I never found out if it was true or not, but rumor had it that they had a real relationship, not just a sexual one. My mother and another woman was something that didn’t bother me, as weird as it was, but it was something that I wanted to bring up every time she talked bad about my uncle or my best friend being gay. I never did, though. I never said anything to her because even though I wasn’t raised not to be disrespectful, I had set my own boundaries about it, and deep down I knew it would be wrong to bring up.
I fell into a deep depression after losing Ryan. I didn’t want to step foot outside of my room. I didn’t want to see or talk to anybody. I didn’t want to take Shea’s phone calls or know how he was doing. I shut down from the world for a couple of weeks. The only person who really cared was Uncle Robert, but he was busy working most of the time. My brother had gone off to Europe with his girlfriend Sarah because my father was opening up a Harmon Records branch over there. Hendrix would call me every other day to see how I was doing, but it wasn’t the same. My cousin Nina was living in New York and had just gotten kicked out of her mom’s house for God knows what. She came to visit me one weekend, which helped. She left thinking I was fine after she took me shopping and did a whole makeover on me. I loved Nina, but she should have known better than anyone that hiding your pain under your makeup and nice clothes was the easy part.
One afternoon, while I was lying in bed as usual, my mother barged into my room. She’d just come home from a trip to Belize where she was doing a photo shoot for her new skin care line.
“Oh, Brooklyn,” she said, running her fingers through my hair as I lay my head on her lap. I was happy for a moment, with her showing me attention the way she used to when I was a child. Despite all the hurtful things she’d said and done to me, I still wanted her. I still needed her. And she was supposed to want and need me too. She was my mother, dammit. She was supposed to care. She was supposed to show me love.
“I want to see a therapist, Mama,” I said, wiping tears from my eyes. I hadn’t said that to anybody at that point. Not even to my brother who’d asked me countless times. I didn’t want to admit the extent of my dark state, and I knew saying I needed a therapist would be doing just that.
My mother’s hands stilled in my hair. “Why would you need a therapist?” she asked, confusion clear in her voice.
She couldn’t possibly be that fucking blind. She couldn’t possibly not see that I was a mess. The only thing that kept me stable enough was my drug use, and even that was becoming unbearable to me, which was saying a lot. It felt like I couldn’t take enough to mask the pain, but I was too scared to take too much. I was scared of becoming a stone statue. I didn’t want to be gray. My mother would hate me if I was gray.
“I think I’m depressed,” I whispered into her pencil skirt. “You have nothing to be depressed about,” she countered.
She was so wrong. So very wrong, but I wasn’t about to list the endless reasons I had for my depression.
“I didn’t realize depression needed a reason,” I said, my voice hoarse.
She exhaled and twirled my hair. “Why can’t you pick one color and stick to it?” she asked, changing the subject. “Your hair is going to fall out if you keep dying it.”
I picked myself up, wiping my tears with my back to her so she wouldn’t know I was crying, and headed to my bathroom. Maybe I should have let her see me crying. Maybe I should have slit myself and let my hurt pour out in front of her.
“Nothing I do is good enough for you,” I said, taking a steadying breath as I held the bathroom door open.
“You’re right,” she answered. “Maybe if you actually did something with your life, I wouldn’t feel that way.”
“I’m seventeen, Mom,” I said, gritting my teeth. “Surely you remember being seventeen.”
She raised a perfect thin brown eyebrow. “Of course I do,” she said, smiling slightly. “And I was the best at everything I did. Even at seventeen.”
“Well, congratu-fucking-lations for being such a fucking winner,” I muttered as I stepped into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. I switched on the shower but never made it in. I slid my body down against the door and buried my face in my hands before I started to cry.
When I got up from the floor, I turned off the water, changed my clothes, and called the car service that Ryan and I used sometimes to come get me. I didn’t trust that I would make it to San Francisco by myself. I had never actually driven there, Ryan always did. Just the thought of him made my heart ache, but I felt like I needed to go. I needed to be closer to him. I called my father on my drive, ready to tell him that I needed to see a therapist.
“What do you want, Brooklyn?” he growled into the phone. “I’m busy.”
Tears pricked my eyes. “Nothing,” I whispered. “I’ll talk to you later.”
He let out a loud sigh. “Sorry. But yeah. Later.” Then he hung up the phone.
I’d never felt so alone. I’d never felt so broken, so lost, so worthless. And the only person that could help me was gone. I sobbed, swallowing a couple of pain killers that I’d taken from my dad’s bathroom cabinet and washing them back with the vodka I’d filled my water bottle with. When I knew we were closer to San Francisco, I told the driver that he could drop me off at the Golden Gate Bridge. He furrowed his bushy black eyebrows in the mirror and asked if I was sure. I said yes with my bitchy attitude and he didn’t bother talking to me again. I took out one little blue pill that had a star drawn on it. My favorite drug, ecstasy—my Shea drug, I called it.
I waited for it to hit, but I knew it wouldn’t for another ten minutes. When the car pulled up to the bridge, I threw a handful of hundreds his way, not bothering to wait for change and jumped out. I staggered my way up the walkway, moving out of the way for runners and tourists. I smiled at some kids that fathers carried over their shoulders and blew kisses at the tweens that walked by and checked me out. I was wearing an oversized sweater so there was nothing to check out, but boys always look at blondes. It was one of the reasons I liked when my hair was that color.
Shakily holding onto the cold railing, I made it to the middle of the bridge with tear-filled eyes. My head lolled every which way from the amount of things in my system, but I felt happy. I felt free, I felt tingly. Every time the wind touched my face, I smiled.
Until I remembered.
And then I didn’t smile anymore. My chest shook as sobs exploded through it at the memory of my lost friend, at my father’s cold voice when I called, and my mother’s indifference. Once I stopped crying, I looked around, trying to spot the cameras. I had heard they put cameras on the bridge to record the jumpers. I read somewhere that there were actually survivors. I hoped I wouldn’t be one of those. I hoped I wouldn’t be “Chris and Roxy Harmon’s drug addicted daughter who killed her best friend and attempted but failed to jump to her death.” I could already hear the jokes that would be made about how I couldn’t even kill myself right, about what a complete failure I was, just like they’d reminded me of countless times over the years.
I could already feel the pain shooting through me at my mom’s berating voice. I thought of my brother, my uncle and my cousin, the only people that would care. But for some reason the thought of my brother was the only one that scared me. He’d been absent a lot over the years, but never ignored me. I felt bad, but not bad enough. The pain had consumed so much of me that I wouldn’t let anything stop me. When I saw Alcatraz, I began to cry again, thinking of Ryan. I screamed, not caring who would hear me. I sobbed loudly, not caring what passersby thought of it.
And then he found me. And he told me he was looking for me. And I believed him. And then I blanked out. I went into a beautiful, shaky state of oblivion. I wondered if I would find Ryan there. I wondered if he would be waiting for me with his cherry colored cheeks and dazzling smile. I wondered if his wavy red hair would be waving in the wind. I wondered if he was happy and at peace. I wondered if he would forgive me and tell me he still loved me.
The next time I woke up, I was in a hospital bed looking into the exhausted brown eyes of Uncle Robert. He cried hysterically when he saw that I was awake. His cries stabbed my heart. They made me feel guilty and sad.
“Where’s the guy?” I asked.
“What guy?” my uncle asked, rubbing my hand in his.
“The one that gave me hope,” I said.
My uncle cried again, louder, shaking the bed with his sobs. “Oh, Brooklyn,” he repeated through his tears. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”
I blinked my tears away and ran my fingers through his soft hair. “It’s okay, Uncle Rob, you’re here now.” I wanted to soothe him somehow. I felt bad for making him feel that hurt. I didn’t want his pain to match mine.
He sniffled, wiping his tears with the backs of his hands. “I’m sorry, baby girl. I’m sorry you’re hurting.”
Tears fell down my face. “I need help,” I whispered, praying he would take me seriously.
“Of course. Of course,” he said, his voice hoarse as wrapped his arms around me. “We’ll get you help.”
I felt myself breathe for the first time in years, as if in his arms I found the peace I was so desperately waiting for. My mother came by to visit me. She acted heartbroken by the whole thing and I believed that she was. Her eyes were hurt as she looked from me to my uncle. She stayed for one day and promised that she would put me in the best rehab facility she could find. She made good on her word and sent me to a good facility in Newport.
I spent my eighteenth birthday there, cutting a cake with the rest of the patients. I’d learned to appreciate having them there, holding my hand through all of it. We had a lot of days where we wanted to sign out, and we could have. But we didn’t. We held on to each other, all of us did, and together with our sponsors, we survived our time there.
Shea visited me a couple of times. The first time was on my birthday. He looked miserable as he walked the halls to get to me. The last time I’d seen him was Ryan’s funeral, and we barely talked there. We couldn’t quite process that we were burying our best friend. When Shea saw me in rehab that first time, he fell to his knees in front of me and wrapped his hands around my waist.
“I’m so sorry,” he cried. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you when you’re always there for me.”
“You’re here now,” I whispered. “And that’s all that matters.”
And it was. We hugged each other and spent the rest of the day together talking like we never had before, because that time we were both sober. That time, we couldn’t hide behind our masks. I think that was the first and maybe the last time we ever spent a day like that. Shea promised me he would never do heroin or ecstasy or any heavy drugs again. He said he couldn’t give up marijuana. I was okay with that. I was just happy knowing he would give up the rest. I knew he wouldn’t break his promise to me. Shea and I never broke our promises to each other.
“I love you, BK,” he said on his way out. “You mean so much to me.”
So much wasn’t everything, but it was enough for me.
I take a deep breath when I step out of the airplane in LA, closing my eyes against the beating sun. I have a feeling this one breath will have to give me the strength I need to get through this trip. Turning my phone on, I see a voicemail from Shea to add to the four I have from my family. I scroll away from that screen, not wanting to talk to anyone unless I absolutely have to and groaning when my phone lights up with an incoming call from Hendrix. I answer it and he tells me that the driver is waiting to take me to the lawyer’s office.
Sure enough, when I tug my suitcase out of the building, a tall young man dressed in a black suit sprints over to me and introduces himself as Carson. I say hello to him and quickly climb into the back of the SUV, while he places my suitcase in the trunk. Clutching my phone, I look at it for a long moment, contemplating whether or not to call Allie again. I decide to wait, hoping she’ll call me before I speak to the lawyer. As we drive down the Pacific Coast, the urge to call her becomes unbearable, so I do, and again my call goes directly to voicemail. I don’t leave a message this time, though, but I do send her a text message that says to please call me back.
Sighing, I connect my earphones to my phone and sort through my playlist, choosing a song by Sleeping At Last. I close my eyes and think of my times with Allie, reminiscing on our college days and the parties we went to together. The look on her cherub face when the date I set her up on with her now husband went well.
When I get to the attorney’s office, I check in with the receptionist and am soon greeted by the lawyer’s secretary. Drew, my brother’s lawyer, is actually an old friend of his and I’m glad to see it’s him I’ll be dealing with and not one of my parents’ old fart attorneys that think they know everything. Drew sits down on the other side of the desk and slides me a stack of papers. I grasp them, running my fingers over my name, Allie’s name, the name of my brand, to convince myself that this is real. My best friend is really suing me.
Tears threaten to fall, but I won’t cave to them. I won’t let them win, not here. Not in front of Drew.
“I just don’t understand,” I whisper.
Drew takes my words as an opportunity to explain to me, in layman’s terms everything the lawsuit says. Allie is basically suing me for not holding up my side of the bargain and wants half of the company’s earnings and anything that it will earn in the next ten years. I laugh because there is no bargain, it’s my company; it’s my baby. It’s something I built up from nothing but my imagination. Fab represents my love of music and is my way of trying to fit in with my successful family. It’s what I made to show them that I, too, can be somebody.
We only have about ten clients right now, and that’s not including the contracts with recording studios that I was working on. Quite frankly, as much as this situation makes my stomach turn, I’m flattered that Allie would want half of my earnings for the next ten years. At least it shows that she believes in me and in my brand enough to think that it’ll still be around then. I swallow loudly, hoping to rid myself of the emotion that’s bubbling.
“Well, the kicker is she has already supplied some microphones to some studios in Long Beach,” Drew informs me.
My mouth drops open. “No, she didn’t,” I say, gasping in disbelief.
Drew’s blond eyebrow rises. “Yes, she did.” He hands over some pictures of the microphones with dates and names of studios they’re in.
“Where’s the money for this?” I ask quietly, scrolling through my phone to pull up my bank account as I rack my brain over the recent invoices I’ve seen. I would remember studio microphones though, so I know these weren’t in any of the papers I’ve seen.
Drew smiles and it makes him look like a shark. It reminds me of everyone I’ve ever worked with, including myself. An odd sense of calm passes over me. I don’t even want to know what that says about me.
“That’s the best part. She didn’t put it in your business account. All the money for this went directly into hers. Because she’s been keeping this from you, she’s pretty much fucking herself over before she has the chance to see any money from her suit.”
As much as it hurts me that Allie is doing this to me, I just want it all to go away, so I ask if there’s any other way that we can solve this without going to court. Drew tells me that the only way would be to get her to drop it, which he says probably won’t happen.
“This can get ugly, Brooklyn. I need to make sure you know that,” he says and I know he’s pretty much preparing me for a shit storm.
Because my mother is lawyer happy, suing people left and right if they even look at her the wrong way, I’m familiar with things getting ugly. My father has been sued in the past as well, but his cases are usually much cleaner than my mother’s.
I shrug. “She asked for it.” I’m trying to sound as nonchalant as I want to feel.
It kills me that the reason I let Fab take the backseat when I started working at Harmon was because I thoug
ht I could trust Allie to be my right hand girl and work with me on all of this. Letting out a breath, I stand to shake his hand before I start walking out of his office.
“Hey, Drew,” I say, glancing over my shoulder. He looks up from his desk. “What if she calls me and apologizes and drops the entire thing before you draft the papers?” My voice is low, almost a breath, but I know he hears me. His mouth turns up slightly.
“I doubt she’ll back down. That would be best case, but don’t hold your breath. I’m sorry. I know it’s hard to get screwed over by someone you trust.”
I nod. “I’m used to being screwed over.” I’m amazed at how steady I manage to keep my voice as I say the words.
When I get out of there I call Hendrix and tell him everything. He agrees that I did the right thing. Next I call my father, who actually stands by my decision and seems understanding about the whole thing. My father can be a huge asshole, but he knew the right thing to say this time. He also tells me that he spoke to Michael Wilde, who told him I had been to his house. I give him the short version of the story and tell him that Nick and I are friends. I don’t have the kind of relationship with my parents where we talk about things like dating, so I know my answer is enough for him. I speak to Nina on my way to my favorite hotel on Sunset Boulevard. And when I hang up with her and feel that I have just enough energy to make one more phone call, I call my mother.
“Hello?” I say into the receiver when I hear a lot of shuffling going on. Just my luck, I finally call her and she picks up by mistake.
“Brooklyn. Hold on,” she sings.
I look around, watching the people walking by and on bicycles; the big city tourist buses that go by the hotel and snap photos make me smile. People are so easily amused.
Catch Me Page 28
