The Refrain

by Ashley Pullo

  “Natalie, you’ve always been a little too forthcoming for my taste. You can’t walk into my house and demand things – it doesn’t work like that.” Raymond glares at me with contempt.

  Chloe tries to settle the tension by defending me. “She’s just emotional and . . .”

  Before Chloe can finish her sentence, Adam appears at my side and calmly interjects. “Mr. Parker, Natalie is a friend of mine and I agree with her request for the things that belonged to her. There were sentimental objects that were personal between the two of them, and you really have no need for letters and mementos.” Adam smiles but Raymond rolls his eyes. He’s so fucking childish and he knows it.

  “Mr. Ford, I would gladly hand over whatever it is that she feels entitled to, but the truth is, I don’t have anything. Now, if you three will excuse me, there are guests that need my attention.”

  Oh yeah, I’m sure of it. Like the little hussy in the red dress at a fucking funeral.

  “Mr. Parker.” Adam says firmly. “Please keep me updated on Ms. LeGrange’s request.”

  Raymond furrows his brow and stares at me, demeaning me and quite frankly, making me feel like shit. Adam places a hand on Raymond’s shoulder and shakes his head. Raymond returns Adam’s serious gesture by frowning in disdain. The tension is fucking unbearable, but I can conclude that I would not want to be the victim of Adam’s fury.

  And then, Raymond reaches inside the pocket of his suit jacket like he’s pulling out a concealed weapon. All of the sudden, he whips out a 3 x 5 photo of a teenager with a horrible haircut. What a freak!

  “Here, this picture was in Zach’s pocket. I assume it’s you.” Raymond sneers.

  Oh my fucking god. Raymond passes me a photo of myself from the seventh grade – the time I decided that I could trim my bangs into a nice straight edge. It’s horrible – I look like Oliver Twist in a purple sweater. I flip it over to the back and find two inscriptions:

  Natalie’s bangs debacle of ’92 ~ Judy

  And,

  Ma femme ~ never apologize for being you.

  Only Zach would find humor in my stubborn craziness and only Zach would love me for being me.

  I couldn’t stand the haunting silence, let alone sleep in my parent’s house. Without waking Chloe, I put on my sneakers and wander to a nearby park in my pajamas. It’s freezing – a sign of the desolate winter that’s in store. But nights like this also bring clarity among a star-filled sky. I pick a bench near the playground and pull my arms inside my shirt. I used to love flapping my sweatshirt arms like a penguin, but now it just seems pointless – lots of things seem pointless.

  “Zach!” I scream at the stars. “Why? Am I being punished? Why – why were you taken from me?” The tears start to roll down my face. My skin is raw and chafed and every drop stings like acid – but I would spend an eternity with acidic tears and horrible hair if I could just tell him goodbye.

  Do you hear me, God?

  I guess I expect some sort of flicker of light, some poetic justice to a crappy week. A sign of any kind, something to give me hope. I look around at the quiet streets of a place where our souls connected. Nothing.

  I gaze at the sky twinkling with stars. Nothing.

  I clutch my necklace and force my eyes shut . . .

  Rien.

  CHLOE

  December, 2003

  LIFE IS UNCERTAIN – and it’s this uncertainty that consumes me. On the outside, I’m robustly engaging and completely free, but inside, I’m a prisoner of failure.

  People like me need stability. And people like me often keep secrets . . .

  “CHLOE, I CAN’T thank you enough for helping me out this week. The past month has been devastating, to say the least.” Molly squeezes my hand and smiles politely. She has done so much for Natalie that I felt it necessary to repay our gratitude in some form. Granted, I still haven’t mastered the phones and I don’t even attempt to actually talk to the hoity-toity clients.

  I smile genuinely and say, “It’s my pleasure, Molly . . . I just hope I’m not making a mess of things.”

  Molly returns to her desk to retrieve her white leather chair. She rolls it over to my little station and sits down next to me with a box of tissues in her lap. Crap, here we go.

  Molly leans forward and props her chin on her knuckles. “How is she?”

  She. Natalie has become this fragile pronoun of existence. She’s fine. She’s strong. She just needs time. These are all true statements about the girl named She, but Natalie is a fucking wreck.

  I tap my thumbs against the desk and smile, and then I lie. “She’s getting better each day.” But in fact, it was just this morning when Natalie told me she hated me and I should move out. I realize it was her anger talking, and I know all about the stages of grief . . . but it still stings. “Christmas will be tough. I’ve begged her a million times to go to Toronto with me. She needs to get out of Manhattan, but she can’t go to Greenwich.” I shift in my chair, worried that Molly can sense my insecurities.

  “You’re absolutely right. When are you going?” Molly asks.

  “Next week. Aunt Judy bought us both plane tickets – but I don’t think I can convince her.”

  Molly’s eyes water and her lips quiver, overwhelmed by sadness. My emotions are so out of whack that Sadness is my only friend – and I’m tired. I spend every waking moment convincing Nat that things will get better . . . but who will tell me?

  “Chloe, it was my promise to Zach.” Molly sobs hysterically as she stumbles through her words. “I promised I wa-would look after Natalie.”

  Without warning from my best friend, Sadness, my face erupts into ugly tears. The ones I’ve held back for so long. Zach tears, Nat tears and selfishly, a few Adam tears thrown into my manic blubbering.

  “Oh sweetie.” Molly hugs me, comforting me. “I will help you. You can’t do this all on your own.”

  “That’s the point, I can’t do any of this,” I confess.

  Molly grabs my hand and closes her eyes tightly. “Chloe, help me send out an email to all my clients.” She stands abruptly and holds a tissue to her eyes. “I’m closing until the new year. We’ll need to contact Mack Abrams at La Soirée . . . I know he will take over the existing events for December.”

  Molly scrambles to her desk while I look through drawers for the client email list. I’m sure Natalie has it saved on her computer, but I can’t bring myself to type in her password: Zach*Attack.

  “Are you sure, Molly? I can take off from work, whatever you need.” I already put in vacation time at Bleecker and Dennis has scaled back my hours at the bar to almost nothing.

  Molly spins her rolodex and dials the phone. “The decision’s made. Chloe, bring me the client list and then please go – Oh, Mack, darling! Listen, I have a huge favor to ask . . .”

  I make copies of the most current list and place them in two folders. I highlight all the active clients and categorize the upcoming events for January and February in another folder. Molly probably has a better system, but at least my efforts won’t screw her business.

  “Good news, Mack is thrilled to help out as long as we need him,” Molly says. “Oh wait, before you go, I have something for Nat.” Molly places her oversized purse on the desk and pulls out a letter and a ring box. “Actually, what do you think? Should we read it, I mean, I know what’s in it . . . Jack had to tell me.”

  “Is that a letter from Zach? And is that a – a ring?” My heart shatters into shards of debilitating anguish. I just can’t do it anymore. Taking on my cousin’s pain has been horrific. I do it because I love her so much, I absorb her sorrow – but this? I can’t do it and I don’t want to know.

  Molly brings the letter to her chest and sighs. “The letter is from December of last year. Zach wrote to Claire professing his love for Natalie, all in French. It’s beautiful – he asked for Claire’s approval in marrying his girl. It’s heart-wrenching Chloe, the purest kind of love. Zach must’ve known that Claire was in no shape to read,
but just the idea of including her . . .”

  “Molly,” I whisper. “I can’t.”

  Molly sniffles and shakes her head. “I know, me either . . . I’ve had it since Zach’s funeral. Jack said Natalie refused to meet with him and he didn’t have any other option. Maybe we should wait?” Poor Molly is as torn as I am.

  “Yes, let’s wait,” I say like a zombie. “I’ll call you in a few weeks.”

  Faintly, she replies, “Yes, call me. And Merry Christmas.”

  I place the folders on her desk and nearly throw up when I see Zach’s handwriting on the letter. For so long, he was like this inanimate being, spiritual almost – and I only knew him by his penmanship.

  With as much joy as I can find, I smile. “Merry Christmas.” I put on my coat and scarf and then write a note for Nat to find when she returns to work. I give Molly another hug, closing my eyes in order to avoid the ring box sitting on her desk.

  IT’S CRAZY DARK outside for five-thirty, ominous and foreboding – but my life is pretty shitty so I’m not threatened by any sort of impending doom. I stop by Upmarket Delicatessen for a bag of Ketchup chips and a bottle of wine. Sorrow is a permanent visitor in our apartment, but at least Nat and I can get drunk and fat and no one will care.

  The cashier stares at me, evaluating me – I lower my head in shame. “Sixteen fifty-nine,” he quips. He’s laughing at me. Fabian doesn’t even know me and he’s judging me.

  I place a twenty on the small counter and grab my bag. I take three giant steps in the direction of the exit, but he calls out to me. “Hey failure, you forgot your change.”

  I run out of the deli and onto the street. Horns beep and brakes squeal, warning me to stop, but I make it to the other side. Running into the building, I avoid all eye contact with Wayne, the doorman. But I can hear him – I can hear the whispers and I can feel the judgmental stares. He’s telling Mr. Phillips from 5H all the horrible things about me. All the embarrassing secrets I hide . . .

  Shit.

  The elevator is not an option; I can’t risk being judged by Angie or Ms. Pratt – wondering what kind of friend I am . . . analyzing my every move and forming an opinion of me based on my actions.

  So I take the stairs, as quickly as I can – all five flights in less than three minutes. I make it to our door, out of breath and frantic as it swings open to reveal a half-dressed man flailing his arms. My mouth drops as he shoves into me, causing me to drop the bag. I’m frozen, no defense mechanism whatsoever. Frozen, in fear.

  He bends over to grab the bag and I try to scream, but the noise only exists in my head.

  “Your sister is one crazy bitch,” he growls. And you failed her.

  My sister? What the hell is going on . . .

  I squeeze past him with my head down and shut him out of the apartment. I run to our bedroom, imagining the worst. The door is shut, but the cursing and glass shattering ring through the apartment like alarm bells. I cautiously open the door to find Natalie jumping naked on the bed, bright red, fuming mad, and launching a snow globe across the room. The floor is covered in red liquid and tiny shards of glass. Natalie’s leg is bleeding, not a huge gash, but there’s blood dripping onto the floor.

  I feel it coming, that familiar lurch into the unwanted outcome.

  She picks up the last of the snow globes, the little plastic one that started the collection, and pulls it close to her chest. “You son of bitch! You fucking cock sucker!” Natalie has lost it. She’s lost.

  Scared, I whisper, “Nat.” She doesn’t respond. Instead, Natalie collapses on the bed, breathing erratically and mumbling something unrecognizable.

  I back out of the room slowly, keeping my eye on her while feeling for the hall table. The small table’s corner pokes my leg as I reach behind me for the phone, bringing me back to the painful reality. I hit the speed dial for #2 and try to control—

  “Hello?” he chirps.

  “Daddy, you have to come get us. It’s bad.” I slide to the floor, letting the phone drop between my legs.

  Nat’s body spasms as she lets out a blood-curdling scream. “ZACH!”

  I’ve failed. And now everyone around me will know it.

  I WAKE UP in a cold sweat. Wait, no, it’s actual sweat. The weight of the two quilts and electric blanket is suffocating me, like being buried alive in my former bedroom. I push them back with just enough energy to roll onto the floor. Oh shit! My Chili Peppers CD is under the bed – Mom didn’t take it after all . . .

  Okay, focus. I’m in my bedroom. The last thing I remember is stopping for coffee in Niagara with Dad, Uncle Dave and Nat . . . Natalie’s here.

  I quickly stand and then quickly sit down. Shit, it’s hot – removing one of my sweatshirts should help. Why am I wearing so many clothes?

  “Mom,” I rasp. My voice is entirely gone. “Mom.” I try again.

  I remove my sweatshirts and then crawl to the bathroom. This feeling, at this very moment, makes hangovers feel like a fieldtrip to the planetarium. My mouth is dry, my stomach in knots and my head pounding to the beat of crappy techno music. Thump, thump, thump, thump . . .

  I stick my head under the faucet and pour the cool water all over my face and into my mouth. It’s the best water I’ve ever had – fulfilling.

  There’s a knock at my door. “Chloe?” Mom asks quietly.

  My voice is gone, but I manage to mumble, “Mom.”

  She opens the door and sets a Snapple and some oatmeal on my desk. “How did you sleep?”

  “Fine, I think. Why was I under so many blankets? Where’s Nat?” I sit down at the desk and use all my strength to pop open the tea. It feels like such a huge accomplishment, tiny endorphins stinging my body. No matter what state of mind, I can’t resist the hidden factoid under the cap.

  #214 Giraffes can lick their own eyes.

  Mom moves to the bed and starts folding the quilts and blankets. “Oh sweetie, you had the chills . . . you were – it was an episode. I’m sorry, but we had to give you a mild sedative to calm your nerves.”

  Oh.

  Choking on dry tears I say, “I’m sorry for the trouble.”

  “Chloe, that’s ridiculous. Your father would drive to Zimbabwe to help you . . . and Nat is downstairs helping Judy with dinner. She’s – she’s going to be okay.” Mom pauses and then sits on the bed. “Chloe, I made an appointment with Dr. McKinstry. You haven’t seen him in a few years and . . .” Mom clears her throat and looks at the ceiling.

  “Mom, I’ll go.”

  She stands from the bed and walks toward me. Mom smoothes my hair with her hand just like when I was a kid. “I’m proud of you Chloe, do you know that?”

  “Best panic attack ever?” I smile but she frowns. “It’s a joke, Mom! Will you help me down for dinner?” I lift my weak body from the desk and take Mom’s hand. I need to see Nat – I need to apologize for my failure.

  She leads me down the stairs one at a time like a helpless gimp caught in a bear trap. We make it into the dining room where Dad is setting the table and Uncle Dave is shaking a bottle of his famous Italian dressing. Nat’s seated at the table nibbling on some bread while Aunt Judy tops off her wine glass. It all seems very normal and comfortable, but I know I’m being watched – scrutinized.

  I sit down in a chair next to Nat as she slides a glass of wine in front of me. “Hey C – you look like shit,” she says through a tight smile.

  Grinning, I say, “Screw you, Nat.”

  Natalie leans into me and taps her head against mine. “I love you,” she whispers.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Mom carries in a large lasagna bubbling with melted cheese and places it in the center of the table. It smells delicious and I don’t remember the last time I had an actual meal. I sip my wine and tear off a piece of bread, welcoming the bland texture.

  Dad stands at the head of the table with a beer and bites his lip. He looks sad and tired, and it kills me to put my parents through this mess all over again. “Chloe, Natalie, w
elcome home.” Dad tilts his beer in our direction and gives us a sympathetic smile.

  “To Chloe and Natalie,” Aunt Judy toasts.

  “To us,” Nat whispers. “The two saddest fucks in North America.”

  THERAPY IS TABOO. All artists tend to struggle with their mental health, but it’s actually that streak of insanity that creates the brilliance. And as long as an artist can pump out creative nuggets of consciousness – drugs, alcohol, violence, depression, and even suicide are highly acceptable. But therapy?

  I was sixteen when my parents discovered that my panic attacks were more than a bundle of nerves before the first performance of the school musical. It really came as a shock to us all . . . how can a performer, a happy musician with tons of confidence, be paralyzed with anxiety? Well, that’s what therapy’s for.

  “Chloe, Dr. McKinstry is ready for you,” the nurse says. She’s new, but then again, I haven’t been in the office for five years.

  “Okay,” I answer. I give Mom a shrug and leave her to wait patiently with my People magazine.

  Dr. McKinstry’s office is exactly how I remember it – warm and masculine, nothing flashy or clichéd. He’s sitting behind his carved mahogany desk skimming through my old journal.

  Stroking his beard he says, “Dang, Chloe, I was hoping you’d be famous by now. I’m dying to sell these notes to the tabloids.”

  He’s a genius, really. Dr. McKinstry always knew exactly how to get inside my head, and although his sarcastic comments seem unprofessional, it totally works. “I see your beard is taking on a life of its own,” I tease.

  He pats his fluffy brown beard and motions for me to sit. I pick the gold, velvet wingback chair – it’s always been my favorite. Dr. McKinstry taps his hands against the desk and smirks. “Wow, five years. How’s New York?”

  “Wait, are we starting the session or is this just small talk?”

  He stops drumming his hands and frowns. “Wait, I thought all my sessions were small talk?”

  I relax as much as I can and cross my legs. “New York is amazing, there’s always something to do or explore.” I swallow hard and then clear my throat. “Life on the other hand, has been a little shitty.”