by Lauryn Dyan
He goes still and his blue eyes meet mine as we stare each other down. He searches my face and opens his mouth as though he’s about to say something when we’re loudly interrupted.
“Rickly, you’re up man.” Dustin is planted in the middle of the stage with the mic calling him down.
He looks at his band, begrudgingly, and then back at me. Hopping off his stool, he takes a step away but hesitates, as if debating. Finally, he steps back and reaches over with one hand to pull me in by the nape of my neck so he can plant a kiss on my forehead. I quickly breathe in his comforting scent and then he walks away.
***
“Why don’t you show Craig?”
Lita and I are sitting and letting the fresh air treat our ailments as I fill her in on my scares here at the institution. It’s cathartic to talk them out, like some of the weight on my shoulders has been lifted and dissolved into the clear blue sky.
“Would you show him?” I ask. She’d seemed flabbergasted when I told her I’d been keeping my graffitied song and ceiling to myself.
“Probably, but people don’t automatically think you’re crazy when you’re depressed.”
“True,” I concede.
We’ve talked a bit about why she’s here, and how she let the darkness overtake her in a very different way. She’s been battling depression since junior high when her father was killed in a car accident. She just withdrew from everything.
“We buried him in the ground and then I buried myself in my room.” After a year of barely speaking or eating, her mom realized she was going through something more than grief. When Lita finally saw a doctor he said she was malnourished and clinically depressed. She’s been dealing with it ever since.
“Still, I can’t show Craig,” I add, picking at the grass beneath us. “Not until I know if it’s me that did it or someone else. I heard him tell my mom once he believes my condition is most likely internal. His mind is already made up. I’m still on the fence.”
She lifts up her rob sleeve and considers.
“It’s like my scars. I was such a different person when I made them, I think if someone tried hard enough, they could convince me I didn’t do it. You’ve got to find the truth for yourself.”
We both glance at her now bandage-free wrist and the series of horizontal cut marks that mar it. Before she was admitted, she’d had her longest stretch of ‘normalcy.’ Decent job, sweet fiancé, hyper cocker spaniel, off antidepressants for a year. She thought she was over it. Then she got in a fender bender and it sent her spiraling. Six months later no more job, engagement hanging by a thread. Her fiancé checked her in here after coming home from a business trip to find her naked in the bathtub, razor blade in hand. She’d been there the whole time.
“I don’t know what I was doing. I just sat there totally zoned out. Then, every so often, I’d cut. I wasn’t suicidal because, if I had been, I easily could have done it but I wasn’t in my right state.” It’s hard for me to fathom.
“So how are you going to figure out who did it?” she prompts me.
“I have no fucking idea.”
***
Group therapy, take two. Or six if you count my initial, unproductive sessions way back when. I’m interested in being here this time, which is new. After Pete’s story helped me, I’ve got a more open mind. Perhaps I can gain something from these people, and hopefully one day, they can get something back from me, too.
There are no new members today, just the same seven folks as before, minus number eight since he was discharged, plus Hayley the facilitator.
“So who’s ready to tell their story?” she asks. Pete was the last one left to share out of the original group, so it’s either my turn or Jade’s and we exchange a look. I’m not particularly ready to bare my soul to everyone yet. His crossed arms don’t scream that he’s eager either, but the expression on my face must tell him I’m less inclined. He raises his hand to volunteer and I offer him a grateful smile.
“I’m Jade and this is my first time in an institution. That I remember, at least.” He lowers his arm and lets his hazel eyes wander nervously. “About a month ago, I had an accident. I was outside my office taking a personal call when a tree collapsed and hit me on the head. I was knocked out immediately and didn’t wake up for a week.”
His restless gaze stops on Hayley and she nods for him to continue.
“I don’t remember the accident or much of anything about my life for the last few years.”
I suck in a breath. Here’s another person with an issue that seems so much more severe compared to mine. I forget pieces to the whole, not the whole altogether. I am a bit jealous he knows what caused his condition but the thought immediately makes me feel shitty. I’m sure he’d rather have mysterious, partial memory loss than have all his thoughts squashed out by a tree.
“It’s been extremely difficult,” he goes on. “I have this wife I don’t remember meeting, let alone marrying. She’s pregnant with a baby I share no connection to. I’m familiar with my workplace, but not my current position. I started there right after college in an entry-level job. Now I’m this boss with a team and more responsibility than I can ever imagine handling.”
He scratches at his Rickly-colored hair and the crack in my heart throbs as I stare at his golden locks.
“It’s been overwhelming. I get these horrible panic attacks anytime I’m somewhere I should recognize but don’t. I’m shrinking under all this pressure to remember a life I’m not that excited to get back to.”
“Your wife, is that who brought you here? It must be so hard for her,” the oldest woman in the group comments, whom I’ve nicknamed Granny Cray-Cray. That probably sounds mean but I think it’s cool. Could be my stage name when I’m old.
“It is,” Jade admits. “My wife, Lynn, looks so devastated that I can’t remember her, which piles guilt on top of the anxiety. She told me about this amazing relationship we had, or have. It’s the kind of marriage I always wanted, but the job and the kid…I’m not ready. The old me might have been but he had years to work up to those things.”
“How do you feel now that you’re here?” Hayley asks.
He lowers his head sheepishly.
“Relieved, actually. Being around strangers alleviates some of the pressure. I can remember on my own time. I don’t have this ticking clock staring at me expecting me to get better any second.”
“I can identify,” a middle-aged woman with beautiful highlights in the messiest ponytail I’ve ever seen chimes in. She sits with perfect posture and carries herself like someone with impeccable manners, which makes her hair standout that much more. “I don’t have my family here telling me my behavior is in poor taste, shaming me for my struggles.” There’s a murmur of mixed agreement and dissent.
“Have you remembered anything since you’ve checked in?” I ask curiously, cutting through the chatter. It’s the first time I’ve spoken up in group and it goes quiet as all eyes turn to me, several with unmasked surprise.
Jade gives a fond smile.
“One thing. I remember waiting with my wife in our bathroom for the minutes to pass to check the results of her pregnancy test. I was so nervous and then so overjoyed when it turned positive.” His smile fades. “I wish I could summon that joy now when I think about the baby but the memory and the reality are disconnected.”
He puts his head in his hands and the sight of his fingers knotted into his blonde hair makes me want to remember something. Something with Rickly and I on the tour. I sense it trying to tug back the blackout curtain in my mind. It’s so close this time. Unfortunately, Hayley interrupts my reverie again with another question and the conversation continues on as the curtain pulls shut.
***
“Woo!” I yell, as Sheltered finishes their second to last song of the night. They’re killing it and the crowd is showing their appreciation. You don’t always see a lot of enthusiasm for an opening band and the cheers mixed with the music gives me goosebumps.
Dustin came to find me before the show and mentioned Rickly was hoping I could watch at least the last half of their set tonight. I didn’t ask why, I was glad for the excuse not to have to chill with everyone backstage. I still feel like I need to apologize for the other day when moving on is probably the better tactic. Ace, Trecia and Oli did try to make things feel more normal by convincing me to take a shot with them before I snuck off. A little something to take the edge off although one is not nearly enough. I really shouldn’t have any, but some habits die hard.
“Thank you!” Rickly calls to the crowd. “How many of you are excited to see Run Before You Walk?” People holler. This is the nightly shout out to get the fans pumped for the rest of the show. Usually, it’s pretty routine. “And how many of you can’t wait for Tracing Stars?” The majority of the venue erupts into hoops and yells and a grin creeps across my face. Is this why he wanted me here? He takes a small step back from the mic and glances to the side, his eyes searching until they land on me. He steps up again to face the crowd. “I don’t know how many of you know this, but the lead singer of that band, Kennedy, is fucking hot!” More hoots and whistles in agreement. “Not only that, she’s amazing, and I’m in goddamn love with her!” The crowd starts freaking out and yelling even more. My smile is gigantic now and nothing can wipe it off my face. Rickly turns his head to give me a wink and Dustin claps me on the shoulder.
“This last song is dedicated to her. We are Sheltered. Thank you, Nashville!” They launch into their song, “Last First Kiss,” and I fight every urge not to leap on stage and make out with Rickly mid-song.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The picture’s there, but it’s blurry like I’m streaming with a bad connection. It’s a memory of Rickly and me, the one that started coming to me at therapy. I’ve been getting hazy flashes this time rather than a complete movie. I’m not even sure if what I’m seeing is in the right order but each image is filling in an empty frame.
The memory started playing somewhere in the middle:
“I’m sorry about your brother,” I say, gently, to Rickly as I lie on my side in my bunk, similar to how I lay on my bed in the institution now. I must have found out about Jared not long before this. He tilts his head down and runs both hands through his hair so I can’t see his face, just like Jade did in our session. I don’t know what he says next, it hasn’t broken through.
Another piece surfaces:
“Bullshit! Bullshit! Bring me my beer!” I laugh, and snap at our tour mates still seated at the crowded kitchen table playing drinking games. Rickly snakes his arm around me from behind. “Come on bullshit queen, it’s time to go to your royal quarters.”
This must be the night a bunch of us partied on the bus and then someone wrote maybe I hate you on the ceiling of my bunk.
The next flash gives me a tingle.
“I love you beautiful, now go to sleep.” Rickly’s mouth meets mine, and we get lost in a deep kiss before he settles into bed. I watch him until the picture fades, trying to hold onto that butterfly sensation I used to have when we were together. I miss it.
The last portion must have happened after that; the images are clearer than the rest.
I’m lying on my back next to Rickly carefully running my hand along the perimeter of the hole he punched in my ceiling, the hurtful lyrics not yet written next to it. I have this sudden urge to find something to cover the shameful abyss. I throw back the tan curtain and hop out of my bed to look. Rickly mumbles something as I leave but I can’t make it out. Sounds like wait. As I pad down to the now empty kitchen, a streak of black moves at the edge of the room, but I lose the picture before the person comes into focus.
I lay still waiting for more, but that’s it. It doesn’t tell me much but it gives me some clues about what happened that night. Like the hate message was scrawled in my bunk after everyone went to bed. Was it the person roaming the kitchen, or Rickly after I got up? Why did no one admit to seeing me up again when I grilled everyone the next morning? Did Rickly mumble wait or did I miss hear and it was hate? A preview of the harsh words to come.
My questions should leave me freaked out and mystified. Yet, as I replay the memory, I find myself smiling. I linger on the sensation of Rickly and I kissing. His warm lips melting my soul to him. What if it wasn’t him that did this to me after all? The shadow in the kitchen gives me hope it wasn’t. I touch my fingers to my mouth and wonder if there’s finally a real chance I can take him off my suspect checkerboard. It’s a premature thought but, for tonight, I will allow it.
***
“That’s the most outrageous and romantic declaration anyone has ever made,” I gush, as Rickly runs off the stage to my waiting arms. He beams and wraps himself around me like a python, lifting me up as he pulls me in so I have to stand on my tiptoes. He kisses me long and firm. It’s the kind of kiss you give when you reunite with someone for the first time in months. I could stay like this forever.
“Get a room, you cheesy assholes,” Ace jokes, as he comes up beside us to wait for RBYW’s set.
“If only we could,” I whisper into Rickly’s ear, not wanting to break our contact.
He pulls back to gaze down at me with blazing blue eyes and tucks a hair behind my ear, letting the faded purple tip pull through his fingers as his hand drops. For a moment, the fire in his irises fizzles to near darkness, but the fleeting shadow quickly disappears like I imagined it.
“I bet we can find a private spot back here,” he murmurs.
I give my sexiest smile and grab his hand.
“Let’s go.”
***
I’d nearly forgotten what it feels like to laugh. Actually laugh. My heart is lighter today and it’s translating into a giddy mood at my session with my dad. Craig’s been sitting back quietly capitalizing on our chattiness. Somehow, we’ve gotten on the topic of times we failed at writing. Times we were so desperate to create something we pushed ourselves to the point of exhaustion and only got something cheesy or incoherent.
Daryl tells another anecdote. “I stayed up till five once working on the slogan for some breakfast bar. I couldn’t come up with one thing. They tasted like strawberry Vaseline wrapped in packing peanuts but that description doesn’t make for good advertising. So as the sun came up, I wrote the first thing that came to mind. ‘Sunrise Surprise.’ They used it!” I laugh again. “I didn’t mean a good surprise, but I was smart enough to keep that to myself.” He chuckles now too.
“I totally get it,” I say. “I worked on this love song for so long, bound and determined to finish the chorus. I couldn’t figure out anything to rhyme with heart that I didn’t hate. Then, Sonny, that’s my best friend, she and I started drinking and coming up with all the very wrong things we could use, like cart, Wal-Mart, shart. We were dying.” I smile at the memory. “This was when we were writing our demos; when we thought no one would ever hear our music.” Why not rhyme heart with a bodily function? We didn’t end up using shart, for the record.
“Yeah, ‘You’ve filled my heart like an overcrowded Wal-Mart’ isn’t romantic,” he jokes. We both laugh again. “All your songs turned out much better than that.”
“Thanks,” I reply, sobering a bit. I miss working with the band so much. I realize they’re the reason my songs were great, not just good.
“Where do you generally find your inspiration, Kennedy?” Craig interjects for the first time since we began.
I don’t have to think before I answer.
“Life, things I’ve been through, feelings or emotions I experienced but couldn’t express at the time or wanted to capture forever in a song.” I consider the content of the two songs I’ve created here, the one when I was lucid and the one when I wasn’t. They stand in sharp contrast to my earlier work. As though life has bleakly tainted my words with a dark photo filter.
“Did you ever lose your muse?” Craig asks.
“A little on the road,” I admit. “After Sonny and I got our giggles out about that love son
g, I tabled it. It wasn’t until a few months later I found the inspiration to finish it. That’s when I decided I’d never force anything with my songs. I wrote bits and pieces on tour, but it wasn’t like the first album when ideas were just flowing out of me.”
“Makes sense,” my dad agrees. “I prefer writing when inspiration strikes. That’s the one bad part about my job, deadlines. Limits creativity.”
“For sure. You never know what or when that inspiration will strike.”
“And what was your inspiration for finishing that love song?” Craig prods.
I bite my lip and fidget with the arm of my chair. “The first time I saw Rickly performing. The lyrics flooded me.” Even with the glimmer of hope I had last night that he might not be responsible for why I’m here, his name still stings my mouth, like a shot of alcohol you don’t take quick enough to avoid the taste.
“Rickly? Was he in your band?” Daryl asks.
“No, he was in our opening band. He and I fell in love on tour,” I confess, with a blush. I’m embarrassed even though I shouldn’t be. Or maybe I should. Isn’t every daughter mortified when she talks about her first love?
My dad is quiet like he realizes we’re on unstable ground. He hesitates to ask his next question, but Craig nods as though the insightful bastard knows what he’s going to ask.
“What happened?”
I fight to keep my face from crumpling with sadness as I answer.
“I got worse. I didn’t know if I could trust him anymore. I pushed him away, or he pushed me. I just don’t remember which came first.”
***
Sudden blinding light. Tracing Stars is playing and the fans are cheering. I stand on stage, both hands gripping the microphone. I’m sweating like I’ve been up here a while. Not a subtle perspiration, but the kind where even your boobs are sweaty. I blink several times baffled. Davey and Jack are closest to me on either side and they both stare at me with a mix of confusion and panic as they work their instruments. They’re playing “Playing Tall.” I recognize it now. They just finished the bridge and they’re playing it again, waiting for me to sing.
