by Susan Ward
I hail a cab and climb into the backseat.
The driver hits the meter. “Where to?”
I stare out the window. “I don’t know. Just drive.”
The car doesn’t move. I can feel eyes staring at me from the rearview mirror.
“Jesus H Christ! Aren’t you—?”
Bingo, a fan.
“—Alan Manzone.”
I force my million-dollar rock star smile to my face. The one that is half snarl and half fuck me.
“I should tell you upfront,” I say. “I haven’t got any money, but I assure you someone will send it to you with a little something extra for the inconvenience. Just get me the fuck away from here. Now.”
The car starts to move. “No worries, man. I’m honored. Anything you want, you just ask me. No one knows Chicago like I do.”
I soften the curl on my lips. “A cigarette would be appreciated.”
A pack is eagerly tossed into the backseat to me. I take one from the box, light it, and inhale deeply. The nicotine feels good mixing in my blood but, fuck, it won’t do shit to stop the crawling on my skin. Much longer and I’m going to be vomiting.
“I’m looking for a party.” My gaze shifts to meet the driver’s in the rearview mirror. “A special kind of party. Do you understand?”
The cabbie looks over his shoulder at me. His expression changes. He gets it. He can see it on my face.
“Sure, man. I know a place. I’d be honored if you’d let me hook you up.”
He hits the turn signal and before long we’re in a seedy section of the city and I’m ready to fucking kill him.
Two hours later, we’re best friends.
A day later, I’m alone in a Chicago flat with a mountain of heroin, debating whether to check out on the land of the living again. I stare at the filthy squalor someone calls a home—whose fucking place is this?
I reach for the works on the table. Who cares if this is where I fucking end it? No one will remember me anyway. The only hope I had for anyone ever giving a damn about me long term—for anything other than sex, fame or money—was my daughter, Molly.
But that fucking cunt Jeanette let her die. Didn’t even call me to tell me my own daughter was ill. Let her die, buried her, and then came to my apartment in New York to make sure the checks would still come after she told me we’d lost Molly.
Fucking women. Every woman I have ever known has been a disappointment. Only interested in what they can get from me. I load up the syringe with enough to kill me. Fuck them all to hell…
A knock on the door stops me. I wait, hoping whoever is on the other side goes away. More fucking knocking and my temper explodes. It’s so loud I can’t hear myself think.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Fuck!
I drop a towel over the table in an attempt to hide what’s lying there and go the door. I open it an inch. It is shoved into my face.
“You don’t listen very well, do you?” Jackson Parker says scathingly, shutting and latching the door behind him. “Did you think I was fucking joking? If I can find you, so can the cops. But they are not going to have to look hard if I tell them where you are.”
I shove him away. “Fuck off.”
Jack’s intimidating blues eyes do a fast once-over of me. “Sit down.”
I don’t know why I obey. I do. I sink onto a chair.
Jack rips the towel from the table. “Thinking about killing yourself again, are you? Or do you just need something to take the edge off today?”
His expression is insulting.
He sits in the chair across from me. “Go ahead. Shoot up. It’s what you want, isn’t it?”
I stare at him. I don’t know why. I can’t shoot up with him sitting there. What the fuck is that about?
“Why don’t you just go away?” I growl.
Jack nods. “I can do that. But I’m not into making fast decisions. So here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to stay here.” He checks his watch. “Six hours. I’m going to talk. You can do whatever you want. Shoot up. Drink. Hell, have a woman suck you off if you can still get it up. You might want to make the most of our time together. It could be your last party for a long while. You either walk out this door with me back to detox or you go to jail with the cops I’m going to send for. But I’m not making you decide which for six hours.”
Oh fuck, I’m not staying here with him for six hours. I’m about to snatch my stash from the table and bolt through the door when he drops a picture next to my drugs.
“Look at it,” he snaps.
My gaze shifts. It’s a fucking teenage girl. She looks just like him and, damn, it makes me think about Molly and I don’t want to.
“That’s my little girl,” Jack says. “She’s alone during the holidays so I can be here trying to help your sorry ass. The least you can do is hear me out. I’ve been gone for a week. I’m asking for six hours. Sit the fuck down and listen.”
Jack starts talking. Jesus Christ, he’s talking about his daughter. Oh fuck, in minute detail. Musical prodigy. Six instruments by nine. The minutes tick by in endless droning about Chrissie. How she is a big fan of my music and has my posters on her wall. Blah. Blah. Blah. Why the fuck does he think I want to hear this? And fuck, why can’t I shoot up while he’s talking at me? I’m half out of my mind. My hands are shaking. I’m sweating like a pig. And the fucking needle is just lying there and I can’t make myself reach for it.
What is it about Jack’s voice and Chrissie’s picture that’s stopping me? I’m an addict…oh Christ, I’m an addict. After eight years of sobriety, I’m back up to my neck in the drug shit again. I can feel it sharp and painful and real inside me. Fuck, I didn’t want this. I just wanted to die, not live as an addict for a second time in my life. A damn incompetent addict at that. Nothing should be able to stand between me and my fix. Why am I not grabbing for the needle? It’s fucking ridiculous. I’ve got what I want. It’s here. One shot. I’ll be dead before that asshole breaks for a breath.
Why can’t I take it?
My stomach starts convulsing. How long has Jack been sitting there talking at me? I look through the window. It’s dark. When did he get here? I can’t remember. Why the fuck won’t he shut up and leave?
“We all need something to hold on to in this life,” Jack says. “You need to find something to replace Molly or you’re going to go down and it’s not going to be pretty. You ride the ride as it’s given to you. If you ride the ride long enough something comes your way worth riding the ride for.”
I glare at Jack, but manage to hold back my words. There is no point in saying anything. He just ignores me and continues talking. But fuck, why does it have to be so trite? Ride the ride? Really. What kind of fucking ’60s shit is that?
“My daughter is everything to me and I’m here with you,” Jack hisses, his anger surfacing.
Everything, huh? Then why the fuck is she so sad? I look at the picture. She has gorgeous blue eyes. His daughter is beautiful. I’ll give Jack that. Lovely, but the girl has the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. They are leveling and moving and captivating.
I study Jack, his unending narrative out of sync with the picture in front of me. Why the fuck is your daughter so sad, Jack? Why the fuck can’t you see it? And I’m positive he can’t. Not by how he rambles on about his oh so perfect Chrissie.
Anger shoots through the drug withdrawal claiming my senses. I’m angry for her, that little girl in the picture, because her father is a self-righteous ass, thinking he can rescue me when I don’t want to be rescued and doing a crappy job of raising her and can’t see it.
What a fucking ass. I just want to fucking die. Why won’t you let me? Go help your own daughter. She’s one fucking wrong turn away from offing herself. I can see it in her eyes, what I feel in me. She’s going to kill herself, Jack. If you don’t wake up soon, figure out what’s going on with the girl, you are going to lose her like you did Sammy.
“Why the fuck won’t you go away?
” I growl. “I don’t want you here. I don’t care what happens to me. Leave off and get the fuck out of here.”
Jack springs to his feet. Ah, I’ve finally struck a nerve in him. I wait anxiously, praying he’ll leave. What the fuck is he doing? He’s handling my works like a pro; spoon, lighter, needle. Jesus Christ, he’s filling up the needle.
He sets it on the table and puts the tie-off around my arm, jerking it so tight I wince even through the numbing fog of my heroin-deprived body.
“You think I’m a fucking asshole and an idiot,” Jack exclaims, slapping the veins on my arm. He lifts the needle and does a few taps against it to make sure there’s no air. He holds the tip above my flesh. “You want to kill yourself, but you are doing a fucking piss-poor job of it. Do you think I don’t know how to do this? I’ve been around this shit all my life. I’ll fry your brains permanently. Then I won’t have to listen to you anymore. You won’t have to listen to me. And I won’t get another call in the middle of the night from Brian to come save your sorry ass.”
I feel the sharpness of the needle against my skin. “Make a decision now, Alan. Do you want me to go home and tell my daughter I killed you tonight? I can fry your brains permanently or you can let me help you. Which do you want from me?”
I’m breathing heavy and I’m dry heaving. I stare at him. Would he really do it? The prick in me says to tell him to. But my tongue is heavy. I can hardly breathe. The world is spinning. I’m shaking out of control. I’m vomiting.
Time moves in and out in a fog. I look up, startled. Shit, we’re walking. Jack’s got a blanket over me and his arm is around me, holding me steady.
He helps me into the waiting Town Car parked at the curb. The door slams. I curl in a ball on the leather seat, shaking. I see the picture of the little girl. Fuck, I grabbed that from the table and not the needle. Why did I do that? Maybe I just didn’t want to leave her there in a Chicago squat next to a stash of heroin.
Jack pats my back. “I don’t care what you say to me, Alan Manzone. You don’t want to die and I won’t let you. We’re going to back to detox. I’m taking you to rehab in California. Then you’re coming home with me. I’m not leaving you, Alan, before this is through. There is nothing you can say. Nothing you can do that would make me walk out on you.”
My thoughts start to blur and jumble. I close my eyes against the pretty face staring at me from the picture. Why is she so sad? Why the fuck are you here, Jack, instead of with Chrissie?
I’m escorted from the airport and pushed into a waiting car in Los Angeles five days later. I feel like death, but I’ve successfully detoxed from the heroin and Jack kept his word. He stayed at the hospital. Brought me to California.
I didn’t really expect Jack to stick around. People don’t keep their word, especially in the music industry. But Jack Parker keeps his word. I’m sure that’s the only reason I’m still indulging this save Alan Manzone ritual of his.
As the car starts and stops on the crowded Southern California freeway, I study him. What is intervening in my life to him? An act of regret? A desire for forgiveness? Is he here as an act of contrition for having fucked up so completely with his own son to the point that Sammy killed himself?
I’ve heard the stories about Jack. How he steps in out of nowhere, helping troubled musicians get their shit together. But why does he do it?
Two hours later, we are driving on an empty road in the desert.
I shift my gaze from the window. “Where the fuck are we going? Betty Ford Center?”
Jack looks uncomfortable. “Not Betty Ford. The doctors thought you needed a different kind of care.”
Different kind of care? “What are you talking about?”
Jack gives me one of his benign, comforting smiles. “They think you’re still suicidal. They only released you to me on the promise that I’d bring you to the Hollman Clinic.”
“Hollman? Never heard of it.”
Jack purses his lips, nodding. “You’ve got big issues, Alan. Hollman is a little more than a rehab center. It’s the best help out there for people in your situation.”
Frowning, I wait for him to explain that one, but he doesn’t. Then I realize what it is he hasn’t said. Oh crap, he’s putting me in a mental hospital. Really, Jack, you think I’m fucking crazy?
I start to laugh. How the fuck did I end up here at twenty-six, with a crazy American thinking I’m crazy when all I am is just tired of the shit?
At last, my final day at Hollman. As for the fucking mood stabilizers that make me feel like a zombie and the group sessions that are a fucking torture to endure, I’m through with both of them forever now that I’ve completed my thirty days here.
I wait for the beep then step through the double glass security doors into the warm California sunshine. Oh Christ, there’s Jack standing on the steps waiting. He said he would be here to pick me up, but it’s been a month and I’d hoped he’d forgotten about me.
Jack smiles and gives me a loose, one-arm, wraparound hug. He pats my back before he steps back. “You look good, Alan. Come on. Let’s get you to Santa Barbara.”
Jack likes to be silent in the car. It makes the drive and his presence excruciating. Four hours later, we are in a woodsy neighborhood in Santa Barbara. He parks the car in front of a single-story Spanish structure. Not very extravagant. This must be his home.
Jack climbs from the car and then reaches in the backseat for my bag. “You must be exhausted. I’ll show you to the pool house. It’s where you’ll be staying while here. I want you to just rest and sleep tonight. Tomorrow is soon enough for us to start talking through what you want to do with your future.”
I follow him around the side of the house. I don’t know why I’m still doing what Jack wants me to. I tell myself it’s so I won’t go to jail. But I know it’s more than that.
He opens the door to the small structure and motions me in. It’s surprisingly well appointed.
“There’s everything you need here. My housekeeper, Maria, will bring your dinner around eight.”
He pats me on the back again and smiles.
“It’s going to be OK, Alan,” he says confidently before shutting the door between us.
I sink down on the bed. Four more months of this. I should hop a flight to New York tomorrow. But that would violate my probation. Besides, everything is peaceful in Jack’s world and that’s not a bad thing.
I take the picture from my pocket. It’s absurd that I’ve kept it. There were times in detox that staring at her was the only thing that got me through. Times I wanted to bolt from the hospital but trying to work out the puzzle that is Chrissie kept me there. I don’t know how many times I’ve studied her face. Those eyes.
Fuck, I know why I came to Santa Barbara with Jack and why I’m still tolerating this. I want to meet Chrissie.
Chapter 2
2013
Miles hits the icon on the phone, shutting off the recorder. “Did it all really happen that way?”
His disbelieving voice startles me from my memories. “What? You think I could make up shit like that? Yes, it all happened exactly that way.”
He starts scribbling on his notepad and I wait for his next inarticulate inquiry. I refill my glass of scotch, though I’ve probably had too much as it is. I should try to stay sober until I’m away from Miles again.
Miles looks up. “Santa Barbara, 1989. Is that when you started your affair with Christian Parker?”
I have to keep myself from glaring at him. Really, you need to ask me that? Haven’t you ever read a tabloid?
“That would be inaccurate,” I reply pointedly.
“What part?”
“All of it.” I toss down my drink and refill the glass again. “I fell in love with Christian Parker Harris April 27, 1989. We have never had an affair. We’ve loved each other for nearly twenty-five years.”
“Can you be more specific? Jesse’s Harris’s notes are surprisingly vague.” He flips through the pages. “New York City,
1989: first romance. Asks Chrissie to marry him. Chrissie says no and goes home to Santa Barbara with her father. 1994-1998: Chrissie is married to Neil Stanton. Malibu 1998-2003: Chrissie divorces Neil and moves in with Alan. Chrissie walks out on him and marries me 3 months later.”
I fight not to visually flinch, but it’s hard to listen to someone state the milestones of your life as though they were not significant. It’s more complicated than that. It always had been more complicated than that with Chrissie.
“You can add,” I say through gritted teeth, “we were together 1991 to 1993.” I dramatically arch a brow, darkly amused. “She walked out on me, and that’s how she ended up married to Neil Stanton.”
Miles chokes on his drink. Ah, he didn’t know that part of the history. After a few seconds of coughing, he stares at me. “How can you claim to love her and be so glib about everything?”
Glib? What the fuck is this guy? A wannabe romance novelist? He’s a biographer. My biographer. I’ll be any way I want to be here.
“I’m not glib. I’m exact. And I don’t want you writing about me and Chrissie.”
He leans back in his seat. “That will leave a lot of holes in your life story. Especially since you’ve had a successful recording career with her.” More flipping through pages. “You’ve recorded together on five albums. You’ve recorded solo nine songs by her. Together you’ve won eleven Grammies.”
“Fine. Holes. Deal with it. Professional relationship you may write about. Person relationship: off-limits. Skip over it in the book. Isn’t that what celebrity biographers do? Dance around the parts their clients don’t want them to tell by writing a little fluff here and there?”
He takes a cigarette from the table, lights it, and then shakes his head. “That’s not how it works.”
I fix my burning black stare to bore into him. “That’s how it works with me.”
“Is Kaley Stanton your daughter?”
That question takes me by surprise. I can’t believe Miles actually asked it. No one ever dares to ask it, not even Len and Linda Rowan and they are my closest friends. I’m not exactly sure why everyone continues to wonder it. But that’s how people are when they look in on your life and see only partial truths. They invent the story they want to exist to fill in the blanks of what you won’t share with them, but if Kaley were my daughter, Chrissie would have told me long before this. Jesus Christ, the girl is almost eighteen. As much as I’ve always hated the fact, Kaley is Neil Stanton’s daughter.
