After a week, I'm tired of crying, of throwing up from stress. I'm so tired of being the victim. I feel like I've been sentenced to a lifetime of it, but I'm not the victim. That's the madman talking. That's the scar tissue, the memories talking. I'm so tired of listening to them.
Get up, Carmen. Get off the bathroom floor. Stand. UP.
I push up onto my hands and knees. I'm dehydrated; I have chunks of puke on my chin, sweat on my forehead.
Get up.
I feel the rebellion of my calf muscles as I pull myself to my feet.
Wash your face.
I splash water on my face, brush my teeth, rinse with mouthwash, and brush my hair. I take a long look in the mirror.
Get dressed and RUN.
The voice in my head probably isn't giving me the best advice ever. Still, I throw on the least dirty pair of workout clothes I have, slide into my running shoes and grab a bottle of water from the fridge.
For the first time in a week, I open my front door and stare out at the scary world, the world full of abductors, liars and thieves of joy. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
Now run.
I take off over the lawn, my shoes grabbing onto the sidewalk. Soon I'm breathing hard into the chilly air, hot clouds that scream to the world that I'm alive.
Most people love running in the spring when the birds are out and the trees are green. Others like running in the heat, they like to sweat and soak up the sun. I like to run in the winter, with its cold fingers pulling on my face, with its wind gnawing at my brows and clawing at my lungs. All the while, my body is not only struggling to push my weight forward, but it's trying to keep warm. Running in the cold is not just about getting exercise, it's about survival.
When I stop to take my first drink, I've run a mile from home. Survival, that seems to be a common theme in my life.
I'm so ready for it to quit being the only theme.
“Open your mouth a little wider,” says the doctor, hovering around me with his oversized popsicle stick. He shines a light on the back of my throat.
“Your healing is still going well. There's scar tissue under your vocal cords, but if you exercise them, the swelling should go down and some of the scar tissue should recede.” He clicks off his light and retracts the tongue-depressor. “Are you exercising your vocal cords?” he asks.
I purse my lips and shake my head.
“Not good,” he chides. “Your throat muscles need exercise just like any other part of your body. You've got to start saying something, otherwise your throat will never heal all the way.”
He's used to my antics. Dr. Rainer has been assigned to me since I was brought in the first time. He was the one who operated on me to repair the initial damage. The first thing I saw when I woke up after the surgery had been successfully completed was his bushy white mustache. His kind eyes were looking down on me as he gave me the rundown of what life would be like once I was out of the hospital. He always had faith that I would talk again. I've disappointed him with my refusal to speak.
“On a scale of one to ten, how is your pain?” he asks.
I hold up three fingers.
“We won't up your medication. Unless you have any objections,” he says, clicking his pen and scribbling on my chart. He lowers his clipboard. “I'm serious about making noise. A person can't stay silent their whole lives. You've got to talk sometime,” he insists. I huff, burdened with the fact that he might be right. I could just as easily go the rest of my life without talking.
I'm happy when I get home and finally get a chance to eat. I bake a lean chicken breast, steam a cup of wild rice, and sauté some green beans to go on the side. Even though I'm not technically dancing anymore, I don't see the point in going off my diet. Above the sizzle in the pan, it's dead quiet. I rinse my hands and turn on the stereo. I tune it until a trumpet sings out from the speakers. I leave it on and return to the stove.
I recognize this tune. Hilda sang it last week. As I push the green beans around in the frying pan, my vocal cords begin to vibrate, almost on their own. I'm humming. It makes my throat ache, but at the same time it's nice. I hum throughout the song, even managing a weak vibrato.
As I load my plate up, I consider this new development. Perhaps I don't have to talk to exercise my vocal cords after all.
I don't imagine the inclination to sing seriously occurs spontaneously. I'm sure it is the sum of many other smaller ones, much like cloth fibers make up yarn. Hilda could easily confirm my idea. I intend to ask her when I get to the theater. She has probably been wondering where I've been for the past week. If I'm going to talk to her, I might as well tell her everything about myself. I might as well come clean.
Traffic holds me up. I get there and I can see her in the wings, getting ready to go out on stage. Her hair is a bit of a mess and I can't help but smile at the fact that she's come to rely on my rudimentary hairdressing skills. When she's announced, she picks up the slack of her evening gown, a long blue number. She bows low to the audience and sits on her stool. The stool has become a permanent fixture in her performances in the last month.
As the music begins, I take the stairs up the stage entrance and sit down in the wings. I'm so glad to see her that I can't help but smile. She looks amazing standing in the circle of light she's come to own. The piano player plays slow under the weight of her voice, though she's singing softly.
“Precious Lord, take my hand / Lead me on / Let me stand / I'm tired, I am weak, I am worn / Through the storm, through the night / Lead me on into the light / Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home...” Like her singing often does, it's making my heart ache, turning me inside-out. I'm tired, weak, worn. And if my life hasn't been a storm, I don't know what it's been.
“When my way grows dreary precious Lord linger near / when my life is almost gone / Hear my cry / Hear my cal / Hold my hand lest I fall / Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home / When the darkness appears and the night draws near / And the day is past and gone / At the river I stand / Guide my feet / Hold my hand / Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home.”
My tears start, not an unusual byproduct of listening to her sing, but she sounds so much sadder than normal, and her voice has been robbed of its usual power.
“Precious Lord, take my hand / Lead me on / Let me stand / I am tired, I am weak, I am worn / Through the storm, through the night / Lead me on to the light / Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home.”
The piano player's hands slow to a stop and the audience sits, speechless, waiting for the real end of the song. The end doesn't come until she opens her eyes and smiles. It doesn't end until she has come back from the spiritual realm, her soul reuniting with her body. She smiles, opens her eyes on the crowd, and like devout disciples, they go as wild as usual.
She dips off her stool onto her feet and sets the mic into its stand. “Now, Ms. Mabel's gonna take a break. Y’all be good, now!” she says in her playfully maternal way.
She sees me and waves as she comes off. Her smile holds strong until she steps into the shadows. As soon as the darkness hits her, she loses her footing and drops to the floor. I gasp and drop my bag and coat. Kyle runs forward and shoulders her off the floor and up against his narrow chest.
“Jeff! Bring the first aid kit!” he calls out. Kyle's assistant brings up a white toolbox with a red cross on the front.
I drop to my knees. Her eyes have rolled back in her head. She's sweating profusely, growing paler by the minute. Kyle takes her pulse, then lowers her to the floor again. He performs CPR, pumping her heart and breathing into her mouth in quick succession. He does this for five minutes, but she doesn't stir.
No...Oh, God no. Please, no.
He sits up. Her head slumps over against his knees. He looks at me, tight-lipped, and hesitates as he sets his fingers against her neck, just under her jaw. He tests her wrist... shakes his head.
I take her hand and squeeze it in mine. It's stiff, cold, unyielding.
'Precious Lord, ta
ke my hand / Lead me on / Let me stand / I'm tired, I am weak, I am worn / Through the storm, through the night'
The ambulance comes and takes her away. I stand in the parking lot as it disappears into the cold October night. Behind me, the emcee is on stage explaining that the show is over due to difficulties. It's only in the club that the show is over, that the song has ended, that the woman who lit up the stage with her unique light is gone.
In my head, the lights are still on and the pianist is still playing along with her. In my head, she's still singing. She isn't gone at all.
'Lead me on into the light / Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home.'
“Everyone's going home. Would you like me to walk you out?” Kyle says, nudging his shoulders into his jacket.
I'm sitting at the vanity with the magnolia in my hand. I've been crying since they took her body away, and I feel like I've run out of tears.
“I'm sorry you had to find out this way,” he says, leaning against the door. “She's been sick for a long time but her symptoms got really bad this week. When you stopped coming in, I asked if I should call and tell you that things weren't so good, but she didn't want me to. I don't think she wanted for anybody else to know.”
He looks at the flower as I turn its stem in my fingers.
“But hey, that's why she wanted to bring you in, right?” he says. “She told me she wanted to find a new singer to take her place and shadow her, until she...” he swallows hard, “... you know.”
I'm thinking hard. She wanted a new assistant, though, didn't she? Isn't that what she'd called me the first night we met?
“Didn't she tell you that?” he asks. I'm sure he can see the surprise in my face.
I shake my head.
“She never made you sing or audition?”
I try to intercept the new tears falling down my cheeks. I shake my head. I was the only person she'd seen, to my knowledge. In fact, the minute she'd seen me, she'd accepted me.
“Odd,” he says, shuffling his feet. We share a moment of silence. There's no doubt in my mind that we're both thinking of her motives. I hear the house-lights click off.
“Goodnight!” I hear in the lounge.
“They're locking up. Ready to go?” Kyle asks.
I nod, setting the magnolia on the vanity. We walk out together into the chill. He locks the stage door. It's been four hours since Hilda passed. Thinking of her makes my heart ache. It tears me apart to think that she's lying in some freezer somewhere, with the ivory silk rose pinned over her heart.
We walk toward my car and I sniff as I fish my keys out of my purse.
“I think it's important you know that she saw something special in you,” Kyle says instead of goodbye. He gives me a short wave before walking away.
I lean against the bumper of my car, staring at the stage entrance. This could be the last time I see The Royale. After tonight, I don't know if I ever want to come back.
(Jacob)
I sit at my desk, drumming my fingers on her file.
She won't come back, there's no way.
It's been exactly a week. Her time-slot has arrived. Insanity from last week's session aside, the weather today is not conducive to unnecessary travel. The rain has made everything outside sufficiently ugly. Under the circumstances, she has every reason to stay away from me, to cancel all further sessions.
For the video incident, I got yelled at less than I thought I would by Dr. Fishel, who adheres to more traditional methods of treatment. She wanted to treat Ms. Andrews like a zoo animal in a cage, poking and prodding until there's a response. My idea from the start has been to treat her as a human being. Even though she doesn't communicate in the same way as everyone else, she's not any less deserving of respect or care.
Care. Something happens to me when I think of our last session together, how I took her in my arms when she was breaking down. I wouldn't have done that with any other patient, so, why her? Why did I overstep professional boundaries?
Was it just guilt? There's a knock at the door. —Or is it something else?
“Come in.”
She looks tired, worn out. Pangs of regret turn my stomach, speed up my heartbeat. I stand up, wiping my sweaty palms on my pants. She comes in and sits on the chaise without looking at me. I approach cautiously and take my session seat.
My first inclination is to steer the conversation away from what happened last time. “I'm glad you decided to come back.” She doesn't acknowledge me. Well... avoiding the topic is not going to get us anywhere. “Ms. Andrews, I want to apologize, again.” She's looking at the floor, making her emotions all the more difficult to read. “I promise, we won't be viewing anymore ballets, regardless of whether you're in them or not. I hope you forgive me.”
Her eyes meet mine, the pools of gold performing a lie-detector test. I hope she knows I'm telling the truth. Her shoulders relax. Apparently, I passed. I think she can sense my frustration, my remorse.
“You're a really talented dancer,” I say. That sentiment came straight out of my head. It's like my doctoral filter is broken. “But you probably already know that...” Just stop, Jake. Just stop talking. I rub my hands on my pants again. Why are they so sweaty today?
She looks less disturbed, more at ease, as I pick up the copy of Jane Eyre from which I've been reading for the past few weeks.
“I thought we might pick up reading.”
She stands up and I panic, thinking she might walk out, but she sets her purse on the chaise and slides off her cardigan to join it.
She sits on the couch by the window, looking out at the rain. Against the haze on the other side of the glass, she completes the gloomy picture—like a silent gray statue in a garden.
I open the book, attempting to find where we'd left off. I'm a villain when it comes to preserving books. I dog-ear, eat while I read, and fall asleep drooling all over my books. I flip to the dog-eared page and drag my finger down to the last bit of dialogue I remember.
Rochester had isolated Jane by the fire to speak to her at length for the first time. I clear my throat.
“'If you did, it would be in such a grave, quiet manner, I should mistake it for sense. Do you never laugh, Miss Eyre? Don't trouble yourself to answer; I see you laugh rarely, but you can laugh very merrily. Believe me, you are not naturally austere, anymore than I am naturally vicious.'” I check to see if she's listening actively, as she had done before. The only movement she exhibits is the steady rise and fall of her chest. Her chin rests on the palm of her hand, her other tucked between her side and the cushions. I look back at the page.
"'The Lowood constraint still clings to you somewhat, controlling your features, muffling your voice and restricting your limbs; and you fear in the presence of a man and a brother—or father, or master, or what you will—to smile too gayly, speak too freely, or move too quickly; but in time I think you will learn to be natural with me, as I find it impossible to be conventional with you, and then your looks and movements will have more vivacity and variety than they dare offer now.'" For some reason, this part is harder to read than the rest. There's hope in the words, for communication, for friendship where none should exist. It amazes me that, though Charlotte Bronte wrote this over a century ago, I can completely relate to Rochester's sentiments. I close the book. I know this next part by heart.
She's still diligently studying the rain, as if it matters to her where each drop falls.
“'I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close-set bars of a cage. A vivid... restless, resolute... captive is there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-high.'"
My watch beeps once. It's six o'clock already. I close the file I'm working on and huff. I'm depressed. I know I am. With Janelle's passing, and my stupidity regarding Ms. Andrews' treatment, I can hardly help it. I need to see someone about it, but I don't feel like rehashing my personal failures or revisiting the past.
I do it anyway, every night when I sleep, and lately, anytime I'm lef
t alone too long in my quiet office. The radio does very little to drown out the voices in my head, speaking in rhythm with the clock's ticking.
What have I done with my life?
I've gone to school, become a doctor, and made myself responsible for other people's lives. What have I got to show for it, but a framed piece of paper on the wall, a deficit of friendships, and no love life? Is this what I gave my personal life up for? I come here to an empty office. I go home to an empty apartment. I can't help but ask what I'm doing here.
I feel the uninhibited urge to get out, to go somewhere. The only place that comes to mind is the jazz club I went after Janelle's funeral. I've been there twice since, and heard Ms. Mabel sing on both occasions. I'd love to hear her sing again. I've never had the slightest interest in jazz until I visited The Royale. I've always been a rock kind of guy. Something about the way the old woman sings always captures me, though. Her song choice is invariably poignant, too.
Even thinking of the club now is distracting me from my doldrums, so I grab my coat and head for the door. A half-hour drive brings me to the parking lot, which isn't as full as it has been on my last few visits.
At the door, the bouncer acknowledges me with a nod. A waiter shows me to a table. I order my usual drink and a substantial dinner. It's odd that it's almost seven, but the lounge isn't full yet. Usually, there's a crowd by this time, even on weeknights.
Seven-thirty rolls around. The emcee steps onto stage, just as happy as ever.
“Good evenin', ya'll! Tonight we welcome the smooth sounds of Kid Dallas and his saxophone!”
The who with his what?
A sun-tanned man, dressed in a white suit, drifts out from the wings and takes a seat on the stool. “Good evening! Tonight, I'll be playing a little of this and that. Y'all sit back and enjoy, now,” he says, raising the reed to his lips. The orchestra cues up and begins playing along with him.
The waiter returns with my drink.
“Excuse me, is Ms. Mabel performing later tonight?”
“Oh... No, sir.” A look of anguish strikes his face. “I'm sorry to tell you this, but Ms. Mabel passed away last week.”
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