurry I’ll blackout again before I get the answers.
She laughs.
“Well, you weren’t eating glue or cycling through cereal names so, yeah, you seemed pretty normal.”
So, she’s met or heard my neighbor. I laugh along with her but it comes out too high pitched. I’m so hyped up right now. She must sense my anxiety so she stops and gently touches my arm.
“Why don’t we sit? You’re acting less normal today than yesterday for sure.” She grins at me like we’re old friends and I nod gratefully. Perhaps pacing and talking isn’t helping my frenzy. We find a shady spot in the grass and sit down cross-legged across from each other, I take a deep breath, and already my pulse slows a fraction.
“Sorry,” I say, sheepishly. “I’ve been working so hard to figure out what’s wrong with me, yet I’m still in the dark. You’re like this spotlight I didn’t know existed.”
“Well, I hope I can help, but I’m not sure if I know anything useful. We had a long conversation, if that matters. I almost forgot what it’s like to talk to someone other than a shrink.”
“Me too. I actually hadn’t considered trying to connect with anyone here until Dr. Green told me to,” I admit.
“You mentioned that. Called me ‘mental homework.’ I offered to let you use that as my nickname.”
I give a short chuckle.
“Possibly. Might be a better album name though,” I muse.
She tilts her head and gives me a funny look.
“You said the same thing yesterday.” Well, well. Lucid me, and blackout me, think alike. Good sign or bad?
“Huh. What else did I say?”
“We swapped stories about where we’re from and some general get to know you stuff. I’m from Santa Monica, by the way.”
“That’s cool,” I acknowledge, embarrassed I forgot, or never remembered, however you look at it.
“Then you told me a little about your rock star life. So badass. The coolest thing I’ve ever done is go skydiving.”
“That’s awesome. I’ve always wanted to try that. The biggest adrenaline rush I’ve ever had was the first time I played to an audience with the band.” Lita smirks knowingly.
“I said that already, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but that’s okay. It’s kind of interesting. I’ve never known someone with your condition. It’s like I’m meeting you twice.”
“In a way, you are. I’m not sure what my condition is though, I have no official diagnosis. Once I overheard Craig tell my mom it could be a dissociative disorder. I guess that’s the kind that fucks with your memory.”
“Sounds rough.”
“It is. I try to console myself by saying it only affects the painful, crappy memories I don’t want to remember, but that’s not necessarily the case. There’s definitely bad stuff in there, which is probably what got me here. I just wish I had the whole story so I could work to get past it. It’s still happening, obviously.” I wave my hand in her direction.
“I won’t hold it against you then that you forgot me. Probably better for my ego.” She gives a half-hearted smile. I can’t decide if it’s appropriate to ask why she’s here or not. I’m unfamiliar with mental hospital etiquette.
“Well, I should remember you now,” I say, with as much conviction as I can muster. “This is coherent me…I’m pretty sure. My short-term memory seems intact so hopefully, this conversation will get filed away somewhere in my long-term memory.”
She raises her eyebrow again at my almost impressive, and not very clinical, medical knowledge.
“I did quite a bit of Googling on tour when I started blacking out with no alcohol or drugs in my system,” I explain. “Some of the information scared the shit out of me, but the things that seemed relevant stuck.”
“Makes sense. I did the same thing, but researching depression just makes you more depressed.”
Depression. I chuckle to hide my surprise. It’s hard to imagine someone in a bright, sunny robe with a warm, friendly smile being depressed. I guess you shouldn’t assume what someone is, or isn’t, going through on the inside.
A silence settles over us, unsure where to take the conversation next. If she’s not offering up details, I don’t want to pry into her situation. Plus, the burning desire
to hear more of what I said the day before is all consuming.
As if she can smell the smoke from the fire inside me, she circles us back.
“So you mentioned you want to uncover all your lost memories, even the bad ones.” She shifts uncomfortably. “That makes me think you might want to know a story you told me about your tour.”
Here we go.
***
Boom…tap-tap…boom…tap-tap...boom… go Oli’s drums as our song tappers to the end. We decided the best way to practice our “All That I Got” cover would be to play it live at our show. Playing covers is like singing in the shower. You do it for fun, and because you love the song, and I love this song. It’s a different feeling than performing our originals. With a cover, there’s less pressure. Of course, we don’t want it to sound like crap, but there are so many outs if the crowds not into it: they don’t know it, don’t like the original, or don’t like the genre.
We finish our set with “Playing Tall” and head off the stage. Another good show. Nothing like Houston or New Orleans, but very respectable.
Samantha stands waiting for us backstage, her tight, black dress blending with the dark atmosphere.
“Nice. Appears all that practice paid off. You set to record that tomorrow?”
“Hell yeah,” I confirm, stopping to tip back the remnants of my water bottle as the rest of the band disperses. I wish it was filled with tequila but, after my nighttime Sharpie scare, I’m back to keeping things low-key.
“Manage to work in some songwriting as well?” she prods, as I toss the empty bottle in the trash and we walk away from the chaos of the roadies breaking things down.
“Yes...,” I hedge. We did kick some lyrics back and forth and found a melody, but nothing got finished. Davey got a little frustrated when we stopped working. “We’re close to something,” he’d pressed, but it had begun to feel forced. We couldn’t get the chorus exactly right, so I said we should take a step back. That’s usually the best plan when we hit a block like that. My subconscious will keep tinkering with it while I’m preoccupied with other things and then, one day, the right words will just pop into my head.
Samantha stops to give me her best authoritative mom, you-better-finish-your-homework face and my eyes burn as I fight not to roll them.
“We’ve got a new song half done,” I say, trying to sound pleading rather than irritated. “It’s going to be amazing. Have a little faith, and some patience.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about. Let’s hope you amaze me before the label’s patience run out.” And with that, she quickly turns on her heels to go back to oversee our equipment being packed away, fists clenched at her sides.
***
I brace my hands on my bent knees, unsure what Lita is about to share. Will it be something I already know or a hole that needs to be filled? While I hope it’s the latter, a part of me is scared if it is. The horrible, fresh pain I unleashed when I recovered my childhood, daddy drama still stings down to my soul. I’m even more sensitive about my friends and the tour if that’s possible. Whatever it may be, I have to hear it—I just worry the damage it will inflict.
“I’m not sure if this is something you can’t remember,” she begins. “But you told me a story from your tour I’d classify as crappy. Stop me if you know it. I don’t want to make you relive something that seemed to bother you so much.”
“Okay,” I say, uncertainly. She’s already setting this up to suck.
“We were comparing tattoos. I only have one.” She pulls back her robe to expose the word hope beneath her palm above a bandaged wrist. I keep my face as neutral as possible to hide my surprise. After a moment, she replaces her sleeve carefully, her eyes shifting from her wrist to mine and my ring of unfilled stars. “That one was hard for you to talk about because of its ties to your band, but you said it was the one you never got that hurt you the deepest.”
I bite my lip. The one I never got? While I have several tattoos and no plans on stopping, I don’t remember having a serious desire for a new one on tour.
My expression makes her pause.
“Am I rehashing old information? You look terrified. Should I stop?”
“No and no,” I say, steeling myself. “Go on.” My pulse races in anticipation the way it does when you watch a horror movie knowing the killer is about to strike and you can’t stop it.
She wrinkles her brow in concern.
“It was supposed to be an infinity symbol,” she continues. “You told me about the time you and your boy were at a tattoo parlor, near the beach, and you wanted to get a tattoo to represent that nothing was going to change. That you’d be as happy and successful as you were then forever.”
She assesses me again and I give my head a slight shake to indicate I still don’t remember. I prepare for the painful part.
“He stopped you, though. He said nothing lasts forever, and that neither would your fame.”
***
Strings of twinkle lights zigzag lazily above our table overlooking the darkened beach. Tonight, having a view of the ocean was more important than a cheap drink so we’re hanging at a restaurant rather than our usual tacky floored bar. We’ve mostly been landlocked on the tour since we left the west coast and it’s exciting to see sand and sea. We won’t get to enjoy the beach during the day since we leave for Atlanta before the sun comes up, but we plan to soak it in tonight.
This is my first time seeing the Atlantic Ocean. We didn’t travel much when I was growing up and, if we did, it was usually by car. Even when I was checking out colleges, back when my mom’s dream for me seemed a reality, we didn’t go any further than a neighboring state.
“I’ll have another.” I signal to the waiter as I finish my last drop of beer before standing to sneak off to the bathroom. Tonight, I’m giving myself a two to three drink limit and I’ve only had one so far. I’ve been a bit on edge since I found the hate note in my bunk and I don’t want to blackout again. What if the asshole finally fesses up and I miss it? I want to ask him or her why they left me such a nasty message. It feels like I’ve got a solid relationship with almost everyone on the tour. I want to know what I’ve done to elicit such animosity.
Or maybe I’m stressing over nothing. Some drunk person could have written it to be funny. Perhaps it was even me, but I’ve studied the handwriting enough now to be certain it’s not mine. Hopefully, one day, I’ll unravel this mystery. Until then, I plan to be cautious.
I exit the restroom and navigate the quieting restaurant back to our table where Rickly greets me with a radiant smile that makes my body tingle. I love that just the sight of me can make his whole face light up. I hope he still looks at me this way a year from now, if we’re still together. When the newness and intoxication of first love wears off. I sure don’t want to lose the exhilarated feeling that shoots through me when he’s near.
I hop up onto the tall barstool and am mesmerized, momentarily, by the moon reflecting on the water while I absently reach for my drink.
“Oh, wait, babe. That’s mine. This is yours,” Rickly warns, quickly grabbing the glass from my hand and passing me another. “Mine’s IPA. You would have spit it out,” he jokes.
“Yeah, all over you,” I jibe back. I hate IPA, especially the kind he drinks that tastes like a pine tree took a piss in a bottle. Our beers are visibly different colors and I should have noticed. I take the lighter colored liquid from his hand and take a gulp. Refreshing.
It’s just me, Rickly, Davey and Sonny tonight. It feels like a double date, except Sonny claims she and Davey aren’t together. They certainly have been glued to one another the last few weeks. I don’t push her on it. When there’s something to tell, she’ll tell it. I assume right now she doesn’t want to jinx it. Too many close calls in the past.
Most of our tour mates headed home early. I probably would have left too, to avoid the temptation of drinking too much, but Sonny wanted to stay and I’m trying to spend more time with her. Especially since tomorrow will b
e the first night, in forever, we don’t sleep under the same roof. We’re finally springing for a hotel when we get to Atlanta since the buses need two days to have some maintenance done. The prospect of staying in a bedroom with four walls minus a mass of drunken musicians pilled around is thrilling. Technically, we still have to cohabitate. Two beds per room. Normally, I’d share with Sonny, but with Rickly here…well, we worked it out to get one to ourselves. I can’t wait.
“So any news on the label front?” Sonny asks Rickly, interrupting my fantasy.
He lets a boyish grin spread from ear to ear. He and I have already discussed this, but he’s been keeping it quiet until something definite happens.
“A little. Samantha told Dustin some stuff she overheard when she was meeting with Orphan the other day. Said they were chatting about new artist prospects and our name was on the list.”
“That’s amazing!” Sonny cheers, always quick to play the optimist. Rickly and I, on the other hand, understand it’s hard to get signed so we’ve been more guarded in our celebration of the hearsay news. We say things like, ‘That’d be cool, but....’ We always add the pesky ‘but.’ It’s like an out clause if things don’t go Sheltered’s way. Then we can curb our outward disappointment by saying we knew there was a chance it wouldn’t happen, even though secretly we both want it badly.
“Fuck yeah, dude. You guys deserve it,” Davey adds. “Hope they get their heads out of their asses and put you on the roster.”
“Us, too,” Rickly agrees. “But we’ll see.” And there’s the ‘but.’
“For sure.” Sonny nods.
We pick at the last of our nachos as our conversation veers in a new direction.
“So should we go down to the beach later?” I ask, excited as the waiter clears our plates. I want to touch the Atlantic before we zip away.
“You bet your ass,” Rickly says, reaching over to tenderly squeeze my thigh. I smile and meet his dancing blue eyes. Yep, a moonlit walk on the beach will be the perfect way to end the night.
