Healing Melody (7 page)

“Maybe you’re making it seem worse than it really is. You’re being too critical,” says Randy.
 

I feel a knot of anger growing inside me. I just want to be left alone. I don’t want anyone telling me what I should do, or that I’m overreacting. They don’t understand what I’m going through.

“Melody, I’m just –”
 
begins Randy.

“Trying to get your ten percent,” I snap, cutting her off.
 

Randy looks at me, shocked. The floodgates of rage have opened, and I’m far from finished. “You and I both know a new album and tour will make money. Why? Because everybody loves the scene of an accident. And that’s what I am: a human car crash. I can see it now. My nasty face plastered all over the entertainment news. Sure, I’ll get some sympathy media coverage for a while; but then it will stop. Why? Because nobody likes to look at a freak for too long. We just want what’s beautiful. I could have the voice of an angel and the talent of the gods. But if I’m ugly, nobody buys tickets. We’d rather swim in a sea of mediocrity as long as it looks attractive. You and I both know, Randy, that ugly people never make it in this business. And I’m hideous now. You’re just hoping I knock out this last album and do one last tour so you can squeeze whatever your ten percent is worth. Then you’ll quit being my agent. Which is fine, because my career is over anyway.”

Randy looks visibly hurt. “How can you say that about me, Melody?”

“I just did.”

Randy looks at the floor, at a loss for words. She takes a deep breath and raises her hands. “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt here, Melody, because you and I go way back, to the beginning when you were performing in coffee shops, remember? You slept on my couch countless times because your mom and dad were being total assholes.” She closes her eyes and takes another breath. “Maybe you need some time to cool off, and then we can talk.”

“I don’t have anything else to say. I’m not writing any more songs or touring. I’m finished. Look at me, Randy! All the music I had inside me died in that car crash. I’m just an empty shell now.”

“You’re twenty-five years old, Melody. You have your whole life –”
 

“My life is over!” I shriek.
 

Silence.
 

Randy and Suzie exchange glances.
 

Then Randy looks at me and says softly, “This is the next chapter of your life, Melody. We never saw this coming, but it’s not the end. Suzie and I have your back, no matter what.” She pauses, and then says, “But I have to tell you something, and you’re not going to like it. But you need to understand the repercussions of your decision.”

“What?”

Randy sighs. “If you don’t produce another album, the label can go after you for breach of contract.”

“What are you talking about?”

“When we signed with the label years ago, the contract stipulated that you are legally obligated to produce five albums for them. If they don’t get that last album, they can take you to court and sue. They can go after all your assets.” She looks around. “Even this house.”
 

“They can’t do that,” I protest.

“Legally, they can,” says Randy.

“Why did we sign that?”

Randy shrugs. “It was industry standard at the time. And, remember, your mom and dad were calling a lot of the shots for you back then.”

I can’t believe this is happening.

“Fuck,” I grumble and look at the ground.
 

Randy looks at me with concern. “Melody, I’ve been trying to get you to write music since the accident because I think it will help you through this tough time. But that’s not the only reason. You have a gift that the world needs to hear. But the sad truth is, even if you aren’t ready to write any songs, the label can legally force you too. They can make your life a living hell. And after everything you’ve been through, that’s the last thing any of us want.”

Randy places her hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry it’s come to this,” she says.
 

Randy leaves shortly thereafter. Once she’s gone, I slowly turn around. Suzie is staring at me, still holding the puppy in her hands.

“What are you going to do?” she asks.

An idea takes shape in my mind. “I’ll just write some crappy music and send it to them,” I reply. “Randy never mentioned the songs needed to be any good.”
 

Suzie shakes her head and sighs. She walks toward me and tries to hand over the puppy, but I won’t take him.

“Well, if that’s your plan,” she says. “I won’t be working for you anymore. I’m still your friend, Melody, but no longer your personal assistant.”

I can’t believe what she just said. “What? You can’t be serious?”

Suzie nods. “Melody, I begged to be your assistant five years ago because I love your music. And Randy is right; you have a real gift that you need to share with the world. But if you’re just going to quit and write crap to get out of some contract, I don’t want to be around to witness it. I love you too much and it will be too painful to watch.”

She turns and walks out of the living room, carrying the puppy. I quickly follow her. I realize I can’t lose Suzie. She’s my only connection to the outside world. She does everything for me: shopping, dry-cleaning, meeting with people, etc… And not only that, she’s my best friend, my only
real
human connection. She visits me every day!

“I’ll triple your salary,” I blurt in desperation.

Suzie turns around. “This isn’t about money, Melody. You know that.”

“You can’t leave me.
I need you.
I can’t go out there.”

The thought of losing Suzie is bringing on a panic attack. I can feel the swell of anxiety. Suzie must sense the turmoil I’m experiencing, because she looks at me concerned. Then a curious expression crosses her face. “I’ll stay on one condition.”
 

“Anything,” I beg. Thank goodness. A sense of relief comes over me.

“You write a song,” she says.

Damn it! I throw my head back, annoyed. “Come on.”

“I’m being serious,” says Suzie. “You write a song by Wednesday and I’ll stay on as your personal assistant for another month.”

“How about I quadruple your salary instead?” I plead.

But Suzie isn’t interested.
 

“I’m not talking about an entire album, Melody. Just one song. And not a song for the masses. A song for you. A song conveying the emotions crammed inside you. And
I get to hear it. Do we have a deal?”

I look at the floor, hesitating. I can’t lose Suzie. She’s all I’ve got, my only friend and confidant. I look up at her. “One song and you’ll stay my assistant and still come by everyday?”

Suzie nods.

She has me cornered.
 

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

Suzie’s face breaks out in a smile. “Awesome!” She hurries forward and hands me the puppy. It tumbles into my arms. “I love you,” she says and quickly kisses the forehead part of my mask. “I’ll stop by tomorrow morning. Now listen, there’s dog food on the counter. I brought some over when you told me about the dog. I’ve got to run. I’m late for my Pilates class.”

Before I know what’s happening, she closes the door behind her. I look down at the puppy in my hands.

“I just can’t get rid of you,” I say.
   

The little bulldog begins licking my hand again.

I’m back in the car, engulfed by flames. My skin sizzles from the heat. My eyes search frantically for an escape. My hands and shirt are covered in blood. “Help!” I shout at the top of my lungs. There’s smoke everywhere. I’m coughing, struggling to fill my lungs with air. Part of the car door is jabbed into my side, puncturing my flesh. “Help!” I feel something sharp piercing my face, but I can’t move to relieve the pressure. “Help!” A bright light beams through my broken windshield.
 

Then I see him, fuckin’ Charlie: his beard, his camera lens. He’s filming this!

“Help!” I scream, but he just keeps pointing his camera as the flames engulf me. The pain is unbearable. I hear cars honking in the distance, then the loud siren of an ambulance. The flames grow. The scent of burning flesh filters through my nostrils.
 

Startled, I shoot up in bed, screaming.

I quickly run my hands over my arms. I am fine, still scarred, but NOT on fire. I immediately touch my face. I feel the stretched, ragged skin. I sigh, relieved. It was just another nightmare – a flashback to that horrific night.
 

Then I hear a loud, high-pitched yelp.
 

It’s that darn puppy.

So much for an afternoon nap.

I get out of bed and drag my feet to the door. When I open it, the puppy energetically shuffles in and begins circling my feet. I bend down and scoop him up. He happily licks my face. I’m not wearing my mask. But I realize it doesn’t really matter. This little guy doesn’t seem to care what I look like. He runs his wet tongue all over my exposed nose and cheek.
 

“Okay, enough, buddy,” I giggle.

He stretches so he can continue licking my face. I hold him back. He huffs.

“What? Do you have a thing for ugly girls?” I ask him.

He barks a reply and looks at me with his playful puppy eyes.

“Damn, you are cute,” I mutter as I take in his scrunched up, wrinkly mug.

He huffs again, like he knows he’s cute.

Holding him, I turn back to the bed and cringe, remembering the nightmare I just had. Every time I try to sleep, that nightmare waits for me, ready to wreak havoc. I sigh and walk out of the bedroom, carrying the little English bulldog in my arms.
 

I was hoping an afternoon nap would put me in a better disposition to write a song. No such luck.

As I venture into the living room, still carrying the puppy, I see the grand piano situated in the corner. When writing a song, I like to compose something on the piano before I take it into my home recording studio and add additional musical layers. It’s just how I like to work. I haven’t touched the piano since the accident. I haven’t ventured into my home recording studio down the hall in just as long.
 

As I stare at the imposing black frame of the piano, I begin to shutter. I don’t know if I can do this: write a song that’s actually good. It’s been so long.

The puppy whimpers.

I look at him.

“I know. But if I don’t write something decent, Suzie will leave us.”

The puppy whimpers again.

I nod. “I know. I love her. But what a bitch, right?”

I walk over to the piano bench. I’m wracked with tension. It’s so strange. I used to sit at this piano every morning. It was part of my daily ritual. I actually used to look forward to it. But now, I’m a nervous wreck as I contemplate sitting down to compose.

The puppy huffs repeatedly.

“Okay. Okay.”

I plop down on the piano bench.

My hands shake as I slowly lift the fallboard covering the keys. I stare at the ebony and ivory and that rush of anxiety comes back. I really, really don’t know if I can do this.
 

I don’t think I have any music left in me. I’m a void.

The puppy whimpers again and licks my fingers with his wet tongue.

I nod. “You’re right. Suzie’s such a bitch for putting me through this. Blackmailing me to write a song is so not cool.”

I place the puppy on the floor. Then I take a deep breath and cautiously place my trembling fingers on the keys.

Two vodka sodas, one fat joint, and I still have nothing. No verse, no chorus. Nothing that isn’t cringe worthy. I look down at the puppy resting beside me on the piano bench.
 

He stuck by me through this entire miserable process.
 

I hand him another dog biscuit. He munches on it greedily. When he’s finished, I pick him up and hold him close to my face. He begins licking it all over again, lathering up the scar tissue. I guess he doesn’t see the defects. “You’re the only one,” I mutter as I lower him to my lap.