by Matayo, Amy
I remember the blood. So much blood. Blood on the grass, blood on my uniform. The cut required six stitches to close. My mother had a tough time removing the stain on my shirt.
I blink, all at once remembering where I am. My fists are clenched. Sweat dots my hairline. The counselor’s gaze travels slowly between the two. He looks at me, one eyebrow raised, his mouth parted as if to question me further.
Screw his questions. I’ve sold out arenas and had four number one songs. I don’t need to revisit a past that no longer matters. I came here to talk about the shooting and how to get back on stage. I did not come here to relive my awful childhood. If I’d wanted to see Dr. Phil, I would’ve reached out to Oprah.
I stand up with an, “I’m out,” and walk out the door. I don’t need therapy. I can deal with things on my own, the way I’ve always done. When you’re a thirteen-year-old kid being pushed around by his classmates…being buried head-first inside a dirty, grimy toilet for ten, twenty, twenty-six God-awful seconds…you learn to deal. When your teammates—particularly one overgrown quarterback who picked on the small kids in order to feel big—trips you in the third quarter and uses his cleat to step on your arm and slide his foot two inches to the right…you learn to deal. When you’re locked inside a locker-room closet after school and left there alone until a janitor finds you the next morning…you learn to deal. My parents called the cops on that one, but they couldn’t find me. There were no cell phones to track when I was in seventh grade. I spent the night curled up next to a bag of soccer balls.
You don’t go through that and come out of it unable to cope. I can cope. I’ve always coped. I’m a freaking entertainer, for heaven’s sake. I’ve written hit songs on this topic and coped all the way to the bank.
My music saves people.
The fans tell me so.
Being locked inside a closet again nearly killed me in more ways than one.
If Jane hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have made it out with my sanity intact.
With a jerk of the handle, I open the car door and climb inside. Two seconds later, my tires squeal out of the parking lot.
The last thing I see before pulling my Lexus onto the road is a vaguely familiar flash of long blonde hair from the sidewalk across the street. The sight jolts me for a moment, because for a second I think the person looks like...
My heart skids and bounces, but I’m too far away to get a good look.
I’m in Nashville, and she’s in Seattle.
I keep driving.
Chapter Fourteen
Jane
Seattle comes by its reputation honestly. The city is known for its incessant love for rainy days and its uncanny ability to inflict depression on otherwise healthy people. And this week, both are working in tandem to spin their black magic on me.
It has rained for four days straight with no letup—not even the customary mid-afternoon reprieve to give people a chance to make a coffee run, haul their trash to the curb, go for a walk without having to come home wet. Coincidently, my tears have fallen for nearly as many days, save the workday lull when grown men are present. When other people are in the room, I somehow pull it together. When they walk out, the dam breaks loose, and I’m reapplying mascara on my lunch break.
That counselor. He couldn’t have been more wrong if he had guessed I was a professional ballerina who also dabbles in woodworking, but that doesn’t mean his words didn’t affect me. That doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about them a hundred times since our last appointment.
I think you have some deep-seated issues to deal with.
I think most of them involve your baby.
I don’t have baby issues.
“Jane, are you alright?”
Startled, I jump and drop the unopened Snickers bar I’ve just retrieved from my purse. Peyton, a petite curly-headed brunette who works loans and is my best work-friend, leans against the open breakroom door, sipping a can of Sprite through a straw.
“I’m fine.” My voice cracks on the words, exposing the lie. As if the wetness on my cheeks wasn’t enough of an indicator that I am, in fact, not fine. Five minutes until lunch break is over, and I haven’t been able to keep my eyes dry long enough to fix myself. The last thing I want is to see the concerned face of yet another co-worker whose mind should be on business as usual—not on whether her best friend is on the verge of a mental breakdown.
She swallows. “You’re not okay at all. Anything you want to talk about?”
I run two fingers under my eyes. “Not unless you have all day, and only if you promise not to charge me one-fifty an hour for your time.” I sigh and turn toward the mirror hanging over the sink. It’s worse than I thought. Even if I can get the black stuff off my skin, there’s no hiding the redness unless I want to slip on a pair of sunglasses and look like a hungover sorority girl.
“You’re going to counseling then. Thank goodness.”
I shoot her a look. “He is a jerk, and I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m crazy. Nice to know you’re happy about it.”
“Oh, shut up.” She rolls her eyes. “If I’d had a gun pointed at my head...if I were locked inside a closet...if I had seen the things you saw, I would be in counseling, too. As it stands, I sometimes go to help me kick my shoplifting habit.”
I look at her, a big bite of chocolate in my mouth.
“I’m just trying to make you feel better,” she says with a shrug.
I wad up the empty candy bar wrapper and reach for my water. “Try a little harder. What are you doing in here anyway? Don’t you have money to hand out or something?”
“Not today. I was in the office photocopying papers, and they sent me down here to get you. There’s someone here to see you.”
I stop chewing and frown. Here? To see me? In the year since I started this job, no one has ever stopped by for a visit. I peer over at her. She’s twirling a strand of curly hair around her index finger. Never a good sign.
“Who is it?” A ball of dread just pitched a tent inside my stomach.
“A man, but he didn’t give a name. I think he might be a reporter.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Because I don’t return their calls, they decide to visit me at work?” I fling my trash into the bin and stomp toward the door, not stopping to analyze her concerned look on the way out. “That’s harassment. Or invasion of privacy. Or something I haven’t thought of yet.”
I burst into the lobby, cringing a little when the door bounces against the glass wall. All eyes turn toward me, and then I scan the room.
I see a man I don’t recognize standing near the back, holding a cell phone. He wears glasses and makes me think of Clark Kent; the look screams reporter. I make a determined path straight to him.
“Can I help you?” I say the words to be polite when in truth, I don’t want to help him at all. I want him to leave. I want to leave. I want to go home and bury myself under my blankets and pretend the month of November never existed on the calendar.
“As a matter of fact, you can.” He gives a single nod. I try not to notice then way every head in the office has turned our way. After the concert shooting, my co-workers watched the news. I think they all have a pretty good idea what he’s doing here. “I’m Brian Daniel with the Seattle Times. I’m wondering if you have a comment about Teddy Hayes’ recent meltdown on stage?” When I frown, he keeps going. “It’s been all over the news. Is there any insight you might be able to give us on his state of mind? It seems like you probably know more than anyone what he’s gone through, and—”
Meltdown?
“N…no.” I stammer. “I don’t have anything to say at all.” I’m all at once confused and concerned, and both those emotions quickly morph into irritated and outraged. How dare he come all the way here to ask me something so personal. “Teddy is his own person, and I wouldn’t presume to speak for him. If you want to know his state of mind, I suppose you should ask him. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“But if it’s not too m
uch trouble, could you—”
“Sorry, but it is too much trouble. I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time.”
“Have you spoken with him since the incident? Would you mind if I—”
But I’m not listening. Right now, I’m not even interested in doing my job. No, I haven’t spoken with him, and no, I haven’t a clue about his state of mind. Unless it’s anything like mine, in which case it’s terrible. The only difference is, I can be a mess in private. No one needs to know.
I need a laptop and a quiet room.
I have no idea what that reporter is talking about, but I’m going to find out.
A few minutes later, I’ve read a dozen headlines and skimmed a handful of articles. Tiny cracks line the edges of my heart as it breaks just a little. One thin fissure manages to work its way straight through the middle, and the crying starts. It’s amazing how many tears a person can shed for someone they barely know.
Oh, Teddy.
* * *
Teddy
You’re such a loser.
Those four words have played through my mind all morning, words I’ve heard and fought against all my life, a monster on my tail just out of reach. The faster I go, the better the chance I have to outrun them forever. Last night the monster caught me. He still has me in his grip.
I lost.
Last night, in front of eighteen thousand people, and God knows how many others who’ve watched it online, I lost. The internet doesn’t need ticket sales or viewership numbers to up the Neilsen ratings. I’m the number one trending topic on Twitter; there’s a YouTube video out there that’s been viewed over three million times, and it’s only been twelve hours.
Twelve hours since I froze. Twelve hours since I sang the last line of our opening song and began the second. I knew I was done for the second I climbed inside that crane and began the ascent; an ascent I’ve practiced more than a hundred times without a single hitch.
But the moment it began to rise upward with me inside, I scanned the crowd. Any glint of silver made me flinch. Someone took a photo with a flash, and I ducked. The song lyrics I’ve known for more than a year completely disappeared, like steam rising over boiling water. There one second, gone the next. In the video, you can hear me saying, “Get me down!” over and over. At first, it’s only a panicked whisper. Within seconds, it morphs into a loud tantrum, like I didn’t care who heard it. The crane was lowered and I climbed out, then spent the next thirty seconds trying to catch my breath, slow my erratic heartbeat; attempting to squeak out the next words and finally walking off the stage.
I remember glancing at my arm, fully expecting to see a gash from a football cleat. My past fear and my current fear had slammed headlong in a battle for dominance. Neither won. I definitely lost.
The audience—to their credit—went silent. Ten, maybe twenty people began to boo, but they were quickly chastised and stopped. Eighteen thousand people waited around a good half hour, but I couldn’t bring myself to return. It was like the fans felt my fear and accepted it. Understood it, even. They never once made demands on my time. That part, at least, means a lot.
That touching show of support won’t last forever. A few days at most. Not enough time for an already scheduled tour with eleven remaining cities that soon extends to five countries in Europe and a special Christmas performance in Nashville. I’m not sure I’ll manage to show up for any of them.
People get shot when they come to see me, and I can’t be responsible for compromising the safety of so many. I won’t be.
Not to mention that every time I close my eyes, a man I can’t see points a gun to my head. I wake up before he pulls the trigger. The vision is so real, that on the nights I’m lucky enough to fall asleep at all, I jolt awake sweating profusely and fighting with the sheets. The lack of rest leaves me exhausted. The paranoia makes me certain I’m going crazy. If I haven’t lost my mind yet, I’m well on my way.
How am I supposed to get on stage again when just thinking about it makes my heart race and my limbs shake? My nails are bitten off, and my resting heart rate can’t be healthy. Tomorrow night I’m supposed to be in Flagstaff. The odds of me actually showing up aren’t looking good, not if last night is any indication.
I’m afraid to perform.
It’s the most hopeless I’ve felt in my life, worse even than the way it felt when an entire football team and two coaches laughed at me in front of a stadium filled with hometown spectators. And that’s saying a lot.
Liam isn’t home, so I grab my keys and go for a run.
The weather is chilly. My breath escapes in front of me in tiny cloudbursts that spread across my forehead as I move through them, but I keep going. My neighborhood is a series of curves and inclines that make even a car shudder and jerk in the effort to navigate around them. My gray Lexus seems relieved every night when I finally pull into a parking space and shut it off for the evening.
I’m shivering before I make it down the street. I pull the hood over my head and yank my jacket’s zipper all the way up, then turn right and head uphill. Normally I head left, out to the main road, but it feels good to push myself. This is how I deal with frustration, and lately it’s been served up with abundance.
I want to see Jane. When I’m not thinking about getting shot, I’m thinking about her. There was something calming about her that I’ve never known before or since. I can’t shake the feeling that if I could see her, things might get better. There’s only one problem.
She has a boyfriend.
Which means things will continue to stay worse.
* * *
Jane
“That guy is messed up.”
I startle, surprised to hear Ben behind me when I didn’t notice he’d come into the bedroom. I steal a glance at the clock: 8:00 pm. I haven’t eaten dinner. Instead, I’ve been on my bed, hunched over my computer for nearly two hours, watching YouTube clips and reading article after article detailing Teddy’s meltdown. He seemed fairly composed until the part where he barked the words, “Get me down.” Where most of the audience stared in shock, I imagined what it felt like to haul him over the side and began to cry. I’m surprised he climbed into the lift in the first place. An overwhelming desire to rescue him again comes at me in a rush.
I quickly swipe at my eyes before turning to look at Ben.
“It was a pretty harrowing experience. It would mess anyone up.”
Ben half-laughs over my shoulder before sitting on the edge of my bed. “Yeah, but he’s a guy. You gotta toughen up and get over it eventually.”
“Says the guy who’s never been held at gunpoint,” I say, not even bothering to keep the sarcasm out of my tone. “It’s been a week.”
“It’s not like he was shot, Jane. That…” he twirls a finger toward my computer screen, “is a little much, don’t you think? Everyone was talking about it at work. All I know is, if I made a million dollars a night, I’d get over it pretty quick.”
“He’s not making a million dollars a night,” I snap, feeling defensive for no good reason. “What were they saying?” I want to know, but I don’t. I like the guys we work with, and I’d rather things stay that way.
“Just that he looked weak. Maybe faking it a little. You know what they say. When you’re a celebrity, all publicity is good publicity. They’ve probably figured out a way to keep this going for a while so he can stay in the news.”
I take it back; I now hate everyone we work with except for Andy. At the moment, even Ben is included in that mix. We’ve been dating for nearly a year, my longest relationship to date. I once had a reputation as a serial dater, something my friends and I used to laugh about, make wagers on, even. I was the only one whose laughter was part of the act. Commitment doesn’t come easily for me, not after the baby. Once you’re labeled a whore and subsequently get your heart broken—I suppose one loss wasn’t enough for my sixteen-year-old self—it’s hard to trust anyone. What if you open up and get destroyed for it? Self-vulnerability can be another pe
rson’s weapon to use against you.
Before Ben, my dating record was eighteen days, which makes Ben and I practically engaged at this point. But this is the first time I’ve seen his jealous side, unless you count the time his best friend bought a scratch-off lottery ticket right after him at a convenience store in Lynwood. Ben won five dollars. He was excited until Ricky won a thousand. All I heard for a solid month was how Ben was behind him in line, but Ricky let him go first, as though the whole thing was a giant set-up to make him lose.
This feels similar, except how can he possibly be jealous of a man whose arena was shot up, resulting in the death of five people?
“He’s not faking it. Tell the guys to lay off.”
Ben makes an affronted noise. “Whose side are you on?”
I open a new website without looking up. “I wasn’t aware there were sides.”
“I’m just saying. Theoretically—if there were sides—whose side would you be on?”
I shut my computer and look Ben in the eye. There’s no way I can talk about this without getting into another discussion I don’t want to have. “I’m on the side of whoever was trapped in that arena, scared to death they might get shot. That includes Teddy, me, Andy, and fifteen thousand other people whose names I don’t even know. If that means I’m not on your side, then so be it. But frankly, it bothers me that you’re even talking about sides when you weren’t there. There are no sides, Ben. So stop trying to pit me against you. And please stop making fun of Teddy. He’s a guy who’s rattled, that’s it. He shouldn’t be the butt of anyone’s joke, not right now.”
