Holding Out for a Hero

by Victoria Van Tiem

  Jasper’s idea runs through my mind, but to sell Pretty in Pink? ‘So they own my store, and I lose the one thing that makes sense in my life? Then what? If I’m not Libby who owns Pretty in Pink, then—’

  ‘Who are you?’ His eyebrows rise and his lips pull wide, exposing his teeth. It’s the kind of smile that spreads slowly, waiting for its meaning to resonate.

  My God, he is the wolf, and a clever one at that. My head falls to rest on the chair back.

  The stupid essay.

  The truth is, I don’t know who I am, and it’s harrowing to discover this so late in the game.

  His brows pull down in thought. ‘You realize the accident was just that, right? An accident?’

  ‘Sure, but that doesn’t change anything. I’m still responsible.’ I readjust my leg, shifting my position in the chair.

  ‘You mean it doesn’t change your guilt.’ Dr P. takes in a full breath and releases it slowly. ‘You were sixteen, almost seventeen when the accident happened, correct?’

  ‘Yeah, it, um . . .’ Pulling in my lips, I bite against them momentarily, then in one quick moment of bravery force out the words. ‘It actually happened on my birthday.’

  Dr P.’s eyes soften as the pieces fall into place. I shrug, not knowing what else to say. I mean, it’s obvious why I hate the day now.

  He leans forward. ‘Your friends, they know this, of course?’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’ I nod. ‘Every year they try different ways to . . .’ I lift my hand, not sure how to explain.

  ‘They’re trying to remind you your life, the one you were fortunate to still have after such a tragic accident, is worth celebrating.’ He nods in understanding. ‘I’d say they’re good friends, indeed.’

  I know. They are. But he still doesn’t quite understand. How do you celebrate the worst day of your life? A day that changed every day that followed? Tears well up in my eyes.

  ‘This confirms what I’ve suspected all along. After the accident, guilt prevented you from moving on, because someone else couldn’t. It’s probably what keeps you trapped in the Eighties.’

  Jolted, I sniff, wipe at my eyes and protest. ‘My store is Eighties vintage. I profit from the Eighties.’ My God, I can’t believe I’m explaining this again. It’s the Eighties intervention thing all over. ‘It’s my work, what I do for a living.’

  ‘It’s where you live.’

  I don’t look at him. Instead I focus back on my jacket’s tassels and start unbraiding the newly created ones.

  Dr P. gives an exaggerated exhale. ‘And Oliver – maybe he’s the last person you allowed yourself to be really open with, because he was before the accident, and that’s why you hang on?’

  I’m ignoring him, focused on the uneven plaits.

  ‘And if you’re honest, Libby, you know what I said before is true. You’ve never given anyone a real chance, and I bet . . .’ He pauses, causing me to glance up. ‘I bet if you’d met Oliver as an adult after everything, he wouldn’t have gotten one either. It’s only because he already occupied space inside your heart that he remained there when it closed.’

  The word closed sits in my ears, causing chills. My heart’s not closed. It’s irrevocably broken. I spread my jacket out over my legs, debating whether I should put it on, really wanting to go.

  ‘You’re holding onto the past so tightly, Libby, you’re not allowing for a future. Any future. With anyone.’ Dr P. reaches across to his desk and pulls back a manila file folder. ‘There are clinical reasons you’re reluctant to let go, to move forward.’ He opens the folder and glances inside at the contents, which I can’t quite see.

  My heart’s racing and my skin prickles. Do I want to know?

  ‘We know you struggle with depression, and now we know where it stems from, where it started.’

  ‘I knew where it started—’

  ‘But you dissociated yourself. I bet you’ve never told anyone what really happened, or talked about how you feel.’

  I still haven’t. ‘I’ve apologized to the family more than once, and I try and do nice things for them.’ The backs of my eyes burn hot with tears.

  ‘And have they forgiven you?’

  I nod, then wipe at my eyes. ‘Yeah . . . they’re good people. The best, that’s why it’s so unfair. They didn’t deserve for this to happen to them.’

  ‘You didn’t either.’

  My eyes snap to his.

  His voice is low, reassuring. ‘You’re a good person too, Libby.’ He shifts so he’s perched on the end of his seat and continues, ‘You wish you had died instead, don’t you? You feel guilty for surviving.’

  I don’t say anything. I couldn’t if I wanted to, because it’s true. I swallow hard.

  He nods, not needing a response. ‘This is common when dealing with this type of situation. It’s a coping mechanism, and just like depression, it’s a symptom of something broader. Something scientifically documented and labelled.’ He wets his lips, eyes still locked to mine. ‘Have you ever heard of survivor syndrome?’

  I shake my head.

  Dr P. sits back and scans the open folder on his lap. ‘It’s when someone has guilt at surviving a traumatic event when others didn’t. Why not you? Why them? Why should you get to keep living when this other person doesn’t, right?’ He sits upright again. ‘You have all the classic symptoms. Lack of sleep, bouts of depression, anxiety about change . . .’

  The muscles of my jaw tense even more. ‘But I know it was an accident.’ I clear my throat and continue, bravely and with conviction. ‘I just . . . I just looked down at the wrong time. If it hadn’t been gravel, I wouldn’t have lost control. None of it would’ve happened. It wasn’t on purpose.’

  ‘Logically, yes, I believe you do understand that.’ Dr P. sits back, closes the folder and taps it. ‘However, knowing it was an accident isn’t enough.’

  The swell in my chest bloats larger, and I clench my jaw to hold it all in.

  ‘Libby, you won’t live because they can’t. You haven’t forgiven yourself enough to move on. In fact, you punish yourself. You deny yourself real relationships outside of those that were previously established; you fight against change, in fear of what? Forgetting what happened? You won’t allow yourself true happiness.’

  He rolls his chair even closer and leans in. ‘You need to believe you’re not to blame, you didn’t do anything wrong. And that everything you feel is justified and allowed. It has a clinical name, and you can heal from it. You can heal from this.’ He’s nodding with compassionate eyes.

  Mine are overflowing with tears, one after another. His words act as a life preserver, but I’m frozen and can’t quite reach.

  I don’t have to.

  Dr P. takes both my hands firmly in his. ‘You lived . . . you lived, Libby. Don’t you think it’s time you started living?’

  CHAPTER 19

  ‘St Elmo’s Fire’

  John Parr, 1985

  Full five-alarm

  It’s late, but I couldn’t sleep, and instead of sitting around my apartment haunted by the past, I find myself at Pretty in Pink faced by the future. Mine. The one I need to embrace and finally allow.

  I have to sell.

  I know this, and yet I’m flooded with regret. It’s strangely quiet, as if the store somehow knows that I’m here, and why. I’m also talking with Ollie.

  ‘Sorry to bug you so late,’ I say, clicking the ballpoint pen with my thumb again and again. The sound echoes as I walk around carrying a clipboard and paper. I have the guesstimate itemization to use as a reference, but Criminal Seth wasn’t anywhere near the correct value of things. But how could he know?

  He listed how many wooden display shelving units I have and assigned a dollar amount, but what isn’t noted is how the one in front is covered in celebrity signatures. Slowly, I trace the scribbles with my fingertips: Winger, Cinderella, even Gloria Estefan, they all stopped in. Lines of teenagers wrapped through the aisles and out the door just to score an autograph and
photo and, before they left, I’d have them sign this.

  ‘You’re obviously upset; you OK?’ Ollie sounds sleepy.

  ‘Sure . . . no. I don’t know.’ I stop as sheet lightning illuminates both the sky and the sales floor in silent bursts of shocking brightness. It’s not even raining. Autumn’s drastic temperature shifts seem to confuse Mother Nature and create the temperamental weather New York is known for.

  ‘It’s just, Seth didn’t have the itemized list of assets right for the store, and . . .’ My mouth forms a tight line. Don’t cry. Don’t. ‘If I’m going to accept their offer, it needs to be accurate.’ This is frustrating.

  ‘I really can’t believe you’re selling Pretty in Pink, but I’m proud of you.’

  ‘I haven’t told anyone. I only just decided. And really, I could still back out.’ I glance over to the photos that hang framed on the back wall. Every in-store event and record signing is documented with a snapshot. I’m in most of them. So are Dora, Finn and a few recent ones with Dean. Ollie’s in the ones from when I worked here in high school. It’s like my own Libby London yearbook. At least I get to keep these. And God, look at me: ratted hair, star dangle earrings, and the clothes . . . OK, so not everything’s different.

  I wipe at my eyes and keep going. ‘It’s about time I moved on anyway, right?’

  ‘Isn’t that what we’ve all been saying?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s hard.’ I sigh in frustration. ‘Seth didn’t even list the rare vinyl collections in the display case, or the collection of concert tickets in the front cabinet. I mean, those are worth a small fortune.’

  ‘Well, just make sure you do. If they want Pretty in Pink they have to pay its worth, right?’

  ‘Right.’ The lump in my throat lodges impossibly deep. This is the easy part, the things I can assign a dollar amount to, but what about the rest? How do you put a price on your soul?

  Looking round, I take it all in, then crumple to the floor so I’m leaned against the checkout counter, the itemized list lying to my side. This is too much. ‘God, I don’t know if I can do this.’

  ‘It’s just St Elmo’s Fire, Shortcake. That’s all this is.’

  I smile through my tears because I know exactly what he means. Another movie we spent far too many hours debating over the phone while growing up. I’m Jules, alone in my own melodrama, completely beside myself. Oliver is my Billy. The boy who refuses to grow up, and yet, he’s the only one who can get through and help.

  ‘Remember in the movie how Billy holds up a can of aerosol hairspray and with one flick of a lighter, creates a quick burst of flame?’ Oliver says, knowing full well I do.

  ‘Yeah.’ I give the definition without thought. ‘Unlike lightning, which travels forward in a heated streak across the sky, St Elmo’s Fire burns blue and spherical and moves nowhere.’

  ‘Right. It’s caused by a disruption, and exists only in the gap.’ He says it again. ‘It’s caused by a disruption, Libbs. It exists only in that gap.’

  I sniff and wipe at my eyes. ‘Like me. My life. Is that what you’re saying?’ I had such a disruption, and I’ve moved nowhere. Only existing, only loving, within that gap.

  ‘You have to let go, Libbs. Of everything. The accident was just that. No one blames you, except you . . .’

  My face folds in with tears. God, what I wouldn’t give to curl up in his arms right now. To smell the scent of Polo and feel his lips on my forehead as he cradles me in his embrace. ‘I wish I could go back in time and warn myself.’ The soft tears have turned to real ones, my voice cracking between the sobs. ‘I’d scream “Don’t mess with the music, Libbs. Leave it alone, listen to the birthday tape later.” Maybe then—’

  ‘Maybe it would’ve happened anyhow,’ Oliver says. ‘How do we know what’s fated?’

  ‘I always thought we were fated.’

  Dr P.’s words repeat in my head. ‘Have you ever told Oliver how you feel?’

  ‘Libby? You there?’

  My heart’s pounding heavy. ‘I need to tell you something.’

  ‘You know you can tell me anything.’

  ‘OK.’ I take a deep breath to steady my nerves. I’m overwhelmed, but determined to force the words, because they’re honest and that makes them beautiful. Love is beautiful. And I have loved this man my whole life. ‘When we were together, I felt . . . special. My crazy red hair wasn’t a mess, it was wild and exotic. My freckles were adorable instead of embarrassing and if I was Jules before, I’m the character Wendy now. Because I’m just like she was with Billy, I’m in love with a man that isn’t available.’ My head drops into my hand. My shoulders quake from trying to keep it together.

  The sky flashes white again, and after a beat, a deep roll of thunder answers its call. I clear my throat, run a hand through my hair and start again. ‘It’s just that I want you to know . . .’ You’d think this wouldn’t be as hard. I take another deep breath.

  ‘Hey . . .’ His voice carries a familiar reassurance. ‘It’s OK. Just say it, Libbs.’

  I let my head drop back, so it thumps against the wood behind me. My heart swells. I could just wrap myself in the memory of his embrace, forget everything I was about to say and fall right back into our same old pattern, and for the moment I’d feel better. This empty ache would be filled and I could breathe. But then it’s the same old life, a life with no future. And I think, finally, I’m ready to have one.

  ‘I wish I would’ve said this forever ago. God knows I wish you were here, so I could say it to your face. But I had plenty of chances, and I didn’t and . . .’ A nervous smile plays on my lips. ‘I, um . . .’ My head rocks. God, this is awful. ‘I still love you, Oliver . . .’ It’s almost a whisper. ‘I do, and I always have. And I think . . . No, I know I always will.’ My voice cracks. ‘And I’m not sure how to move on. I’m not sure I can, even though I have to.’

  The sky surrenders to its downpour. I surrender to my own, and openly weep.

  CHAPTER 20

  ‘Holding Out for a Hero’

  Bonnie Tyler, 1984

  No more waiting around

  I’m officially thirty-three years old today. It’s not the getting older bit that bothers me so much; it’s not. It’s the memory that comes along with it.

  Worst birthday ever.

  And now, on this one, I’m facing a reboot future without Ollie or Pretty in Pink.

  It’s a literal do or die, because this can’t go on. I debated my options all night and decided it’s time I accepted the truth – I’m the one who’s fresh from the fight, so I need to be strong and fast and larger than . . . well, my messed-up life.

  At least I have to try.

  My first, get-a-grip action item was completed before I showered, dressed and left to take on this day. This re-birth day.

  I faxed Finn the updated inventory and assets list so he can get it to the Lander Property Group. If they believe the offer to buy Pretty in Pink is under serious consideration, I won’t have to vacate the premises today. This at least buys me some time, and I need just a little bit more.

  My second action item is to get Dora to chill. She’s been blowing up my phone via text all day. What are you wearing tonight? Do you need us to do your hair? Do you want a ride? This has gone on and on and on. And if that wasn’t bad enough, Jasper keeps calling me with stupid questions like Where’s the stapler? I mean, really?

  But I get it: they’re worried, and I’ve gone MIA again. But this time it’s different – instead of running away, I’ve been busy kicking off a little Eighties intervention of my own. I’ve decided to tackle this birthday business straight on.

  The first place I ventured was the overpriced Park Avenue store Dora’s so fond of. I enlisted the help of a saleswoman, who recruited two more, and let them go to town choosing my birthday ensemble.

  ‘That’s impeccable,’ said the first salesgirl, regarding the pair of slacks they had me try on.

  They felt like butter to the touch, smooth and silky under my finge
rtips. The price reflected the material, but the colour? In the mirror, I turned, eyeing them doubtfully. ‘I don’t know . . . they’re just so beige, basic—’

  ‘Brilliant, yes, they’re absolutely brilliant,’ the other sales associate assured me. ‘Although I’m not sure about the shirt.’

  ‘Right, definitely need a different shirt,’ said the third woman. ‘And if we change that then . . .’

  ‘Right, the slacks don’t match.’ They all agreed.

  They spent the next few hours swapping this for that in a strange wardrobe merry-go-round with heated commentary and debate, only to settle on the first outfit I tried on. The sales women called my look ‘boho chic’. I think it’s boho-boring, but it’s smart-casual and shows a new polished, sophisticated . . . person.

  The fawn belted chinos and blush-pink button-up are perfectly polished – like Claire, Molly Ringwald’s character, or Wendy from St Elmo’s Fire – while the double-looped costume pearls add a bit of dramatic flair like Demi Moore’s character, Jules. None of it is really me, but I’m still trying to figure out who that is, remember?

  After the shopping was done, I glanced at my hair in the mirror. That, at least, was me: it was Basket Case crazy. Then I eyed the time, deciding to make one more stop: Fringe, Dora’s fancy-schmancy salon.

  Their chosen scent of the day to cover the ammonia stench was sandalwood – still nauseating, but better than the lemon-grass of last time. The stylist paled when she saw me in the reception area, and quickly changed direction.

  ‘Wait, wait, wait . . .’ I chased after her. ‘I come in peace. Promise.’ I showed her the photo in the hair magazine that I’d been considering, and after a few tense moments of darting her eyes between my head and the glossy photo, she pushed out a sigh of surrender and accepted the challenge.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes?’ Which meant no; I mean, this was my hair. Was I really considering such a drastic change? Yes. Finally, yes. I nodded again.