Voices Carry: A Rock and Roll Fantasy (The Rock And Roll Fantasy Collection)

by Diane Rinella

  “Ugh.” I scrape my hand through my hair. I knew I didn’t fool her on Friday night but … God, I am really stepping into this. “This sounds totally wacky, but I can’t help but feel someone is trying to send me a message.”

  “You mean from beyond?”

  I nod. God, my life is just plain nuts.

  Darla takes a seat on the corner of my desk, and the woman whom I am used to being a jokester becomes beyond a doubt serious. “If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s the world is a mysterious place. Have you considered talking to someone experienced in these things?”

  “You mean like a shrink?”

  “No, someone who knows about the interworking of the universe, like a psychic. A shrink will only look at what is in front of you. A psychic will give you all the angles.”

  The thought had crossed my mind, but I’m not sure how much I believe in that stuff.

  “I’m going out on a limb here,” she continues. “You’re the first to admit your situation with Amber had a lasting affect even though you claim you don’t blame yourself. If that is true, why are you always so quick to bring up that you are not guilty? Guilt is a human thing, but hearing voices is unworldly. Since you are suffering from both, why not talk to someone who can see your situation in its entirety?”

  The word unworldly is disturbing yet so accurate. Darla may have hit the nail on the head. I try to cover how freaked out I am by crossing my arms and joking it off. “How is it Darla, the advice queen, knows about psychics?”

  She squares off by taking the same stance. “The same way your friend does.”

  “What friend?”

  “The one you are always at Mulligan’s with.”

  “Shane?”

  “No, the one who pretends he’s all that but knows he isn’t. He idolizes you, you know?”

  “Dale? How do you know—”

  “I had an appointment right after him once. He saw me get out of my car and scampered behind a bush.”

  My head rattles. “Wow! What would Dale be doing with a psychic?”

  Darla heads for the door. “If I could figure out what any man does, I would not be helping Rox start a dating service. Instead, we would make a fortune on the lecture circuit.”

  “Hold on. What do you mean, he idolizes me?”

  “Come on, Brandon, wake up to reality. I’ll tell your appointment you’ll be right with him.”

  My brain is spiraling. All that stuff about Dale is weird, but Darla gave me a bowl of food for thought. Are my images of Katherine real, or are they fantasies brought on by guilt? Does that blonde girl I dreamed of tie into this? Speaking of blondes, what about Pixie Waitress’s disappearing act? Darla knows who she is but … I don’t know what is real anymore.

  Before she slips away, I call out to Darla, “Hey, do you know what happened to that waitress from Mulligan’s?”

  “Don’t even think it, Wayne. Besides, I heard she went back to Modesto after they fired her for skankin’ up the place.”

  Good, more confirmation that she was real. That’s one less concern. Darla is right. I need outside help who won’t think I am crazy. If that fails, I’ll seek help from someone who does.

  Dream Police

  While I had no clue what to expect when calling a psychic, there is no way my experience was normal. Initially, the guy who answered told me Jennifer was booked for the next few weeks. However, when he heard Darla referred me, and Dale had been there before, he worked a consultation into today’s schedule. That was odd enough, but then he added, “Don’t worry, man. It’s free.”

  A free consultation? I thought psychics robbed people at every corner. Welcome to Los Angeles, where the guy who hears voices is the normal one.

  Forty minutes later I exit the freeway in El Segundo and turn into the driveway of a house tucked behind a 7-Eleven. The high pitch of the roof, the beds of blooming pansies lining the walkway, and the perfectly manicured rose bushes next to the door, make me feel I am approaching a fairy tale cottage.

  The guy who greets me is probably in his late thirties. His casual style of long, frizzy brown hair, no shirt and no shoes, actually helps me relax. Then again, even though the air is clear, it is possible I am loosening up because of residual smoke. That stellar beam in his eyes has me suspecting he’s baked. I’m kind of jealous.

  “Hi, I have an appointment with Jennifer.”

  “Yeah, man, come on in.” With a sweeping motion, he welcomes me into an issue of Better Homes and Gardens. It’s kind of jarring. I expected something mysterious and, from the looks of this guy, commune-like. This seems where the over-compensated ex-wife of an accountant would live.

  A lady with kinky, blonde hair that nearly reaches her waist comes out to greet me. Once I get a good look at her my heart starts pumping so fast I might meet my maker prematurely. Is that—

  No, it can’t be.

  “Hi, I’m Jennifer,” she says. “You must be Brandon.” She motions for me to take a seat in the dining room where she pours me a glass of red wine. “Here, take a few sips, but don’t drink it all. Sorry, it’s straight out of the bottle. No doctoring.”

  Against everything Mom ever told me about taking candy from strangers I sit and sip. I don’t know much about wine, but it tastes fine—I think.

  Jennifer turns up the brightness on the chandelier and takes a seat across from me. Holy shit, she really does look like Stevie Nicks!

  Jennifer is about sixty. How old is Stevie now? Supposedly she is pagan, though she denies being a witch. You don’t need to be a witch to be psychic, do you? I try to appear nonchalant while eyeing the place for her Grammy collection.

  Jennifer leans in and locks her eyes on mine. Would it be rude of me to ask her to sing? Maybe Stevie has a twin. Seriously, her appearance is freaking me out more than the way she is staring at me, and that’s pretty intense.

  “Take another sip,” she says. Her insistence is casual but persuasive. I fight to keep my shrug internal. I don’t want her to think I’m rude, but what’s up with the wine? Nothing about this experience seems normal.

  Once I comply, Jennifer pulls out a pad of paper. “Dump the rest onto this. If it goes over, no big deal.”

  This time I actually do shrug. When I toss the contents of my glass, it splats onto the paper without wasting a drop. Jennifer goes back to staring into my eyes. “Now what?” I ask.

  “Give it a minute. Meanwhile, tell me why you’re here.”

  “If you are psychic, shouldn’t you—” She cuts me off with a death glare. “Sorry.”

  She nods to the wine that has dried in a mass of spirals. “Exactly what I thought, Jonathan.”

  “My name is Brandon.”

  “Jonathan,” she says, firmly. She rethinks it. “No, Johnny.”

  Man, this is weird. “Brandon.”

  “Yes, but Brandon is here because of Johnny and Saleena.”

  Who the hell are Johnny and Saleena? There is a John in the plant at work. Maybe he is spiking the gumdrops, and I am hallucinating.

  Jennifer tilts her head. If she were a puppy, I’d expect her ears to be pointed as well. “Katherine,” she says. My body stiffens and turns cold. “Hold on a moment.” Her heels click as she heads down the hall, punctuating the panic racing through me. How the hell did she know? I am not surprised she guessed I was here because of a woman, but to call Katherine by name?

  Jennifer returns and hands me a single Tarot card—The Fool. She’s probably calling me out for thinking that hearing a voice could possibly mean anything other than I should be locked up.

  “Go home and meditate on this. If outside thoughts keep you from concentrating, tell them they will hold your attention in due time. Focus only on the card until it becomes a mere blur and your mind is released. If you can’t do it, stare at it until you fall asleep.”

  My insides are shaking so much that all I can do is stare at her with an open mouth. I finally snap out of it enough to take the card. The shirtless man strolls up and opens
the front door. “Can you return during lunch tomorrow?” Jennifer waits for my nod before ushering me out. “Wonderful. My calling Katherine by name should be enough to convince you your money will not be spent in vain. My fee will be fifty dollars. Be prepared to stay half an hour, and please remember to return my card.” She points her finger at me. “Don’t bend it.”

  When I step outside, the world looks normal, yet my insides feel as if I have landed on an alien planet. What the hell just happened? Only fifty dollars? I was expecting so much more. This must be the beginning of the swindle.

  The darkness of night covers my apartment. A beam of light comes through the crack in the curtains and lands on The Fool card sitting in my hand. On the card, a dog is at the feet of a man holding both a rose and a vagabond’s bag. He looks like he is about to dance over the edge of a cliff and into the water. I would expect the dog to warn the idiot of impending doom. Instead they are about to dive into stupidity together.

  I don’t tend to notice ambient noise when I am in bed. Now that I am supposed to focus, a plane passing overhead distracts me, and the refrigerator won’t shut up.

  This is dumb. I reach for my iPod. What makes for good, new-agey, meditation music? Certainly nothing I own. In fact, nothing in here looks right for the mood I need.

  After hitting shuffle and skipping over three songs, Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper” kicks in. Is it amusement or nerves that cause me to chuckle aloud? I’m entertained by not only the sentiment but also over the singer’s alias. How the name Buck Dharma implies kicking righteousness in the ass seems appropriate.

  Silken vocals, sustained notes that bring on the sensation of gliding, and the insistence there is nothing to fear in visiting the other side, have a soothing affect and make me wonder where all this will lead. By the time I reach the instrumental break and guitars are soaring, my peripheral vision is blurred. The Fool’s image morphs into a frame of film.

  Guitars wail as a movie plays in reverse—the clouds on the card become distant, the rose transforms from a blossom into a bud, the tide recedes, and The Fool backs away from the cliff, through a field and … and onto a stage? His colorful outfit is replaced by black leather pants and an abused, white T-shirt. His hair stays blonde, but it grows long and straight while he forms the curves of a woman. The satchel and rose morph into a guitar.

  The girl I saw in the park now has a black bar painted across her eyes. She’s singing her heart out and stealing mine along with those in the crowd. God, how I love a hot female singer.

  The room is packed even though there are only about a hundred of us, and the stage is so close to the ground anyone could step on it. Everything is so compact the whole scene—the band, the audience, even the brick walls themselves—feel like one entity. And it’s dark, maybe even a little evil feeling—the true hallmarks of punk rock decadence. The people around us have spiked hair and are dressed in T-shirts, ripped jeans, Converse high-tops, and leather jackets. One guy has a safety pin in his cheek. The clothes, the bad acoustics, the smell of seafood and curry, the popcorn-covered floor, the air weighed down with smoke and whisky—everything reeks of being a spectacle in the purest sense of rock and roll.

  The band finishes, and the crowd loses their minds. I bolt backstage while screaming something about being their manager, not that anyone seems to care who goes where. The hot blonde stretches her arms around me, and my heart warms at the touch of Saleena’s kiss. I want to treasure her forever—but all goes black.

  The Fool returns. He and the dog each take a single step forward, and the vibrant petals on his rose turn dark.

  A new vision creeps in—one of keys in one hand and my other on the handle of a car door. I open it for Saleena, and then head to the driver’s side. My steps stagger, and a wave of concern hits, yet I’m also happy to the point where I can’t stop laughing.

  The tires screech as I accelerate, but the car doesn’t move. We laugh at my failure to release the parking brake. I get it right the second time.

  Cars and lights flash past as we head up a steep hill. Are they stopped, or am I speeding to the point where perception is distorted? My head screams to slow down, but the other me keeps racing up a hill in this metropolis with skyscrapers and turn-of-the-century buildings. The light ahead turns yellow, and I gun it. The engine revs but not as hard as expected.

  As we near the intersection, another car heads across. To no avail, the real me tries to get the driver me to swerve. Tires screech, and a scream penetrates the air. The impact on my right causes me to throw my arm over my eyes. Warmth splatters and drips into my mouth—red, metallic-tasting warmth.

  My God.

  I can’t look, and I don’t have to because I know.

  I …

  I killed her.

  I killed Saleena, the girl who was in the car with me.

  The Fool reappears and takes another step forward. The petals on his rose wither and scatter onto the ground. Light creeps in, and I find myself sitting in a room that is illuminated by a single candle. Its flicker is reflected off of an engagement ring that has one mere chip of a diamond. My right hand feels weighted by metal.

  No! This couldn’t have happened.

  My current and former hearts race as I raise the gun.

  I can’t do this. I can’t think anymore. This has to stop now!

  Cool steel trembles against my temple. I cock back the—

  “No!” I jump up in bed—sweating out of every pore, my chest aching from pants, and my stomach ready to hurl.

  I killed a girl. I robbed someone of her life, and then took my own.

  Shivers of reality crawl across my arms, traveling up my neck and down my back. All my unexplained guilt over Amber’s death hasn’t been for her at all.

  You Never Had It Better

  Blaring music jerks me awake and sends my heart into a sprint. The volume on this alarm clock nearly gives me a heart attack each morning, but if I don’t wake with a jolt, I’ll hit snooze until noon.

  Why does four in the morning come so early? Scratch that. The real question is; why do I have such a bad taste in my mouth? I feel hung over, yet last night I didn’t have so much as a sip of wine.

  The heat that keeps making guest appearances in my blood stream returns when I sit. It seems to have brought its friend who prickles my nerve endings. My body is acting like it did when …

  Oh no.

  Bolting out of bed puts my stomach on a swing. This can’t be! When is my period due? My pills ended a day ago, but I screwed up at the beginning of the month and missed one. That usually makes my period start early.

  Oh no!

  Calm down. Every now and then you skip a period.

  Yeah, but it’s never accompanied by fire in your veins or a twisty stomach!

  I race to get dressed. I don’t have long to get to the drugstore and still make call time.

  “No, no, no! No, no, no!”

  My foot taps frantically on my trailer’s floor. Jason has been super blunt about not being ready—so much even holding the test stick feels deceitful. I didn’t consciously screw up my pills. Or did I? I blew it a few months ago too, and the same thing happened. A few days after getting a second pink line, pain kicked in and my period started. Did I subconsciously screw up again in hopes of a better outcome?

  No, with my fluctuating schedule, it’s difficult to keep anything on track. Lack of sleep sometimes makes me forget, too. Jason and I are so damn pigheaded about our goals you’d think we would play it safe and double up on protection.

  The clock says I have another minute to go, but I hold the test stick up to the light anyway. No second line is in sight, yet I know where this is going.

  Jason was caught so off guard last time he was nearly mute until the miscarriage happened. This time around he is probably going to wonder what the hell I am up to. Do I tell him when he gets home tonight, or do I try to come up with a way to soften the blow? Shoot, does it even matter?

  Burning c
reeps up my throat. Oh God, here come the jitters again.

  If this turns out to be a false alarm, I am going to insist Jason start wearing a condom. This can’t happen. It absolutely cannot!

  I put the stick on the coffee table and step into the early morning darkness outside my trailer. I can’t face two lines, but I also don’t know if I can hold it together if there is only one. I don’t dare admit part of me wants this to be true, and that how Jason feels won’t affect the outcome. Given the choice, I would take this baby over Jason in a heartbeat because not a day …

  I inhale sharply and steady myself to face what I constantly try to push out of my mind.

  Because not a day passes where I don’t wonder what happened to my little girl.

  My eyes burn at the memory of being in the hospital. Fire flared through me, yet I was so exhausted from pushing I couldn’t think to fan myself. When I overheard the doctor say the baby checked out fine, I thought sweeter words had never been uttered. But my elation crashed as I watched a nurse carry my little angel out of the room after me having caught only enough of a glimpse to know she had dark hair.

  Despite the fatigue and drug-induced haze that kept me feeling tied to the bed, I bolted up and screamed for them to stop. When I signed the adoption papers, it made sense I would not get to see my baby, but the magnitude of what I had done was rolling over me. Watching the nurse shelter my darling, as if I were a threatening stranger, sent my heart plummeting. Somebody had to help me. I begged another nurse to let me know the joy of holding my baby, but the viciousness of her tone as she said, “Contact is against the rules!” smeared what was left of my heart into Hell.

  I went through nine months of love for that child—nine months of prayers, nine months of doing everything I felt was in her best interest—and never got to see her precious face. I helped create that face, and I loved every moment of nurturing it as it grew inside me.