by Louise Voss
(Later. Breaktime.)
It was really funny in PE today, we were playing netball and Marie-Thérèse Higgins got a teeny fly or something on her arm. She flicked it off and said, “Get off me, you nasty little orgasm!” (She meant “organism.”) Melanie and Bridget and me all cracked up laughing.
Anyway, this was only meant to be a quick note. Write soon and tell me what you’re up to at school. Any nice boys yet? I don’t mean to be nasty or anything, but please stop going on about God, it’s driving me mad. I’m really happy for you, honest, but horses for courses—I just can’t see me getting into all that church stuff.
Lots of love and sloppy kisses,
Sam xxx
After receiving that note, I didn’t go to church for two weeks. I was overcome with a huge, bitter, impotent rage that, because my stupid parents made me move to this stupid country, I now had to derive any enjoyment from life out of a bunch of geeky, earnest people whose idea of a good time was going for a cookout on the New Jersey Shore and singing hymns lustily round a campfire.
Why couldn’t I be normal, like Sam, going to pop concerts and reading Smash Hits and discussing orgasms with Melanie Welling? I didn’t even know what an orgasm was. I inquired, that night at Bible study, only nobody else knew either, and some of them were at least sixteen! It wasn’t until I asked Mum later, and she went red and told me off, that I realized it was something rude.
But my period of doubting didn’t last long. I decided that it was a test from God, and that I should just ignore Sam’s reluctance to think about her soul, until such time as I could personally convince her, face-to-face. I certainly didn’t want it to spoil our friendship.
So I continued to write to Sam, without the proselytizing, but it wasn’t easy. One day, after listening to the whole of side A of Tapestry, I sat chewing my pen in the post-LP silence, trying to think of something interesting and non–church related to put in a letter. The remnants of the track “Home Again” chased themselves around my head, and I thought how simple Carole made it sound, just a few chords on a piano, a gentle background guitar, and a clear voice.
I could do that, I thought.
Magically, the melody of “Home Again” faded out and a line from an unwritten song popped into my mind instead. This was followed by another one, so I put the letter aside and wrote them down before I forgot them.
Jesus, you talk to me every day;
Jesus, you hear what I have to say.
I contemplated the crucifix on my desk for a few minutes, Jesus’ furled fingers and skewered brass feet.
Thank you, Jesus, for being there for me,
Thank you, Jesus, for setting me free.
I thought this was marvelous. I had an instant fantasy of debuting the finished song, solo, in front of an adoring and appreciative congregation who rose to their feet, cheering when it was over. But I wasn’t quite happy with the tune; there seemed to be something missing. I could hear how I wanted it to sound in my head, but singing it wasn’t good enough. I decided that it needed accompaniment to do it more justice.
I crept downstairs past my mother, who had nodded off over her magazine, reading glasses askew at the tip of her nose, and into the dining room, where our old piano lived. Closing the door behind me, I slid onto the piano’s tapestry stool and lifted up the heavy wooden lid. The old familiar smell of musty ivory and furniture polish filled my nostrils, reminding me of my brief spell as a childhood piano prodigy. I’d lasted less than a year before getting bored at having to do scales all the time.
None of us ever played this piano anymore. I didn’t know why my parents had bothered to bring it all the way across the Atlantic. There were faded circles on the little wood squares at either end of the keyboard, where drunken party guests had left their icy glasses of whiskey while hammering out painfully inaccurate renditions of the “Maple Leaf Rag,” battle scars that could not be polished off with Pledge.
I played a soft experimental scale. The F key stuck, rendering only a dull thunk when pressed. I remembered being responsible for that—actually, that was the day I stopped playing the piano. I was about seven years old, and I’d gotten so frustrated with my pudgy fingers tripping over the notes that I’d banged my finger down hard on each one, as if I was trying to drum the sequence into the piano’s stupid brain. It had beaten me at my own game, stubbornly and permanently sticking down a vital note. So to avoid being held responsible for my vandalism, I insisted to my parents that I did not wish to continue with piano lessons, in the hope that they might not notice the damage. And indeed it was probably several years before they did, by which time I was well off the hook.
Using a higher octave to avoid the errant key, I plinked out my tune again, making a few subtle alterations as I went along. Bingo. All the notes fell perfectly into place, and I’d created a catchy and sweet backing track to the melody. I played it over and over again, to make sure I did not forget it, and then went back up to my bedroom to write the rest of the verses. I was thrilled at what I believed to be my creative genius.
That night as I was saying my prayers, I concluded that my song really did need a guitar as well, some cool strumming over the vocals, nothing wishy-washy. I wanted to be a New Wave Christian.
The more I thought about it, the more fixated I became. I had to have a guitar. But how? It was early summer, ages before my birthday. I turned it over to the Lord, trying not to plead too much, but unable to resist bargaining with Him.
“If I had a guitar I would be able to praise Thy glory much better. Not in a hippie-drippy ‘Kumbaya’ sort of way, but a proper, modern way. The eighties way.” I stopped, then added, “Only if it is Thy will.”
I went to sleep content that if it was meant to be, it would be. After all, I could see no reason why I should be denied an instrument of praise. I saw myself bringing the entire youth population of Freehold to Jesus’ arms, by way of my radical and totally cool approach to worship.
The following weekend I went over to Mary Ellen’s house to help her with some schoolwork. She and I had become quite friendly of late. She was a genuine person, not a borderline religious nut, as I couldn’t help considering the likes of Margie and some of her friends to be. Mary Ellen was doing a geography project on Scotland and had asked for my assistance—not that I had ever been there, or knew anything about it, but I thought that at least I could tell her how to pronounce Edinburgh and Glasgow correctly.
She lived a few blocks away from me, and as I turned the corner onto her tree-lined road, I noticed a large yard sale on the other side of the street. I still couldn’t resist yard sales—they were the closest thing Freehold had to a good old church hall jumble sale—and went over to have a poke around. The house itself was shabby and unkempt, by far the least affluent-looking on the block. Most of the stuff was laid out on the front porch, and surprisingly, the pickings were very rich: cool books, records, some decent-looking granddad shirts, posters. Usually I had to sort through a multitude of used Tupperware and broken kitchen utensils to find anything worth taking home.
A sullen girl of about eighteen sat on the stoop, presumably in charge. I couldn’t help noticing what massive feet she had, encased in cheap plastic sandals. She was talking to an older man, who was, I presumed, either a neighbor or another customer.
“Yeah, Scott run away and joined the Marines without tellin’ no one. Mama’s so mad at him she’s sellin’ all his gear. She says she don’t never wanna see him again.”
Wow, I thought, that’s harsh. Selling all his things! Poor Scott. Nevertheless, I picked up a battered copy of Catcher in the Rye and a stripy shirt.
“How much are these?” I asked.
“Book’s five cents, shirt’s a quarter,” she replied, chewing the ends of her hair. I fumbled in my pocket for the change, paid her, and turned to walk away with my purchases under my arm. Just then the screen door slammed and someone came out onto the porch. I heard a screechy Southern voice.
“Janeane, I’m gettin’ ri
d of this, too. It’ll only clutter up the place. Don’t see no point in keepin’ it.”
The daughter sounded shocked. “Mama, you’re surely not sellin’ Scotty’s guitar?”
I wheeled around and stared. Sure enough, the sour-faced owner of the voice had propped a hard black guitar traveling case against the side of the porch. My heart sang.
“Thank you, Jesus, thank you, thank you,” I whispered under my breath. I approached the woman, who glared at me. “Er, how much do you want for the guitar? ”
“Fifteen bucks,” she snapped. Her eyes were small and mean. I was starting to understand why Scott had left home.
Janeane looked even more horrified. “Fifteen bucks? Mama, let me take it downtown to Merchants. They buy used guitars—it’s worth more than that!”
“No, Janeane, I jus’ want it out my sight. I doan care about the money.”
“I’ll take it!” I interrupted. “Please could you hold it for me while I go over to my friend’s house and borrow some money? I’ll be right back. Mary Ellen Randall, your neighbor, that’s my friend, she lives across the street.”
The woman nodded, tight lipped, at me, and I felt her eyes boring into my back as I hurried across the road to Mary Ellen’s house.
I rang her doorbell and pounded on the door so hard that Mary Ellen stuck her head out of the window.
“Helena—what’s the matter? ”
“Oh, oh, Mary Ellen, please come quick, there’s this guitar but I don’t have enough money. I wonder, I mean, please could you …?”
“I’ll be right down,” she said.
A moment later her blond head loomed behind the frosted glass of the front door, and she opened it, beckoning me inside. I dumped the book and shirt on the Randalls’ hall table as Mary Ellen looked on, mystified.
“Okay, what guitar? Where?”
I took a deep breath. “It’s across the road, at a yard sale. It’s only fifteen dollars but I only have five on me. Do you think you could possibly lend me the other ten until tomorrow? It’s just that I’ve been praying all week for a guitar, and now here it is—I’m sure it’s meant to be!”
Mary Ellen nodded sagely. “Sounds like it is. Hold on, I’ll get my purse.” I could have hugged her.
We walked back across the street. Mary Ellen shuddered slightly when she saw which house.
“That’s the Applebaums’ place. They moved up from Tennessee a while back. They’re a little … unusual.”
I had the feeling that if she were not so Christian she would have elaborated, and normally I would have asked her to, but at that moment I couldn’t have cared less if they’d all had two heads. We approached the porch. The guitar case was still there.
“What kind of condition is it in?” Mary Ellen inquired.
“Er—actually, I haven’t looked at it yet,” I admitted, feeling a bit foolish.
“Well, you’d better, before you give them any money,” she hissed in my ear. Mrs. Applebaum was standing belligerently in front of the door, her hands on her hips.
“Mrs. Applebaum, hi, it’s me again, about the guitar—could I have a look at it please?” I asked. She nodded once, and I walked over to the case. Laying it flat on the grass, I popped the stiff metal catches open and pulled the lid up.
“It’s huge,” said Mary Ellen, in awed tones. “Why does it only have four strings? ”
Damn! I thought. It’s a bass. Now what? This was an unexpected turn of events. I stared at it. It was in fairly good condition; black, with a lovely pearl-effect white scratch plate. I plucked each of the heavy strings with a forefinger, and they all made unpleasant and unmelodic muffled, twanging sounds. How on earth did you get it to play? I wondered. Suddenly I felt terribly disappointed, and nearly closed the case and walked away. But then I thought about my prayers, and how much more than coincidence it had felt when Mrs. Applebaum brought the guitar outside at the precise moment I was there. No, I had prayed for a guitar, and God had sent me a guitar. Everything else I would figure out.
“I’ll take it,” I said, standing up. Mary Ellen and I pooled our resources, and I paid Janeane. Mrs. Applebaum had vanished into the house, but she reappeared at that point lugging a small black box-thing trailing cables.
“Here,” she said, thrusting at me. “I sure don’t know what this is, but it goes with the guitar. Take the darn thing.”
A practice amp! I offered up another silent prayer. I would not have had the first idea how to go about buying one of those. I collected the stray wires together in a coil and looped them over my forearm.
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Applebaum,” I said sincerely, toying with the idea of adding that I hoped Scotty came back soon, but wisely thinking better of it.
“Bye, Mrs. Applebaum,” added Mary Ellen, closing the guitar case for me and picking it up. We proceeded back across the road with my strange electrical acquisitions, the start of my future as a bassist.
MY MESSED-UP HEAD
TOBY’S VISITS TO MY ROOM DRAMATICALLY DECREASED IN LENGTH and frequency as Kate began to recover. He did still pop in occasionally, but nothing was said about our kiss, and he avoided the subject of Kate’s progress, or any reference to the future. I felt glad in one way and gutted in another.
It would be no good at all for me to go forging complicated relationships with married men at this point in my life, not when I was planning such a huge … thing. All my energies had to go into the Plan, and some days I even enjoyed it. I had a secret that no one else knew about.
But on other days I was really sad that I couldn’t share it with Toby, and that I could never be part of his future.
One morning, before visiting time, I got dressed. I left my room quite often for little walks, but this was the first time I’d worn proper clothes instead of just pajamas and a dressing gown. It felt like a big deal.
Mum had brought me in a couple of outfits the day before, since I obviously couldn’t wear the dress I’d had on at the UKMAs. I didn’t know what had happened to that dress—incinerated, I hoped. I shuddered at the thought of the beautiful orange velvet all sticky and matted with blood.
My freshly laundered jeans felt cool and stiff on my still-shaky legs, and I could button them with far more ease than before. Newly ironed jeans usually required a lying-down hip-raiser to make ends meet—wow, if I kept going at this rate, I’d be able to die skinny! Just what I’d always wanted …
I put on a big cardigan and a baseball cap and walked slowly out into the corridor. Catriona was writing up some notes at the nurses’ station down at the end of the hall.
“Where’s Kate Middleton’s room?” I asked.
Catriona looked up, surprised.
“You’re up and out early, Helena. Dressed, too—good for you. It’s a bit early for visiting, though. Kate’s still in quite a bad way. She gets tired very easily.”
“I don’t want to visit her,” I said, a bit too sharply. “I mean, not now. I just thought I’d find out where she is in case I decide to go later. While I’m out for a walk. You won’t tell her that I might visit, will you? ”
Catriona looked at me as if I had a screw loose.
“Turn right, through the double doors, Room 17. She’s still in Intensive Care, but we’ll be moving her downstairs to a non-ICU room tomorrow, all being well.”
I thanked her and shuffled off. I still had this weird floaty feeling whenever I walked anywhere, so I hung on to the wall to prevent myself from weaving about like a drunkard.
The blinds were down in Room 17, to my annoyance. I just wanted a peek at Kate, to see what she looked like. It was a totally unfair thing to do, since I would have so loathed anyone trying that with me, but my curiosity was overpowering. I was sure I’d dislike her—talented, arty, loads of friends, gorgeous husband and daughter. Beautiful, too: Toby had said that her scars wouldn’t show, the lucky bitch.
Really, Helena, I thought. You’re often not a very nice person, are you?
I loitered casually around in the corr
idor for a bit, then gave up, intending to go back to my own room to carry on with my writing. I reckoned I was about a quarter of the way through the manuscript. Which meant D day minus three-quarters.
One corridor further down, I heard Nurse Grace’s voice floating through an open door:
“Oh, Ruby love, I haven’t got any sweeties! Bad for your teeth, anyway, makes them all mossy and soft. Yuck! How about making a nice house out of some of these LEGOs?”
I couldn’t resist walking along and peeking into the room. “Hi, Grace. Hi, Ruby,”
Grace looked up, relief at seeing me potato-printed all over her face. She was half-sitting, half-lying on the purple carpet-tiled floor of some kind of visitors’ room, with Ruby straddling her, both of them looking squashed in between too many armchairs and coffee tables. They were surrounded by a plastic picnic of bits of LEGO, unfeasibly simplistic dump trucks and locomotives, and a scattering of chunky animal playing cards.
Ruby was in the process of frisking Grace, briskly and efficiently, keeping up a low, growling chant of “ ‘Weeties, ‘weeties, ‘weeties.” When she spotted me, she released Grace and ran up to me, smiling winsomely.
“You got ‘weeties, Ellna!” she announced hopefully.
I laughed. “My disguise obviously isn’t as foolproof as I’d thought,” I said to Grace, crouching down so I was at eye level with Ruby. “You’re a sucker for punishment, Ruby,” I told her. “Don’t you remember what happened last time I gave you a sweet? ”
Ruby considered. “Oh, yeth,” she said, cowed. “I done coughing.”
She backed away momentarily, worried perhaps that I might jam a gobstopper down her esophagus. Then she brightened again. “How ‘bout play Animal Nap, yeah? ”
She took my hand and dragged me to the pile of toys on the floor.
“Animal Snap,” explained Grace helpfully. “Oh, Helena, you wouldn’t do me a huge favor and play with her for a bit, would you? I won’t be far away, just outside in the store cupboard. I’m supposed to be doing a stock-take, but I wanted to give Kate and Toby a bit of time on their own.”
