Between Dreams (2 page)

Maybe we would have been happy with an average cookie-cutter house. Rene doesn't know what we like.

I suddenly despised her. She was an inconsequential human being.

Just as I was complaining to myself, Ray met me at the top of the stairs with a smile so big I thought maybe he’d eaten the Cheshire cat. I couldn’t help but be reminded of why I had fallen in love with him in the first place.

Ray had that All-American boy next door look to him. He really didn’t look anything like a lead vocalist in a rock band. He had tan skin, blond hair, blue eyes, and nary a tattoo. He actually looked more like a surfer or a young Leo DiCaprio. Maybe that’s why the record label signed him. They wanted to brand “rock” with a new look. Of course, they were extremely talented. They were really good. At least I thought so, but then again I may have had a biased opinion since I was sleeping with the front man.

“Is this house amazing or what, Sid?” Ray asked, as he gawked down the steep staircase. “Check out these windows, it’s like a freaking church up in here.” His voice echoed off of the walls.

“Yeah, I feel like I’m at Mission Santa Inez or something. I can’t believe people actually live here.”

Ray grabbed my hands and pulled me towards him, his blue eyes shining brightly with excitement.

“
We
live here, Sid,” he reminded me as he bent down and kissed me.

I closed my eyes and held on tightly to his strong shoulders. We had been dating for two years and it still gave me butterflies whenever he was close to me.

He pulled away. “Our room’s over here.” He anxiously pulled me to the west wing of the palace. We entered through two wooden castle-like doors and crossed into a bedroom that was the size of the entire lower level of my house back home.

The room housed a giant king-sized, four-poster bed covered with a white goose down comforter and red velvet pillows. The ceiling was pitched, covered in the dark wood with giant beams crossing. Looking up, I saw a beautiful mid-century bronze chandelier with faux candles hanging down that served as the focal point of the room.

In addition, there were two sets of French doors that opened out to our private balcony overlooking an orange orchard that seemed to stretch for miles. On the opposite wall was a set of dark mahogany doors that opened into a fully furnished walk-in closet.

There was a beautiful bouquet of red roses placed on the built-in dresser with a card attached. I picked it up.

Congratulations on your newfound success! We wish you all the best of luck. Please accept this small token of our appreciation. To be in the public eye, you must dress the part.-Compliments of Black Millennium Records.

In the closet hung some of the most expensive pieces of clothing I had ever seen in my life. They had all of our sizes perfectly measured.

“Weird.”

“What’s weird?” Ray asked as he plucked a brand new hat off of the hat rack and placed it on his head, covering up the mess of blond curls. He did it so carefree, as if the hat had always been his.

It was that easy for him to just take something that didn’t belong to him. I don’t know why witnessing his behavior here bothered me so much, but it did. Just because it was there and readily available, didn’t mean he should just take it.

“Everything. The limo, the house, champagne and now clothes. Nothing in this world’s free, Ray. What are we going to have to do to pay it back? It’s almost like you made a deal with the devil or something.”

“Don’t be crazy, Sid. You know we worked hard for this. The label sees our potential, they know we can make ’em a lot of money. This is just an investment to make sure we stay with them. It’s Hollywood, babe.”

“Sympathy for the Devil,” I countered as we walked back towards the bedroom.

“Does your mind ever stay in the present or is it always clouded by all those stupid movies you watch?” Ray asked, becoming agitated with my analogy.

Ray hated the fact that I related every movie or piece of music to my life. You would think that being an artist himself he would appreciate that trait of mine but he found it utterly annoying.

Just as we exited the closet we were greeted by Finn holding a second bottle of that expensive champagne. He must have found more in the kitchen, which reminded me of my task. I turned to Ray. “Rene needs to see you in the kitchen, something about more papers to sign.”

“Don’t worry about it, man,” Marc said as he entered our bedroom with Rich at his heels.

I grumbled to myself, “I can see it now, this place is going to turn into an ongoing meeting ground where privacy is never an option.”

Marc tossed a plastic card at Ray. “For emergencies. Rene gave us each a card, in case we need to fly back home or something.”

Ray took the credit card and placed it inside his wallet—it seemed to be growing fatter by the day.

“Man, this is B.S,” Finn chimed in. “Just ’cuz you brought your girlfriend, you get the biggest room in the place?”

He unhappily plopped down on the overstuffed couch.

“Well, I suppose this could have been you, Finn,” I said, referring to him and Chrissy.

“Are you kidding me? You think I’d be crazy enough to be strapped down to some girl at a time like this? Chrissy missed the biggest opportunity she ever had. She’s gonna be miserable five months from now. And me, well, I’m gonna be here, whoring it up Hollywood style.”

Ray gripped me around the waist and kissed my cheek. He slowly brought his lips to my ear and whispered, “Please don’t get him started on Chrissy. Especially after he’s been drinking.”

Finn and Chrissy had dated the entire four years of high school. They were two peas in a pod. A couple that everyone idolized. She was captain of the cheerleading squad and he was the All-Star quarterback that every girl had a crush on. Of course they were named homecoming king and queen in addition to being voted cutest couple in their senior superlatives. So you can imagine it came as an utter shock to all of us when Chrissy broke up with him.

Christine Simpson Kyle.

She came from an upscale family and expected her life to be no less comfortable than what she had been accustomed to her entire life thanks to her wealthy father, Dr. Kendrick Kyle.

When Finn gave her the exciting news about the band being signed to a recording contract, it crushed her. She had their entire life mapped out, and he being a famous guitarist was not part of her plan. Chrissy expected Finn to go medical school and become a doctor just like her father. Anything less than that simply would not do.

So, she broke up with him, leaving him destroyed. She also told me time and time again that I was making a terrible mistake giving up my dream as a track star and following Ray down to L.A.

“I’m telling you, Sidney. You should take that scholarship and run as fast as you can away from Ray.” She told me.

But I could never leave Ray. He was the love of my life and we were in this together.

Or so I thought.

Until I received the phone call that would change the course of my life.

There was only one thing that could tear me away from Ray, my granny.

When news about her having a stroke reached me, I had no choice but to rush to her side, ultimately leaving Ray.

Chapter Two

Life

Noddington Heights was a small town just outside the foothills of the Sierra Nevada in Northern California. It was basically a desert wasteland in between the hustle and bustle of the big cities and the cool refreshment of the mountains. It was the place where everyone drove through, but no one ever stopped.

The Heights were flat, dry, and unbearably hot. The naturally-yellowed landscape intertwined with a few trees and rolls of grass that were ineffectually laid down in a feeble attempt to bring a green lushness to this hideous backdrop. This is where I’d grown up and this is the hell I desperately wanted to escape.

The town was established in 1852 during the California gold rush, when people from all across the world hastened to California in hopes to “strike it rich.” The town flourished for three short years before miners realized their hard work didn’t pay off as easily as they had hoped, causing most people to pack up their belongings, shut down their stores, and return home to places like Arkansas and Oklahoma.

A few idiots stayed and planted their roots in this town. My ancestors must have been in the latter category because here I was 150 years later, stuck in this god-forsaken place. I had spent my entire life dreaming of escaping this town, and by the time I turned eighteen, I’d been provided with two exceptional opportunities.

So why was I still here?

I couldn’t leave my granny.

Granny Emmy was like a mother to me. My birth mother committed suicide when I was just six months old by jumping in front of a train. The doctors had diagnosed her with postpartum depression, and sadly, without the proper medication, her life ended in tragedy, forever altering the path of mine in its wake.

My grandmother spoke very rarely of her daughter, which didn’t leave me with much knowledge about her life or where I came from. There was one picture of her in a small frame that rested on top of the piano in the formal living room. That was all I had of hers, save for her favorite CD by the country musician, Jewel.

After my mother’s death, my father couldn’t handle being a single parent, so he dumped me off with my maternal grandmother and never looked back.

Being abandoned by both of my parents before my first birthday had a profound impact on my self-esteem—and not in a good way. I’m sure psychologists would have a field day studying a case like me. I pray they never get the chance.

Although I didn’t have my parents, Granny always assured me her love was more than enough. She participated in every aspect of my life as a child and treasured me as if I were her own. She wanted nothing but the best for me, enrolling me in piano lessons by the age of five and cheerleading for me as I went through school. Money was never an issue for Granny, whatever extracurricular activity I wished to engage in, she always ensured that it was provided to me.

Later on in middle school, I found my true passion on the track field. Running gave me freedom.

Six weeks ago, while I was off gallivanting through the mansion in Los Angeles, Granny Emmy suffered a major stroke which left her helpless; unable to speak or move.

My dear Emmy was always a vivacious woman with a variety of colorful opinions which she frequently expressed in the most outspoken of ways.

Her final wish was pounded into all of us: “If anything ever happens and I’m lying there dependent on everyone around me, I refuse to leave the comfort of my own home. I have money, use it to pay for a nurse. I don’t want to be stuck in an old folks’ home.”

Then she would flash that compelling smile of hers, reminding me, “I worked hard for my money and it should be used as I damn well please!”

And so I fulfilled my granny’s famous last wish. I flew home the day of her stroke and made arrangements with Chrissy’s father, Dr. Kyle, who also happened to be Granny’s primary care physician.

The doctor had instructed me, “You do understand that your grandmother is going to need round-the-clock care, Sidney.”

“I understand it will be a demanding job, but I promised my granny I would do whatever it took to keep her at home, instead of in a nursing facility,” I adamantly said.

Dr. Kyle placed his hands on his hips and peered at me through his silver-rimmed spectacles. He snatched his clipboard off his desk and began scribbling notes on the pad.

“All right, Sidney, if this is what you want I won’t argue with you. But I understand you’re working at a grocery store and planning to register as a part-time student at the local community college. If those are your plans, I recommend you hire a live-in nurse to assist you with your caregiver responsibilities. They’re not to be taken lightly.”

He ripped the piece of paper from his clipboard and handed me a copy. “Take this over to the in-home care unit of the hospital and they’ll set you up with one of the nurses.”

I accepted the slip of paper and thanked Dr. Kyle for his time. Thinking of what he said about the grocery store, I was relieved I hadn’t jumped the gun and quit my job before I headed to L.A.

As I headed out of his office, I stopped at the door and turned back to face Dr. Kyle. The doctor had already seated himself behind the cherry wood desk and was studying a stack of papers. He glanced up when he noticed that I was still there.

“Yes, Sidney?” he questioned.

Despite the fact he was extremely busy, he pushed everything aside to assure that all of my questions were answered with his full attention.

“Uh, do you know…?” I played with my long brown hair as I nervously fiddled through my brain and struggled to find the right words to my question. “…How long someone in my granny’s condition lasts?”

It came out heartless. I didn’t mean it that way.

Dr. Kyle put down his pen and brought his hand up to his chin as he thought about my question. He finally turned to look at me and answered softly, “It’s hard to tell with something like this. Sometimes it’s weeks, sometimes it’s years. Every case is different. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance to you. Go ahead and get that nurse situation in order now.” He picked up his pen and went back to his work.

As I headed down the sterile hall of the hospital on my way to the in-home care unit, I thought about Dr. Kyle’s answer.

Granny could need my help for years.

I wondered if Ray would wait for me. As it stood now, he was calling every other minute asking when I was coming back. Breaking the news to him that I could be stuck in this town for years might lead us into World War III. I dismissed the unpleasant thoughts of Ray’s insensitivity from my mind and focused on Granny.

***

Dr. Kyle approved Granny to move back home within a week, but she could no longer retain her bedroom upstairs and so I asked for Chrissy’s help to assist me with the task of moving Granny’s bedroom downstairs.

The large Craftsman home where I had grown up had five bedrooms: two downstairs and three on the upper level. I arranged my old bedroom on the ground floor to be Granny’s new room. It was the brighter bedroom of the two and was situated in the back of the house that oversaw a beautiful rose garden. I reasoned this would work out perfectly because the room across the hall could be set up as a nurse’s residence.

As Chrissy and I planned to sift through the years of boxes in Granny’s closet upstairs, we discovered the massive undertaking we faced. The large pink bedroom always appeared to be immaculately clean with the queen-sized bed nicely adorned with a floral quilt. The chestnut dresser shined with a fresh coat of furniture polish and the mirror lacked any streaks.

The furniture was beautifully preserved and in place. That was the good news.

Chrissy had an expression for the bad news. “Holy crap, Sidney,” she said as she opened the closet. “It looks like a bomb went off in here!”

As she gaped into the space, I peered in to see enough crammed boxes and clothes to sink a cruise line. Adding to the task at hand was the dark, musty space which may or may not have necessitated oxygen masks. Chrissy leaned against the door jamb of the closet with her arms crossed in defiance. Even as she pouted, the girl was still stunning.

As expected, she hadn’t arrived dressed to work, but instead waltzed in wearing zebra-printed skinny jeans and a black loose fitting tank top with slits cut down the back, revealing her sun-kissed flesh. Her blonde hair was curled and the top was teased to add that extra bit of volume. Standing in her white heels, she shook her head back and forth as she came up with an alternative plan in lieu of attacking the devastated closet. “Come on, Sidney. Let’s go do something fun. We can do this some other stupid night. It’s Saturday and I want to go out.”

She focused her hazel eyes on me as she pleaded her case.

Ignoring her, I stepped into the closet and pulled the long chain attached to the single light bulb that hung from the low ceiling.

“We’ll go out next weekend, Chrissy,” I shouted over my shoulder. “Let’s just focus on emptying these boxes. If I’m going to switch Granny bedrooms, then I am going to need this closet to store my clothes. We’ll make two piles, one for things we’ll keep, and the other for donations.”

I grabbed the first box and brought it out into the room, placing it on the soft carpet. Chrissy growled and kicked off her heels, harder than she intended, sending one flying through the air and smacking into the wall. It knocked a chunk of plaster out before landing harmlessly on the floor.

I let out a huge sigh as my shoulders fell forward, “Really?” I asked, already growing agitated with her tantrums. “I guess now I’ll be forced to paint over this hideous pink.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled as she headed into the closet and appeared momentarily with a battered box.

As suspected, most of the boxes were just junk, and sorting through them proved to go a lot faster than we’d both anticipated. Chrissy even discovered an old, tan leather jacket that must have belonged to my grandmother in the ‘60s. She absolutely adored it and so I let her have it as payment for helping me clear out the closet. I was certain the next time I saw her she would have already bought matching boots to accessorize it.

We were making excellent time, and midway through our second hour, Chrissy came out of the closet, hoisting a heavy box that seemed to be giving her a run for her money.

She dropped it to the floor and rested her hands on her knees, breathing heavily. Still staring at the box, she asked; “Sidney, what’s your mom’s name again?”

Without thinking, I answered, “Emmy.”

Christine shook her head in disagreement. “No, your birthmother. Was her name Isabelle?”

Instantly, I stopped sorting through my box of old clothing and looked over at Chrissy. It was not often that the name “Isabelle” was mentioned inside these walls. In this house my mother’s name had always been shunned.

Closed up and locked away in a vault, my mother’s memories filled up a cardboard carton hiding a terrible sin when she had taken her own life. For that, my grandma believed she was in hell, subsequently becoming a disgrace to our family. She was the dirty laundry Granny chose not to air out.

Chrissy spun the box around and I saw the letters handwritten with a black sharpie displayed on the box.

ISABELLE.

I crawled quickly on my hands and knees to the box as if it were the last drop of water in a hot, dry desert. I ripped the cardboard flaps open, anxious to sort through its contents. I was disappointed to find nothing but books.

As much as I loved to read, I was hoping to learn a little more depth about the person my mother was. I started to toss them one by one into the donation pile as Chrissy took a break to reapply her mascara. When I got to the bottom layer I noticed a small tin case no bigger than a pencil box. I pulled it out and lifted the lid. Inside there was a picture of my mother, a man, and a baby.

Chrissy threw her mascara into her large Luis Vuitton bag and peered over my shoulder.

“That’s you as a baby,” she observed. “Your grandma has a picture of you wearing that same dress down on the bookshelf in the living room.”

I held the picture, intent on steadying my shaky hands. The man in the picture must have been my father. I had never seen him before but I could only assume it was him. This picture must have been taken when we were still happy. So many years had gone by since then. I didn’t remember this part of my life. It may as well have never existed.

Chrissy let out a long whistle through her lips. “Wow, Sidney. You look just like your mom.”

I looked at the elegant woman in the faded, tarnished photograph. She possessed the same long, brown hair as mine but that was where the similarities ended. Unlike my deep set football-shaped eyes, hers were more pronounced—rounder with long black lashes complementing them. She had a tiny button-like nose that fit perfectly on her face and a radiant smile full of the whitest teeth I had seen. She was wearing an exquisite brass necklace that held a sparkling emerald pendant. The stone was such a spectacular shade of green that it immediately caught my attention.