by J. S. Cooper
Chapter Twenty-Two
Twenty Years Ago
The first memory is the last memory.
I’m eleven years old. He’s fifteen. We live in the countryside. We’re adventurers, explorers, in a place and a time when parents didn’t worry about kidnappers. It’s summer so we can come and go as we please, two friends brought together by our love of leap frog, chasing butterflies, secret made-up languages, loneliness and books.
“Daisy, do you see the fireflies?” Small flashes of intermittent luminescent lights sparkle in the night sky, fluttering past our eyes in perfect symmetry. We’re lying in a field, the grass is dewy, the damp seeping into our clothes and bones, but we don’t care. We’re surrounded by sunflowers: big, bright, and yellow. We can’t see them in the night light, but I can see them in my mind. Hundreds and hundreds of sunflowers. The petals are a sunny yellow, the stems are hairy, itchy against our skin, the bright fern green leaves are slightly sticky, leaving a residue against our fingers every time we touch the flowers.
“Jake, do you hear the frogs?” We both strain our ears, waiting for the deep croaks from the nearby river. The frogs are loud as they jump from lily pad to lily pad, letting the world know that they’re proud of their progress through their wilderness. They stare at their reflections in the river when they land on the edge of each lily pad and I always wonder if they know how grotesque they are. We can barely hear them this evening as we’re in the middle of the field flat on our backs, eyes closed and farther away from the river than normal. We usually go swimming in the river after we play the star game, but the mosquitoes have taken over and made the river banks their resting place and we don’t want to risk getting bitten.
“Daisy, can you feel the water?” We run our fingers gently against the slick thick grass beneath us, tracing the small drops of water and grazing them down each blade of grass and then at the end, when we find the largest drop that we can, we press our fingers together gently as if fusing the microscopic droplets together, cementing our connection in the night.
“Jake, can you taste the honey?” We reach into our pockets and pull out the honeysuckle petals that we’d pulled from the bush in the next field before entering this one. The honeysuckle was intoxicating to us and the humming birds. We always sniffed the petals first. The scent was fruity and warm, comforting in an exotic way. Jake taught me how to eat the nectar. First we had to pull off the green part that held the petals together and then we had to gently pull the tail of the string from the petals. Then we licked carefully, the light delicate taste of honey delighting our senses as we stared up at the night sky, in companionable silence.
“Daisy, will you always remember me?”
“Jake, will you never forget me?”
“Always,” I say at the exact same time that he says, “never.”
Our shoulders rub together as we lie there next to each other, happy in each other’s company. Our voices are tinged with melancholy. There’s no doubt in either of our minds that we’ll be best friends forever, yet somehow we know this moment can never be replicated. We close our eyes and lie there in silence for a few minutes. Then he taps me on the shoulder and tells me we should leave. I try to hide my yawn as I protest, but he insists we go. Says my bed is waiting for me and my body feels warm inside as I think about snuggling with my teddies next to the radiator. We jump up and run through the fields quickly. I smile as I see his familiar backpack, swaying back and forth as he moves. He slows down by the blackberry bush to wait up for me, gives me a small smile as he hands me some blackberries he’s picked. I can’t fight the next yawn that hits me as I watch him stuffing a handful into his mouth. I grin at him sheepishly and he just shakes his head. We both know that he knows me better than I know myself.
That was the last time that I saw him. The last time that I was Daisy. The very last time.
Chapter Twenty-Three
New York City, New York
Present Day
My fingers move back and forth against the open air as I stand next to the bar, surveying the room. The crowd was large tonight, women were dressed in short skirts and low-cut tops, their laughs fake as they throw back thirty-dollar cocktails to make their companions seem more attractive and charming. I watch as one particularly attractive woman stumbles across the room in heels too high for her, guided by her less attractive, but still cute friend. A sea of men’s eyes follow the women as they make their way toward their table; hoping they’ll get lucky. The cute friend looks at me suddenly and offers me a shy smile as she holds her friends elbow. I stare back at her and nod slightly, my brain still concentrating on my finger movements. My fingers dance back and forth in the air imagining they’re pressing the keypads they know so well. I can hear the melody in my head as my foot taps involuntarily. My back stiffens as I feel fingers pressing into my shoulder. I look behind me, annoyed at the interruption and try to stifle a sigh as Liz, the bartender, smiles flirtatiously at me.
“Vodka and Sprite?” Liz offers me a glass as she throws her long blond hair behind her back. The resulting picture meant that the profile in front of me was a long slender neck and heaving breasts. All ready for the taking if I wanted it.
“No,” I say almost harshly. “I mean, no thanks.” I soften my tone and smile. My head is pounding as I stand there. From the corner of my eye, I can see the other saxophone players entering the room, ready to take center stage.
“You sure you don’t want one? Get you ready for the show?” Liz’s fingers run down my arm and it takes everything in me to not shake her hand off of me.
“No, I’m sure.” My smile feels forced as I lean forward trying to convey a calmness I don’t really feel. “But thank you.” I can feel my annoyance growing as she pouts. I’d just brushed my teeth in the restroom before I’d entered the bar. I wasn’t going to compromise my playing just to appease her by drinking a vodka and Sprite. I didn’t even like vodka and Sprite. And there was no way I was going to drink a sweet sticky drink. Didn’t she know anything? “I have to go.” I point toward the stage at the front of the room. “The show’s about to start.”
“So?” She looks upset and her lips pucker into a position I’m sure she thinks looks attractive, but which I think makes her resemble a rather ugly fish.
“Something like that.” My nod is my dismissal as I walk away from the bar. The stage is starting to get crowded now as the members of the orchestra take their seats with their instruments; each saxophone, trumpet and trombone shining like a fine and precious metal in the dim lighting.
The stage was slightly off-center in the room, dimly lit and it almost seems like an afterthought to the L-shaped design of the space. The walls that surround the stage-space have an almost hollowed out look with rough stone-washed yellow painted walls that somehow reminded me of The Flintstones interior. The Django title is painted on the wall in a bright red behind the band. The musicians stand there on the stage with their instruments proudly, vibrant and excited. I look around to study the crowd in the room. I wonder how many people are here to just listen to the greatness of the music? And how many people are here to be seen? Not that it really matters. The band gets paid either way; though the cash wasn’t about to make anyone a millionaire. There were a few couples that were sitting at tables close to the stage and I could see the eager anticipation on their faces as they looked forward waiting to be swept away by the music. The tables to the left of the stage were farther back and those guests were chatting among themselves and drinking, enjoying their conversations and flirtations, with no real care or regard as to the music that was about to begin.
“Hey, man, how’s it hanging?” An older man stops right in front of me and gives me his hand. I shake it reluctantly, not wanting to talk to him. “I haven’t seen you here in a while. You part of the set tonight?” His eyes are inquisitive and bloodshot as they dart back and forth along my face. I can tell that he’s already been on many somethings tonight.
“You still playing?” I ask him,
though I don’t care about his answer. I already know. I can tell from his raspy voice that it’s unlikely that he can blow for anything longer than two seconds.
“I try, man.” His voice falls as he looks down at the ground. “It’s been a rough last couple of years.” Surely not helped by the massive amounts of drugs he’d been taking I was sure.
“Paddy Planter?” An awestruck teenager carrying a bass on his back interrupts our conversation. “Are you the Paddy Planter?” He can barely contain his excitement as he stares at the old man next to me. “I listened to your Lazy Nights on the River Isis album almost every night in high school.” The kid holds out his hand. “I can’t believe I’m getting to meet you.” Paddy shakes his hand and grins, clearly happy that his talent is still remembered. “My name is John. I’m a student at the Manhattan School of Music. Bass player. I like to slap the bass.” He nods toward his back. “One of my teachers is part of the orchestra.” He then nods toward the stage and I take that as my cue to disappear from the conversation. I move fluidly and make my way to my position quickly. As the music starts to play, I feel my fingers moving as if they have a mind of their own. They know the music well as it was their scribbles that created the song. “Daisy’s Song.” It was an ode to that night. The night that everything changed.
Chapter Twenty-Four
San Francisco, California
Present Day
“Every good boy does fine. Every good boy does fine,” I mutter to myself as I stare at the sheet of music in front of me. “Every good boy does ...” My voice trails off as I forget the last word. “Shit.” I groan as I close my eyes. “Think, Sapphire, think.”
“Mumbling to yourself again?” Viola looks up from the desk where she’s filling out the latest New York Times crossword puzzle and gives me a small smile.
“I’m just trying to memorize these notes.” I sigh again. “Not that it’s helping. This is not a simple sheet of music. My basic knowledge of reading notes from piano class with Mrs. White is not helping me here.” I point to the white sheet of paper that was resting on my lap with dozens of black figures dancing up at me from the page.
“I forgot you took piano.” Viola stands up and walks over to me. “Don’t you still have a keyboard somewhere? Maybe we can try and play the melody and see how it sounds?”
“Really?” I look up at her and glare as I laugh. “All I can remember playing is “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” and something about starting with a C note or was it a D?” I blink at Viola who just looks back at me blankly and shrugs.
“I recognize a B and a G on this page and that’s about it. And I’m not even sure if this is a B, what are these two weird looking b’s at the front?” I point to the weird italicized Bs on the piece of paper in my hand. “I thought that spot was meant to have 4’s or something. One, two, three, four. Right?” I make a face as I look at her and sigh. “I have absolutely no idea what these other symbols mean.” I shake my head at her and sigh dramatically. “There is no way in hell that I can play this; plus remember what Jack said, he thinks it’s written for a saxophone or trumpet or something, so even if I could play the keyboard, I’d be unlikely to play this.”
“Are you a dumb-ass, Sapphire?” Viola bursts out laughing as she shakes her head at me. “Sorry, sorry, I don’t want to be rude, but . . .” Her voice trails off as she attempts to control her laughter.
“What?” I wrinkle my nose at her. “What’s so funny?”
“Hmm.” Viola blinks as she stifles her laughter and smiles back at me. I can tell that she’s thinking quite hard about something. “How do I word this diplomatically? Are songs written for certain instruments, Sapph?” She makes a face at me as she bites down on her lower lip. I shrug and then watch as she throws her hands up in the air. “I mean I’m not an expert or anything, but isn’t music music and aren’t notes just notes?” She sits down next to me on the couch and then her eyes widen as she looks at the sheet of paper in my hand. “Okay, I see what you mean. That looks like a very complicated piece of music. I don’t think it matters what instrument it was written for. You’ve got to be a frigging maestro to play this.”
“Understatement of the year.” I laugh. “I am nowhere near being a maestro. I didn’t even get a good grade in piano 101 class.” I feel slightly ashamed of how poorly I’d done in the class. How do you get a C in a music class? “So you see my dilemma right, Viola; every good boy is not doing fine with this piece.” I laugh again. “Not by a long shot.”
“So you still have no idea who’s sending the pieces?” she asks me, her voice sounding more excited now, with the possibility that I had more information on my mysterious music-loving midnight gift-giver.
“Nope, no idea at all,” I say as I shake my head. My fingers play with the piece of paper on my lap as if somehow I can figure out the answers through my fingertips. “This is the fourth sheet of music I’ve received now.” I pick up the paper and study it carefully and then sniff it, as if there’s possibly some trace of a clue in the crisp white paper in my hand. The black notes seem to float on the page as I gaze down at it. My heart races as I stare at the paper, wondering if it could possibly be from him? It had to be, didn’t it? I thought of the notes that had been attached to each sheet of music. The short notes that I hadn’t shared with Viola. The short notes that I couldn’t share with her because she didn’t know the truth. She didn’t really know who I was. She was my best friend in the world and she didn’t even know my real name.
“It’s so crazy that they all come at midnight, as well,” Viola says, not suspecting the inner turmoil that was cascading through me. “Like how much do you have to pay a delivery service to deliver a small package exactly at midnight.”
“I have no idea,” I say and think about the notes that had been attached to each sheet of music with a paperclip.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Twenty Years Ago
The first memory is the only memory.
There’s a small honey-brown teddy bear with a black and white polka dotted bow tie, a green felt hat that has an ugly pink rose sewn on it, a stack of well-read books, seven to be exact, and four letters, all of which are addressed to me. The envelopes are elegant, made of linen and my name is written in some sort of fancy ink in a calligraphic script. The items sit on a small reclaimed wood coffee table in the middle of my otherwise empty living room. I’ve not opened the letters or read the books. There’s only one other piece of furniture in the room. It’s a tall gaudy mirror that leans back against the sky blue painted wall, next to the entryway.
The mirror is a funny object; seemingly there to help us perfect ourselves, but most of the time, all it does is point out the imperfections that we can never change. I look at my reflection several times a day, every time I enter the room to be exact. Every time I look, I’m taken aback by something new. A mole on my cheek that I’ve never noticed before. A sadness in my eyes that carries the broken promises I can’t get over. A slight downturn of my lips telling of a bleakness that I can’t quite escape, even though my inner soul has no idea why I’m sad. I always try and smile at myself, try to make myself think that today I can be happy. Today I can remember. Anything. Everything. Me.
My name is simple. Daisy. Like the flower. Daisy. Like the nursery rhyme. Daisy. Like the last person on earth stuck on a deserted island. Daisy. Like being in a maze at night and the moon and stars are invisible. Daisy. Like being lost in space. Daisy. Simply Daisy.
I am certain of three things in my life. I am certain that on days when the burden feels heaviest I am at my lightest. I am certain that the clouds are filled with giggling angels waiting to jump down into fields of roses. And, I am certain that the beauty of the ethereal night is the only time I can be truly happy.
There’s a chestnut tree in the field directly behind my house. I like to go there on nights when I feel like I’m going to fall out of the sky. It’s comforting to run to the grand old tree, climb the rope and tire swing and glide back and fort
h in the wind. There’s a real thrill in knowing that I really could fall. There’s something satisfying in knowing that the fall would be real as opposed to in my head. I don’t remember much about the tree, but I know I’ve been there plenty of times before. I know this for two reasons. One is because Jake has told me so. The other reason is because my name is engraved in the bark. Along with a line from a poem, “I wandered lonely as a cloud.” Wordsworth is my favorite, or so Jake told me. When I go to the tree, it’s not that line that I look at, it’s the message engraved beneath. “You’ll never be lonely because I’ll always be by your side.” I don’t know who wrote it. I wonder if it’s Jake. I’m scared it’s not. I’m scared that it’s someone else. I’m scared it’s exactly who I think it was. I’m scared because I lost myself.
