"Manny?"
"Handles security at the ballpark," I said calmly. "He a good guy. So, I'll see you in a few hours. I won't be long at Ryan's."
All I could think about was Mom. When she got involved, that meant something serious had happened, like Dad passing out on the front lawn and lying there for all the neighbors to see, or when he'd wandered the streets in a hospital gown not knowing why he'd been admitted or walked out, or a night like the one when Jenise was raped and instead of being at the hospital with his wife and daughter he was passed out in the bedroom.
I didn’t want to become a part of that memory book.
I only wanted to bring lightness to my mother's heavy life—to my family's heavy life—and I was failing with that goal.
You're not their savior, Nick.
“I didn't want to bother you,” I admitted. "I was going to call Jenise, but Ryan said he'd already talked with you. I wanted you to hear it from me that I'm all right."
Silence.
What are you thinking, Mom?
"Are you still at the ballpark?”
“Yes, in their medical office, but—"
“I'm coming to get you," she demanded.
"I'm all right," I sighed, trying to ease the pressure in my head. "I appreciate you want to come and get me. I'm dehydrated, that's all. There's no reason to be upset."
Well, except for this heartbreak.
Even though my emotional wound was open and bleeding, I continued to act the part I'd played my entire life—the reliable, secure, invincible daughter. No matter what happened, my parents seemed to think the bullets bounced off of me. I had only myself to blame for their thinking. I hated to ask for anyone's help, especially Mom and Dad. I wanted to be in control of my own life and choices. I had to accept the consequences of those choices.
As long as I seemed to be doing well—getting A's in school, busy volunteering, participating in after-school committees, or staying with friends—no questions were asked of me. That was all a façade. Mom and Dad never understood how desperate I was for their love—be it a loving arm, warm smile, or a shoulder that could comfort me.
A fleeting thought rushed in and out of my mind as I wondered if their distance with showing affection was exactly why I had the same trouble.
Would there ever come a day when they'd finally realize how fragile I was? Could they understand although they covered up their vulnerability by drinking to excess and hiding under codependency, even they were fragile? Didn't the child in all of us need to be held forever?
"Ryan doesn't know you well enough to understand if you're okay," Mom argued. "What's his number again?"
"No. Mom, I told you, I'm all right."
"If he had any sense . . . God, how selfish of him. Even if he has to drive you himself, he should make you come home."
Did her voice just crack a little?
"Ryan wanted to take me home," I lied for the third time since I'd fallen. I felt like Peter denying Jesus in the garden. I had become a detriment to those around me and also myself. "I'm the one who insisted I go to his place."
Even you don't know how good of a liar I can be, Mom. I've had plenty of practice holding back our family's dark secrets.
"I should have called you sooner, but I had to sign papers and stuff. Don't worry, I'm fine."
I wanted her to insist she'd get me no matter what Ryan had told her. I was ready to give in.
In the end? Mom was the one who gave in.
My family always gave in.
We were so tired of the storms that had blown through our lives, surrendering to the temptation and seduction of sweet darkness might finally bring us peace.
Trauma.
When it was upon us, we denied it was happening, kept our feelings numb and stuffed them way down inside us. We'd carried so much pain that hiding and learning techniques to move around it became a part of our every day lives.
"Your fall was on the news," she gave an uneasy laugh.
Thank God, she's finally at ease.
"God, I'm a klutz, Mom. Always falling in front of people."
"You've always had a dramatic flare," Mom resigned to my wishes using humor. Deflection was one of our techniques of maintaining distance. "Call me later and let me know when you're ready to come home. I should give you an hour with him and pick you—"
"I'll handle it." I had to admit I was happy she had made one last offer of help. "I promise I won't take the streetcar. I'll call you if I need a ride." After a few minutes of reassuring her, we said goodbye.
After I dressed and signed a release form, I was given health care instructions for the next few days. Number one on the list read: Relax. Avoid exercise and stress for the next several days.
Looks like I'll break the first directive the moment I see Ryan.
"Don't take the symptoms of a head injury for granted," Graciela said as I handed over the release. "I've seen folks think everything was fine and next day they're in the hospital."
"I won't." But did you ignore them? I was throwing up, after all. That's one of the signs. I got a cup of water from the water cooler. "Thank you."
"You were lucky, Ms. Young," another nurse at the desk offered empathy. "Very lucky."
As I heard those words, the shock and fear of my father's fall from eight years earlier came full speed ahead. I'd tucked the images of that afternoon into my box of dark memories.
Unexpectedly, the heavy lid on it had finally lifted off.
"Thank you. I know I was lucky . . . I know I was." Even as I said the words, somehow I knew luck for our family—and for me—would run out.
Chapter 21
Walls
I walked out of the medical station to the elevator. Manny, the security guard seemed to come from nowhere.
"Where did you come from?" I asked coolly.
"I'm accompanying you to Mr. Tilton's apartment." His voice was steady.
"I know where I'm going. I don't need you to go with me, Manny."
"I'm only here to make sure you're all right." He held my arm. "You shouldn't be alone. You're smart enough to understand that."
* * * * *
Dad.
Genius.
Numbed.
Mabel.
Cement wall.
His head.
Dented.
The scenes of my father's accident were like flashes within my midnight, drawing me back to that day, a day that was like so many before—average for our household.
I was ten-years-old and home alone. Mom was sure I could take care of myself and took Jenise shopping. I had my piano to practice and they'd planned to be back before Dad woke up—actually, before he'd passed out from drinking too much.
We called it napping.
Although we lived together, my family carried on with separate lives. We moved steadily and unemotionally, the same way I descended in the elevator.
* * * * *
"I'm not that smart, Manny. If I were, I wouldn't have gotten involved with your Mr. Tilton and I'd be heading home right now."
Bony fingers lifted the lid from the coffin of hidden memories. They rolled out like the coastal fog that crept over the coastal hills, thick, covering me, and demanding that I reexamine the past now circling in my head.
I'd fallen.
Like dad.
Pointing.
Pounding.
He was numb.
I was numb.
"I'll make sure you're all right," Manny held my arm.
"I'll be all right. I always land on my feet."
Shame.
Family secrets.
They were rising from the grave in which we had buried them. Family secrets that never really stayed buried—or quiet— were clawing, demanding their recognition.
Never. Staying. A secret.
Need.
Attention.
Greedy.
Screaming.
Look. At. Me!
As the elevator lowered to street level, it seemed we were d
escending faster and faster. Memories flooded. I was skidding through blinking lights.
Bright.
Too bright.
Close my eyes. We all closed our eyes. Slowing down. Stopping. Dark now. The demons are here. Forcing me. Making me look at them.
Remember, Nicky. You're there with him—with them.
Mabel.
Ambulance.
Piano.
What were you doing then?
What are you doing now?
Pushing down. Hoping the problem will disappear. Not dealing with it. Avoiding. Three floors from the elevator to the street.
It was enough time to travel back to my basement.
* * * * *
I played my Arabesque, one of the many pieces of music that I loved. I played loud, fortissimo and dramatic, raggedly striking the piano keys. The composition gave me permission to pound on the old upright player piano.
It was mine.
All mine.
A friend of my father's had gotten the player piano from one of the saloons in Virginia City. No longer wanted, its mechanical guts were removed and replaced with actual hammers and steel strings. She was weathered and out of tune.
When she landed in our basement, I loved her instantly. She gave me the escape I needed as well as another outlet to create.
The keys were real ivory and the flats and sharps, ebony wood. The carriage that once held the old brass music spools was walnut. Thick legs held her keyboard and were adorned with hand-carved waterfall and leaf designs. At the bottom and in the middle of the heavy floorboard were three brass foot pedals, to soften, make louder, or sustain musical notes.
One of them was broken.
She was broken—it was what made her special.
With loving care I oiled her, kept her dusted, and made certain she didn't fall useless into our shadows. She was a forgotten star. I made sure she got to be in the limelight once more. Every day my fingers danced over her.
Pounding with all the fury I had, through my loud and deliberate Arabesque, I tried to empty out the frustration of my home life.
The day my father fell down the stairs, my pounding stopped abruptly. He had been sleeping. Why couldn't he wait five minutes to focus and wake up before heading downstairs?
It wasn't the first time he'd fallen. Several months earlier, in the middle of the night, still drunk, he opened the basement door, thought it was the bathroom, and sat on an invisible toilet.
If it weren't so tragic it would have been comical.
He tumbled down all thirteen steps.
Going downstairs to get a drink from the bottle he'd hidden was probably so routine that his comatose mind, always focused on getting a drink, couldn't wake up to tell him he wasn't capable of making the trip safely.
Was he taken to the emergency room, or at least a doctor? No, of course not. It wasn't serious enough. Everything seemed okay. And if it seemed okay? Well, it was okay.
Dark secrets were held close.
My mother and sister helped him up the stairs and back to bed—that is, after they cleaned the piss and shit off of him.
Talking about it wasn't an option.
* * * * *
"It's always good to talk things through," Manny offered me his wisdom, perhaps trying to soften me at the same time.
"What?" I jerked my head. The pain radiated through my neck and the pain I felt was obvious.
"I have something in the car for your head. Does the pain radiate, throb, or is it dull?"
"All of the above," I answered. "No not dull. Do you have some aspirin?"
"I have a pillow." He seemed to sense my uneasiness. "It will hold your head still. You can rest against it on the way to Mr. Tilton's apartment."
"Okay, thank you."
"Our conversation earlier . . . it's always good to talk things through. Sometimes, we think we have all the answers but it ends up entirely different, Ms. Young."
"Sometimes."
Talk things through? How can I do that with Ryan? Will I ever bring a new friend or love in my life? How could I ever open the conversation about Jesse in a calm way? All I want to do is kill our memories.
* * * * *
Memories.
The sound of his footsteps.
Clunky steps.
Dragging feet.
The clanking of his bottle; its cap twisting; the swig, the gulp, another swig, the sloshing of the whiskey rocking back and forth in the bottle . . . it made me sick.
* * * * *
The elevator doors opened.
I took a step forward.
"One more floor." Manny tugged on my arm. "Are you all right?"
"Sort of."
"Do you need to sit down?" he turned to face me.
* * * * *
I'm sitting, playing. Playing my piano. I was safe playing my piano, like I'd been safe hiding within my cheer team. Surrounded by better looking friends, more popular, more gifted—no, not gifted, just . . . different.
As I hid in my music, enveloped, taken and surrounded in its power, I thought I was invisible.
I tried to be invisible and indifferent.
Then.
Now.
Never could.
Cared about people—too much.
Too sensitive.
Paid attention.
Didn't know why.
Let down.
Didn't trust.
Even Dad.
Thought I was alone.
All the time, I had an inner strength. She was my subconscious, gut feeling, intuition, perhaps even my guardian angel that waited to make her move. Her name was Mabel.
Now? She had morphed into my Evil Twin. Back then? I felt as if she'd been a grandmother to me—a soft-spoken, gentle woman who had seen things and knew what to do.
* * * * *
"No, Manny. Let's keep going so I can get this over with."
My mind couldn't stay focused.
It kept reverting back to that day—the day I lost all hope of being a child. Even then, I knew I had to toughen up, survive, and protect myself. My focus included getting out of my house as soon as I could—in any way possible.
* * * * *
The typical places Dad hid his bottle was behind his workbench, in his truck, or underneath the stairs in a box of Christmas decorations. Once in a while he'd get creative and find a new spot—the clothes box by the washing machine, his tool chest, or mixed in with the oil rags he used to work on our vehicles. Half the time, I knew where his bottle was before my mother. I'd practice my piano for hours—too long for him to go without a swig of his medicine.
It was how I found out he'd fallen off the wagon. Again. Again. Again . . .
It was how I knew I'd lost him for another night, week, a few months, and sometimes years.
* * * * *
The elevator dinged.
The doors opened.
"Here we go, Ms. Young. Do you want to hold onto my arm?"
"No." I tried to make sure I was steady. "Yes."
"When we get to Mr. Tilton's apartment you'll see why he couldn't ride with you."
Yeah, because he's lining up all of his women for sex later.
I started to open the back door to Manny's car.
"No, Ms. Young. I need you to sit up front. I want to be sure you don't fall asleep. Let me get that pillow for you."
"Okay." I sat in the front, buckled the seatbelt and closed my eyes. I heard Manny rustling in the back. Soon he lifted my head and secured the pillow around my neck.
"Better?"
"Mm-hmm."
Manny drove and eight years melted away.
* * * * *
I am ten, only a child.
Always wanted to be a child.
Missed the innocent living of those years.
Never had them.
Continued to pound out my emotions on my piano.
Dad takes a step.
My shoulders rise and my body stiffens, preparing to see his vacant eyes and feel his s
loppy affection around my shoulders. The slurred, drunken talk is about to begin.
The next second took away those worries.
The awful sounds of wood, metal and cement had taken the place of my piano music. His inebriated body repeatedly thudded down the stairs, crashed through the metal gate, and the dull sound of his head hit the remaining wall, which finally stopped his tumble.
For a few seconds, I am afraid to move.
* * * * *
"Ms. Young?" Manny shook my arm.
"Yeah?" The jolt of being in a trance-like state was taken away suddenly; my calm disrupted.
A streetcar clanged.
"You shouldn't go to sleep yet," Manny reminded. "If you're having trouble staying awake, I'll roll down your window to let the cold air hit your face."
"What cold air?"
"It is warm, isn't it? I'll put the air conditioning on, then." He reached for the dashboard.
"No, I'll um . . ." I yawned. "I'll be okay."
Taking his suggestion, I rolled down the window. The heavy wheels of the streetcars were grinding alongside of us, down the steel tracks of the Embarcadero. Taxis and busses honked their horns. The glare of the streetlights flashed through the windows as we drove underneath them, blinking on my face and eyelids every few seconds. I felt as if they were lightning, striking against the desert sky of my mother's childhood.
Was time folding back onto itself? Were these lights the pulses that counted down the minutes until we arrived at Ryan's apartment?
As soon as I closed my eyes, I could smell the dust of my basement.
* * * * *
My fingers arched over the piano keys. They felt like bones. All the softness and control of my body—gone. Everything grinded together as if moving in gears that were rusted and tired.
I was frozen.
Knew I had to get up.
The piano bench moaned as I rose from it.
No other sound in the basement.
AMAZING HEART (Broken Bottles Series Book 4) Page 15
