by Liz Phair
When the painful process is complete, she will be starting a new chapter. I truly believe that. They are both healthy and busy. The furniture, art, rugs, dishes, and table linens we’ve decided to keep might look even better in their freshly painted, meticulously maintained new bungalow. They are certainly the best pieces from their collection: refined, coordinated. Not too much, not too little. We’re renting big storage units, in case they want to swap something out or move somewhere else. There are no real endings yet.
But I am experiencing the sorrow with her, in my own way. Even when I’m back in California, a wave of bittersweet memories will overwhelm me unexpectedly. I love our old house. I will miss the secret place on the roof where my brother and I used to smoke joints. I will miss seeing squirrels racing along the telephone lines with crab apples in their mouths. I will miss the sound of the Northwestern train bringing commuters home at dinnertime. I will miss the peal of real church bells from the tower of Christ Church, where I once sang in the choir, and the gold and purple leaves that plaster the sidewalks in the fall. I will miss everything I can never have back again, like my youthful obliviousness. From now on I will feel the movement of time on a grander scale.
* * *
—
“Ah, there it is!” I left my iced coffee in the bathroom, although for the life of me I can’t remember why.
“You’re having a senior moment,” Mallory says in commiseration.
“Shut up! I am not.” I peer at my face in the mirror. Still relatively line-free. I fuss with the hair at my temples, where white strands mingle with the golden-brown locks. “Remember when the kid at Little Ricky’s thought you were my mother?” I say.
“Ohhhh, low blow! Fuck you!”
I smile, glad to see our relationship is still intact. I stretch a piece of hot-pink KT Tape along the inside of my left knee where an old injury is acting up. I crack my knuckles while we talk, bending my fingers back to keep them nimble. I think I can feel rain coming, because my joints are a little achy.
“Well, you can always stay at my house when you’re in Chicago.”
“Thanks, Mallory.” The gesture means a lot to me. I may not show it, but I feel a little rudderless.
“Although…” She laughs softly, munching on a piece of celery. “Alberto and I just put it on the market.”
author’s note
Memory is like a slippery fish that you try to grab in the bottom of a boat. When you grasp the thing, it wriggles out of your grip. But recollection, I find, is more pliant, like a wet sponge. You can pick it up, examine it, and roll it over in your hands, just as long as you don’t squeeze it too hard and cause its substance to fall out. The stories in this book are all true to the best of my recollection. I didn’t write them without prejudice, though that was my intention. I changed the names and identifying characteristics of many people I included. I did not purposefully fictionalize anything, apart from compressing and expanding time to facilitate the flow of the narrative and omitting distracting details in order to create an overall mood. Horror Stories is music, not data—the haunting melodies I hear over and over again in my head.
Horror Stories is dedicated to my friend Farid Moslehi, who faced his own death with dignity, humor, and courage, advising me in his last days to be fearless, to trust my instincts, and to write this book as the maverick I’d been at the beginning of my career.
acknowledgments
I would like to thank my amazing agent, Jennifer Gates, whose flawless ear and ability to guide me toward the right answer refined my voice and drew out the essential elements in these stories. She did much of the heavy lifting of production and I am forever grateful. I want to thank my editor, Mark Warren, for putting on a cape and flying through obstacles like the superhero he is. His sensitivity and clear-eyed criticism challenged me to take responsibility for my point of view and to approach moral complexity without hesitation. I’m indebted to my son, Nick, for his insight into character and psychology, and for being one of my best and least-sentimental readers. He was always ready with a suggestion whenever I needed an example of literature that accomplished what I was attempting to do. Also, I would like to formally acknowledge his photo retouching of the images included in this book. Thanks to my parents, who instilled in me a love of reading and a vigorous admiration for the life of the mind. Their good taste was my good fortune. To everyone in rock and roll who kept faith with me on this wild ride and who put a candle in the window each time I lost my way. Thanks to Andy Ward, the editor in chief at Random House, who knew we needed to poke the dragon. Thanks to London King, deputy director of publicity at PRH, and Chayenne Skeete, editorial assistant, who embraced the material and brought sincere enthusiasm to the project. Thanks to Paolo Pepe at Random House for his design of the cover and to Simon Sullivan for the pages within. Thanks also to production editor Janet Wygal, for taking such good care of these words. I am grateful to Allison Warren of Aevitas Creative Management, who read early drafts and offered helpful suggestions. I would like to thank my music managers, Peter Katsis, Joel Mark, and Sophie McNeil, for making room for my literary career and for their flexibility in working around two schedules. Thanks to my business managers, Rit Venerus and Amy Self, who kept the lights on without dashing my dreams. Thanks to both for their strength and support. Also, to Emily Kimball from the Random House legal department, for her eagle eye and expertise.
To my wider circle of family and friends, I am healthy and whole because of your love. Thank you for nurturing me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LIZ PHAIR is a Grammy-nominated singer-songwriter whose debut album, Exile in Guyville, has been hailed as a landmark of indie rock. She began her career in the early 1990s in Chicago by self-releasing audiocassettes under the name Girly-Sound. The intense response to these early tracks led to Phair’s signing with the independent record label Matador Records. She has been a recording artist and touring performer for more than twenty-five years, paving the way for countless music artists, particularly women, who cite her among their major influences. Phair is also a visual artist who majored in studio art and art history at Oberlin College. Her writing has appeared in The New York Times and The Atlantic. Horror Stories is her first book.
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