by Ginger Scott
I see him completely fall apart for a full minute and a half. And then I watch him wash it all away, picking up his hat, smoothing out his hair before placing it on his head, climbing into his car, and driving to the opposite end of the parking lot.
Chapter 7
Casey
Sometime around three in the morning, I quit punishing myself with guilt for not going to see my family and replaced it with obsessing over Murphy. That’s also around the time I sobered up after having three shots of whiskey the second I came in the door.
Okay…four shots of whiskey.
And a beer.
And three beers.
And by sober, I mean…I mean lucid.
It’s a miracle I didn’t drunk dial her.
My yearbooks are all at my parents’ house, which is just putting myself back into the cycle of thinking about that thing that I’m not going to let myself think about. I spent the last two hours searching online for plan B. Plan B, of course, in my lucid state, was to find some land of all yearbooks online where I would be able to type in Murphy Sullivan and get a magic play-by-play of all of her high school greatest hits.
What clubs she was in.
What dances she went to.
Who she dated.
Who her friends were.
And…most importantly…what she looked like.
Of course, now the truly sober, and slightly hung-over, me knows that the magic yearbook-land is a crazy figment of my imagination, and I wasted a shitload of time on Google a few hours ago. My fuzzy mind is also in this weird place—like I’m on the verge of making a connection. I remember her, and I can even sorta, kinda, almost, make out what she looked like at seventeen. But I know if I could just get my hands on a photo, see a picture, it would clear it up.
Which is why I’m joining Houston and Leah for breakfast this morning.
“Juice me,” I say, opening the back door to the sound of frying bacon and the sweet scent of Joyce Orr’s cooking.
“Do you ever knock?” Houston says, flipping over a notebook on the table next to his breakfast, only glancing up for a second before scribbling more notes. He shoves a piece of toast in his mouth and mumbles to himself.
“Are we grouchy because we forgot to study and have a test today?” I tease.
Houston looks over to his mother, confirming her back is turned, and then flips me off.
“Mrs. Orr, your son just gave me the finger,” I whine.
“Houston, your daughter’s at the breakfast table. Show some class,” she says, never once turning away from the bacon in front of her.
Houston leans back and rolls his eyes, landing them squarely on me.
“Seriously,” he breathes.
“You started it,” I say.
“Uhm…okay. Whatever,” he shakes his head and returns to his notepad. “I did stay up late studying, for one test…but not the other. I had to practice my Spanish over the phone with Paige. I’m passing that class this summer if it kills me. The other test, this one,” he lifts the pad and lets it fall back to the table, “is just programming. I’ll be ready in five more minutes.”
I nod and slide out a seat at the table just in time for Joyce to put a plate of bacon and eggs in front of me and hand me a fork. She pats the top of my head like I’m seven. I love it. I love coming here. This house—it’s always been more of a home than any other place on earth. My mom’s half Italian, and her parents—my grandparents—were very loud and proud people, big on hugs and family. When I was really little, maybe five or six, I remember holidays with a full house and the smell of food. But when her parents passed, all of that sort of stopped.
My dad comes from a different world. His parents were hard workers, nose-to-the-grindstone people, and he was their only kid. Their house was always in perfect order, and I hated going there; I wasn’t allowed to touch anything. I’m pretty sure my parents had a big family because kids made my mom happy. If Dad had his way, I think they would have stopped at my sister, Christina. Because there were so many of us, I still got to experience being the runt of the litter with four big, loud, embrace-your-Italian roots sisters to beat my ass at every turn. Things only got quiet when Dad came home.
Home.
Hospice.
I shake away the thoughts creeping in, and dig into my breakfast, massive forkfuls of egg all at once. My plate is clean in less than a minute, and I prop my elbows on either side and run the napkin over my mouth.
“Daddy? Can I wear a robe to pre-school like Unco Casey?” Leah asks. She’s now standing next to me, tugging on the red, velvet sleeve on my arm.
“No, sweetie,” Houston says, standing from the table and reaching for her. He slings her up on his hip and touches her nose. “Uncle Casey is dressed like a bum, and I just don’t think that’s a good way to go to school.”
“All right,” Leah says, her voice disappointed. I’m rooting for the puppy eyes, because what’s wrong with going to school looking like a bum? Get your way, Leah!
Houston sets her down and pats her butt once as she sprints up the stairs to finish getting dressed.
“So what’s the deal? Why are you wearing your hangover robe?” Houston asks, sliding his notebook and laptop into his backpack.
“Uhm, probably because I’m hungover,” I say, not thinking that Joyce is standing nearby. She smacks the back of my head and points at me. It hurts. “I’m sorry,” I say to her.
She points at me once more with gritted teeth, just for emphasis. Over the years, Joyce has pointed at me like that a lot.
“Recording with Murph not go quite as planned?” Houston asks after his mom walks away.
“It was good,” I say, splaying my hands flat on the now-empty tabletop in front of me. I rap my fingers against the wood a few times, playing out Murphy’s melody in rhythm—only I can really hear it. “Hey, you still have your yearbooks?”
My transition into the real reason I’m here is neither suave nor subtle, and Houston chuckles.
“You still don’t really remember her, do you?” he asks.
“I do, I do,” I say, pulling my hat off and resting it on the table. Joyce walks by quickly and snags it, placing it on a hook by the door. I smile at it and run my fingers through my messy hair. “It just…I have this hazy picture, and now that we’re hanging out…”
I don’t know how to finish that sentence, so I shrug and roll my neck a few times.
“You want to know more about her,” Houston finally fills in.
“I don’t know…” I say, not able to look him in the eye. My lips purse.
He doesn’t prod. He also doesn’t say anything for about fifteen seconds, and it makes me really uncomfortable. For fifteen long seconds, my stomach squeezes and I picture her hands strumming her guitar, grazing over the small butterfly painted on the wood. I think about how one of the wings is larger than the other, and how her brother—Lane—probably painted it there for her. I think about that time in her house. I think about the stupid Bioré strip I let her put on my nose. And how cute hers was.
“You do,” Houston finally says through a light chuckle, breaking me from my thoughts. I nod just enough for him to notice and let my eyes meet his to admit my guilt.
He jerks his head toward the stairs, and I follow him into the hallway closet. He pulls a few boxes from a top shelf, finally sliding one out labeled HIGH SCHOOL STUFF, and then hands it to me.
“They’re probably in here, but I’ve gotta get Leah to pre-school and head to campus for my test. Just throw them in the box and leave it in the hallway when you’re done,” he says.
“Right on,” I say, bumping his fist.
He laughs under his breath, but I ignore him and step into his room, dropping the heavy box on his bed and discarding the various certificates and photo collages his mom made. I dive into our senior one first, because that one’s probably the closest to her looking like the version of her I know now. Our classes weren’t very big, so I get to the page of S students quickly and
scan until I see her name.
Murphy Lynn Sullivan: Theater, Chorus, Future Business Leaders of America. I smirk at how that third one doesn’t match the other two—or her. I run my thumb toward the center of the book and then I land on a very plain, quiet-looking blonde. Her hair is wavy, like it is now, and it’s long enough to cut off at the bottom of the picture. It isn’t purple, and other than a large flower pin on the side of her head, tucking back a small braid, there isn’t much that’s flashy or memorable. All this picture does is confirm my hazy memory. This is how I pictured her, and I’m starting to think that maybe that’s what she was in high school—a haze.
I flip through the pages until I get to the section for group photos, stopping at the chorus one and running my finger over every penny-sized head until I find one in the middle that looks like it might be her. This photo doesn’t help, so I flip through more pages to the theater section, repeating my process on the group shot until I get to her. She’s standing in the front on this one, wearing a dress that looks a little more like the kind I see her in now. It’s red with large black polka dots, and she’s wearing black tights and Doc Martins. The image still isn’t familiar, but it makes me smile.
Hoping for more, I flip the page and am greeted with a spread of photos from the various plays performed at the school. I’m about to give up that she’s in here when one on the bottom right catches my eye. Her hair is darker in this photo—I think maybe dyed—and she’s wearing a dress that looks like its made of rags. She’s clutching another girl around the waist and looking out into nothing. Her eyes—the gray—my god.
My god.
She’s somehow appearing to cry without tears. I think about how if she hits it big in music, I’d put her eyes on her first cover. I should tell her that. Right after I tell her that I’m crazy, and that I apparently stalk her and stole my best friend’s yearbook so I could bring it home and look at this photo when I can’t sleep at night.
I toss the rest of the photos and papers back into the box and leave it by the closet as Houston asked, then head down the stairs and give a short goodbye to Joyce as I grab my hat from the hook and leave, the yearbook tucked inside my robe. I don’t reveal it until I’m in the safety of my car, and I laugh at myself, because I’m behaving absurdly. Joyce would tell me to just take it, and Houston hasn’t looked at it in years. There aren’t even many signatures in it, other than mine.
Before I pull out from the driveway, I flip the book open against my steering wheel and land on that picture wishing I could black out everything but her. I read the caption—which says the play was Helen Keller starring Murphy Sullivan—and smile. Of course, she starred in the play where the lead never speaks. I linger on her eyes for another minute before forcing myself to slide the book to the passenger seat to drive home. I leave it open, though, because I want to look at it a few more times.
I want to remember her more.
I want to go back in time and get to know this girl. Of course, then maybe she’d never write an anthem about me, and then she’d never have this shot that she has right now—this shot to make it, to have a hit that people play on the radio and download on iTunes. And she’s got one. I couldn’t trade her dream for my own gain. And that’s a first for me.
That’s an only.
Murphy
It didn’t take much.
Lane asked if he could see Casey again sometime, and suddenly I found myself in the car on the highway headed south toward his apartment with Lane in tow—at least, toward what I hope is his apartment. I Googled him and this is what came up.
I probably should have called and asked if he was home, or at least called to confirm his address. That would have been smart. But then he would have had the opportunity to tell me he was fine, and I wouldn’t have known for sure, because I feel like a person kind of needs to see someone to really get a read on how fine they are.
“Do you think Casey will let me play music on his stuff? Does he have stuff like that at home…like at the studio? Like you described? Can I record a song, too?”
Lane has been super curious about how the whole recording thing works ever since I got home last night. Frankly, it was nice having his questions there to distract me. It kept me excited and thinking about the song and what might happen to it. It kept my thoughts on how it sounded when Casey put the headset on my ears. It reminded me of the smile on his face when I listened.
I didn’t dive into the other visual—the one of him falling to pieces—until Lane went to bed. And then, I thought about nothing else. When sleep came, I dreamt his pain.
The irony that this one guy I wanted to never—not ever—notice me, is now not only consuming my thoughts and dreams, but he’s spurred me to action. I filled up the tank and drove the forty-five miles or so to the other side of the city suburbs just to make sure he’s okay. All under the pretense that my brother wanted to see if they could hang out.
I laugh once out loud as I wait at the light before the last right turn that leads to his apartment, a light rain beginning to fall and dust my windshield. I’m being ridiculous. I have no plan beyond knocking on the door. He’s going to think I’m nuts.
“You should turn on the wipers,” Lane says, swaying his fingers back and forth in front of his face.
I smile and thank him, pushing the button to clear the window. I leave them on low, and by the time we park in the only free space along the road near Casey’s apartment, the rain is pouring down. I should leave. This is a really stupid idea.
“You ready? We should run,” Lane says.
I’m letting him call the shots. Coming was his idea. I keep lying to myself.
“Right,” I smile, pulling my purse from the floor in the back and clutching it to my front as I pull the keys from the ignition. “On the count of three, okay?”
“Okay,” Lane agrees.
“One,” I begin, pausing for several seconds as my eyes watch the rain blur everything on the other side of the window. I shouldn’t say two. I should leave, go home and wait—wait for him to call about the song and forget everything else. Quit worrying about things that don’t concern me.
“Two,” Lane finally says, clearly ready to run, his hand poised on the door handle.
My breath hitches with fear, but he doesn’t turn to look at me. He doesn’t catch subtleties, and he’s locked in on this visit. He wants to see his new friend. I nod and bat my lashes slowly. These next five minutes—they’re going to hurt.
“Three!” I shout, and we both fling our doors open, slamming them in our wakes as we spring up the slick walkway toward the door marked one twenty-nine.
There’s a small eave above the door, and it shields most of us from the rain, but with every gust of wind, our backs are pelted with freezing cold water. Summer storms in Oklahoma are not to be reckoned with.
“Casey! It’s us!” My brother is yelling and pounding a fist on the door, and my eyes are lit up like stadium lights. Oh my god!
“Dude, Casey’s…” starts a man wearing an outfit that looks like it came right off of Mr. Rogers. He twists his head to one side as his eyes bounce between me and my brother. “He’s not home…yet?”
He says it like a question. Am I supposed to know where Casey is?
“I’m sorry. We should have called first,” I say, putting my arm around Lane, whose shoulders are about as sloped as an anthill now.
“He’ll be home soon. It’s…it’s fine; come on in,” the guy says as we’re turning to leave.
I’m about to argue that it’s all right when Lane shrugs off my hold and steps around me, into the dark apartment. I have no choice but to follow.
“Okay, thank you,” I say, my lips tingly with the awkward smile I’m forcing on my face.
“I’m Eli,” the man says, rubbing his right hand dry from the soda he was holding, but has now switched to his left hand. He holds his palm out to shake, and I do.
“I’m Murphy,” I smile.
His eyes squint and a smirk begins o
n his lips as he points a finger at me.
“Yeah, you’re the chick with the song, right?” he asks, stumbling ahead of me toward the couch. He quickly grabs a few open gaming magazines and closes them, setting them on the coffee table before picking up no less than six empty beer cans. He shakes out a blanket that’s wadded in the middle of the sofa and spreads it out.
“Have a seat,” he smiles, gesturing to the couch.
Lane leaps into the far corner of the sofa, and I slide to sit close to him, a little self-conscious that we’re soaking his couch and the knit throw he put down to protect it.
“So, the song?” Eli asks again.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I smile.
“Casey’s going to make my sister famous,” Lane says, his cheeks like cherries and his smile beaming. I glance from him to Eli and shrug, hoping he understands that my brother is sort of an optimist. He sees the world in bright colors, full of possibilities. I wish I were more like him. I’m working on it.
“I bet he is,” Eli says softly. He isn’t making a joke or mocking us; he’s being kind.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” Eli asks, and before I can answer, Casey’s voice booms from behind me.
“No more shots, man. I can’t drink any more of that shit in the bottle today…” he trails off as he steps into the living room, a plastic bag looped around one arm. His eyes land on me with surprise.
“I’m sorry. We should have called,” I say, tucking the folds of my skirt under my legs nervously. “We can go…if you have plans.”
“No!” he cuts in quickly. Eli chuckles and walks into the kitchen, and I catch Casey glaring at him briefly before looking back at me. “No, I’m glad you’re here. I uh…I got some sandwiches from the store. Houston…he works there, and he makes them at the deli. I didn’t get enough, but they’re big, so…”
