Sing You Home (19 page)

Everything about this girl screams
defensive
—from her hunched shoulders to her studious refusal to look me in the eye. I notice that she’s got a nose ring—one tiny, thin gold hoop that looks like a trick of the light until you do a second glance—and what seem to be tattoos on the knuckles of one hand.

They’re letters, actually.

F.U.C.K.

I remember Vanessa telling me that Lucy’s family attends Eternal Glory—Max’s ultraconservative church. I try to imagine Lucy handing out pamphlets in front of the movie theater with the bright, sparkly teenage girls who’d been there the night Pastor Clive & Co. set up their protest.

I wonder if Max knows her.

“I’m really looking forward to working with you, Lucy,” I say.

She doesn’t move a muscle.

“I’ll expect you to give Zoe your full attention,” Vanessa adds. “Do you have any questions before you two start?”

“Yeah.” Lucy’s head falls backward, like a dandelion too heavy for its stem. “If I don’t show up for these sessions, do I get a cut on my record?”

Vanessa looks at me and raises her brows. “Good luck,” she says, and she closes the door behind her as she leaves.

“So.” I pull a chair in front of Lucy’s so that she cannot help but see me, and sit down. “I’m really glad that I’ll be getting to work with you. Did anyone explain what music therapy is, exactly?”

“Bullshit?” Lucy offers.

“It’s a way to use music to access feelings that are sometimes locked inside,” I say, as if she hasn’t even spoken. “In fact, you’re probably doing a little of this on your own already. Everyone does. You know how, when you have a bad day and you only want to put on your sweats and eat a pint of chocolate ice cream and sob to the song ‘All by Myself’? That’s music therapy. Or when it finally gets warm enough to roll down the windows of you car, so you crank up the stereo and sing along? That’s music therapy, too.”

As I speak, I take out a notebook, so that I can begin to do my assessment. The plan is to write down comments a client gives, and my own impressions, and later to cobble them into a more formal clinical document. When I do this in the hospital, it’s easy—I assess the pain level of the client, her state of anxiety, her facial expressions.

Lucy, however, is a blank slate.

Her eyes stare straight over my shoulder; her thumb absently scratches at the carvings on the desk made by ballpoint pens and bored students.

“So,” I say brightly. “I thought that, today, maybe you could help me learn a little more about you. Like, for example, have you ever played an instrument?”

Lucy yawns.

“I guess that’s a no. Well, have you ever
wanted
to play one?”

When she doesn’t answer, I move my chair forward a little.

“Lucy, I asked if you ever wanted to play an instrument . . .”

She pillows her head on her arms, closing her eyes.

“That’s okay. A lot of people never learn to play instruments. But, you know, if that’s something you become interested in when we’re working together, I could help you. I know how to play everything—woodwinds, percussion, brass, keyboard, guitar . . .” I look down at my notebook. So far I’ve written Lucy’s name and nothing else.

“Everything,” Lucy repeats softly.

I am so excited to hear her sandpaper voice that I nearly fall forward out of my seat. “Yes,” I reply. “Everything.”

“Do you play the accordion?”

“Well. No.” I hesitate. “But I could learn it with you, if you wanted.”

“Didgeridoo?”

I tried, once, but couldn’t master the round breathing. “No.”

“So basically,” Lucy says, “you’re a fucking liar, like everyone else I’ve ever met.”

I learned a long time ago that engagement—any at all, even anger—is a step above complete indifference. “What kind of music do you like? What would I find on your iPod?”

Lucy has slipped back into silence. She takes out a pen and colors an elaborate pattern on the inside of her palm, a Maori knot of twists and swirls.

Maybe she doesn’t have an iPod. I bite the inside of my lip, angry at myself for making a socioeconomic assumption about a client. “I know your family is pretty religious,” I say. “Do you listen to Christian rock? Maybe there’s one particular band you really like?”

Silence.

“How about the first pop song whose lyrics you memorized? When I was little, my best friend’s older sister had a record player, and she used to play ‘Billy, Don’t Be a Hero’ on repeat. It was 1974, and Paper Lace was singing it. I saved up my allowance to buy my own copy. Even now when I hear that song I get teary at the end when the girl gets the memo about her boyfriend’s death,” I say. “It’s funny—if I could pick one song to bring to a desert island, I’d take that one. Believe me, I’ve heard a lot more complex and deserving music since then, but for sheer nostalgia, that would have to get my vote.” I look at Lucy. “How about you? What music would you want to bring if you were stranded on a desert island?”

Lucy smiles sweetly at me.
“The Very Best of David Hasselhoff,”
she says, and then she stands up. “Can I go to the bathroom?”

I just stare at her for a moment; Vanessa and I haven’t really talked about whether that’s allowed. But this is therapy, not jail—and besides, keeping her from going would be cruel and unusual punishment. “Sure,” I say. “I’ll wait here.”

“I bet you will,” Lucy murmurs, and she slips out the door.

I tap my fingers against the desk, and then pick up my pen.
Client is very resistant to providing personal details,
I write.

Likes Hasselhoff.

Then I cross off that last bit. Lucy only said that to see my reaction.

I think.

I had been so certain that I could break through to Lucy; I’d never doubted my skills as a therapist. But then again, the work I’d been doing lately involved either a captive audience (the nursing home residents) or those in so much physical distress that music could only help, not hurt (the burn victims). The factor of the equation I had left out was that, although I may have been looking forward to this session, Lucy DuBois wanted to be anywhere
but
here.

After a few minutes I start looking around the room.

Although most special needs kids are mainstreamed, this small conference room has the facilities for those whose Individualized Education Programs mandate them: bouncy balls to sit on instead of chairs; mini workstations where kids can stand behind the desks or work with others; shelves of books; tubs of Kooshes and rice and sandpaper. On the whiteboard is a single written phrase:
Hi, Ian!

Who’s Ian?
I wonder.
And what did they do with him so that Lucy and I could meet?

I realize that about fifteen minutes have passed since Lucy left to go to the bathroom. Walking out of the classroom, I spy the girls’ restroom just across the hall. I push through the door to find a girl leaning toward the mirror, applying black eyeliner.

I duck down, but there are no feet beneath any of the stalls.

“Do you know Lucy DuBois?”

“Uh,
yeah,”
the girl says. “Total freak.”

“Did she come into the bathroom?”

The girl shakes her head.

“Dammit,” I mutter, walking back into the hallway. I glance into the room where we have been meeting, but I’m not naïve enough to think Lucy will be waiting.

I will have to go back to the main office, and report the fact that Lucy left the session.

I’ll have to tell Vanessa.

And then I’ll do exactly what Lucy did: cut my losses, and leave.

After failing miserably with Lucy, the last thing I want to do is go home. I know there will be messages waiting from Vanessa—she wasn’t in her office when I signed out, and so I had to leave an explanatory and apologetic note about the abortive first music therapy session. I turn off my cell phone and drive to the most anonymous place I could think of: Walmart. You’d be surprised at how much time you can spend wandering through the aisles; looking at Corelle dinnerware with lemon and lime patterns, and comparing the prices of generic vitamins to those of brand names. I fill up a cart with things I do not need: dish towels and a camping lantern and a BeDazzler; three Jim Carrey DVDs packaged together for ten dollars, Crest Whitestrips. Then I abandon the cart somewhere in the fishing and hunting section and unfold a lawn chair. I sit down and try to read the latest
People.

I don’t quite know why my failure with Lucy DuBois is so crushing. I’ve had plenty of other clients whose initial meetings were not dynamic successes. The autistic boy I worked with at the same high school a year ago, for example, did nothing but rock in a corner for the first four visits. I know that, in spite of what happened today, Vanessa will trust my judgment if I say that next time will be better. She’ll forgive me for letting Lucy slip away; she’ll probably even blame the girl instead of me.

I’m not afraid of her being disappointed.

It’s just that I don’t want to be the one to disappoint her.

“Excuse me,” an employee says. I look up to see his big Walmart badge, his thinning hair. He speaks slowly, as if I am a toddler unable to understand him. “The chairs are not for sitting.”

Then what
are
they for?
I wonder. But I just smile politely, get up, refold the chair, and stick it back on the shelf.

I drive mindlessly for a half hour before finding myself in the parking lot of a bar that’s only a mile from my house. I used to work there—first as a waitress, then as a singer—before Max and I started in vitro. Then, I was tired all the time, or stressed, or both. Playing acoustic guitar at 10:00
P.M.
twice a week lost its appeal.

It’s nearly empty, because it’s a Wednesday, and it’s only just past dinnertime.

Also because there is a big sign out front that says,
WEDNESDAY IS KARAOKE NIGHT.

Karaoke, in my opinion, is right up there on the list of the greatest mistakes ever invented, along with Windows Vista and spray-on hair for balding men. It allows people who would normally only have the courage to sing in the confines of their own showers with the water running loudly to instead get on a stage and have fifteen minutes of dubious fame. For every truly remarkable karaoke performance you’ve ever heard, you’ve probably heard twenty horrendous ones.

Then again, by the time I’ve had my fourth drink in two hours, I am nearly ripping the microphone out of the hands of a middle-aged lady with a bad perm. I tell myself that this is because if she sings one more Celine Dion song I will have to strangle her with the hose that’s hooked up to the soda keg underneath the bar. But it is equally likely that the reason I need to sing is because I know it’s the one thing that will make me feel better.

The difference between people who become musicians and people who become music therapists is simple: a change in focus from what you personally can get out of music and what you can encourage someone else to get out of it. Music therapy is music without the ego—although most of us still hone our skills by playing in community bands and performing in choirs.

Or, in my case right now, karaoke.

I know I have a good voice. And on a day when my other abilities are being called into question, it’s downright restorative to have the patrons of the bar clapping and asking for an encore, to have the bartender handing me a glass to use as a tip jar.

I sing a little Ronstadt. A bit of Aretha. Some Eva Cassidy. At some point, I go out to my car to grab a guitar. I sing a few songs I’ve written, and sprinkle them with a little Melissa Etheridge and an acoustic version of Springsteen’s “Glory Days.” By the time I sing “American Pie,” I’ve got the whole bar doing the chorus with me, and I am not thinking about Lucy DuBois at all.

I’m not thinking, period. I’m just letting the music carry me,
be
me. I’m a thread of sound that slips like a stitch through every single person in this room, binding us tightly together.

When I finish, everyone applauds. The bartender pushes another gin and tonic down the bar toward me. “Zoe,” he says, “it’s about time you came back.”

Maybe I should do more of this. “I don’t know, Jack. I’ll think about it.”

“Do you take requests?”

I turn around to find Vanessa standing beside the barstool.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Which version? Brenda Lee or Buckcherry?” I wait until she’s climbed onto the stool beside mine and ordered a drink. “I’m not going to ask how you found me.”

“You have the only bright yellow Jeep in this entire town. Even the traffic helicopters can find you.” Vanessa shakes her head. “You’re not the first one Lucy’s run away from, you know. She did the same thing to the school shrink, the first time they met.”

“You could have
told
me . . .”

“I was hoping it would be different this time,” Vanessa says. “Are you going to come back?”

“Do you
want
me to come back?” I ask. “I mean, if you just want a warm body for Lucy to ditch, you could hire some teenager at minimum wage.”

“I’ll tie her down to the chair next time,” Vanessa promises. “And maybe we can make her listen to that lady sing Celine Dion.”

She points to the middle-aged woman whose karaoke career I intercepted. “You’ve been here that long?”

“Yeah. Why didn’t you tell me you could sing like that?”

“You’ve heard me sing a hundred times—”

“Somehow when you chime in with the Hot Pockets jingle, it doesn’t really convey the full range of your voice.”

“I used to play here a couple times a week,” I tell her. “I forgot how much I liked it.”

“Then you should do it again. I’ll even come be your audience so you never have to play to an empty room.”

Hearing her talk about an empty room reminds me of the music therapy session my client abandoned. I wrap my arms around the neck of my guitar case, as if creating a shield for myself. “I really thought I could get Lucy to open up. I feel like such a loser.”

“I don’t think you’re a loser.”