chapter Six
A mockingbird sings outside my window. The sky is a shade of blue that’s unique to southern Alabama. Still giddy about yesterday’s almost-normal shopping trip with Mama, I plan to make a big breakfast for everyone: eggs, grits, bacon, and coffee. I pull on a light robe to cover my arms and open my bedroom door, but I nearly trip over the full laundry basket in the hall. At my feet are my new clothes, neatly folded and smelling fresh.
She did my laundry?
She did my laundry!
I try to stuff it down, but a little bubble of elation starts in my belly and works its way up to my head. It ends in a goofy grin. I dance the basket over to my bed so I can put away my new things. I lift the first shirt off the pile. There’s a big bleach spot on the lower-right corner near the hem.
I didn’t use any bleach.
Maybe there was some left in the tray when I threw them in the washer.
I have to hide this from Mama.
I stuff the shirt into the back of my bureau. I return to the basket and pull out another shirt. And another. The pants, too. They all have giant bleach splotches.
I sink to the floor, head in my hands. She did it again. She ruined that golden day, knocked it from the pedestal I already constructed under it. I don’t realize I’m crying so hard until Daddy rushes into the room in his boxers and white undershirt. My throat rips apart, and my head is in a vise of my own making.
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! How could you fall for that?
Daddy grabs me by the shoulders and gives me a once-over.
“She did it again! She did this!” I throw one of the shirts at him.
Understanding spreads across his face, and I watch both his mouth and the shirt fall. He looks so tired and defeated, so much older than he really is.
She bolts through the door, a skeleton in a nightgown. She cries as loud as me. “I’m so sorry, Juli, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to do it. Honestly. I don’t know what came over me. You know Mama loves you. You know it, don’t you?”
She has her arms around my neck and hangs on for dear life. She sobs into my chest, and I want to feel sorry for her, but in my head I shove her into the wall. Before that happens, Daddy pries her arms from my shoulders.
He’s too late. She transferred some of her sickness to another host: me. Her poison seeps through her hands and tears and into my veins. I cover my face and hurl myself onto the bed.
I hear Daddy herd Mama out of the room with hushed words, followed by the soft click of my door. I grab a pillow and scream, and scream, and scream. I try to dislodge the painful lump in my throat, but I don’t know if I succeed, because it’s late afternoon when I wake. I haven’t eaten anything, but someone’s pulled a blanket over me, and there’s a glass of water on my nightstand.
I grab the scissors and get to work.
***
It’s two a.m. and I stare at my pock-marked ceiling. Headlights throw shadows onto the opposite wall, so I pull my coverlet over my head. No dice. It’s the middle of the night and still I think, think, think. I flip on my laptop and check my e-mail. And Facebook. And Twitter.
Refresh. Refresh. Refresh.
I glance at the scissors on my desk. My arms already look like raw hamburger.
It’s still warm, so I only wear boy-shorts with my long-sleeved shirt. At the back door, I pause but decide not to put on my flip-flops because they make too much noise. Once inside the studio, I lower the shades and flick on a small table lamp. Enough to see the keys but not much else.
I’m not even sure what I’m doing. Are the answers here? They’re certainly not in my room. Answers to what? I don’t know that either. I need a distraction. I try to play but can’t. As I breathe in and out in the semi-darkness, I desperately want to let go of everything by putting it to music.
I can’t.
I raise my fists to pound on the keyboard when I remember the rest of the world is asleep. That’s when the tears finally come. Hot pearls of weakness drip down my face, plunking off my chin to the ivories below.
Guilt. That’s what this is. And loathing. I had too much time to think today. You’re so self-centered. No wonder Mama hates you. All you can think about is your own problems.
I’ve been taking things out on Isaac. I see that now. Just when I master a piece and he’s pleased, I change my mind. I think about our latest exchange. We’d been hammering away at the same piece for over an hour.
“It’s not working. Let’s try something else.”
“Yes, it is. The fact that you can’t see it worries me.”
“You’re just saying that so I’ll shut up and get this over with. What do you care, right? I’m just a dumb high school kid. In fact, why don’t you leave?”
“Oh, come on, now. Don’t be—”
“What? Don’t be stupid? Crazy? A bitch? Little late for that, don’t you think?”
His face had been incredulous. It’s embarrassing when I think of how I treat him. It’s moments like this that I realize how easily I can be like Mama, how I’m just one step away from turning into the monster I fear. Maybe that’s the worst part of the whole thing—somewhere deep and real, I hold a piece of the monster within. I can allow it to surface anytime I want. And often when I don’t.
I know what I need to do. Now. Right now.
I wipe away the tears, grab my keys from the kitchen and pray no one hears me leave. There’s no way I’m getting on a bus at this time of night, so I’ll just have to take my chances with the car. It sounds like an airplane engine when I start it up. I drive south, past the cemetery and deeper into the historic district. The trees are bigger and older here. They branch out over the street on both sides to create a canopy. Despite the dark, it feels safe.
From a block away, I see Isaac’s lights. I’ve never been to his house, but I cased the place when I snooped earlier in the summer.
You’re scary. You know that, right?
He stays in a narrow, brick Victorian in the heart of historic downtown. It’s seen better days. A lone streetlight reveals green chipped paint on the tall front door and a yard like a jungle. Giant elephant ears and banana trees throw shadows over the sidewalk and rusted iron fence.
From the curb, I see right into the front room with its bizarre red walls, sparse furnishings and black baby grand in the center of the room. When I realize Isaac is sitting at the piano, I hesitate. Up until now, I’ve been bent on getting over here, breaking down the door and telling him what I need to say. Now, I’m rooted to my seat. I roll down the passenger-side window and kill the engine.
I watch.
He repeats a pattern: scribbles on paper in front of him, puts a pencil in his teeth and plays a few notes. Paper, teeth, play. Paper, teeth, play.
He’s composing.
Out on the street, I barely hear the notes, but I bet they’re beautiful. Only one way to find out.
Before I lose my nerve, I slip out of the car and up the crumbling steps. A stray cat darts into the bushes. I raise my hand to knock when Isaac plays again. It’s much easier to hear now. It’s a lullaby. He’s composing a lullaby.
I listen for a while, but the mosquitoes make a feast out of me, and I can’t stay on his porch forever. I move from the door to the window and tap on it with my knuckle. His head jerks up, and the pencil falls from his teeth.
He knocks over the bench when he stands, and that’s when I notice he doesn’t have on a shirt. He must realize it, too, because somewhere between the piano and the front door, he’s pulled one on. The door jerks open.
I shouldn’t have come here.
“What happened? What’s wrong? You hurt?” He quickly looks me over then out at the street beyond.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Then what are you doing here? This neighborhood isn’t safe at night.”
“Technically, it’s morning.”
“Semantics. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Can I come in?”
He blinks. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” He stands back, and I brush past into a tall foyer. The house is a disaster, like someone was in the middle of a renovation and walked away. There’s scaffolding on the staircase, big white buckets at the bottom, and the finish on the hardwood floor has worn away. It’s the dull, grayish color of decay.
“Sorry about this mess. Guy who owns it is a friend. He lets me stay here as long as I fix it up.”
“Couldn’t you stay with your mom or uncle?”
He shrugs. “Both offered. But I like it here. It’s a challenge, and it’s got character.”
I wander into the room with the piano. It must have been a formal parlor in the past, the ornate crown molding and baseboards still mostly intact.
My steam is gone. I came here for a reason, but I can’t seem to work up the nerve to say what I need to. Instead, I inspect Isaac’s things. Well, lack of. Next to the piano is a floor lamp whose cord disappears into a dark corner. In the opposite corner is a weight bench, and below the front window is a sad futon whose glory days probably ended with Isaac’s college graduation.
“Where are your shoes?”
“What?”
“You’re barefoot. Where’re your shoes?”
I look down. I am barefoot. Huh.
“I was in a hurry to get here?”
“Don’t mean to sound rude, but you wanna tell me why you showed up here in next to nothing in the wee hours?” His eyes linger on my bare legs.
I take a deep breath. “I came here to apologize. I’ve been thinking about how self-centered I am, and how I take everything out on you. I couldn’t wait another minute to make things right. Now that I’m here, I see that interrupting you in the middle of the night was pretty self-centered, too. I’m a constant screw-up. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so…difficult.”
“Juli, I know—”
“Please, Isaac, let me finish or I’ll lose my nerve.”
How much do I tell him?
“I’m sure you’ve guessed, but things at home…I can’t give details.” Chicken. “But I’ve got a lot to deal with. When I get angry, it’s because I’m mad at myself, not you.”
There. I said enough, but not too much.
“Kinda figured.”
“Did Mr. Cline tell you anything? About me?”
He leans against the door frame with his arms crossed. “No. But he did tell me to look after you. Wasn’t sure what he meant. Want to explain?”
“No.” Look after me? I’m not completely helpless…am I? “So what were you playing when I interrupted?”
“Oh, just something that’s been running through my head. Couldn’t sleep until I got it on paper.”
“Life hands you insomnia, so you write a lullaby?”
“I guess.” He chuckles.
“Can I hear it?”
He runs his fingers through his already tousled hair. “Why not?”
I settle on the sagging futon and tuck my legs underneath. Isaac rights the overturned bench and plunks out a few measures.
“It’s not done yet. Just tinkering. Not much to hear. Sorry.”
“Mmm, it’s okay. It’s beautiful.”
It’s dreamy, actually, just like a lullaby should be. Kind of like the music box Mama got me for my seventh birthday, with a miniature ballerina that twirls in the center, around and around until she slows and someone has to wind her up again. I close my eyes and smile.
When I open them, the room is much lighter and my neck is stiff. I smell coffee, and my stomach rumbles when I stretch. There’s a sheet over me that smells like Isaac’s clothes. I press it to my face and inhale.
This is nice. Weird, but nice. And no nightmares last night.
Bare feet whisk across the hardwood floor. Isaac hands me a steaming cup of coffee in a New England Conservatory mug.
“Everything looks better—”
“—by the light of day.” I finish his sentence. Aside from chivalry is not dead, it’s Mr. Cline’s favorite saying.
“Listen, I left a message at your house so your parents wouldn’t worry. Said you were upset about a piece and wanted to go over it. And you passed out on the couch.”
“Thanks. But I doubt anyone noticed.” He gives me a funny look. “Trust me, they’ve got other things on their minds. Their pain-in-the-butt daughter is pretty far down the list.” I take a sip of coffee so I don’t have to say any more.
Isaac heaves a sigh and motions for me to scoot over. “Okay, listen. I’m going to tell you something. About a theory I have.”
“About me? Oh, sorry. There I go again with the selfish crap. It’s not all about me.”
“This kind of is. Both of us. It’s artistic burden, the theory that all creative people like being weird and moody and need some…unbalance or crisis. The thing that makes us great is the same thing that drags us down. Writers and painters suffer, too.”
He totally gets it. He totally gets me.
“So you understand?”
“Yep.” He knocks his knee against mine.
“Of course you do. You would. Guess it would be pretty self-centered of me to think I’m the only one with this problem. Thanks, Isaac. For letting me crash here. And everything else. I can’t promise I won’t get pissed and yell at you, but I’ll try not to throw anything at you.”
“Sounds fair.”
We both grin.
On the drive home, I think more about what he said, about the need to be a little crazy. Would I wish away all of the craziness in my life? Most of the time, yes. Well, parts of it. I’d wish away Mama—no, her illness—in a heartbeat. I still love her. She wasn’t always like this. I’d stop the scraping, but I’d keep my personality. Yet, if Mama’s illness and the scraping disappeared, and Daddy was around more often, would I be who I am? Would I be able to play like I can?
It’s scary, this back and forth. It’s horrible to feel out of control. There are times when the howling and raging eclipses everything else in my head. I have to obey or implode. And yet, there’s the tiny part that says “Stop. Enough.” I’m grateful for that flicker of restraint, even as I want to stomp it out. It’s the voice that delivers guilt, both good and bad. Enough guilt to make me quit acting like her, but more than enough guilt to throw me back into chaos. It’s inescapable.
Loudest of all is the little voice of sabotage that whispers You’re not as good as you think. This won’t last. There are so many others who are better. They can see you’re a freak and a fraud. They know your secrets.
Turns out, I’m not the only one with secrets.