In Her Eyes

by Renée J. Lukas

  The thing is—back then, there were a lot of twisted love stories, some left unfinished because the world wouldn’t let us finish them. You had to have superhuman courage to hold another woman’s hand in public if people were watching. No matter how much I strutted, I wasn’t really the courageous type Robin thought I was.

  Even though things had been better between us, we were still a secret to the outside world. So that voice had started in again, whispering over and over in my ear, “This will go nowhere. Nowhere.”

  Once our bubble broke, and it was sure to, there would have to be a guy in my future. Someone like Sean. I pictured him standing, in a tuxedo, waiting for me at the altar. The thought depressed me. But I pressed on, leading him back to my room.

  I still didn’t like the feel or smell of him, so I closed my eyes and tried to appreciate being appreciated. I mean, I was hot back then. I had an athletic body from climbing lots of trees back home. I didn’t mind showing off my body, either, even if Robin thought I dressed like a prostitute. She never said that, but I figured she thought so.

  Sean and I were on my rickety twin bed, my mind trying to be in the moment but shifting somewhere else…her blue eyes, her shimmering raven hair…

  When you’re trying to figure out who you are, you don’t care who else gets tangled up in your mess. It’s a very selfish place to be because it’s all about you, your identity, the rest of your life. I took him in my arms and focused on every positive detail I could—I had to make this work—the soft parts of his body. His inner arms, his earlobes, any place that wasn’t scratchy, like his face. But I could hardly get past his musky, sweaty man smell. It reminded me of Jerry whenever we were outside. He’d start to smell sweaty. I thought about my old friend Gwen from high school. She’d said we’re all animals who were attracted to pheromones. She’d said, “Who you like is all in your nose, baby!”

  It was a laughable thought until this afternoon, with the hazy light crowding in, pretending to be the setting of a romantic interlude. What a deceptive sun, I thought, illuminating the pillow and sheets as if this afternoon had been anything else besides a forced maneuvering on my part, trying to “be sure” I knew who I was, trying to be sure I could still be “normal.”

  Suddenly there was a key in the door. It was her. She’d come back early. I looked up and saw those wounded blue eyes, filled with despair. Robin. I can’t even replay in my mind the look on her face. From her expression, I knew I’d committed the ultimate betrayal.

  What I couldn’t explain at eighteen was that it wasn’t about her or about her and me. To this day I can’t even think about how much pain I caused her. The guilt is too much. That afternoon had been my own personal test. This anguish over my identity, my future, was like a storm, unfortunately sweeping Robin up in it too.

  That afternoon with Sean was something I preferred not to talk about. But one thing from it remained. Anger. I was angry at myself for acting on what didn’t need to be acted upon. I didn’t need to open mouth kiss him, touch his scruffy chin or feel the weight of him on top and inside of me to know that I didn’t want it. I never did care for it. I knew who I wanted to kiss before I ever kissed anybody, male or female. I was angry for giving in to the pressures of society, feeling like I had to test myself to prove what I already knew to be true. So I didn’t just betray Robin; I betrayed myself too.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Adrienne

  What I did was unforgivable. And things were never right between Robin and me after that.

  Sometimes quiet is a peaceful, good thing, a chance to clear your head, listen to your own thoughts. But in our room that week quietness signaled something dark, something forever broken.

  There were two days of final exams left.

  When she came back the next morning, I didn’t have any words. There was nothing I could say to make things okay again. Unfortunately, I tried anyway.

  She’d come back looking stressed. Being an ass, I decided to act as if that was because she’d just taken a final.

  “I’m sure you did great,” I offered in that overly complimentary way someone does when she’s feeling guilty. “You’re smart. You probably aced it.”

  “Save the ego strokin’ for Sean, though I’m sure he doesn’t even need it.”

  “What can I say? How can we get past this?”

  Robin looked at me with cold, steel-blue eyes. “We can’t.” She took some clothes and her overnight bag and left the room.

  She didn’t come back that night. I figured she was bunking in with her snotty friend Carol from film class. I didn’t see her in our room again until the last day. We made our way around each other like ghosts—careful not to touch, though I could feel her presence everywhere I turned within those four walls.

  She was packing the rest of her clothes, folding each garment neatly on her bed before putting it into her suitcase. It reminded me of the first night, when all of her clothes looked so neat and color-coordinated—darks in one pile, whites in another. It was one of those details I had noticed while teasing her about her name.

  “I’ll miss you,” I said.

  “You’ll miss a lot of people, I’m sure,” she responded.

  “Mostly you.”

  She said nothing.

  I’d spent the last two nights of the school year staring up at the ceiling, wishing I could think of anything to fix what I’d done. But I knew in my gut there was nothing to repair this. Some wounds are too deep.

  She managed somehow to say good-bye to me when she left for the summer. It’s probably hindsight, but it seemed to me she hugged me a little tighter than usual. She certainly held me longer than I expected or thought I deserved.

  “Take care of yourself,” she said. I know now she was saying a final good-bye.

  She left campus first. Standing on the curb next to my nearly packed car, I waved until her little car disappeared behind the royal palms, the summer sun getting in the way as her car made its final turn. I wondered if I’d ever see her again.

  I went back to the room to do one more sweep. The first thing that caught my eye inside was the cassette tape I’d made for her, the heavy metal mix, discarded like a slap in my face, on the center of my bed; she’d made sure that I’d see it. Fighting the stinging sensation in my eyes, I scooped it up and forced myself to check under the bed, in the closets, to make sure I’d gotten everything.

  * * *

  Everyone thinks I never saw Robin again after college. The truth is, I did. About halfway into my first semester back at FSU, I decided to find out where Robin went. I called her house and got this annoying old guy with a strong Southern accent, probably her dad. I’d seen him on TV once or twice. He told me she was going to the University of Georgia. So I took a long drive to Athens, not sure exactly why I was going or what I expected to find. It’s a pretty big university, so the odds were small I’d actually locate her.

  The drive was unbelievably long, probably because I’d decided for some reason to take back roads to get there. Miles of hills that all looked the same, modest brick houses—it was like passing the same scene over and over again. I couldn’t wait until I finally saw evidence of the college town nestled among the trees.

  The campus was crowded, the architecture elegant and intimidating. I spent hours wandering around it, laughing at myself for being so stupid. I mean, what the hell did I expect to accomplish here? As the day wore on, the answer came to me. I didn’t want to confront her or ruin her life. It wasn’t like that. I just wanted to see her one more time, so I could know that she was real, that we were real. I’d know for sure then that it wasn’t all just a dream. I’d spent an agonizing summer wondering about her. I knew better than to send letters, especially after the way we’d left things, and because I didn’t trust her dad. As the weeks passed, I’d begun to wonder if it wasn’t all in my head. I was feeling a little crazy around this time…

  I took a break from my wandering and went to the student union to get something to drink. An
d there she was. I saw only the back of her, but it was unmistakably her. Her black hair was shimmering under fluorescent lights. She’d trimmed it; it was shaped more at the ends. She was talking to a couple of guys who obviously adored her. I took note of these little details as my heart beat wildly inside my chest.

  I stood there, frozen, realizing I had no plan for what I’d do if I actually saw her again, for what I’d say, if I could manage to say anything. I wanted to call out to her. But I couldn’t. I watched her instead. Watched as she held her backpack the way she always did, saw her cheeks lift and knew she was smiling. Heard her laugh. Lucky for me she never turned around. I don’t know what I would’ve done if she had.

  I walked out into the late afternoon sun knowing that I’d turned some page. This was it. I’d never see that face or hear that voice again. It was agony to breathe. All that awaited me now was an endless road and my aloneness.

  The drive back to Florida that night was hell. The whole time I wondered—if I had said anything to her, would it have made a difference? I mean, really. She hadn’t switched schools just because of me, had she?

  As Jerry used to say: “Something good always comes out of a dung heap.” He was right in his own odd way. That trip turned out to be the beginning of my songwriting. I’d scratched a few lines on paper, then began to do more. In only a few days, I had about ten songs written.

  “Long Road to Athens”

  Fog and rain

  In this blinding pain

  All the words we said

  Don’t matter anymore.

  How could you lie like that?

  How could you try like that?

  You’re never farthest from who you are

  When you’re in Athens.

  You should be here. With me.

  ‘Take this ring’

  While your eyes would sting

  I thought you were mine

  In some other lifetime.

  A week after my trip to Georgia, I came home for break and found myself sitting across from my dad at supper, a rare thing for both of us.

  I knew in my gut I wasn’t college material. I also knew Dad wanted me to be a college student. Not because he wanted me to have a better life than he did, though, but because he wanted me out of the house.

  “I don’t wanna go back,” I told him. I braced myself for what he would say, spit flying out of his mouth: “You wanna be a factory worker? You wanna do boring shit like me at the plant your whole life?”

  But he didn’t say anything. He kept chewing. I’ll always remember the way his gray-stubbled chin slid back and forth with each bite of macaroni. We had bowls of macaroni, leftovers with dried tomato sauce clinging to it. Funny the details you remember from the big moments in your life.

  “I’m not going back,” I repeated, making sure he understood me, daring him to argue with me. I’d rather have died than show him I was scared. A stupid, brash kid I was. But some things are worth being scared over.

  There was a pause as his gray chin slowed down.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’re you gonna do then?” he asked.

  “I’m going to play music,” I said proudly.

  He wouldn’t look at me. But he said, “Okay.”

  That was it. He got up to rinse out his bowl. Where was the fire and thunder? I realized early on that my dad didn’t give a shit what I did. But I didn’t feel sorry for myself. At the end of the day, you’re the only one who has to be able to take care of yourself.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Adrienne

  So back to the bar with Jerry… I remember that night as the one when we decided to start a band. I needed a passion for something other than that girl whose name I wouldn’t say for two whole years. And Jerry needed to get out of St. Pete as soon as the station came under new management. That night, as we spilled our guts to each other, he told me about his predicament.

  “Some kids talk about startin’ a band,” he said, “and it’s a childish pipe dream. But I’m not kidding.”

  “I know you’re not.”

  “The station…” He shook his head, staring through the table. “It used to be fun, but really sucks now. A new company took over…”

  “What do they do?” I asked. I figured it had to be something with rules, since he never liked following them.

  “You can’t improvise,” he said simply. “You can’t have a personality. They gave us fuckin’ sheets of paper that say, ‘Hi, my name is,’ and you have to fill in the blank. ‘The temperature is,’ like you can’t figure out how to do the weather yourself! Can you believe that? They’re such tight asses, afraid you’re going to say something bad. We’re losing listeners ’cause we all sound like robots. It sucks.”

  “Sorry.”

  “So you got plans?”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  He laughed. “Really? You just came to town to see moi? You know where you’re staying?”

  “Nope. I’m livin’ on the edge.”

  The more we talked, the more we knew what we had to do.

  * * *

  We recruited a couple of other disgruntled radio disc jockeys—one a struggling musician and one who had no idea how to play an instrument but who was looking for an excuse to run away from his life. We found our drummer, Joey, at a club in Tampa where we’d gotten shit-faced.

  But it was mine and Jerry’s band. We set the rules. We wrote the songs. We called the practices. It was our baby. After endless practices and threats by one or all of the members of quitting, we finally had something that resembled a sound. It was rock with a distinctive point of view, influenced by heavy metal and alternative rock of the eighties like The Smithereens. I knew from listening to my favorite groups that it was too easy to sound like everyone else, that the ones who stood out would have their own thing. In our case, it was a female lead voice and songs filled with despair and a heavy dose of drama. We were full of ourselves, but it was okay.

  The band’s final lineup consisted of Tony James, who learned the keyboard to get out of his shitty life; my high school friend, Jerry Jones, on lead guitar; Joey Mathison, a professional drummer who had nightclub experience; and Marty Desky on bass. Of course I was lead vocals, but I played a bass guitar too. Everyone said it was unusual to be able to play bass while singing and not get screwed up, but it came naturally to me. Nothing I studied in school had ever come naturally to me, so I figured that once I found something I could do, I should shut up and do it. For some songs, I pulled out my old acoustic guitar, the one my dad had found at a garage sale. I don’t believe he really expected me to chisel out a career with the thing. But I learned on it. I kept messing around with it until I wasn’t messing around anymore.

  Like all bands, we were basically a dysfunctional family. Jerry and I had explosive tempers when something didn’t go our way. Luckily, Marty and Joey were laid-back types who could balance us out. Tony was probably the best-looking guy in the group, with long dark curly hair and deliberate stubble. He was going for that Marlboro Man look, I think. I figured he’d develop a following of girls, but I didn’t care as long as people came to see our shows.

  At first, it wasn’t at all what I expected.

  Our band, Eye of the Storm, played dive bars up and down the Gulf Coast—usually places with sticky floors and strings of outdoor lights over patios jutting out onto the sand. I’d usually get hammered before a gig, because there was something depressing about playing to a crowd that was only there to drink and who didn’t give a shit about you. I’d drink too, until the lights were just a little streamy and I felt like I owned the world. That was my sweet spot. I maintained it, and I never got sick. Back then, I could still get trashed without taking it too far. Back then.

  Sometimes the crowd would get rough. But the guys in the band always had my back. I remember the roughest crowd we played to—a little dive called The Gator’s Tooth in Northport. They were all guys who had beaten their wives then gone out for a be
er or who would have enough beers before they went home to beat their wives. I wish I were kidding. The first time I scanned the crowd, I could feel the dark, slithering energy beneath their sweaty undershirts, and I was immediately repulsed. I had to use it for the music. But if it weren’t for the money, I’d never have played that gig. The whole place felt dark and dangerous to me. It seems ironic—but even though I had a “bad girl” persona, once I stopped performing, I’d like to think I was a decent human being.

  We’d made it to the second song when a guy started shouting something about showing my legs more, because he was a leg man—that kind of bullshit. Some other guys told him to shut up. Then they all started calling things to me. Only me, of course, like the only female in the middle of a men’s prison. That pissed me off. I got twinges of what Robin used to tell me, about feeling like a target just because of my gender. I felt it that night.

  I won’t say they shouted at the stage, because there wasn’t one. It was a cleared area of the floor in the corner. Ever since we’d started that night, it felt like we’d interrupted the crowd’s pool tournament, and they couldn’t wait for us to go away so they could get back to it.

  “Hiya, hon! Wanna come home with me?” a faceless guy shouted.

  I stopped singing, took hold of the mic and looked out at the dark void where the voice had come from.

  “There isn’t enough beer,” I said to the laughs of the crowd and kept going.

  Afterward, I couldn’t pack up my stuff fast enough. The guy who called to me was back. I recognized his voice.

  “Not enough beer, huh?”

  He wasn’t going to let it go.

  I was a second away from grabbing one of Joey’s drumsticks. But I ignored him, especially since I saw Jerry watching me at the door. The other guys had already left.

  “You all are good,” the man continued.

  “I gotta go,” I said, stuffing my guitar into its case and moving toward the door, relieved to see my bandmates standing outside, not yet inside the van.