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

by Diane Rinella

  Jason curls me into his chest. His heart races as if he has dodged a bullet. Maybe he already suspects and thinks denial made it all go away before, so it can do it again. “Get some sleep, honey,” he says. “All will be better in the morning.”

  Little does he know, that is when I have an appointment to officially confirm this pregnancy. He does have a point though. This may be a jazzed up mess, but I won’t lose sight of what is important. Yesterday I said that given the choice I would take this baby over Jason, and nothing will make me think differently.

  One Way Or Another

  God, how did I get into this situation? A few days ago I was an average guy with a messed up past. Now I’m a creepy stalker who follows a celebrity on social media. Learning I killed someone in a past life seemed to be the icing on the cake, but no. Now that I find myself sitting alone in my darkened bedroom and staring at a Ouija board I fear how much deeper into insanity I can go.

  Today things got even weirder. Emotional jabs kept telling me something was wrong with someone I love. I’m not sure I can fully buy into what Jennifer said, but maybe if I can see it for myself, I can accept it—hence my trip to the botanicals shop. I have got to take matters into my own hands.

  This Ouija board is straight out-of-the-box. Doesn’t it need some type of spell cast on it before use? They must do that at the factory.

  Oh, that’s crazy! Everything about this is crazy!

  That damn cheese is starting to smell; yet both pieces look perfect. I should be more patient. It was only yesterday Jennifer told me to hold off for guidance.

  Has it really only been a day? That happened Wednesday, right? Yeah, okay, I went to work today and then bought all this mystical crap. Well, it is practically dawn, so it is now Friday.

  God, that means it has been ten, insomnia-filled nights since this madness started. No wonder why I am edgy.

  With my hands on the planchette, I concentrate on Saleena’s blonde hair, her sparkling blue eyes, and her voice that was as sweet as candy—all while trying to forget the horror of her blood splattering across me. Life was so much easier when I was only weirded out over hearing Katherine’s voice. Who would have thought I would long for that madness again?

  If Saleena was reincarnated into Katherine, can I still contact her? Can her soul be in two places at the same time? If so, can I contact my former self?

  I toss myself back and smack my head against the side of the bed. Death is way too complicated.

  Maybe I should try a different way. Tarot cards don’t require a spirit, do they?

  Oh, whom am I kidding? All I did was look at the book, and I got confused.

  Dude, you need to get a grip. Do something or bag it.

  I stand and spray the cards onto the floor, creating a mosaic of confusion. I’m pretty sure I’ve broken some sacred law and have doomed myself by being disrespectful to these pieces of paper. Still, I snag a coin from my pocket, close my eyes, and flick it in the air. When it thunks, I slip an eye open. The quarter landed on an angel pouring liquid between two chalices—Temperance.

  That figures. I don’t need a book to know I bought all this stuff only for it to tell me the same thing Jennifer did. This all needs to work itself out.

  Temperance is the last image I see before tossing and turning myself to sleep. Three hours later, my alarm clock sends noise ripping through my head, jolting me awake. I was out hard. If I dreamed, I don’t remember a second of it.

  When my feet hit the floor, they land on something cool and pliable—Tarot cards. God, this room looks like a psychic threw up in it.

  “Coffee,” I mumble while scrubbing my hand through my hair and stammering into the living room. The open curtains allow the sun to bathe the room in a golden glow that brings a sense of peace. Jennifer said my next action is to either follow my head or my heart. Following my heart would mean tracking down Katherine. Following my head means forgetting the whole thing. The question is simple: Am I in, or am I out? I don’t need to decide now. All I need is to enjoy looking at the flowers and trees outside and accept that, one way or another, everything will balance out.

  Ooh, Blondie! Music is another thing I need. Music and coffee. Coffee sounds brilliant. “One Way Or Another” rocks its way into my brain, and I start bopping my way into the kitchen. I’ll do the right thing in due time—which will probably be growing tired of the situation and letting it die. It’s all a matter of—

  Shock hits my veins, turning my blood into a Slurpee that causes my fear to build as it crawls through me. I must be having visions again because what sits on the kitchen counter can’t be real. The cheese from Jennifer draws me toward it like a siren of the sea. “Dear God,” I utter. The piece with the x etched into it looks fresh as a daisy; the other is buried under a mountain of mold—thick, furry, unmistakable mold.

  If this is telling me to follow my heart, why am I suddenly inclined to run away, change my identity, and forget Brandon Wayne existed? My passport is current. I have a modest savings account. Maybe it is time I saw Zimbabwe, Togo, or some other place no one would think to look for me.

  Slowly, I approach the sign I hoped so hard for. This can’t be real. Last night this cheese looked as normal as can be, and then boom, penicillin city. I stare at it and utter in disbelief, “Follow my heart …”

  Music fills my mind as the gentle tones of a wire brush skating across a drum seeps into the air. A flute tinkles in, causing my lungs to steal all the air they can. Dear God, help me because I have no clue what is happening.

  My fear builds at the sound of a new voice. Frank Sinatra starts singing “Anything Goes”, and prickles crawl up my skin. Suddenly, reality kicks me in the head, and I dash for my cell phone that nearly freaked me into a coffin. “Hello!”

  “Rise and shine, sleepyhead!” Dale says. “How’s the weather in sunny California?”

  I look out the window even though I know perfectly well what it is like. “Su—Su—Sunny.”

  “Hey, man, you okay? I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  “No, believe me, I am wide-awake.” I am awake, right? My name is Brandon Wayne. I live in Los Angeles, and I am pretty sure I am awake. I also need to keep functioning like a normal person for fear if I don’t, men in lab coats will show up at my door, give me a nice, white jacket, and haul me off to a farm. “Why do you sound so chipper?”

  At least I still seem to be able to process things, because based solely on his chuckle, I know where this is going. Dale has two laughs—a normal one and a maniacal one that surfaces when he has something he can’t wait to share. “I had quite the night!”

  I can only begin to imagine. In fact, I’d rather not. Merely knowing Dale often brings images of drunken debauchery to mind.

  “Man, I have to tell you about what is going on around here! Life has been in-sane!”

  My eyes lock onto the cheese. That volume of mold doesn’t make a lick of sense. How did it bloom to life on one piece, yet there isn’t a speck on the other?

  “I can’t believe this latest script. This show may be kind of lame, but this script is ridiculous.”

  My eyes widen and lock; yet I somehow have the foresight to drop the phone enough to conceal my gasp. Katherine is back.

  Okay, Jennifer said Katherine is reaching out, and I have nothing to fear. She even said I could find comfort when this happens. Lastly, a mountain of mold is telling me to follow my heart. The next logical step is to give acceptance a shot and listen. Maybe then I can find enough information to prove Jennifer right or enough to show how certifiable I have become and it is now time for medical help.

  As I raise the phone, I dare not look to my hand for fear the sight of it trembling will cause me to chicken out. I will show strength. I will listen and dare the voice to show me what is real. Whatever it is, I can and will face it.

  My quaking hand causes the phone to rattle against my ear. With a calming breath, I insist on allowing myself to cave to whatever I find—real or imagined.

&n
bsp; My head gets fuzzy, causing fear to build.

  I will not be afraid. I will move forward.

  Haze coats my mind, and an image of Katherine, fully dolled up and walking through a room, seeps in. How is it I can see her now when before I saw through her eyes?

  She tosses the script onto a counter in front of a mirror surrounded with bright lights. A makeup table? Of course. I’m seeing a mirror image. Everything has an explanation.

  “If I were not such a professional, I wouldn’t bother learning my lines. My gut tells me that when the producers get wind of this, they’re going to redline so much of the script I’ll have to learn a new one.”

  God, Katherine, I see it now. Though your body has changed, Saleena is reflected in how you carry yourself. I remember so much about who you were—your laugh, your walk, your scent that reminded me of wild flowers. How did I ever forget?

  The comfort of discovering a long-lost treasure builds. When it comes to this woman, there is nothing to fear. I only need to accept there is more to life than what we normally see.

  Steps approach. Reflected in the mirror I catch a glimpse of another woman. This one has long, dark hair and deep brown eyes. She looks hauntingly familiar. Katherine’s head turns and …

  “Brandon?”

  And I lose contact.

  Who was that? How was it she looked familiar, yet I’m certain I don’t know her?

  “Brandon!” Dale yells. “Did I lose you? Damn cell phone.”

  Despite my sense of calm, I need to grab air in order to force out words. I can’t help but feel rattled. “No,” huffs out. “I’m here. Must be a bad connection.”

  “Anyway … ”

  Why is it I can sense her randomly, yet I only get a visual when I’m on the phone with Dale?

  “… which means they are keeping me here for another week,” Dale says.

  Is she with him? When it comes to women the man does seem to get around. “Hey, are you alone or are you holding court with some girl?”

  “I’m painfully alone in my room.”

  Then how …

  Dale and Katherine are both in Toronto. I need to get to my laptop and pull up a map.

  Does it seem at all reasonable that Dale’s vicinity to her is letting me get these visions through the cell towers? No, but hell, nothing about any of this is reasonable, including how my gut tells me it is time to accept this insanity as reality. “Hey, where exactly in Toronto are you?”

  “Downtown at the Sheraton. Why?”

  That’s not far from where Katherine films. “How about I fly out first thing tomorrow and hang with you Saturday night and all day Sunday? You can dump me at the airport on Monday morning.” But I’ll fly back on Tuesday, after some private exploring. Meanwhile, I’ll uncover anything the media has posted about where Katherine hangs out.

  “What? Brandon Wayne wants to get out of his little world and spread his wings? Don’t toy with me, man!”

  “What do you say?”

  “Fathers of Toronto, lock up your daughters!”

  Dear God, help me. Hanging out with Dale may be nuttier than trying to track a voice in my head.

  “This is going to be one crazy weekend!”

  Dale may be right, but if this is crazy, so be it. Actually, my decision is perfectly logical. I can choose to believe I am crazy because I am hearing voices, or I can see myself as one of the sanest people on the planet because I accept there is more to the world than can be seen. Maybe those who refuse to look beyond here and now are the crazy ones. If Jennifer is right, this isn’t a matter of listening to my heart; it’s a matter of listening to my soul.

  I say goodbye to Dale, and then pop on to Facebook to read Katherine’s latest post, “I’ve been waiting to tell all of you something big, but have to keep it a secret a little longer. Stay tuned!”

  Big things are definitely happening because I am daring to embrace madness. Katherine has no idea how bizarre her life is about to get. Despite my resolve, my hands jitter while I comment on her post, “Better things are coming than we can ever imagine. I am certain of it!”

  Is it weird that I like the décor of my gynecologist’s office? That is weird, right? The bathroom has the wildest, nineteen sixties, bronze wallpaper with calorie charts and cartoons of people of varying weights. It’s so dated and dorky it is awesome.

  It is freaky how being in that room makes me feel like I am a kid again. I was born in the eighties, so the paper was outdated by the time I was old enough to remember anything similar. I must only feel that way because of the cartoons.

  My feet swing back and forth over the edge of the exam table, and I take in the dated charm of blue and silver wallpaper that was probably made when the stuff in the bathroom was. Jason would hate it. Why do some people think respecting the past is a crime?

  God, it’s so nice not to feel stressed. The new determination I found when I came to terms with my desires last night has me feeling the best I have in days. I will make this situation work, with or without Jason. The producers can find a way to shoot around my pregnancy. If they write me out of the show, I’ll find another one.

  The door creeks open, and Doctor Florin sticks his head in. He’s probably in his forties, but his round face and glowing skin always make me think of a little boy. The way his eyes hide behind large glasses and comically flick back and forth drives the thought home. “Is it safe? The paparazzi didn’t follow you, did they? I missed a spot while shaving, and I’m afraid it will make the tabloids.” I can’t help but chuckle. “So, how is my favorite starlet?”

  “Fantastic. How is my favorite doctor? Gone on any great hiking adventures lately?”

  “Every weekend without fail.” His voice trails off as he flips through my chart. For as jovial as he is, the way he leans against the counter with his weight oddly shifted has me nervous. “The nurse says you suspect you are pregnant. Have you taken a test?”

  “Yep. Two of them.”

  “And you got clear results?” His eyes seem to ask the question twice as strongly as his words do.

  My jitters come back. Something is definitely wrong. Still, I won’t let my positive attitude falter. “Double, bright pink lines. I’ve been queasy enough to know they are right.”

  The trepidation he uses while setting down my chart causes my stomach to tighten. It’s not the same physical sick of the last few days. This tightness extends up into my heart. “Katherine…” Oh no. His voice is so tender. This can’t be good. “The tests we use are pretty sensitive. Unfortunately, yours showed as negative.”

  The tightness releases and drops my heart onto the floor. His test has to be wrong. My body could not have failed me again. My voice drips with the desperation that tears at me. “Doc, I’ve been feeling the hormones in my blood for days. How can the test not show them?”

  Judging by his pressed lips, more tact is coming. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to tell you other than the situation you saw has changed.” I can see he is searching for a different answer—something truthful to leave me with hope. But no matter what he says, it is clear that karma is having its laugh. I am about to miscarry again.

  “Doc, I know you have said not to worry about the occasional missed period, but this is the second time this has happened recently. Something is wrong somewhere. I just know it.” Actually, I don’t know it; I fear it because then I threw away far more than I ever bargained for.

  Doctor Florin pulls up a seat, and I brace myself for our heart-to-heart. How many times have I prayed we would never have another one of these? “Last we talked about this, you only missed about one period a year. Has that changed? Missed periods are often the result of stress and traveling. You are no stranger to either of those.”

  “It happens about every ten months or so but … Can’t you run a test or something?” I swear I am being punished, and I need something to show if karma is messing with me at will or if it has done a permanent whammy on my system.

  Doctor Florin forces a crooked s
mile. “Well, we have checked you for PCOS and Aherman’s Syndrome. Everything is in order, but it can’t hurt to run those tests again, can it? I’ll have the nurse make out a slip for a blood draw.”

  Who am I kidding? I know exactly what those tests are going to say.

  The test he took today was flawed. It has to be.

  I wish the Doc a good day and head home. Tomorrow morning the life inside me will show he is perfectly fine, and I will be right back in this office, holding a test stick. That has to happen because if this pregnancy fails, I have a bigger reality to face.

  My jaw clenches. Memories from months before play in my brain as what must be the talons of a demon stealing my joy poke at me from inside and rip. My nails dig into the arm of the sofa, and I double over.

  This pain is nothing. What causes my suffering is the emotional havoc rattling in my brain. Cramps can happen in early pregnancy. This pain will stop, and tomorrow I will see that second pink line again, plain as day. Drinking some tea will help me feel better. However, so would knowing I could turn to Jason. I wish I had a hand to hold right now.

  When I stand, the talons dig again, and warmth trickles inside me. I squeeze out tears that burn like the flames of Hell. My baby is dead, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to save him.

  This is my fate. I had my chance years ago, and I blew it. If Jason is right about me having done the right thing, why has it caused so much sadness? If I did wrong by my daughter and this is penance, why have two innocent souls suffered? Hell isn’t a place where bad people go when they die. Hell resides within me.

  A gusher flows inside. It sends me racing to the bathroom and forces me to accept I am about to face the color of sorrow. Another dream, another precious face, destroyed by my hands.

  Although a Vicodin-induced fog spins in my brain, I am well aware the hand I envision holding isn’t here. I wish I could drown out my inner voice that keeps smashing my face into reality. Facing what I am up against is difficult enough, but I’m not ready to face Jason and probably never will be. All I can handle is lying here on the bedroom floor, mourning for another life I never got the joy of knowing and hoping Jason will give me the understanding I need in my time of failure.