chapter Fourteen
The door creaks a little and the musty smell of disuse hits me as I enter my studio. My audition is just weeks away, and I have no idea if I can play a scale, let alone an entire collection of pieces.
I can use my arm again, but my range of motion is limited. I need to be able to extend my shoulder parallel to my body, both left and right, to go up and down the keys. If I don’t lift my fingers too far off the keyboard, I’ll be okay.
I start simple with a slow, three-octave scale. The middle octave is no problem because I can hug my arm to my side. It’s the upper and lower octaves that are a challenge. When I move up the keys and my left arm crosses in front of me, I stumble. White heat radiates up into my neck, across my back and down my arm. For a second, purple stars burst in front of my eyes. The lower octave isn’t so bad.
“I wondered when you’d give it a try,” Daddy says from the doorway. “You able to do anything?”
“It hurts. Really bad. I think I need a few more days for some of the soreness to go away.”
“That’s what I told Isaac Laroche just now.”
The mention of his name sends my heart into overdrive.
“He was here?”
“No. I called him. I figured you’d want to start practicing again ASAP. Your audition’s in a couple of weeks, right?”
“Yes.” Like I need a reminder that the most important day of my life will be here in three weeks and four days.
“Then you’ve got a lot of work to do, and you’ll need help.”
“Does he know about…?”
“I called him the morning after you went into the hospital. Told him you’d been injured and couldn’t play for a while. I didn’t go into details. Said I’d call when it looked like you were up to practicing again. I can’t believe you stayed away this long.”
“Neither can I. And he said he’d be over?”
“Tomorrow after therapy.”
Wow. Um, okay. Does that mean he knows he falsely accused me of being a two-faced bitch and Marcie Swann’s stooge? I wonder how much he’s talked to Dave.
Dave. Another complication. I’ve tried not to think about it, but while Isaac was mauling me at Felix’s, he did say he’d thought about me. That way. If he knows now that it wasn’t an act…
Looks like tomorrow’s practice will be more painful than my arm.
***
“Still think I’m pretending?”
Isaac’s eyes go wide as he takes in my appearance. His gaze travels quickly to take stock of the damage. My shiners are more yellow today than green. There are still some bruises and scrapes on my arms, and I’ve lost fifteen pounds. A stomach full of mood stabilizers and pain pills sent my appetite into a death spiral. Granted, I had a few pounds to lose, but now I look a little gross. A little like her. I wonder if she’d be proud that she’s had this effect. I wouldn’t know since I haven’t gone to see her. Daddy bugs me about it, but I can’t. Not yet.
Isaac reaches out a hand to touch my face, but I recoil.
“I deserve that. Thought Dave exaggerated. I… Jesus.”
“Isaac, why are you here?”
“Your daddy called.” He stares at his shoes.
“Is that it?”
“You know it’s not.”
“No, Mr. Laroche, I don’t know anything.” I twirl a strand of hair around my finger.
“Didn’t…I don’t…not very good at this sort of thing.”
“What, apologizing? For being a complete jerk?”
“Yeah, that. Don’t usually care enough about people to bother.”
“Let me guess. You’re only here because you need the money from Daddy, and you feel like you owe him for what he did all those years ago. Yeah, I know about that. What I don’t know is how you could think I would side with Marcie Swann.”
“You’re right. I do need the money. And I do owe him.”
I grit so hard my teeth squeak. “Bastard. Get out.”
“Let me finish. What I’m most sorry about is I didn’t see this coming. Should have guessed about the scratches on your arms and bruises, and I knew you lied when you said you got mugged outside of Felix’s. I was there that night. You weren’t. I knew it was a lie, but I didn’t ask the right questions. I was too freaked out when you...” The tops of his ears redden. “Half expected Marcie Swann to jump out of your closet. And then at the New Year’s party.”
“That’s dumb. I don’t think she’s been to our house since I was little. Well, since your case.”
“I didn’t know that. I know how the Mystics are. They stick together. Unless your daddy dies and leaves you without a huge life insurance payout and an inheritance. Then you’re a poor relation twice removed.”
“Or unless your family sticks up for someone who was unfairly accused by the most powerful family in the Mystics. Not the most popular move my daddy ever made.”
“I was gone. Didn’t know how it all turned out.”
“Now you do.”
“Now I do.” He hangs his head and buries the toe of his shoe in the carpet pile.
I clear my throat. “So where does that leave us?”
“Leaves me to apologize. For being a dick, and an ass, and any other vulgar body part you care to compare me to. Sorry I didn’t believe you, and sorry if I scared you at Felix’s. If I’d known what you’d come home to.... Dammit, I—” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “All those times we argued and you flinched or cried. Thought you were being dramatic to get my hackles up. But you were scared, weren’t you?”
I shrug.
“Julianne. Please look at me. I am so, so sorry. It was not my intention to scare you or hurt you. There’s no excuse, but I hope you know I was only trying to get you to do your best. Music requires passion, and I forget how young you are.”
I can’t get past the shape of his mouth and the intensity in his eyes when he said “passion.” I’m trapped in his gaze, and I go all wobbly. After a deep breath, I ask what I really want to know.
“What about the other stuff?”
“Other stuff?”
“The, um, stuff you said before you asked how much she was paying me?”
His face turns crimson. “Think it’s best if we leave that alone. We have major work to do in the next couple of weeks, and I won’t fail you.”
I’d love to leave it in the past, but it surfaces every time I’m not thinking about Mama, or the audition, or Dave, or, you know, not breathing. Now that I’m a week or so removed from the incident at Felix’s, and I know he never planned to hurt me, I have to admit it was something. Thrilling? Perhaps it’s a sick, Freudian side-effect of my “hostile dependency” and “passive-aggressive tendencies”. Why can’t I be satisfied with someone nice, like Dave? He does all the right things, he’s funny and smart and talented.
And vanilla. Wonderful, but still vanilla, at least compared to Isaac. There’s something about Isaac’s massive presence and the challenge of winning him over. I like that I have to earn his attention and praise. There are so many musicians who’d kill for a minute with Isaac Laroche.
My ruminations come to an end when Isaac asks me to sit at the piano and show him what I can and can’t do with my injury. The results aren’t promising.
The next day, I walk into physical therapy and Isaac’s deep in conversation with my therapist.
“A little overkill, don’t you think?”
“Need to know how quickly you’ll regain your range of motion and if there’s anything we can do, any adaptations we can make, to get you through the audition,” Isaac says.
I’m impressed. Daddy’s never come to one of my therapy appointments, not that I’m surprised. He chooses to spend his spare time with her, at her appointments, bringing her things at the treatment facility.
I’m on my own, as usual.
***
Something’s up. When I pull into the driveway after therapy, Daddy’s Lexus is in the garage. I shove open the back door, and he’s setting the table for three.
Not two, three. Which means…
My bag thumps when it hits the floor, and the room tilts a little to the left. My breath comes in short gasps.
“You okay, sweetie? I got a surprise for you.” Daddy looks up and turns pale when he sees me gripping the counter.
“W-why are there three plates?”
“Well, that’s the surprise. In fact, here he is.”
He? I turn to the kitchen window and see a tall, solid form approach the back door. When it bangs open, I throw myself into his arms.
“Now that’s what I call a homecoming. Glad to see you, too, Sis.”
I squeeze his neck as hard as I can and grab fists full of his shirt in back. I don’t even try to control my sobs. “I thought…three plates. I didn’t know.”
“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” he says, smoothing my hair.
Behind me, Daddy groans. “Juli, it never occurred to me you’d take it like that. Thought you’d be happy R.J. was home for the weekend.”
R.J. plucks my arms from his neck and looks me in the face. “You okay? I thought I’d surprise you. Daddy made fried green tomatoes, your favorite. Let’s have a nice dinner, all right?”
I nod but hover close to him.
An hour later, I find out the real reason R.J. is home. He rinses while I load the plates into the dishwasher. He flicks me with water.
“Have you talked to Daddy at all today?”
“No. No other day either. Why?”
He twists the washcloth in his hands. “They diagnosed her.”
“So?” She’s been diagnosed with so many things that I’ve lost track.
“She’s seeing some new doctors, not Dr. Beatty again.”
Dr. Beatty is the unofficial doctor of the Mystics. He was alive during Reconstruction, I swear, and still believes in mustard plasters and ground ginger root tonics. He prescribed rest and a soothing atmosphere for Mama when she first started her moods. Eventually, he recommended wine before bed. Then he finally gave in and put her on antidepressants, increasing the dosage every few years. Then he’d add another. And another. The windowsill looks bare without them lined up like little soldiers.
R.J. wipes his hands on a towel and slings it over his shoulder. I shut the dishwasher and wipe down the counter.
“Well? What can we blame this time?”
“They went back and did her whole history. Remember when we were little and she wouldn’t get off the couch to make lunch? They think that was lingering postpartum depression. Daddy says it started when she had me but got really bad after she had you.”
“So it is my fault.”
“Stop.” He pulls the dishrag from my hand. “None of it is anybody’s fault. I’m just telling you their diagnoses. Anyway, it got better for a couple of years, but when we hit high school, she started backsliding again.”
He doesn’t have to remind me. Once, I forgot to make my bed before school. When I got home, the sheets were thrown all over the room, and the mattress was standing upright against the wall. She had found my journal underneath. That episode lasted three days. Another time, R.J. got caught making out with a girl whose parents weren’t in the Mystics. Mama grabbed her by the hair and threw her out the door without saying a word. Fun times.
“You ever heard of PMDD?” he asks.
“Are you serious? They’re blaming it on PMS?”
“No, not PMS. Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder. It’s worse.”
“Are you going to pull out textbooks? Because I have better things to do.”
“Listen to me. Don’t you want to know about this?”
“You’re the psychology major, not me. Can you give me the Cliffs Notes version?”
“Sarcasm is a defense mechanism, you know.”
“Oh, shut up. Give me your spiel so I can get out of here.”
“The disorder is characterized by substantial disruption to personal relationships. Common symptoms include despair and anxiety, mood swings and crying, lasting irritability and anger, insomnia or hypersomnia, feeling out of control, and being unaware of the impact you have on those close to you.”
“You sound like a pill commercial.”
“In its worst form, you can be so out of control that you harm others or yourself. Like that lady who drowned her three kids in the bathtub and then called 9-1-1.”
“Well, I guess I got off easy then.”
“There’s that sarcasm again.”
“I wouldn’t be me without it.”
“Juli, it’s genetic.”
“Sarcasm? You don’t say.”
“Stop it. So is Borderline Personality Disorder.”
“Awesome. Are we done?” I kiss R.J.’s cheek and make my way to the studio. I stretch my arm the way the physical therapist showed me, but it’s no good.
“Dammit!”
A sharp pain makes my whole body tense. I rub the spot. I try again. A knife rips through the muscle, triggering pain throughout my torso. And that’s when I know: I can’t do it. I can’t audition. Years of lessons, hundreds of competitions, thousands of dollars on a piano, a million frustrated tears—all for nothing. Mama got her wish. You’re not going anywhere. You’re not leaving this room. And you’re not going to Boston.
I’d love to cry. I’d love to scream. But all the meds have made me incapable of crying. I wish they’d stop Mama’s words from replaying every night in my dreams. Words that linger long into the day, haunt every move I make, and every bit of progress.
She stands behind my physical therapist who tells me I’m doing better but should be further along by now.
“You’re not trying,” the therapist says.
If she could see the grinning specter that peeks over her shoulder, she’d understand. But she can’t. I’m tempted to tell my other therapist, but he’ll drug me up even more if I admit I see Mama. She stands over the piano and hovers over my bed at night with a pillow, poised to smash it over my face.
No, I have to keep this to myself. Isaac doesn’t understand either, when I tell him my decision the following day.
“You said yourself these eighty-eight keys are your ticket out of here!”
“I can’t do it, okay? She wins. She always wins. You think this isn’t killing me?”
I stand at the south-facing window and watch the street lights flicker on as darkness settles over the live oak branches. Inside the dimly lit studio, Isaac and I are on the verge of an argument that’s been building since he first showed up at my physical therapy appointment.
“You can’t be serious. Juli, I will be royally pissed if you don’t go through with this. Your whole life has led up to—”
“Stop. Please don’t make this worse, not that it could get any worse. I’ve dreamed about auditioning at the NEC since I was ten. Not Juilliard. Not Eastman. The NEC. Then, when you showed up, I figured it was meant to be. Nothing could stop me. I had no idea this would happen.”
I pull my arm closer to my body.
“But I can’t. I have two weeks to the audition, and I can hardly move my shoulder. I can barely play at all, let alone good enough to get in. They’d laugh. It’s over.”
I slam the lid shut on the keys and begin to put away my music. I turn my back to Isaac so he can’t see the devastation on my face. Better to get this over with now rather than draw it out. I need to push him away so I resort to my old stand-by—anger.
“I’m sorry if you wasted your time with me the last few months. This was just a job for you. You got your money, so I don’t see why you should be upset.”
“You really think this is about money?”
The rage washes over me, completely unwanted, unnecessary, and some part of me wonders if this is what Mama feels like when she goes crazy. The words tumble out, not even making sense. Why am I mad at Isaac? Hysterical laughter bubbles up inside.
“You know what’s so funny? I thought we were the same. I thought your problems were just as bad as mine—that you understood. But they’re not, and you don’t.”
Stop, Julianne. This is the time to stop. For the first time, I answer myself: I can’t stop. I can’t.
“You’re just like everyone else. You run when things get tough. You push people away and make up stupid excuses for dropping them. ‘You are replaceable.’ Isn’t that what you said?”
“Juli, quit.”
“No, you quit. Did your mama ever beat the shit out of you? Did she ever dislocate your shoulder so you couldn’t play? Put you in the hospital? Humiliate you? Ruin the only dream you ever had? I bet your mama never even raised her voice to you.”
He crosses his arms. “You done yet?”
“Done? Are you kidding? I haven’t even started!”
The colors in front of me swirl red and black with gold bursts. My heartbeat is in my temples and I just—I just… I want to kill someone. I want to make someone pay for what’s been done to me. I am not done, and it is not okay. I want to tear this studio to pieces, kick out the windows and bring down the goddamn rafters! I settle for bringing down Isaac.
“You think I should magically rise above this, like I’m just a whiny little princess. Well, you know what? Screw you. I did what I could, and it wasn’t enough. My problems don’t disappear with a paternity test like yours. I don’t get to mope around about interrupted hookups from a decade ago.”
He grits his teeth so hard that I can hear it from where I stand across the room.
“Listen to yourself,” he drawls. His voice is too calm. “Reminds me of someone.” He tucks his tongue into his molars and cocks his head as if he’s thinking. “Oh, I got it.”
He wouldn’t dare. He wouldn’t.
“You,” he says, “sound like your mama.”
Icy fingers trail down my spine, even as heat roars through my head. I’m going to f*cking tear him apart.
“Then I might as well act like her.”
I lift the plant on the stand with my good arm and hurl it at his head. He ducks and it crashes against the wall, raining dirt and shattered pottery all over the carpet. I lunge and slap him across the face. It makes a satisfying crack, and I want more. I pull back to hit him again, but he catches my arm in midair.
“You think I’m like her?” I hiss. “Don’t want to disappoint you.”
I drive my elbow into his stomach, meaning to shove him into the window. I imagine shards of glass piercing his smug face. But when I throw myself against him, he doesn’t budge an inch. It’s like hitting a solid, infuriating wall.
At the last second, I change tactics. I jump up on my toes and kiss him. Not an I-have-a-crush-on-you kiss. I want to hurt him. I want someone to see us and call him out on it. Beat the snot out of him. Throw him in jail. He once used me as his whipping post. Now it’s his turn.
I want revenge.
I snake my hand around to the back of his head and yank his hair as hard as I can. I mean to pull out a handful to throw at him. He shocks me by kissing back this time. It’s the kind of kiss that will still hurt tomorrow—raw, passionate, and painful, as I sink my teeth into his lower lip.
He groans from somewhere deep in his throat and grips me tighter. For a brief moment, I wonder if he can strangle the fight out of me. He bites back and I gasp, not from pain but because I want this so badly. He backs me against the piano, his mouth never leaving mine and his fingertips hot on the skin at my waist. We’re tottering on the edge of something major. He’s not an awkward guy my own age. No, Isaac knows exactly what to do, even though he shouldn’t be doing it.
He knows it, too. He backs away, eyes as wide as I’ve ever seen them.
“No. This isn’t happening. This didn’t happen.” He shudders.
Good.
“I’m leaving. I’ll be back Monday, but this—” He shakes his head. “No.”
True to his word, he spins on his heel and leaves the studio, banging the door on his way out.
I lick my lips and taste blood.
***
I make an effort to participate in the dinner conversation with Daddy and R.J., who’s home again for the weekend. He seems to be doing that a lot lately. I wonder what he’d say if I told him I saw Mama at the sink, a scowl etched on her face.
I help clear off the table after dinner and place the dishes on the counter in the kitchen, but I won’t go near the sink. She’s still there. I thought I was being smooth about it, but R.J. and Daddy exchange funny looks, so I guess I better find a way to distract myself, like homework. Homework? It seems so pointless now.
One thing I know for sure: I won’t go back out to the studio again to practice.
I hide in my room. I need to dissect what happened this afternoon.
What did happen this afternoon?
I gather my blue pajamas and take them across the hall to the bathroom.
So I went a little psycho. It happens, right?
Considering all I’ve been through, I think I’ve earned it. Besides, he had it coming.
Who does that remind you of, freak?
I lock the bathroom door, undress, and turn on the hot water until it hurts. What do I say when Isaac comes back? If he comes back. Will he be mad? Embarrassed? Quit giving me lessons again? I told him I wasn’t going to audition, but I don’t think he believed me.
I step into the porcelain tub and pull the shower curtain around on the rings. I stick my face directly into the boiling spray, first one side then the other, and let the water run down each side of my neck to relax the muscles. The tightness in my shoulders eases up, so I turn around and let the water soak my hair from behind. I shut off my brain for a few minutes and just feel—the softness of my hair when I massage conditioner through it, the smoothness of my skin when I run the rose-scented soap over it, the painless whisk the razor makes as it glides over my legs, the warm inner glow when I look down and realize I look more like a woman than a girl.
He wants me.
There it is. The thought I’ve avoided all night—three simple words imbued with a complexity I don’t understand. I mean, there’ve been hints off and on, but nothing concrete. Nothing I could absolutely put my finger on…or taste.
I shut off the water, grab a towel, and dress for bed. I almost forget my glass of water for my nightly infusion of Merck and Pfizer chemicals. Wouldn’t want to go into withdrawal. I open the door and shriek.
R.J. stands with his hand raised like he’s about to knock. “Um, sorry?”
“R.J., you scared the crap out of me!” I whack him on the arm.
“Sorry, Sis, you were in there a hell of a long time, and I need to get to bed early.” He peeks past me into the bathroom. “Did you use all the hot water? It’s a sauna in there.”
“Do you mind?” I brush past him and walk into my room, stopping in front of my mirror to grab a hair pick off the vanity.
R.J. leans against the door frame. A little too casually, he says, “Hey, I was in the backyard this afternoon and saw Isaac Laroche peel out of here like his ass was on fire. You know anything about that?”
I slam the comb on the vanity. “Yes, R.J. I lit his ass on fire. Happy?”
I stick out my tongue and continue to pick through my tangle of wet hair. It’s grown out pretty fast since the chop-chop. R.J. hesitates, then disappears into the bathroom.
“Damn, girl! You did use all the hot water!”
***
Cold night air penetrates the antique, wavy-glass windows of my bedroom, so I bundle up under a couple of layers of sheets and blankets. But then I feel smothered and throw them off. And then I’m cold again. Ugh. The clock says one-twenty-two a.m., but I haven’t slept a wink.
He kissed me back. Sure, he said I sounded like Mama and pushed me away, but that was after. After he tugged my hair. After he smashed his mouth and tongue into mine.
I doze off, then jolt awake. If I do audition, what happens if Mama shows up? What if I go stark raving mad and scare the judges? I already have a date set. Daddy scheduled those days off work to take me, we’ve booked the hotel room, plane tickets, and we have the pieces picked out and arranged. It’s a done deal.
But, my shoulder. What are you really afraid of?
Sometime toward dawn, I dream about armless mannequins who lurch at me as I run through the neighborhood at dusk. I’m trapped in a dead-end alley and spin around, panting, expecting the mannequins to close in on me. They change into the ladies from the Mystics, waving their hats and leering at me with gaping, over-lipsticked mouths.
I wake up with the blankets and pillows on the floor. I shiver and my shoulder is stiff. I pull the white bedspread back up and wrap myself like a cocoon.
I should be thinking about whether or not I’m going to audition, but there’s only one question on my lips—What am I going to say to him?