Something To Dream On

by Rinella, Diane

  Griffin moves his face closer to mine, commanding my attention. “You need to ask yourself why you can’t see the beauty in your life like Rufus did. For years, you have allowed others to make you blind.”

  I release one hand from Griffin’s to pick up Rufus’s box. Though my eyes are locked on it, all I see is the happiness that radiated when he was free to run again. “You are right. Rufus knew on his dying day that he was no longer the graceful pup he once was; yet he didn’t let that stop him from enjoying the moments that he had. When I took him off that leash—”

  Griffin puts his hand on mine, halting my thoughts with his tone of assurance. His love for me makes my eyes well up. “Lest you forget, he had those moments because you gave them to him. You put your job on the line so he could be happy again. Now, would you trade that for anything?”

  “Of course not,” I choke out.

  “Apple Butter, you are too wrapped up in what others have said. You deserve to see yourself as I see you.”

  I can’t argue. “You are right. Absolutely right.”

  “Now, what are you going to do about it? And I don’t mean about Jensen. I mean about taking care of you for once.”

  I look straight to Rufus’s ashes. Although the words hitch in my throat, they come out with determination. “Rufus, you are coming home with me, because I love you for everything that you were and the joy you brought into the world. You deserve a real home and we deserve respect, both from ourselves and from others.”

  Griffin gives my hand a rattle of encouragement. “That’s a start. Now get to the meat of it.”

  “There is beauty in me, and from now on, even if I don’t see it, I won’t doubt that it exists. It’s just healthier that way.”

  “Amen, sister! Just remember, even if Jensen is a fool and bails out—”

  “Don’t worry, Griffin. I promise that this lesson will stay with me. You know, since Jensen has entered my life I have faced two things: I’m an unhealthy eater, and I have a golden heart. The first thing I am changing; the second I wouldn’t dream of letting go—with or without him.”

  Griffin pulls me in to a tight embrace. “Now that is my Bestie Boo.”

  Why did I take a call from an unknown number? It may have been the stupidest thing I have ever done. No, scratch that. Acting on it was even more idiotic.

  I get being frustrated over not being able to write, but to come to Larry’s place, especially when I am so freaked out over telling Lizetta about my past, was just plain stupid. What could make me put everything on the line like this?

  Being around these people also makes me bitchy as hell. That’s one plus to coming here today—I now see what my former band mates do to me. It is no wonder why I lost all of my respectable friends.

  I can’t change my number incase Mom needs to reach me, so I’ve purposely given all of the old scum from my past a ring tone that sounds like an air raid siren. I don’t even look before ignoring it. Larry must have gotten wise to that trick. I should have known better than to take a call from an unknown number, but what if it had been Mom or Lizetta needing help? Sometimes I think I look for excuses to return to Hell, though I’m really not sure why. This moment proves it.

  Is it because being a junkie is easy? Is it how these people accept me, no matter what I say or do, as long as I am high? Is it that misery loves company?

  Seriously, I need to figure this one out. I can’t blow it off to a momentary lapse of reason or drug damage. There has to be something behind it.

  I sit in Larry’s living room on a shag carpet that may have once been green and bright orange. It was probably put in when the house was built in the sixties. Now it’s faded and its colors are uglier than poor Bertha’s. I feel lost here. I sit cross-legged and prop my axe onto the ground so it stands between my legs with the neck over my face. I start tapping on the sides of the body in an effort to release tension.

  Is wanting to make a little music so wrong? What about missing the rush of being onstage? This is definitely one of those times when being true to myself is not easy. Should I simply accept that I need to either give up my passion or succumb to being an ass?

  Larry exchanges his guitar for some Jack and then guzzles. As soon as I came through the door, Larry’s three-day-old stench and greasy ponytail reminded me why I left the band. “Come on, bro. Let's get together and play,” he said. “Just you and me writing killer stuff. What harm is that gonna do?”

  Now I am noticing how Larry’s words sounded like those of a pusher to a junkie.

  Laura has yet to show her face, but a lethal smell coming from the kitchen tells me she’s here. Among her talents, Laura can bake some pretty amazing cookies.

  Larry takes another swig and tries to hand me the bottle. How many times do I have to tell the guy I don't want any? If I give in, I'll soon be drunk off my ass, back in the band, putting powder up my nose, and allowing his sister to yank down my pants. Again, there are things that are more important, so why am I here? Am I that desperate to make music, or is something else calling me?

  “Hey,” Larry says. “Do you remember where we left off on that song we were working on?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” I move the guitar into a playable position and go into it. Larry’s smile builds. I expect whipping the tune out flawlessly to feel good, but the victory is lacking.

  “Yeah,” he says while nodding. “That’s it.”

  At the point we last left off, I stop dead, and then try to pick up the pieces by adding on a few notes. It sucks. I go back a few bars and then do a repeat of the riff with a little bit of a dance added on. Still it sucks. I turn to Larry. “You got anything?”

  He shrugs, and then does a quarter-ass job of replicating my riff, but he tacks something decent on the end. Why can he do it and I can’t? I refuse to believe that I need drugs to write. There must be another way.

  A shadow of a figure approaches from the kitchen. The bright sun behind her makes Laura look like an onyx ghost without a face, yet the boney frame gives away who it is. When she steps into view, she reminds me of a modern day version of a nineteen fifties housewife. I guess you could say she looks like a soccer mom.

  She sets a plate of freshly baked, double chocolate, espresso-walnut cookies on the table. Unlike her normal attire, she is tastefully made up. Her long hair falls in waves around her face. Her clothes actually cover all of her female parts, and she smells like baby powder perfume. Our eyes lock, and even though hers are red and somewhat filmy, the skip of my heart tells I have hope for her. My attitude starts to soften, and I feel like the Jensen of recent times again. She smiles, and the light reflects off of her lip gloss, bringing about a fake glimmer to her face. I can’t help but smile back.

  This moment reminds me of the first time we met, on the day I came to audition. She walked in and stole my breath. But in taking a closer look and seeing the lines around her eyes that make her look ten years older than she is, I’m reminded that this is far from the same person.

  Larry grabs a cookie and starts eating. I’m a little more gentlemanly and say thank you. I stand my guitar back down between my legs and force my eyes off of her and onto the plate. My fingers rap at the sides of the guitar again. Laura makes damn good cookies. I nearly ballooned out eating them. Once you start, you can’t stop, because the munchies set in. I watched her spend hours learning how to soak out almost all of the taste from weed before extracting the THC in butter. Chocolate helps disguise what little taste is left. The walnuts and coffee would do an even better job of covering it and God knows what else.

  Pass, just in case.

  Larry grabs a second cookie. “You don’t want to miss these, man. You know how my sister can bake.”

  Yeah, I know about all the things his sister can do, starting with blowjobs and ending with needles. Now my attitude is getting harsh again.

  Larry resumes playing, yet I sense him watching out of the corner of his eye. I haven’t even taken a bite and I’m already paranoid. Laura smiles
at me and then swallows hard. My heart hurts over leaving her behind. There is a façade here, and she is hiding behind it. She’s not as okay as she seems. God, how I want to help her.

  Her face goes stern, and her eyes flick to the plate, then back at me. The shake of her head is subtle, but it’s definitely there. She’s warning me? Why would she do that? Could it be she actually cares? That while she wants me back she wants me healthy too? Maybe it is a message that if I come back, she will make sure things are different.

  No, I’m deceiving myself. I must be.

  This is lame. Not only have I put myself in the middle of temptation, I’m holding this guitar like it's a shield so that I won’t grab anything else. If I could get these people to lay off of me, accept that I don’t share this lifestyle anymore, and respect that I have found someone special then—

  Then monkeys will fly out my ass.

  “Hey, Larry. I’m sorry man, but I’ve got to go.”

  “What? You just got here.”

  “I’ve got some place to be.”

  “Yeah, Laura told me you had a stick up your ass now, but I just thought she was enjoying hearing herself talk.” More Jack gets guzzled down. Memories of what a nasty drunk Larry can be reinforce everything, so I pack it up. “Guess that new girl is why you want nothing to do with us. Afraid we might fill her in on a few details?”

  My body tenses at his threat. Crap. If he knows I met someone, he can find out who she is. I’m screwed.

  Laura’s head snaps to face me. Her eyes narrow and her features turn hard. By Laura’s reaction, I’m guessing he hasn’t clued her in.

  I’m out the door before he finishes his yammering, only to hear him scream his final words that the band is now better off without me. I don’t care if he’s right. I am certainly better off without them. Still, I need to find a way to balance music with everything else in life. I took a huge step back by coming here, and then corrected it by leaving before it’s too late. I’ll let myself think that I’m even. As for that song, I’m done. It’s just an unnecessary tie to my past. If I need drugs to write, I’ll never write again. I’d rather miss writing than miss Lizetta.

  Bertha and I speed off as Larry’s words catch up with me. I’ve been putting off telling Lizetta what a horrible person I was, but I’d damn well better fill her in before someone else does. First, I’ve got to get to Paul before she gets home from girl’s night out with Griffin. Since her dad had an addiction, I need to approach this gently.

  Jensen bails, and it’s like he’s leaving me all over again, only this time I actually see the door close. He’s seeing someone! How could he do this to me?

  Fuckin’ Larry! He knows how to play me. He also knows the way to get to me is to make me jealous, pissed, and irrational. Springing Jensen’s news on me was a failsafe incase his plan backfired. I’m being played, and dammit, it’s working. Some little bitch has my man. I need to fix this—pronto!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Friday, May 19

  Etta’s happy bark signals my arrival at Jensen’s. The moment the door opens, her paws are all over me. She gets just enough love not to feel slighted before I get my lips on the man that has my heart palpitating simply because he exists.

  Jensen has given me some amazing kisses, but his embrace reminds me of a bear who wants to drag me into his cave and hoard me. Between this and him calling to apologize for his recent distance, I almost feel that all is right again. Still, after the concern I have felt over the last few days, I cannot shake my weird itch of discomfort over his invitation.

  Jensen pulls back and smiles down at me. The tender caress of his thumb on my cheek has me melting. But fear creeps in again when his eyes lose their glow, giving me the feeling that soul-felt pain is surfacing. Jensen guides me to the sofa, and when Etta curls at my feet and peers up with a gaze of sadness, her warning of oncoming hurt sends my stomach crashing.

  “There is something that I need to tell you. I didn't say anything sooner because you mean so much to me that I am afraid of losing you, but please believe that it is all in the past. You should also know that I’ve already talked to Paul about how to approach this.”

  My stomach ties into a knot. “Why would you be concerned over losing me? What would Paul have to do with something in your past?” I want to tell him that my feelings go much deeper than I’ve confessed, and it would take a lot to scare me off, but how soon is too soon to open up your heart?

  Is that really my concern, or is the nagging feeling that something is wrong keeping my heart on guard?

  Wait a minute. He talked to Paul? Paul would be exactly the person to talk to if they were kindred spirits.

  My breath hitches. No. That is not what he is going to tell me. Not Jensen.

  Jensen closes his eyes like he is trying to halt time. Etta placing her paw on my knee in what looks like an offer of consolation, causes my gut to cramp further. Jensen rattles his head, and then puts his hand to his temple. His building frustration has me on guard for what is one of the worst things anyone could tell me. “I’m not the fitness nut that you think I am; I’m a recovering junkie. Forcing an attitude change toward my health is how I banished my demons.”

  My mind fights reality. “No. No, you can’t be. Not another one. I won’t allow you to have been like that.” My fingers press into my closed eyes and squeeze while I hope to smother the wave of disappointment that pulls me under. Please, Lord, not another scarred life. How could he ever touch something that destroyed my family? Something that turned my dad into a raging monster that made us fear him.

  Jensen reaches out to me. “Honey, please—”

  I stick my hand out to halt him. I need a moment to process this. Was Jensen like my dad? Did he abuse people? Did he sleep around with every low-life woman in his inner circle? My dad liked to have company when he shot up. Was Jensen like that, or was he a lone wolf? I’ve so many questions that I have no idea where to begin.

  Why can’t I have people in my life that have never suffered? It would give me so much hope. It is no wonder why just the idea of something bad has such a heavy effect on me.

  All I can do is pray for understanding while waiting for Lizetta to compose her thoughts. Paul warned me to be as upfront as possible and to give her all the time she needs to digest each piece of my news. He’s right; she deserves that courtesy. Still, watching her chest sag makes me fear she is withdrawing her heart. The pain in her eyes rips at my soul as the stupidity of my past harms another wonderful person.

  Finally she takes my hands. “Why?” she asks. “What happened? Why did someone with your talent and intelligence risk throwing his life away?” The betrayal that radiates from her and Etta’s eyes makes me see how I have punished innocents for no reason.

  “Before we get into that, I want you to know that I take full responsibility and make no excuses for my behavior. Also, three months before I met you, I stopped poisoning my body, which meant giving up alcohol and all drugs of any kind. I also left every so-called friend that helped me find excuses not to be the person I wanted to be. You haven’t met my friends because I don’t have any. They walked away once I let them down too many times. I don't blame them in the least.”

  I give her a moment to absorb that and wait for her nod of acknowledgement before moving on. The poor woman looks ill. I reach out to her and she softly tells me to keep going.

  “My older brother, Eddie, started abusing when our dad died. He tried to keep it from me, but when you share a room with someone, it’s kind of hard to hide that you are drinking away your pain. Mom had to work two, and sometimes three jobs, to make ends meet. Her dad tried to help, but eventually Granddad had a massive stroke. Everyone’s life got a lot harder. I couldn’t help but think that maybe Eddie had the right idea to numb himself to how our family was falling apart. It seemed the easy solution. Now I see that it was just an idiotic and dangerous path that only a coward takes, and that the real solution would have been to band together.”

  Sh
e nods. I know she gets it. She’s probably heard this part of the story countless times before from Paul. Did she ever hear it from her dad? The tears build because I already miss being someone who hasn’t caused her pain. “Hey,” I say, taking her hand. “I promise that, if you’ll allow me, before the night is through I will tell you every last thing, but first, I have to know if you are okay. Paul told me about your dad.”

  Her sigh tells me the subject holds sorrow that she would rather keep at bay. “Let me guess,” she says with resignation to how things work in her life, “long story short, Paul knew what was up with you. He gave you a chance to prove you were no longer a mess, and then you decided to step forward, possibly because you knew that if you didn’t do it soon, he would have words for you.” She peers up, and I get a hint of a smirk through her tears.

  “Honestly, that is part of it, but I swear I would have told you anyway.”

  “Sounds just like him,” she says while wiping the tears from her face.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  She squeezes my arm and forces a smile of support. I can only begin to imagine what memories are flooding her mind. “I’m okay,” she says. I want to believe her without question, but I sense her guard rising. “Just keep telling me everything. How did it get out of control? What did it do to you?”

  Paul warned me about this, too—that she’d likely hear me out while wondering how much I am like her father. But even if our stories are identical in how they started, the similarities will eventually end since I am sober and he is in a grave. I need to remember that, because my immediate reaction to her question about why I lost it is to head to the nearest bar.

  The memories begin to flow—horrible memories of the things that drove me into addiction. Memories that bring back images of my brother becoming so ashen, so lifeless, so full of … nothing. I can’t fight my closing throat, because what happened to Eddie was only a step deeper into hell than I went. Laura is as bad as he was.