Abby Road (36 page)

Puzzled, I moved my eyes back to her. Molly’s expression was frantic and broken. Had something happened? I didn’t know, because I couldn’t think, couldn’t remember. I didn’t let myself.

“You know I would never do that to you. Ever. Except . . .” She lifted a hand, reaching out like she wanted to touch something on my cheek.

That was when I remembered what had happened earlier that day. She was right. I’d totally lost it, came unhinged. And in front of everyone. I moved my own hand up to my cheek, flinching in pain at the touch and the memory.

Molly flinched, too. “Abby. Abby, I’m so sorry.”

I stood in front of her, not able to recall what I’d done to deserve the slap, although I was sure I had. Had I shrieked at someone? Punched an intern? Or simply checked out, walking dead? I did recall that afterward, everyone else in the control room had gone back to their tasks. Show’s over. Nothing to see here. Molly had driven me home, though, and her eyes, when she finally managed to look at me, had been bloodshot—matching mine, probably.

It was settled then, I decided, as I stared past her at my wrought-iron gate. I would not allow myself to emote, especially at the expense of Molly, someone who was only trying to hold me together while watching me fall apart all over again. She had practically moved in with me after Christian died. This time, however, I was cognizant enough at least to
attempt
not to drag anyone else down. I didn’t wish to have any witnesses for part two of my personal unraveling.

If memory served me correctly, the numbness would be along soon enough. I could wait for it. Throwing myself utterly into my job had worked before. I supposed I had
that
much to look forward to.

Molly was crying now, because she knew I couldn’t cry, which is what friends do. I loved her for it, even though I couldn’t express it. All I could do was push her away, tears streaming down her cheeks as she stepped backward off the porch and into the light October rain.

Because I am Abigail Kelly: superstar.

In the past few weeks, I had worked the red carpets, lost eight more pounds, met with Habitat for Humanity, recorded five of my older songs in Spanish, and shot a jeans ad for The Gap.

No arguing, no drama. Not a blip in the radar.

I was a marvelous faker, about as stable as a house of cards on a windy day.

Not until I got home at night, locked the door, and closed the blinds did I choose to feel. Feeling was not my friend. Feeling brought pain. Pain brought memories. Memories brought more pain. I was stuck in the cycle of my own creation.

The danger that accompanied falling into a self-inflicted stupor—keeping everything subterranean—was that every once in a while the volatile fault lines would shift and expand, and then the quake would leave me straddling my own San Andreas Fault, one foot on either side. Which was probably why Molly had been forced to slap me out of whatever state I’d been in. As I heard her drive away, my shame was insurmountable. But shame had to wait its turn.

After Molly left, I sat on the floor in the middle of my living room and stared out the window at the darkening sky. This was a common routine, although more than once I caught myself staring at a wall or watching a candle flicker out, eyes burning from not blinking, waiting for the night to be over.

He’d called once, the day after he left. I hardly recognized his voice. He wanted to make sure I’d made it in to work. After that, my calls went straight to his voice mail. I stopped calling after two weeks. I stopped hoping after three.

Funny how one thing could set off another, and another—the irrepressible domino effect, reopening old, sloppily stitched-up wounds that never quite healed, everything I fought so maniacally to keep under control, to desperately squelch. All of those hungry monsters were crawling to the surface again, tearing out the stitches.

So it was back to the necessary separation of my life: peas not touching the meat, meat not touching the potatoes, potatoes not touching the salad.

Once again, fooling the world.

“I’m coming to town,” Lindsey announced.

“When?”

“Next weekend. Just me. Steve’s taking the boys to park hop in Orlando.” Lindsey made a gagging sound over the phone. “I hate Disney World.”

“Mmm,” I replied.

“So? How’s it going?”

“Fine. Really busy. Lots going on. It’s an exciting time.”

I was getting pretty good at the twice-weekly phone calls from Florida. Lindsey’s voice still reeked of skepticism but had thankfully lost its anxiety after a month. I started racking my brain for conversational topics when I knew she would be calling the next day.

My knees were bent and pressing into my chest as I sat wedged in the corner of my ivory couch. “Max thinks I should go blonder,” I offered, as I absentmindedly began tugging and wrapping a hunk of hair around one finger. “He’s thinking Marilyn Monroe meets Gwen Stefani. Might go well with the new record. It’s got a retro Hollywood vibe to it.”

“How does it sound?” Lindsey asked.

“Uhhh . . .” I had to think fast, because although I’d been singing those songs for two months, for the life of me, right then I couldn’t remember a single track.

“It’s no
Sergeant Pepper
,” I finally said, “but it’s good.”

“I’m interested to hear it.”

So am I . . .

I was relieved; my sister didn’t seem to be in a particularly nosy mood that day. Those “other” conversations sucked the most. She seemed to be in the mood only for a chat. Molly had also stopped looking at me like I was in some kind of full body cast. It seemed like things were finally getting back to normal. If by normal you mean comically tragic.

“
People
mag did a cool spread on you this week,” Lindsey said. “Two pages, and the pictures are nice. The article is about your philanthropy in New Orleans. I hope it’s true.” She laughed.

“Believe what you want,” I replied.
You always do, anyway.
I cringed, not liking how snarky my thoughts had become. Lindsey didn’t deserve it, but I couldn’t help myself.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

“Hmm.”

“Why do you sing?”

“Because I suck at science.”

My sarcasm had sharpened over the past few weeks, and my old chum, cynicism, was back with a flare. At least that was definitive proof that I was still alive.

“No,” Lindsey said, without as much as a chuckle. She wasn’t humoring me after all. So this wasn’t a social call like I’d thought. My stomach felt tight and hollow. “I mean,” she continued, “why do you sing for a living?”

“Beats tap dancing.”

Her frustrated sigh was audible through the phone. I put a hand over my eyes, wishing I could hide my shame.

“Does it make you happy?”

“It used to—” I cut away, knowing I’d slipped up. When I had taken her call five minutes earlier, I had no intention of being open about anything. I was not about to get trapped into saying something I’d regret. Thus began my backpedaling. “Is there a reason you ask?” I said, my apathetic mask securely in place.

My sister didn’t answer for a moment. I heard voices in the background. She was probably fussing with her boys or building an eighteen-layer cake or knitting a sweater with one hand or any of her other perfect Super Mommy tasks.

“I was just wondering,” she continued. “You seem willing to give up a lot for it.”

“Everybody has to make a living,” I offered, unwilling to allow the conversation to go where she wanted it to. “I haven’t won the lottery yet.”

“Okay,” Lindsey said after another sigh. “I can see you’re not in the mood.”

I didn’t reply, eager to be off the phone. I had things to do, after all, like getting back to my busy hour of staring at the wall.

“But Abby, I want you to listen very carefully.” Her voice was different, stronger, almost defiant, which worried me. “As your older sister, I am permitted certain privileges, responsibilities, and inalienable rights.”

Uh-oh.

“And there are a few things I need to say to you.”

I waited, blinking and flinching like I knew a line drive was about to rocket directly at me.

“Are you listening?”

I swallowed hard, disinclined to risk another sarcastic remark. “I’m listening, Lindsey,” I replied, trying to hide the consternation in my voice. I continued looping the hair around my finger, tighter now. The painful pounding at the tip of my finger made the aching in the other parts of my body seem less noticeable.

Before I had time to lift up my mental baseball mitt, Lindsey’s line drive smacked me right in the face. “Abby, Christian was murdered, and you think that was your fault.”

The new pain hit like a brain freeze. I couldn’t breathe.

“You feel too ashamed to even
talk
to Mom and Dad about it,” she went on. “And because of all your misdirected, gratuitous guilt, you put everyone else’s needs before your own, because you’re terrified of disappointing anyone, to the point of making yourself sick. You’re petrified of the man who runs your career, and by some
crazy
miracle,
someone good comes into your life who’s willing—”

“Stop!” My voice echoed through the empty house like I was in a cave.

But I had no follow-up. I just needed her to stop.

“You lost him,” Lindsey said in a small voice.

“I didn’t
lose
anything, Lindsey. He
left
me. There’s a very distinct difference.”

Weird. I heard the words exiting my mouth, but I didn’t know where they came from. Words, or even thoughts like those, had been hidden for weeks, stuffed back in some dark region in my mind—bright yellow caution tape blocking the entrance. Danger: Do Not Enter.

I felt embarrassed that my face was flaming red, even though no one was around to see it. I hadn’t planned on this. I wasn’t prepared. For the most part, Lindsey had respected my unspoken decree of silence about this topic. Now here it was. Here
they
were. She managed to level five taboo accusations at me in one fell swoop.

“I just think,” she said, “I think there are some things you need to take care of, and you need to do the right thing.”

Her words set my teeth on edge, hearing his exact words from the night he left. My heart pounded in my ears. It was exhausting.

“Are you still assuming we—”

I cut her off. “Why did you just say that?” My voice sounded like a growl. I didn’t mean for it to come out that way, but I couldn’t control it.

“Say what?” my sister asked apologetically.

I didn’t answer her.

“Talk to me.”

“I don’t know
why
you keep trying to get me to talk about things.” My words came out in a rush. “It never helps. Don’t you think I know I’m pathetic? Is that what you want to hear? Yes, he’s gone forever, and it was inextricably
my fault
. Yes, I am wretched to my nucleuses about it every minute of every day.” I was suddenly not sure which man I was talking about. My throat constricted, the familiar snake.

“Why does this keep happening to me?” It was a rhetorical question. I’m not even sure where it came from.

“Abby.” Lindsey’s voice surprised me, even though it sounded calm and patient. “I’m your sister, and I love you very much, but the choices you make . . .” She trailed off, like it should’ve been evident what she was leaving out. “This isn’t like you. This isn’t how you used to be. First, the way you’re dealing with Christian, and now Todd.”

My fingers grabbed and squeezed the front of my hair at the roots. A part of me knew what was about to fall out of my mouth. It was easier to comment on
his
name instead of the other. “He never gave me a reason that night,” I said, leaning forward, attempting to quash the knot in my stomach. “Not one that made sense. He was pissed at Max, but so what? One minute he was telling Max he was going to marry me, and the next minute he was gone. Oh, but not before telling me that my life is a mess, and that he couldn’t handle being with me anymore. Did you know
that
, Lindsey?”