My brain starts to work. “Atropine? But that's for surgeries and people with heart problems. It's used mostly in hospitals. How did it get into her system?”
“You being a doctor, I thought you might be able to answer that for me.” He sits back, like he's already passed judgment; that it has to be me that did it.
I narrow my eyes. “I don't know what you're implying—”
“Dr. Weller, I'm not implying anything. I'm simply asking you where one might obtain atropine.” He folds his hand over his large gut.
“Well, if someone were to get a job as a pharmacy tech in a hospital, they could steal it. But pharmacists keep very strict logs of what goes in and out of the supplies. Missing a single pill can cause an investigation.” I'm thinking as hard as I can, but nothing comes to mind. “It could have been obtained on the black market.” My mind is blank when I try to think of any other ways. “I don't know,” I confess. “I'm still baffled at who would want to kill her. She was...”
“Was...?” The detective leans forward.
“She was a great person, charming, beautiful, intelligent.”
“I see,” says the old detective.
A knock at the door breaks my concentration. Ms. Andrews comes in, her face painted in surprise. I stand, not knowing whether to bring her in and show him out or ask her to wait outside. It occurs to me that I should probably cancel, so I can finish with Helms.
“I can see that you have an appointment,” he says, standing and straightening his coat. “I'll just be going.” He makes his way to the door. Ms. Andrews holds it open for him. He nods to her politely.
But I'm not ready for him to go yet. “Wait. Just a minute,” I call out as he steps into the hall. I follow him and close her in the office. “Can you tell me... whether she suffered?”
“You tell me. Does cardiac arrest hurt?”
Even though I know cardiac arrest, in general, doesn't hurt its victims, I'm inclined to believe she did suffer. Atropine overdose causes hallucination, breathing problems and a score of other symptoms before one finally succumbs to death.
“No. It doesn't hurt,” I say, my mouth going dry.
“Have a good day, Dr. Weller,” says Helms before he goes for the elevator.
Have a good day? Have a good day? Were I stronger, I'd rip my office door off its hinges and hurl it at him, but right now all I'm trying to do is keep from collapsing into sobs. She suffered because you weren't there with her. She suffered and it's your fault, my brain accuses.
I feel sick and go for the bathroom. I run the hot water in the sink and let the steam curl over my face. Wetting a paper towel, I press it to my face, breathing steadily.
It's not my fault. I know it isn't really. If someone was determined to kill Janelle, there wouldn't have been a damn thing I could have done for her. Even if I had been there that day, there would have come a day when I wouldn't have been, and the killer would have struck then. Who knows, he might have killed us both.
I turn off the water, dry my face and straighten my collar. I just need to focus and try to put this out of my head. I have a session to conduct. I'm a professional. I look into my own green eyes. I can do this.
I direct my feet back to the office, but stop just a few feet from the door. I hear music. Has she turned on my radio? I creep toward the door and press my ear to it. No, it's not the radio. Do I hear... singing? What a breakthrough! If she's singing, that means there's been some definite progress!
I open the door suddenly and she almost jumps out of her skin.
“Were you singing?” I ask. Her eyes are wide and her hand is on her chest as she tries to catch her breath. She shakes her head 'no'.
My shoulders sink. “Oh... Well, let's get started.”
(Carmen)
I can't seem to breathe properly, which is not good. I'm pacing the small dressing room, Hilda's old dressing room. I feel like I'm about to keel over and die from anxiety. My fingers are raw from wringing them so hard. I hear a knock and my heart is in my shoes.
“Are you decent?” Kyle asks through the door. He steps in, smiling. “How's it going?” He closes the door behind him.
I know I looked stressed. I wish he wouldn't tease me.
“I, uh, got your note,” he says, wiggling the post-it note I'd left on his clipboard earlier.
He sits at the vanity. “The saxophonist is going on in five minutes, so you'll have to make it fast.”
I've been practicing for two weeks, not just the breathing but the showmanship, too. Hilda had been a master of that. Her attitude was most of the reason why people loved to hear her sing. Since I don't have any confidence of my own, I had to learn to act the part of a confident jazz songstress.
Tomorrow is the audition and tonight I will sing for Kyle, who has an experienced ear. I just hope he'll be honest with me. The record sits on the player already. I must have sung it a hundred times, just to prepare for this moment. I take in gulps of air, commanding my lungs to relax, so they can handle breathing through the song.
“Relax,” he says. “It's just me.”
Just him. Easy for him to say.
I set the arm on the vinyl. I've heard the horns and strings so much in the past few weeks; I think they've become part of me. The steady beat has been sewn into my muscles. Each note has been swallowed like evenly metered medication.
I take a deep breath, open my mouth and my voice cracks. I freeze, sweat, blink rapidly as the music goes on without me. It's leaving me behind. Kyle smiles, shakes his head and comes over to the turntable. He silences the record.
“Close your eyes,” he orders.
I shut my gaping mouth, lick my lips and obey.
“Now, I want you to forget I'm here. I want you to imagine that the only person watching is Hilda.”
The suggestion bowls me over, considering it is how I first got the courage to actually try vocalizing, at all. I can do that. I nod and open my eyes.
“No, no. Keep your eyes closed,” he says.
I shut them again.
“Take a moment and visualize yourself singing the song. Imagine what Hilda would do if she was watching you.”
I can see her at the front table of The Royale's lounge. I'm standing on stage in front of the microphone. She's smiling. She's proud. Kyle starts the music again. 'Go on, child,' says the ghost in my head.
I stun even myself, when the words burst out of me like bullets, just as powerful as I've wanted them to be. “I put a spell on you / 'Cause you're mine / You better stop the things you do / I ain't lyin', no, I ain't lyin'” I can feel the anger in the words. “You know I can't stand it / Your runnin' around / You know better, daddy / I can't stand it 'cause you put me down! / I put a spell on you / Because you're mine!” I feel it, that passion which flows out of hatred of oneself for loving another person so much that it hurts. I sing along, belting out loud. I'm not myself. I'm someone else. Goddamn it feels good! “I love you / I love you, I love you anyhow! / And I don't care if you don't want me! / I'm yours right now! / You hear me, I put a spell on you! / Because you're miiiine.” I finish loud and strong, my hands curled into tight fists, my limbs shaking, my face tingling, and my heart beating like crazy in my chest.
I don't know what this is called. Is it elation? Is this true ecstasy? Breathing hard, I open my eyes.
Kyle is wide-eyed. His mouth is open. His hands are gripping the arms of the chair. His toes are raised off the ground. He's staring like a man in a trance, his face flushed bright red.
“Holy shit, woman...” he says breathlessly. “I think I might need a cold shower.” He swallows hard.
I can't help but cry when the song ends. Goddamn, I did it! I sang! I never thought I could, ever. My throat hurts like hell but I've never felt more alive. I gasp as the tears flow, ones of both joy and sorrow, as I realize not even dancing has made me feel like this. While it's not that way for everyone, for me, dancing meant keeping it all inside. Until I stopped, I never saw it as what it was for me, all tight
internalized concentration.
This... this bursting forth of the soul... this is release. Singing is freedom.
I feel it again after I sing for Doug Morrow, the owner of The Royale. He is impressed, much like Kyle had been. The minute I open my eyes, I know I've got it, but the burden doesn't settle down on me fully until he drops the hammer.
“Can you do that again, tomorrow?” he asks from the front table.
I nod excitedly. I can't help but bounce a little with joy. He raises a brow at me, cracking a smile. I go still. Instead of thanking him, like a vocal person might do, I give a short bow.
“So strange that such a big sound can come out of a person who doesn't talk,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. He raises the pen in his hand, hailing his assistant. “Get her a wardrobe and make sure she's got a full show's worth of songs down for next week. We'll keep the saxophonist on staff until she's comfortable.” He turns his attention back to me. “Does that sound good to you, Ms. Andrews?”
I nod again.
“By the way, have you chosen a stage name?”
The question takes me aback. I shake my head.
“Come up with one by tomorrow,” he instructs. His phone rings and he picks it up and leaves the lounge to conduct his conversation.
“You did great!” says Kyle, hopping up on stage with me. “Good job.”
I try to look humble, but in truth I am really proud of myself. Never in a million years, did I think I would have that kind of power—to inspire people with music from my body. It was a trait I envied in Hilda, now I have it for myself, and it's precious. Most of all, it feels right.
(Jacob)
I stare down at the half-empty Chinese take-out containers in front of me. My plate is still piled high with fried noodles and sesame chicken. I haven't been able to concentrate on eating, or the movie I put on. I set the plate on the table and sit back. I can't stop thinking about her long enough to do anything. I lie down, staring at the ceiling, the blue-green and white light from the TV bouncing off every surface as it rambles on incessantly.
I tuck into the back of the couch, shutting my eyes. I try but can't banish the visions of her death that my brain is inventing. When I slip into a deep sleep, she's sitting at her vintage kitchen table in her apartment, her curls up in a tight bun, her freckles looking orange under the yellow kitchen light. She's eating cereal, instead of a more balanced lunch.
“Come in,” she says to me. I rush from the door, just as she crunches on another bite of cornflakes.
“Don't eat that!” I say, smacking the bowl away. Milk splashes against the fridge, counters and floors.
She looks at me like a wounded child. “What'd you do that for?”
When I look down the bowl is right back in front of her, the milk and cereal back inside. The spoon is back in her hand.
“It's poisoned,” I say, taking the spoon from her. Just as soon as I grab it, it reappears back in her hand. I take it again, but it reappears in her hand. I pound my hands on the table and reach for it again. This time she moves her hand.
“Jake. Sit down,” she orders calmly.
I rake my fingers through my hair. “You don't understand!” I exclaim. “How can I make you understand?” I whimper.
“Just sit down, Jake.” She's not alarmed by the fact that she's ingesting poison. Trying to contain myself, I take the seat across from her. She takes another bite, locking eyes with me.
“I wish... I wish you would stop.” I say, averting my gaze. It's painful to watch.
She sets the spoon in the bowl.
“Jake, you have to realize something about me.”
“Don't...” I beg. “Don't say it.”
“I'm dead, Jake.” She looks so tranquilly beautiful when she says it, like she's talking about a flower blooming or snow falling.
I reach across the table and rest my hands on hers. She slides her hands out from underneath mine and puts them on top, squeezes them.
“I've got to go,” she says. She stands and takes her purse from the chair beside her.
“Where are you going?”
There's a knock at the door.
“He's picking me up,” she says.
“What do I do?” I ask, taken aback by her sudden desire to leave.
“Have something to eat,” she says, opening the door. A shadow waits in the breezeway outside, but I can't make out who it is. The door slams behind her.
I start to life. I'm back on my couch. I pound the cushions angrily with my hands, and bury my face in my palms. I swing my legs over the side of the couch and look at the floor.
I know you're dead...but I don't want you to be.
The television still blares on nonsensically. I grab the remote and turn it off. In the dark womb of my living room, I feel like I'm suffocating. I've got to get out of here.
I throw on a button-down and some jeans. Before I leave, I slide on my favorite leather coat. Once in the car, I take the highway toward Portland. I know exactly where I want to be, and it isn't anywhere in Beaverton.
The Royale is busy again. There's a line going out the door. Plastered on the building's exterior are several posters reading, “Come see our new act! Ms. Roxanne Holiday! This Saturday!”
I wait in line with the others, eager to see who they've chosen to take Ms. Mabel's place. Whoever this 'Roxanne Holiday' person is, she would have to be an experienced veteran to impress this crowd. As soon as the bouncer lets me in, he informs the rest of the line that the restaurant has reached capacity, and there will more than likely not be anymore available seats until after the show is over.
In other words, I was damn lucky.
I take the only available table, which is in the corner, far from the front row. I'm disappointed, but glad that I'll be able to crane my neck and see her. I order my favorite drink, a tall one. If anything, it will help get my mind off of my nightmare.
When the lights lower, leaving only a circle of white centered on the mic, my ears prick up. The emcee steps into the spotlight.
“This little lady came to us from a special place. Ms. Mabel loved her and we think you will, too. Please, join me in welcoming...Roxanne Holiday.” He held out his hand and a woman appeared from the wings.
In a red floor-length dress that hugs her curves, she steals the entire audience's breath. Up the length of her arms and stopping at her elbows are black matte satin gloves. Her eyes and nose are hidden under a shadowy veil. Everyone is watching her move, the way the slit on the right side of her dress parts, allowing for a toned, stockinged leg to peek out. Holy hell, are those black stilettos she's walking in? The ease of her slow strut makes it look like she could have been born wearing them.
Gorgeous, sensual and mysterious—everything about her is entrancing. I only wish I could see her more closely. The clapping from the audience dies off as the emcee drifts out of the light. All I can see of her face are her full, red lips. She nods to the pianist and the orchestra starts to play. I don't recognize the tune, but I have a feeling that once she's done singing it, I'll remember it forever.
She smiles and it sends a shock through me. When those red lips part, a warm velvety 'A' peals out. Just like that, I'm speechless, as every pore opens up to drink in the sound of her voice.
“I can do what I want / I'm in complete control / that's what I tell myself / I've got a mind of my own / I'll be alright alone / Don't need anybody else / I gave myself a good talkin' to / No more bein' a fool for you / But, Oh, I remember / how you made me want to surrender,” she strokes the microphone stand with her gloved hand, bringing the silver box-mic close to her mouth. “Damn your eyes,” she groans. “For taking my breath away / for making me want to stay / Damn your eyes! / For gettin' my hopes up high / For making me fall in love again / Damn your eyes!” The orchestra plays through the short bridge and I'm feeling things in places I forgot I had. “It's always the same / You say that you'll change / Somehow you never do / I believe all your lies / The look in your eyes / Yo
u make it all seem true / I guess I see what I want to see / Or is it my heart just deceiving me? / Because with that look I know so well / I fall completely under your spell!” The orchestra cuts and she breathes heavy in the mic. “Damn your eyes! / For takin' my breath away / For makin' me want to stay / Damn your eyes! / For gettin' my hopes up high / For makin' me fall in love again / Damn your eyes! / You keep deliberately deceivin' me! / Makin' me see what I want to see! / Damn your eyes! / For takin' my breath away / For makin' me want to stay / Damn your eyes! / For getting my hopes up high / For making me fall in love again / Damn your eyes! / For taking my breath away... / Damn your eyes! / For getting my hopes up high / For making me fall in love... For making me fall in love again / Damn... your eyes...”
When the notes fall silent on her lips and the orchestra stops, we're all frozen in time, caught in the moment. She's magnificent.
The crowd erupts into a frenzy. Everyone stands, clapping and whistling. The standing ovation lasts for a few minutes. She just smiles, her eyes still shrouded. She dips her head, waving as she sways off stage.
I think in the past few minutes I've forgotten how to breathe.
My drink sits on the tabletop, untouched. She was intoxicating enough.
Even though every rational part of my brain screams, “Don't!” I order a piece of paper and a pen from the waiter. When the crowd members cease to praise her, and instead, begin to talk amongst themselves, I busy my pen, writing her a note.
It's forward, daring and overly intimate, but I can't help myself. Every instinct, passed down to me from the first man that stood upright, is pushing me to do it. I want her, more than I've ever wanted any other woman in my life.
(Carmen)
God, I feel like I'm going to have a heart-attack! What a rush! I never thought singing in front of people could be so exciting! I Put A Spell On You went off without a hitch, but I thought, for sure, that I would ruin Damn Your Eyes. I can't believe I pulled it off with only two days' notice!
I was surprised at my execution. I have no idea what well of sexuality I dipped into tonight, but I felt it spring up with every word. Afterward, that standing ovation—I never thought I'd hear that kind of applause just for me. For an ensemble or a dance company, yes, but never just for me.
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