by Lauryn Dyan
Sonny: “Wakey, wakey sleepy head.” Girl in bed GIF.
Oli: “Down in the lobby, we leave in five.”
Jack: “Are you coming? Sam has on her bitch face, but I guess that’s always her face, lol.” Devil emoji.
Davey: “Hurry up! We r gonna b late.”
Oli: “Answer your phone!”
Samantha: “Answer the door.”
Davey: “Just tried knocking. Where r u?”
Oli: “Tried Rickly and he’s not answering either. You guys okay?”
Samantha: “Had to leave. Call when you’re up.”
Shit, shit, shit. I really fucked up. I go to my missed calls and hit Samantha’s number. Each ring competes with the deafening pounding of my heart. I lay my hand on my chest worried it might explode and feel the soft fabric of my t-shirt. I look down. I’m completely dressed, shoes and all! What the hell? I definitely slept naked last night. Before I can process this new information, Sam picks up. I prepare for the scolding of a lifetime.
***
“I remembered something,” I tell Craig. We’re in our usual spots in his bare office waiting for my dad to arrive. I made sure to get to this session a little early, hoping to catch Craig alone to fill him in on my unearthed memory. It’s not the most informative flashback, but it’s still something. A glimmer of hope in the dark expanse of my mind.
“That’s excellent. What did you remember?”
I recount the dispute Rickly and I had behind the bar that ended with Rickly’s black eye. He listens intently and I search his stoic face for judgment or disapproval, but none come.
“How did you prompt the memory from your mind? Did it just come to you?” he asks.
“No. I went to group therapy and the smallest detail from one of the other patient’s stories sparked something. I held onto it until I figured out the connection.”
“That’s a perfect example of memory recognition. You associated the lights with something similar you encountered previously and it produced the related memory. This is good. It means if we find the right triggers, we can hopefully stimulate additional snippets of the past. Your mind seems open to this method.”
I try not to beam, but there’s a smile spreading across my face I can’t stop. I want to jump up and run through the hospital and hold, pet, or smack every inanimate object in the hopes it can help knock some more stubborn memories loose. It won’t be that easy but, for once, I’m going to pretend it is.
***
The splash of cold water on my face from the porcelain bathroom sink isn’t enough to wash my shame and guilt away. Samantha really laid into me about missing the interview on our call. Told me she expected more after the beach debacle. She used every cliché in the book to express her disappointment. “You’re on thin ice, Kennedy.” “That’s two strikes.” “Just another nail in the coffin.” That one freaked me out the most. The last thing I want is the tour, or worse, the band, to die.
I’d be out the door by now but my pride requires me to throw on a little makeup to cover my puffy eyes. I hid my tears pretty well on the phone, but they were silently there. After we hung up, I had a quick but hard cry. I screwed up, but I also worry something else is wrong. When did I get dressed? Did I blackout this morning or did Rickly fuck with me? I’m not sure what concerns me more. I’ll have the next fifteen minutes to consider it while I take an Uber from the hotel to our second obligation of the day; a photo shoot with the band to go with my missed interview. God dammit. The reporter will be there to get a few quotes from me, but I’m stressed I will mess that up too. With the state I’m in, nothing I say should be committed to print.
My black pillbox that has floated to the top of my makeup bag catches my eye, and I consider taking something. I’ve got to calm my nerves. Maybe half a Xanax? I’m torn. It will for sure help my mood, but it could also hurt my consciousness. No substance can be trusted right now.
I break the pill in half and slip it in my pocket just in case. If I get desperate enough, I’ll be glad I have it easily accessible.
I stuff my few belongings into my purple backpack and head out the door. I want to stop and remember the happy memories from this room once more before I go, but I don’t have that luxury. I’m late as fuck as it is.
As I step into the hall, the door shuts with a thunk that hurts down to my core. It’s closing on one of the best nights, and worst mornings, of my life. I’ve gone from content and euphoric to distraught and discouraged in less than twelve hours.
I glance dejectedly at the hideous, checkered hotel carpet as I turn to leave and notice a plastic room service tray by the door. It’s not from last night. It’s got a coffee carafe and used cup, a slew of empty sugar packets, and a plate with a muffin wrapper peppered with blue and yellow crumbs. I’d assume it was Rickly’s breakfast except the telltale sugars. Rickly drinks his coffee black. I’m the sugar fiend. My heart races. Did I drink coffee this morning and then fall back asleep? There is something absolutely not right here.
I walk down the hall, struggling to collect myself yet again. I reach the elevator and tap my foot nervously, the glow of the down button the only signal escape is coming. As the doors to the carriage glide open, I slide my hand in my pocket.
“Fuck it,” I say. I’ve swallowed my half of a Xanax before the metal panels quietly shut behind me.
Chapter Twenty-Four
As soon as my dad walks through the door to Craig’s office, my smile fades a fraction. I’m still excited that I recovered a memory on my own, but seeing my father is a reality check. A reminder that not everything I get back will be so easy to handle. Reliving Rickly getting punched in the face was startling, but not wholly unpleasant. Other things still locked away might be as painful as the memory of me crying in my sister’s room for my daddy.
And here he is. Back again to help. Can I forgive him for the past? I’m not sure. Perhaps I’m not working toward forgiveness as much as acceptance. Maybe we can move forward from there.
Daryl takes a seat and gives his navy pants a quick sweep with his hands.
“Hi Kennedy, you look in good spirits.”
My lips twitch back up a notch.
“I guess I am a bit happier today.”
“Kennedy’s made some progress on her own,” Craig explains. “She was able to recover one of her lost memories from the tour.”
“That’s great,” Daryl says, with genuine enthusiasm. He hesitates. “I’m proud of you.”
A small wave of joy passes through me, warming my cheeks. I spent so long pretending he didn’t exist, I’m surprised at how much his words affect me. Deep down you must always want the approval of your parents.
“Thanks,” I say, with a blush. “The memory wasn’t related to how I got here. Just something I blacked out early in the tour when things were wild.” I’m not ready to talk to him about Rickly yet. Somehow, I’m embarrassed to tell him about my bastard of an ex-boyfriend. “I didn’t even know I had a problem then.”
Daryl nods knowingly and Craig and his perceptiveness pick up on it.
“Daryl, did you know you had a problem right away?”
His eyes dart to Craig like he forgot he could be put on the spot. He shakes his head.
“Not at first. I knew I was hitting it hard but I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. I was merely indulging.”
“Kennedy told me once she used to enjoy her blackouts.” I lower my head self-consciously. It sounds ridiculous coming from a middle-aged, balding, string bean rather than a young, hot, rock star. “Is that how you’d describe your experience?”
“Not sure I’d say I enjoyed the blackout part but I thoroughly reveled in the actions leading up to a blackout. Didn’t mind them after, either. They seemed part of the life I was living. Something that came with the territory.”
I raise my head no longer ashamed.
“Yeah. I liked blacking out because it seemed an essential element of the rock star persona. Made me feel badass.”
Craig’s lips purse with interest as he studies us. It’s like he’s discovered a scarce tribe with unfamiliar customs. The I-wanna-blackout clan of the Southwest.
“Interesting,” he muses. “When did you realize they’d become problematic?” he asks Daryl.
“It was when I started messing up at work. My career was my top priority until one day it wasn’t. Partying somehow took over. I planned around that and fit work in when I could.” He shifts in his chair. “At first I was good at it. Then I screwed up. I missed a deadline on a high-paying, freelance job. It’s hard to party when you’re broke.” He smiles, ruefully. “A week later I woke up in my studio apartment to a bottle of booze spilled on my neglected laptop. I thought ‘this is not what you came here for.’ I chucked the bottle at the wall and watched it shatter. It was like a loud and sticky wake-up call.”
“Kennedy, can you relate?”
I bite my lip. Parts of what he said resonate and some don’t. His story makes total sense. A classic ‘oh shit, I’ve got to turn my life around’ moment. My story doesn’t sound the same anymore. It’s like we started in the same place, but my song looped back to the first verse while his went to the bridge.
“Somewhat,” I drawl. “My music career was supposed to be first for me, too. And, similarly, it was when I fucked up an interview I really started freaking out that something was wrong. Before that happened, though, I had acknowledged I had issues. I was already actively working to fix it, and even though I only kept working at it, things got worse.”
“I had a few slips after I decided I needed to make a change,” Daryl offers, but I wave my hand dismissively and jump in, maybe a little too forcefully.
“I’m not sure mine were slip-ups. My blackouts got progressively worse, even when I was as sober as a church choir boy.”
Daryl looks at Craig with raised eyebrows, startled by my aggressive response. I take a deep breath to get a handle on my emotions and continue speaking in a more level tone.
“What I’m saying is, I’m not sure the blackouts were entirely my fault. That’s what I’m here to figure out. I do know they’re still happening, just not as frequent as at the end of the tour.”
My dad’s eyes soften with concern.
“I’m sorry, Kennedy. This is one time when I wish our stories still overlapped. After I made the choice to be sober, I had a few hiccups but, otherwise, I got my life back on track. I found a steady job and learned to have fun without getting out of control. I’ve never blacked out for no reason.”
“Well, sounds like I can’t blame this on my genes then after all,” I say, with a bittersweet laugh.
***
“So Kennedy, how’s the tour been going so far?”
I perch conscientiously in a portable, black, canvas chair overlooking the rolling green park where our shoot will take place. A makeup artist clicks his tongue as he tuts around me, attempting to cover the dark shadows from my morning waterworks. Beside us, the magazine interviewer stands grilling me with questions. Thankfully despite her intense focus, she’s kept things as light as her small frame.
“The tour is epic,” I begin. If she’d asked me about the tour a few days ago I wouldn’t have been able to shut up. Now, I try to capture my sentiments from before my screw-ups with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. If there’s one thing you don’t want to do, it’s meltdown in front of the press. “It’s better than I imagined. Not only because the band is doing so well, but because we’ve created this killer dynamic with the whole tour lineup.”
Her face brightens, her phone recorder app capturing every word.
“Yes, you could really feel the chemistry last night, from the opening band to your encore,” she affirms. “I particularly enjoyed your second to last song, which was a cover. I hear you like to play one at each show. What does it mean to you to perform someone else’s music?”
“It’s an honor. It’s my way to pay tribute to the artists that influenced and led me here. We used to practice with those songs when we first became a group. Playing them to an audience is like letting everyone see us before we made it. Reminds us how fun it is simply to play together.”
“Is it strange to imagine, someday, some young new artist might say performing your music is an honor?”
I consider this.
“No, I’d love it. I just hope the songs they choose to play aren’t exclusively from this record. That Tracing Stars goes on to have this amazing body of work and future artists have a hard time deciding which of our songs to cover, not whether they should cover us at all.” I close my eyes to let the makeup artist apply eyeliner, thankful for the opportunity to hide my pained expression. Recent incidents make me wonder how long this fantasy will last.
“So when can we expect some of this amazing new music?” she prods.
The makeup guy gives one last click as he finishes my lids and pats my shoulder to let me know I’m camera ready. I glance over at the band sitting and chatting on a hill while they wait for our photo op. If it was up to Samantha, our five-some would already have a new track out. “Hopefully soon,” I hedge. “Writing on the road is tricky. There’s not much time to knock out a new song when you’re focused on playing your current ones in a way that continues to wow your fans, even after you’ve played them a dozen times.”
Samantha moves into my line of sight. She’s been keeping her distance from me since I got here and presently, she’s as far away as possible talking with the photographer who’s taking test shots under a tree.
“It’s a good thing you’ve got help there then,” the reporter comments, as she checks her phone is still recording.
“Yes...” I offer, tentatively. It’s hard to do a group interview when you haven’t heard what the group has said. “We love to collaborate and everyone contributes to the song. Lyrically, though, I feel a lot of pressure to write something great. That song someone wants to blare because it captures their mood perfectly. I want to write that song that someone can’t live without. You can’t force that.”
Her intense stare returns to my face, searching for sentiments unspoken.
“Your band said something similar. Though I got the impression the lyrics come from you, Sonny and Davey.”
Her statement is like a bitch slap and I do my best not to flinch. I should have taken a whole freaking Xanax. “Sure, everyone has a voice, but the words are primarily my responsibility.”
She smiles and it erases some of the scrutinizing lines around her eyes.
“Of course,” she says.
I straighten stiffly, fighting the urge to get territorial and state something more on the subject. I’m surprised anyone in the band would say that. Usually, we’re very clear the band is integral to the process, but I take lead on lyrics. I want to snatch up her phone to listen to what my bandmates said without me present. I assess each of my friends with a surge of suspicion. Am I being paranoid or are they up to something?
***
Well, staring at random shit definitely doesn’t help. After my session with Daryl, I paced around the institution studying everything intently hoping to unlock the steel door in my mind. For a fleeting instance, I thought the handle jiggled when a nurse watering a green houseplant made me antsy, but realized I just needed to pee. I ate my dinner, alone at a table in the main room, memorizing the speckles on my pear before giving up for the day.
Now I’m lying on my back on top of the bed covers listening to my neighbor faintly rambling cereal names. “Frost…akes…fru…oops.”
She’s gotten quieter lately. Makes me wonder if she’s getting better or if the drugs they give her are getting stronger. I can only make out a brand name here and there.
I should do something productive, but analyzing every small, inconsequential thing around you is more mentally draining than you’d imagine. I’m in no mood for puzzles, and ever since I found that freaky K in the corner, staring at my ceiling tiles has lost its appeal. The crude letter is still there but I’ve managed to ignore it for th
e most part. Once in a while, I accidentally focus on it. When that happens, it’s like a shot of ice water down my back.
My crazy pants neighbor’s voice has faded away and the silence is stifling. Good lord, I’m bored! I turn my head and longingly stare at my nightstand wishing it was stocked with reading material. You’re allowed to have a couple books or magazines but, until now, I haven’t had an interest. I’ll ask my mom to bring me some. I bet reading could count towards my homework.
I start humming to fill the quiet and it reminds me of the mystery song I wrote. I close my eyes and compose the music again in my head, paying particular attention to the chorus:
“Weaving, leaving, barely seeing
The map ahead, twisted road behind
Blinded eye no longer bleeding
From what cannot be
My dark and gaping empty mind”
This song would be awesome if the band and I could work our magic on it. I imagine the drums playing a critical part as the music builds in intensity. Oli loves layering in the skins on ballads. Feels like he can set the tone. Make them subtle, the song flows melodic and sad. Make them strong, the song becomes poignant and pleading. Like every word is being pounded out of my heart by the beat of the bass drum.
I’ve got the lyrics memorized, but the first and second verse use similar fifth lines, and I’m blanking on a few words. I keep hearing the last line of the first verse, “My existence all too fast,” but I know I change it up the second time. Something is “all too slow,” both in verse two and in my mind. My piece of shit brain, now it can’t even recall something recent I’ve recited repeatedly.
“Damn, stupid, craptastic memory,” I murmur, as I roll over to get the crumpled paper with the lyrics out of my sparse nightstand. I stashed it carefully in the back of the partially empty drawer, under my notebook and brain teasers care of Craig. It’s not very well hidden but it made me feel better burying it rather than leaving it exposed.
