by DC Renee
“Brooklyn?” I called out before I even reached the bus. I threw the door open and stomped through the bus, knowing before knowing that she wasn’t there.
I almost missed it, ready to move on to the next possible spot where she could be, but it caught my eye. Her notebook was on the bed, opened. A feeling of relief she had come to the bus was fighting with an impending feeling of doom. I picked up her notebook and saw her writing. Lyrics. New lyrics. And as I read them, I wished I hadn’t. I felt my heart literally lose pieces of itself with each word I read.
Betrayal is a one-way street
On which I’m going wrong
I’m stuck on this single path
Trying to get off
I thought I knew him well before
I thought I knew myself before
But he isn’t what he seems
And my mind is cracking me
He told me pretty lies
And dressed them with a bow
I told myself different lies
And now they are starting to show
One word seems to be the key
Betrayal is at fault
I want to run away from him
But I can’t escape from me
I thought he wouldn’t destroy me
I thought I wouldn’t either
But he held the power in his hand
And my mind ruled me
This wasn’t how my life was supposed to be
This wasn’t the shape it should have took
He told me pretty lies
And dressed them with a bow
I told myself different lies
And now they are starting to show
Eight letters never hurt so much
I’m fighting the betrayal
I want to rage at him
But I must rage at myself first
I must walk away from this
I will pick up and go
For the sake of my own heart
And my fragile sanity
He told me pretty lies
And dressed them with a bow
I told myself different lies
And now they are starting to show
And now I must go
I hadn’t betrayed her, but I had hurt her. And this was her goodbye. But I would not let her go. She could push me away, but I wasn’t budging.
I dialed her once more, opening my mouth to leave a message, but I couldn’t find the right words. Fuck this, I thought to myself. I will find you.
So I picked up and dialed the person I knew she trusted the most.
“Cassidy, call me back. It’s urgent.”
Brooklyn
Grennan took two more days before he called my parents. They told him the same thing that Cassidy told him. I was okay, just needed some space, and they didn’t know where I was. Cassidy told me he texted her almost every hour. Was I masochist if I said it made me feel better to hear that? To know he cared?
She stopped telling me what he said after about the fifth time I grilled her for details.
“If you want to know what he’s saying so badly, then you talk to him.”
“I can’t,” I whispered.
“Then I don’t think it’s a good idea to tell you.” I nodded. She was right. “You could tell me what he did, Brook. Maybe it would make this all easier.”
“It’s not really him,” I told her.
“Then what is it?”
“It’s me.” She nodded like she understood as I walked away. She didn’t push, and I was thankful for that.
“She’s an adult, Grennan,” I heard my mom tell Grennan when he called. “As long as she checks in and tells us she’s okay, where she goes is her business.”
Their conversation ended quickly after that.
“Whatever he did couldn’t be that bad if you’re not telling your dad to go buy a shotgun,” my mom joked. The truth was he had done something that was worthy of my dad beating his ass in my honor. You didn’t just ask someone to move in with you and then when they reacted in the way you didn’t like found someone else. The worst part was that I hadn’t reacted adversely to him . It was me. All me.
And that was the other thing I couldn’t talk about. I had barely slept the previous two nights. During the day, my parents and Cassidy did a great job of distracting me, but at night, I was alone with my thoughts. And my thoughts? Well … they hadn’t been my own in a while. They had been in dreamland, and I was slowly starting to envision Jourdan’s face instead of my own. My eyes, her eyes staring into a crowd. They were interchangeable.
I was tempted to ask my parents if I had a long-lost sister, a cousin at least, but then the questions would start, and I’d have to explain. I wasn’t ready to tell them I was going insane. Admitting it to myself was one thing. Admitting it to the people I loved and respected the most was a whole other story.
I kept my phone off all week afraid to see that Grennan called or afraid to see he hadn’t. The days passed with me spending time with my parents or Cassidy or both, and at night, I dreamed of Jourdan, of myself, of a life that wasn’t mine.
You’d think that was the strange part, right? But no, the strange part was that I had lost the lyrics. Music didn’t come to me. It didn’t flow through my body like it had when I was on tour with Grennan. I guess he had been my muse. With him gone, so was the music.
I should have been happy not to have that reminder of him, not to associate the lyrics with him, but I was sad. I had become so used to it, so dependent even. When my feelings overwhelmed me, I wrote. And right then, my feelings were overtaking me, yet I couldn’t write. It had been second nature, and now, they were gone. Was it Grennan or my mind? I had lost my trust in him the minute he showed me his true nature. But I had lost my trust in myself far before that.
After being home just over a week, it happened. I hadn’t slept properly the entire time I was there, but at some point, your body forces your mind to shut down and sleep. I didn’t say rest because mine didn’t.
Much like the nights before, my new obsession came in my dreams. Only this time, she and I were both in the room, two physical bodies. Before it was just her with myself as an onlooker. Now, we faced each other.
“Why are you pushing me aside?” she asked.
“I don’t understand,” I told her. “You’re at the forefront of my mind. I think about you more than I think about Grennan.”
“Don’t think,” she responded. “Do.”
“Do what?”
“Don’t worry, Brooklyn.” She smiled, and I gasped at her phrasing. “The answer will come.”
“What answer?”
“Listen to the words.”
And then she was gone, and I woke up struggling for air. The lyrics were back.
The mind works in mysterious ways
In ways you can’t foresee
It can sway your thoughts
And tell you make-believe
It will hide your deepest secrets
And make you go insane
It can find the answers
That are locked away
Listen to the words
They’ll help you find your way
Listen to my words
And you won’t be led astray
The heart works in mysterious ways
Its nature is untold
It can give you life
And keep you in its hold
The power of its instinct
Is sometimes not very kind
But it will lead you to the answers
That you wish to find
Listen to the words
They’ll help you find your way
Listen to my words
And you won’t be led astray
The soul works in mysterious ways
Some of which are unreal
But if it finds you worthy
It can help you heal
It draws people together
And makes connections occur
Where they might not have
happened
If the soul wasn’t so sure
I’ll help you find the answers
That you are looking for
Just listen to your body
Your mind, your heart, and your soul
It’s a funny thing to go crazy
It’s scary not to know
I’ll help you find the answers
That you are looking for
Listen to the words
They’ll help you find your way
Listen to my words
And you won’t be led astray
I looked at the words I had just written. I was bat-shit crazy, but I already knew that. Only now, I thought I was also possessed. Hello, my old friend, Paranormal Activity. And hello Jourdan’s ghost. Hope you like residing in my body and warring with my own damn soul. Yep, I actually believed the ghost of a dead singer was haunting me. Now, if that were possible, everything about the past few months made sense—the dreams, the songs, even the damn mirror. Did I sound even crazier? Was that even possible?
All I knew was that I needed to know Jourdan. Really know her. I knew that was impossible, considering she was dead, but I needed to not just see her face in my head every day. I needed to know who she was, how she lived, why she died. A few lines stood out of my own lyrics … “It draws people together and makes connections occur where they might have happened if the soul wasn’t sure.” I guess my damn soul was sure that I needed to be connected to a dead girl. And if I were connected, then I would know everything there was to know about her.
I turned on my computer and let the searching begin.
Brooklyn
I skipped the usual information sites. I hadn’t wanted simple facts. I didn’t care what songs she wrote or how many albums she sold, what stars she dated or what her spiritual beliefs were. I wanted to know her.
I wanted to understand what made her tick, what she felt, what she experienced. How was I going to learn that? I had no freaking clue, but I thought looking through hundreds of articles would be the place to start.
I had read three interviews before they stated her birthdate. July 1, 1989.
My birthdate.
My birthdate.
My heart stopped.
My heart stopped.
I could feel the panic surface. I could feel the anxiety I hadn’t felt since leaving the tour come back. My hands were shaking, my heart was racing, and sweat was beading on my forehead. I was being pulled into a dark place. I didn’t want to go there anymore. I needed someone to ground me, to pull me back. I needed Grennan. No! I screamed inside. I didn’t need him. He had betrayed me, played me for a fool when I needed him most, when I was going to confide everything to him. And just like that, just thinking of him, the anger around it was enough to keep me grounded. I didn’t fall into some dream.
I looked at the screen again.
My birthdate.
Was that why she had picked me? Was that why she was haunting me? Because I shared some similarities with her.
I didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me before then that my last name was Cooper and hers was Coupper. We were alike but only in some ways. Our eyes. They were eerily the same. We shared a birthday. And our last names were similar, but those were just coincidences. Weren’t they? Why had she chosen me? I was sure plenty of other girls out there had the same birthday and a similar last name. Hell, maybe even the same eye color. But she had picked me. Why? Was she seeing herself in me? Was she trying to live through me? My life was currently one big, “Why?”
“This is my life,” I said out loud. “This is my life, do you hear me?” I spoke to the room, but I was speaking to her. “You leave it to me. You leave me alone, Jourdan.”
I was talking to a non-existent person as if they were there. I was talking to a person I believed was trying to possess me. I was being redundant when I thought for the millionth time I was crazy, but I couldn’t help it.
“I’m not you,” I whispered as if defeated. I was defeated. I had been a victim to my mind, to my insanity, and I was not coming out on the winning end.
“But I’ll learn about you. Tell me what you want me to know. Show me.”
I clicked article after article, interview after interview, picture after picture. Details about concerts, about photo shoots, even about her death were everywhere.
What wasn’t there was information about her family, her friends. No pictures, no names.
I had learned some information about her death before. A crazy fan had attacked her, and she hadn’t survived. It was in the prime of her career.
I learned more that day.
She had a stalker, a fan who followed her around. She should have gotten security, the articles read, but she didn’t want to be “put in a cage” even by people, she had responded. “There are going to be people who love me, people who hate me, and everyone in between. I am who I am. I can’t change myself any more than a person can change their skin color. If someone wants to hurt me because of that, then they’ll find a way with or without security following me,” she had told someone when questioned after a man was found inside her dressing room with duct tape and handcuffs. That had occurred early in her success, but her stance hadn’t changed even as her fame increased.
This particular stalker had kidnapped her from her hotel room. He hurt her, but those details were never released. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of both sadness and pain for her. He was killed during her rescue, but she was unconscious. She lay in a coma for six months and then life support for another six before her family took her off.
When I finished reading about her death, I swear I felt real physical pain. I felt my body on fire, sore, tingles along my skin. I felt bruised; I felt broken. I felt like every scar I imagined on her body was suddenly appearing on mine.
“I need to know more,” I whispered out loud. I was drawn to her even if it wasn’t by choice. I was drawn to her painful death, to one no one should have experienced, especially not a bright young girl like her. It could have been me, my mind whispered. But it wasn’t. It was the girl haunting my dreams.
“I’ll find out more,” I told the air, I told Jourdan. “I’ll learn it all.”
And I did something I never thought I’d do. I booked a one-way ticket and packed a bag. I would find out about Jourdan. I was going to the place she died.
Brooklyn
I knew what I did was wrong. I snuck out of the house while my parents were sleeping. I left my cell phone on the counter with a simple note that read:
Mom and Dad,
I love you, but I just needed some time for myself. Don’t worry. I’ll be home soon.
Love, Brook
I didn’t know why I bothered to say, “Don’t worry,” because I knew they would. I guess I figured it would make me feel better. I also knew it sucked not giving them an exact date to expect me, but honestly, I didn’t know what I was looking for, which meant I didn’t know exactly how long I would be gone. Why did I leave my cell phone? For several reasons. I didn’t want to be tempted to contact Grennan, for one. At home, I didn’t have the desire to do that, but I knew he was still looking for me through Cassidy.
Call me a selfish, needy hypocrite but it made me feel better to know he was pining after me. I didn’t want to have to remember to call and check in with my parents or even Cass because like I said, I knew they would worry. Somehow, in my mind, if I had no phone, I had less ability to call them and tell them I was okay. And last but not least, I didn’t want anyone to know what I was doing. I mean how was I going to explain that I was trying to track down information about a dead girl who I wholeheartedly believed was trying to possess my body?
So I did what I did, and I pushed away the guilt I felt. I didn’t have any more room for emotions in me. Anger, sadness, and crazy—yes, to me, crazy was an emotion—were taking up all available feeling spots.
I hopped on a plane, and a few hours later, I landed in San Francisco, California.
Jourdan had grown
up in San Francisco but lived in Los Angeles, California, after she became a star. I was from Los Angeles. Funny how we could have lived there, been there at the same time, and I never would have realized it.
According to online reports, she had been kidnapped while on tour in Arizona. She was found there as well but was transported to San Francisco, where her family home had remained shortly after her rescue. It was in a small private hospital there that she finally passed away.
Not much information was available about her last year of life spent in that hospital. Just straight facts. Something must have happened, though; something that had her spirit living in limbo trying to come back through me. That was why I had decided to start there. Work my way back.
“Hi, I was wondering who I can talk to about Jourdan Coupper,” I asked the receptionist.
“Who?” the lady responded.
“Jourdan, the singer. She passed away about four years ago here at this hospital.”
“Oh, her. Shame what happened to her.” The lady clucked her tongue and frowned.
“You knew her?”
“No, I didn’t volunteer here then. What’s this about anyway?” she questioned.
“Oh, I’m doing a school paper on influential musicians who died in their prime.” I repeated the words I had practiced on the plane. “Is there someone I can speak to?”
She scrutinized me from head to toe for several minutes. I’d like to think I looked young, but I was sure I looked older than a college student. Well, I was older than most college students. But, really, you never knew. She finally seemed to come to the same conclusion. “There’s been a bunch of turnover, but I think Rhonda might have been here at the time,” she said more to herself than to me. “You take a seat, and I’ll call her over,” she instructed.
I thanked her and did as I was told. I waited impatiently for about five minutes before someone approached.
“Hi. How can I help you?” she asked.
“Rhonda?” I questioned. She nodded. “I’m Brooklyn,” I said as I held out my hand. She took it, but her eyes didn’t leave mine. She frowned as if she was trying to place me and visibly not figuring it out. It was the eyes.
