She stared at him a moment longer before giving up and turning back to the mirror. “Are you going to go to Red Peak with Angela?”
“I don’t know about that either. No, I don’t think so.”
“You owe her your life. You said so yourself.”
David’s body broke out in a sweat. “Yes.”
“She always protected you. Maybe she needs you to protect her now.”
He cried, unable to control it. “I’m scared.” He was twenty-seven years old, talking to his wife in a house they owned in a nice neighborhood, yet he felt twelve again, helpless and terrified. “I’m really scared.”
Of Red Peak, the past. Of opening up to Claire. Of everything.
She stood and sat on the bed next to him. “Come here.”
David melted into her hug, still sobbing for everything he’d lost. “It just grinds me down. Every minute, every day. It never stops.”
“Go find your sister. Try to make peace with what happened to you out there. Then come back to me. I still love you. We need you whole.”
“I don’t think I’m strong enough.”
“You are,” she murmured.
“Maybe I’m not.” He pictured Emily in her casket. She’d written, I couldn’t fight it anymore. He wondered if the same fate awaited him.
“You are.” Claire wiped the tears from his cheeks and offered him an encouraging smile. “Remember what they told us in group therapy?”
He shook his head.
She said, “If you can’t outrun the past, turn around and kick its ass.”
Claire’s strength poured into him. Yes, love was something that required constant faith. But it was also a higher power that made change possible.
If you can’t outrun the past, turn around and kick its ass.
Holding on to her, David felt himself drawn toward it, one way or the other.
For months, he’d dreamed of leaving the mental hospital. No more therapists, social workers, police. No drugs that gave him headaches and stern orderlies barking orders and angry glares from Angela that made him hate himself.
Then Dr. Klein told him a foster family would soon take him home.
“Careful what you wish for, I guess,” he told Emily.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “We’ll always be together.”
They paced the courtyard, awash in sunshine but surrounded by walls. After living close to the land for years, he’d found the institution stifling, but now that he was leaving, its confinement proved comforting.
For the first time, Emily offered no comfort herself. He wanted his mom to come hug him and tell him it was okay. He wanted his sister to stop glaring at him as if this was all his fault. He wanted to set out to find the Family.
“I don’t need a new family,” he said. “I already have a mom.”
“I know.”
“Alive. She’s alive out there, somewhere.”
Emily touched his back. “I know she is. But you’re lucky. I can’t wait to get out of here.”
“Don’t you miss your mom and dad?”
“They’re in a better place.”
They completed their circuit of the courtyard with its picnic benches and flowers and a few trees offering shade. He didn’t want to hear it. He was in a safe place, and all he had to do was wait, and his mom would come for him.
Even as he thought it, he knew it wasn’t true. He didn’t know where to hide, didn’t even know anymore what he should be running from.
David wrung his hands. “What are we gonna do, Em?”
“We’ll go back,” she said.
“Go back?” He thought about the farm.
“We’ll go back to Red Peak. We’ll start again. We’ll finish it.”
“Yeah.” Maybe she was right; he didn’t know anything else.
“But only if you come too. We’ll go to Heaven together.”
“Yes,” he said, but he was lying.
He wasn’t going back. No way would he ever return to Red Peak. The place was evil. Just thinking about it overrode the drugs and made him shake. A plan was already starting to take shape in his mind.
He’d put it all behind him.
Jeremiah Peale, the farm, Red Peak, the last night. He’d simply forget it ever happened.
David had the rest of his life to hide in.
He made sure Dexter changed into his pajamas and brushed his teeth and flushed the toilet. The boy crawled into bed, and David lay next to him to read him his favorite story before kissing his forehead.
“Good night, Dex. Time for sleep.”
“I liked seeing Aunt Angela again, Daddy.”
“Me too.”
“I wish she could have played with us.”
“Next time,” said David. “We’ll all play together.”
“Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“What was Grandma and Grandpa like? Your mommy and daddy?”
David once dreaded questions from his kids about their grandparents as much as he did about God. His dad, who walked out on his family and lived far away with a new family. His mom, with her intense yearning for a spiritual life that led her children into the depths of horror. He found it easier to answer now.
“I don’t really remember much about Grandpa. Your grandma was beautiful, like your aunt, and just as stubborn. And even tougher, if you can imagine that.”
As a kid, he’d been a little jealous of God. After Dad left, Mom was always putting God above everything, even her kids. Because God made Mom happy, this was the same as prioritizing her own happiness over her children’s. He’d always pictured her dying in the Temple, wondering where her children had gone but pouring the cyanide down her throat anyway, because God told her to do it.
Angela had revealed a different story.
In the end, Mom had chosen her kids over Heaven.
He said, “Grandma was a good person, and she loved me and your aunt.”
And she was fallible, he now understood as an adult. Tormented. Facing her trials by searching for something better, something that would give her life meaning, and dragging her children along for the ride. But good and loving.
Dexter nestled into his pillow and said, “She’s in human Heaven.”
“That’s right. She protected us the way I protect you. Then she passed away. Bad things sometimes happen to good people, Dex. Sometimes, good people do bad things. That’s a truth I can’t protect you from forever.”
The boy’s eyelids fluttered. “You’re a good daddy.”
David kissed his forehead. “Night, poopy head.”
Too tired for their old game, his son didn’t answer, already drifting away. Just once, David wished he could fall asleep as easily. He switched off the light, plunging the room into darkness.
After putting Alyssa to bed, David went to the kitchen to pour himself a few fingers of scotch. He retreated to his office, where the usual correspondence, bills, and other business tasks awaited him. A never-ending to-do list that most nights satisfied him in its ability to make time go by and keep his restless mind from wandering. The safety of this cocoon tempted him to stay here forever.
He ignored it all, sitting and sipping his scotch. Memories stirred in his subconscious. He reached into this toxic pool and snatched a pearl.
Among the pea stalks, Beth taught Deacon a dance that was all the rage before she arrived at the farm. Arms thrashing, hips swooshing like she was rolling an invisible hula hoop. Deacon grinned as he tried to follow along. Emily laughed and clapped her hands while Wyatt played the peanut gallery. Angela shook her head until she stepped in to show them all how it was done.
The memory turned sour, but David shrugged it away and found another that made him smile. At last, he put them all away and picked up his phone.
He texted Angela, I’m coming.
This done, he went to his bedroom and climbed into bed with Claire. For the first time in months, he felt his consciousness begin to slip away within moments of lying down.
He turned and opened his eyes to gaze at her dim outline.
Then he reached to take her in his arms.
20
LEAP
Stage lights and the pounding 4/4 beat of the DJ’s house music had turned an old industrial warehouse in the heart of Los Angeles into an impromptu dance club and concert hall. Cats Are Sad swept through the open bar and found a spot against the wall where they could see and be seen, though the vast space was almost empty.
“I knew we shouldn’t have come early,” Bart shouted over the music.
Joy squinted at the scenery. “I think I went to a rave here once.”
Holding his plastic cup of generic white wine like a prop, Deacon braced himself for a long night. The start of a headache was already blooming in his skull from the sweet, chemical smell of the fog machines misting the colorful light beams.
“What are we doing here?” Laurie fumed. “We should be working on the album.”
“Are you kidding?” Frank said. “They love you guys.”
They being the nu metal band Gray Rainbow, which was throwing this party to celebrate the launch of their fresh LP, The Secret Life of Seraphim.
“If they love us so much, why aren’t we on the bill?”
Mono No Aware, Spank the Imp, and Sweet Fetish would all be playing short sets tonight before Gray Rainbow took the stage.
Frank shrugged. “They only started loving you after Utopia. They booked these bands months ago. The world doesn’t turn on a dime for anybody.”
“So we’re here to make Gray Rainbow look cool,” Bart growled.
“They already are cool,” Steve said. “They have a deal with Roadrunner. They released ‘Fool’s Gold’ before the album as a single, and it made Billboard.”
“Yeah, for like one week.”
“Billboard,” Steve repeated with even more emphasis.
“We’re here to network,” Frank lectured. “My advice is drink little, be cool, and make a nice impression.”
Deacon’s phone vibrated in his jeans. He pulled it out in the irrational hope someone was calling to yank him out of this. Surprisingly, it was Beth, who’d given up trying to contact him a few days ago. Seeing her name in his caller ID again both thrilled and shredded him. He let it go to voicemail and wished he could take his stabbing regret into a studio right now.
A shaggy giant in a leather jacket stomped through the chemical fog to grin at them. “Cats Are freaking Sad!” Cage, Gray Rainbow’s frontman. He enveloped Steve in a bear hug. “Stevie! Been a long time. So happy you could join the party.”
“So how does it feel?” the bass player said.
“Right now, I feel like my throat just ran a goddamn marathon.”
Steve smiled in vicarious pleasure. “Hit the studio hard, huh?”
“Six weeks bashing tracks, my man, singing my heart out and surviving on coffee and dreams.”
“Nice. Not up and coming anymore, looks like. You’ve made it.”
“I’m always up and coming, Stevie.” Cage winked at Joy.
“Well, congrats.”
“Thanks.” The giant’s dark eyes roamed across Laurie’s lanky body before settling on Deacon. “So this is the boy who survived.” He reached to crush him against his barrel chest. “Welcome, my brother.”
Deacon slid his phone back in his pocket. “Thanks, Cage.” It felt strange calling the man by his stage name, but Deacon didn’t know his real one.
“I see your name everywhere. The press is fantastic. You’re blowing up the freaking internet, man.” His breath smelled like Jack Daniel’s. “You should come to the after-party. I need to hear your story firsthand.”
“Okay.”
“Okay!” Cage echoed and laughed. “You’re hilarious. So y’all are working on a concept album about the Family of the Living Spirit. Art is the deep, dark secrets we tell everybody, am I right? What are you calling it?”
“Right now, we’re settled on Gnosis,” Laurie said. The band had nixed The Gospel of the Sad Cat as not edgy enough.
“Whose-is?”
“Gnosis. As in spiritual secrets known only to a privileged few.”
Cage belched. “Love it. When does it drop?”
Frank deftly took over. “We’re rehearsing now and shopping producers.”
“You going indie, or looking for a label?”
“All options are on the table.”
“Holler at me later, manager guy. You should be talking to Roadrunner.”
While they talked shop, Laurie leaned toward Deacon and said, “What do you think of signing with a label?”
Deacon shrugged. “I think whatever you think.”
“I like the idea of doing it ourselves. I can do the mastering myself.”
Joy jumped at Cage for a selfie, squealing as he pulled her close for the shot. Interrupted, Frank scowled while Bart beamed an awkward grin at the man he wanted to be.
Deacon said to Laurie, “We should try to deal with a label at least to push stores and radio play, though, right?” Repeating stuff he’d heard Frank say.
“Whatever milks this cow while it still moos,” Laurie agreed. “We can’t give up control of the product, though. Not for this one. This one is gonna be pure art.”
Cats Are Sad had found itself riding a wave to the unknown. Deacon’s notoriety, which had gone viral and was being fed by a string of interviews following the Utopia show, generated a spike in sales and bookings, enough income to finance an album or tour. The question was where to go from here.
In the wake of their budding success, existential terror had set in among his bandmates, the paralyzing epiphany they could shape their own destiny combined with the fear that it could all end tomorrow. They knew Deacon’s personal history was a meme of the week, a novelty in a busy world that had largely forgotten the Family of the Living Spirit even existed, not the basis for a musical group. They woke up each morning wondering if the person in the mirror was talented enough.
Frank wanted them to take advantage by touring their last album and building their fan base. The band decided instead to make Deacon’s concept album and cash in all the way. Frank said that would work if it meant a deal with a label they could leverage into a follow-up album. Laurie wanted to master it herself, having the final say on everything from relative track volumes to equalization and gain.
Around and around it went. The usual politics, but this was bigger than who was short on paying their fair share of the bill at Denny’s after a show. For his part, Deacon didn’t care how the album was produced, as long as it got made.
The clock was ticking. Right now, they worked hard every day to nail down the tracks, rehearse them to the point of being able to play them in their dreams, and order them in a list with beats per minute locked down so the engineer would have the tempo before recording. Then they could get into a studio, one with excellent outboard gear, a live room with great sound so Bart could lay down his drum tracks, and a top-quality mic and isolation booth for Deacon to howl his vocals.
Laurie added, “You should start thinking about the liner notes.”
“Me?” Deacon said.
Liner notes were little facts and observations about the tracks, sometimes printed in the CD packaging as bonus content.
“Memories about the cult. People would eat it up.”
“Okay.” His phone vibrated again.
Cage noticed he’d lost his audience and left Frank’s latest question to wander in the house music’s droning beat. “Y’all have a great time, okay? Pretty please, come to the after-party. In the meantime, drink up and enjoy the sounds.” Backing away, he pointed at Laurie. “Ask for our signature drink called Fool’s Gold at the bar. It’ll knock you on your fantastic ass.” His pointer finger’s aim shifted to Deacon. “Love you, man. We’ll talk later.”
“Christ,” Laurie said after he’d gone. “Do all musicians have to be like that?”
“Like what
?” Frank said. “Successful?”
“Cocky and desperate.”
“It’s all in the game, sweetie.”
Deacon shrugged. “He seemed nice enough to me.”
“Fool’s Gold,” Laurie growled. “Sounds perfect right now.”
She walked off toward the open bar.
Deacon reached into his pocket to check his phone, but the band manager grabbed his arm.
“You want to do your gimmick album instead of tour, that’s fine by me,” Frank said. “That’s your call. It’s your band. This is too important for DIY, though. I don’t care how prodigious she is at mixing. Roadrunner could put you guys on a whole new level. If not them, one of the other labels I’m talking to.”
“Okay.”
“We’re done begging our way into some college music department and having some pimple-faced kid engineer our product. Praying we sell enough merch at our live shows for gas money and investing everything we’ve got into busking on YouTube and Bandcamp. We actually have a shot at something real.”
“Okay.”
“ ‘Okay,’ you agree with me? Say the word, and I’ll push for a deal.”
“Okay, whatever,” Deacon said. “I told you I don’t care about your bullshit. Laurie’s either. You guys fight it out and let me know what we’re doing.”
Frank released him, nose wrinkling in disgust. “I just can’t read you. You’re the only musician I’ve ever known who isn’t hungry for it.”
He was hungry, all right. Just not for the things Frank valued.
The warehouse had filled with partygoers who flocked to the bar for drinks. On the stage, Mono No Aware tuned up for their short set. The vibe was great, making Deacon wish he was performing tonight. Third in line just before the headliner would be perfect, right when the crowd overcame its shyness and was drunk or high enough to groove with a band. By the time Gray Rainbow took the stage, it would be surly and starting to thin.
“I can’t believe I didn’t say a single word to him,” Bart fumed.
“You can see him at the after-party,” Joy said. “Just be yourself.”
The Children of Red Peak Page 26
