by Erin Hahn
23
Annie
I leave, my steps heavier than ever as I make my way down the hall to my room. I take out my earrings and change into pajamas, removing all my makeup with a wipe. I refold my clothes, noticing Jefferson’s blood on my shirt from earlier. I don’t even try to clean it; I just fold that, too, inside out.
I pack everything carefully. Silently. Intentionally. I lay out my clothes for the morning. I place a call to the desk to wake me up. I preorder my breakfast.
But through all of this, I’m thirteen and I’ve just come home from school. I use my own key to open the door. The house is dark, though it’s only late afternoon. All the curtains are still shut. My parents came home late last night. Mom recently wrapped up a three-week tour. Dad’s been in town working on his next album. He promised me we’d all go out to dinner to celebrate my birthday once Mom was back.
I run up the stairs calling for my mom. She’d sworn to pick me up something special on the road while in California. I think it’s probably the designer cowboy boots I saw last time we were out there. They didn’t have my size at the time. She promised to double-check now that I was old enough to fit into women’s sizes.
I fling open the door to my bedroom, but it looks exactly the same as when I’d left this morning. No boxes, bed messy, my pajamas puddled on the floor next to my soggy towel.
I slam the door again, running back down the stairs, still yelling. No response. I head for the kitchen, seeing nothing but a few dirty dishes from this morning. I see a slant of light from the den. Of course. My dad spends all of his time in his den, writing. When they’re both home, I’ll sometimes find her asleep on the leather couch in there. He’d put his finger to his lips to quiet me.
“Shhh, Anna Banana. Ain’t your momma beautiful when she sleeps?”
Of course, as I get older, it’s hard to miss the empty bottles and stray needles about when my mom is sleeping. Even at thirteen, I understand what’s really going on. It’s part of their line of work, though. Lots of parents come home and have a beer after a long day. My parents’ jobs are extra stressful, so a beer doesn’t cut it. At least that’s what my dad tells me.
I creep over to the doorway, pushing it open. In retrospect, I realize things were different that day. For one, it was completely silent. No heavy breathing indicative of deep sleep, no strumming or soft singing, no lowered voices or even whispered accusations. Nothing. Eerily calm quiet. The kind of silence that feels more like a void of sound, rather than a hush.
The door opened into my nightmare. I saw my mother first, her sofa directly across from the entrance. She was barely on the couch. A gray, bone-thin arm draped to the floor, the back of her fingers tracing the plush carpet. A scream froze in my lungs. Her eyes were wide, terrified, burst bloody capillaries dotting the whites. Crusted-over vomit trailed from the corner of her mouth and puddled on the floor. Foam coated her shocking blue lips. I didn’t need to touch her to know, but I couldn’t stop myself for reaching for her one hand, still draped across the back of the couch. It was stiff and curled into the leather, as if she’d tried to pull herself up but couldn’t manage the effort.
It was then that I saw my dad. I don’t know which was worse: she clearly fought harder, but his death was so violent. He was slumped forward on his desk, blood splattered in a giant burst on the wall and window behind him, pooled underneath his handsome, whiskered face. His silver revolver still clutched in his hand. His eyes were squeezed shut as though he didn’t want to see what his fingers were about to do.
Their deaths were later classified as a double suicide. My dad paid for the heroin that killed my mom. It was his welcome-home gift for her. When he’d found her overdosed and laid out in his den, he’d shot himself in the mouth.
My parents loved each other. Madly. And somewhere inside of me, I hope they loved me, too. They sort of seemed to, in a distant, farther-down-the-line-kind of way. But Cora loved Robbie and she loved her music, and she was a slave to her drugs.
And Robbie loved Cora. Full stop.
I’ve wondered at times, when I really want to torture myself, why my dad didn’t even consider living for me. He had to know I would be the one to find him. Find them. What kind of person does that to their child?
Even worse, what if he hadn’t thought of me at all?
I never sing my parents’ songs. I never talk about them in interviews, and I never, ever visit their graves. Yet I follow in their footsteps every single time I pick up my guitar and step onstage.
Every time I close my eyes and allow myself to dream of Jefferson.
Am I just completing the circle? I knew I was going to agree to this tour the second I opened the screen door at my grandparents’ and saw Clay Coolidge on my porch.
I knew I was going to fall for him the second I overheard his soft, tortured singing in his trailer.
I knew I would never love anyone half as much as him the moment he asked me—pleaded with me—to call him by his real name.
And I know as long as I live, I will never, ever forget the image of him lying on the floor, pale, bleeding, and still as the grave. I’ve done everything I can to delay when I will have to close my eyes tonight, because for the first time in years, it won’t be my parents’ dead bodies I see behind my lids.
It will be his.
24
Clay
thursday, august 1
michigan
Those first few days in Michigan are some of the darkest of my life. I don’t remember waking up or the plane ride or anything about the morning after my dance with pills. We arrive at Annie’s grandparents’ farm, and I’m ushered into a tiny guest room on the second floor at the end of a hallway. The curtains are drawn shut, and I don’t bother to remedy that. I slump onto the bed and stay there, under heavy covers despite it being summer.
Food arrives at regular intervals during the day, but it makes my stomach turn and I don’t bother to touch it. In another life, I know I’m being selfish, but I can’t force myself to care.
No one comes to see me. It seems I’ve finally driven everyone away.
If nothing else, this should make me happy, but of course it doesn’t.
On the third night, I leave my room. It’s after midnight, and the house is dark. I plan to go outside but instead find myself standing at a closed door next to the kitchen. I don’t remember seeing it before. The door opens easily, revealing a moonlit library. Three walls are covered in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. There’s a modest piano in the center and a wall of windows bisected by a window seat. On the piano rests three dozen bouquets of roses. Their fragrance is heady, and I don’t need to pluck the card out to see who they’re from.
But I do anyway.
These aren’t half as lovely as you. Got a sneak preview of your new song and can’t help but wonder where you’ve been all my life. You’re bigger than Nashville. California is waiting!—Roy
A smug grin quirks at the corner of my mouth. “Too bad she hates roses, Roy,” I whisper into the dark.
In the far corner, I find an old desk. It looks largely unused. Resting on top is an old bottle of something brown and a set of decorative glasses. My mouth waters, and I round the desk, itching for a drink. But before I can crack the bottle open, I’m distracted by a grouping of picture frames that adorn the desk’s polished surface. The first is of Annie and her grandparents. It’s recent; she’s in a graduation cap and gown, and her curls are long. Another frame shows a preteen Annie and Kacey, sunburned arms flung around each other’s shoulders as they stand together on a shoreline. A third photograph shows Annie and her parents. Cora and Robbie could be timeless, but Annie is barely a toddler. The three of them are sitting on a porch swing. Annie’s feet dangle in the air between her parents’ legs.
The final photo is older still. Cora Rosewood looks to be the same age Annie is now. Maybe eighteen. She’s clear-eyed and hamming it up for the camera. She looks airy and happy. Her guitar rests in her lap, a natural extension of
her limbs. Across from her sits Robbie Mathers. She faces the camera, but he’s facing her. His entire body cued in her direction, like she’s his sun and it’s all he can do to orbit her.
This is the Cora and Robbie the world didn’t see. They were famous for their lusty love—all jealous rages and reckless abandon. But this almost looks tender. Sweet. Innocent. Before the drugs and rock and roll.
My gut twists, and suddenly, a drink is the very last thing in the world I want. That I’ll ever want. Because I know the ending to this story. I’ve seen the fallout. I never met Robbie and Cora, of course, but I know Annie. I watched her fall to pieces after our first show, trembling and spiraling when Trina tried to tie our names together.
I’m not my mom, she’d said. Which can only mean she saw me as Robbie.
The realization is a knife to my chest. I stumble over to the windowsill, missing the seat and sliding down the wall to the floor. I bury my face in my shaking hands and tug on the ends of my greasy hair until it hurts.
All this time, without even meaning to, I’ve seen Annie as my salvation. My light at the end of this fucked-up tunnel. Her name would save my reputation. Her passion would inspire my music.
Her love would fix me.
And all this time, she’s seen me as her downfall. Her inevitable conclusion. I would break her, and she was going to let me.
Or we could have been like that. But we won’t be because now I know. I’m going to do what Robbie didn’t. I’m cutting her off at the start. She can’t be my sun. We’d never survive that. I crawl to my feet and stand, feeling resolute. Tomorrow is day one of the rest of my life.
And the rest of hers.
* * *
I wake up the next morning, the sun already high in the sky. The house is quiet again, and I cringe, wondering how late it is. I’ve been so rude. My granddad would tan my hide if he could see me.
I throw on some shorts and a T-shirt and slip down the creaky wooden stairs for some coffee. I find a fresh pot brewing. Annie’s grandmother putters in behind me, followed by Annie. I want to continue out the door. My late-night resolve is being tested early, and being in the same room with her—sharing the same air—feels like a violation. But it’s too late; they’ve already seen me.
Annie walks past me in silence to the cupboard and pulls out two mugs, lifting the carafe and pouring dual steaming cups, passing me one.
“Thank you,” I mutter, taking a long draw. I’m twitchy and uncomfortable, caught somewhere between sheepish and hurt. For all my earlier bravado, the thought of separating myself from this girl feels like amputation, and I’m innately selfish.
She smiles, close-lipped. I’m not the only one in pain. I think of our last show and the disgusting way I treated her. My spine stiffens. Annie takes a sip of her own coffee and moves to the table. I follow, feeling awkward.
“I didn’t mean to sleep so late,” I say. “I thought I set my alarm.”
Annie waves me off, passing a covered wooden bowl of something that smells like freshly baked muffins. Blueberry. “You did. I asked Fitz to turn it off. He and Kacey left early with Jason this morning. I stayed behind to help Gran, so we thought we’d let you sleep in.” Before I can open my mouth to protest, Annie continues, “Nope. That’s why you’re here, Jefferson. So you can rest up. So we all can. Touring is grueling work. A week of sleeping in will do us all good.”
I can’t look at her right now, can’t face her for being so understanding, so I turn my gaze out the open window. I need to get away from this place.
“Maybe I can help around the farm. I grew up doing farmwork. How can I help?”
Annie’s grandma shakes her head at the sink. “It’s not a working farm, Jefferson.” My throat grows thick at the sound of my real name coming from her lips. This woman who has watched this story all play out before but still allows me a spot at her table. “Hasn’t been for years. You might wanna check down at Carla’s, about quarter of a mile down the road. But they hire on summer workers every year to help them with planting. I doubt they could use you.”
“What about the mowing, Gran?” Annie turns to me, and this time I have to look at her. Her face is luminous in the soft natural light. Across her nose are a spattering of freckles. Her curls are all gathered up on top of her head, leaving her long neck bare. “My pop usually mows, but he could use the week off, I bet.”
I nod, liking the idea. A few days sweating on a tractor sounds good.
And so I mow. Up one row and down another. I talk to myself. I talk to Danny. I curse at God. I sing.
I think about my brother. A lot. I talk to him about his daughter. I imagine his disappointment in me for not knowing more about her. It’s so real at times, I can feel him alongside me.
I remember going camping when I was ten. Danny was fourteen, and Fitz was there between, a tagalong as always. My granddad took us to the Smokies for two whole weeks. We wandered until we got lost, but my granddad always found us. He’d light these giant fires every night, and we’d roast hot dogs on sticks we’d gathered that day. We’d poke at the flames so much our clothes were speckled with burn holes.
My granddad would talk to us about everything under the sun, and on those nights, we were a captive audience. He’d tell us about a loving God and how to treat women like queens and how to carve little figurines out of sticks.
He’d speak in parables and ghost stories and old mountain tales.
Sometimes, he’d pass me his guitar and ask me to play. I could barely write my cursive letters, but I was born strumming strings. Fitz would pull out his fiddle, and we’d play for the stars. The sky was an inky blue, and the wind smelled sweet as heaven whirling through the tall pines.
If I close my eyes, I can still see the crackling sparks twist and flicker in the funnel of dark smoke creeping to the treetops. I can hear my granddad’s sloping baritone. I can see Fitz and Danny, heads bent together in the firelight, snickering like two peas in a pod.
It was the happiest time of my entire life.
* * *
When I was fifteen and my granddad was sick, I got into trouble with a couple of no-accounts at school. We were cutting class and smoking pot behind the auto garage, and when the principal called home, he got Danny, fresh home from basic training.
I’ll never forget sitting on the bench outside the office when my big brother showed up. He was in civilian clothes, but it didn’t matter. He was different from his head clear down to his toes—as though he were somehow taller and bore the world on his shoulders. His jaw was set, and his eyes were steely as he approached, but he barely spared me a glance before striding into the office, closing the door behind him. Less than a minute later, he was in front of me. He picked up my bag and slung it over his shoulder. Danny was halfway down the hall before I realized I was supposed to follow him.
He remained silent as he got in his truck. In dead quiet, he pulled out of the lot and drove us through town. I reached for the radio, and he smacked my hand.
By the time we pulled into our driveway, I was ready to make a run for it, convinced he was gonna kick my ass with his newly honed Marine skills. He turned off the ignition and stared straight ahead. That’s when I saw it: the tic in his jaw, the twitch in his whiskered cheek.
Then I heard the snort.
My stupid brother was laughing at me. Red-faced and clutching at his gut. He was howling and sputtering. “Your face!” was all he said.
I tried to punch him in the arm, but there was nothing in it. I was just so relieved he wasn’t going to kill me. Soon I was laughing just as hard.
When he died down, he turned to me, his eyes still full of mirth. “Did I ever tell you about the time Fitz and I got caught drinking Granddad’s old scotch behind Autos?”
My eyes were saucers.
Danny smiled at the memory. “Drunk as two skunks. Diana Foster had just turned both of us down for prom, and so I snuck home at lunch and broke into the liquor cabinet.”
“You guys asked the same
girl to prom?”
Danny grinned. “It was a bet. We both lost.”
“And scotch?”
He grimaced then. “Yeah, it was disgusting. We got caught because Fitz couldn’t stop puking. I thought he was dying.”
I started snickering now. “You turned yourselves in?”
“I thought he was dying!” he repeats. “And I was three sheets to the wind. There was no convincing me otherwise. I ran straight for the dean and begged him to call 911. Thank God he didn’t. He followed me out behind the Autos and force-fed us day-old sub sandwiches from the cafeteria.”
“You didn’t get into trouble?”
Danny shrugged. “He figured we had scared the living daylights out of ourselves and the hangover was punishment enough. Then he warned if we weren’t early for school the next morning, we’d be suspended.”
“Man,” I said. “He was ready to suspend me, and I wasn’t even drunk.”
“Nah, he wasn’t gonna suspend you. I knew once he saw I was back, he’d relent.”
“What are you gonna do?” I scoffed. “You’ll be leaving again soon.”
This time, Danny turned to me fully. “You need to cut the shit, Jefferson. You can’t be smoking drugs.”
“Watch me,” I mumbled.
“Granddad is dying, and I’m leaving, as you helpfully pointed out. I have to. We need the money, and being a soldier is all I’ve ever been good for. But you? Damn it, Jeff. You can do better. Get the fuck out of here. You’re special. Don’t waste your life away in this town. Those guys you were caught with? They will die here having accomplished and contributed nothing. Don’t be them. You’ve got a gift.”
I rolled my eyes. “No one makes a living playing guitar, Danny.”
“You will,” he told me seriously. “You make people feel things with your music. Don’t you dare take that for granted.”
* * *
