The Mourning After (28 page)

To which his mother turns her head and says, “Are you kidding me?”

“I’m sorry.  I was listening to my iPod and didn’t hear the phone.”

“I’ve been waiting for that call for
two days
.”

Lucy is following the exchange.
Don’t look away, Levon.  Look at her and fight.  Stand up for yourself.

Levon stammers and a flurry of buts, ifs, and apologies litter the air.  He is no match against his mother’s sharp punches.

“Stop screaming at him,” Lucy yells.

The interruption causes the two faces to turn in her direction.  One is angry, the other interested.

“You’re wrong about him,” Lucy continues, raising her voice with each word.  “Levon’s a good kid.  Give him a chance.”

All heads turn to face Levon who appears as though he wishes the ground would swallow him up.

“Lucy,” he stammers, “go away. This is none of your business…”

“It is my business.  Stand up to her.  Show her who you really are so she can take those blinders off.”

“Why is she getting involved in our family business?” asks his mother.

“I don’t know,” he answers.  “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

The look he shoots Lucy is insistent, part plea, part
I’m gonna kill you.

“Levon,” his mother repeats.

Lucy’s face is one of disgust.  There is no hiding her disdain for the way in which Levon handles his domineering mother.

“Levon,” she says, in a tone that is sad and wishful at the same time.  “The only person you’re fooling is yourself.”

“Happy Frickin Birthday,” he says to her before turning around and stomping off into the house.

I’m writing because I hate Lucy Bell right now.  I hate her.  I hate her.  I hate her.

She is not invited to the taping of Ellen.  No fucking way.

I’m so angry at her I could scream.

There’s only one thing left to do.

“Why did you do that?  Why would you set her off?”

“I did you a favor,” Lucy replies.  “One day you’ll be thanking me.”

Levon lets her do the talking, knowing what’s coming.  The jitters take over his arms and legs.

“You’re mom doesn’t get it.  If you’re not going to stand up for yourself, I will,” she says.

They are in the Volvo pulling out of the driveway.  Chloe is standing outside waving frantically and wishing Lucy a happy birthday.  You’d think they were leaving for the prom.

Levon almost canceled the evening, but when he caught a glimpse of Lucy stepping out the front door, he was glad he had changed his mind.  She is dressed from head to toe in some shimmery, white, unpronounceable fabric.  When she walks, it falls around her like waves.

Lucy is driving with the precautionary grace of a girl who has never driven a car.  She is watchful, heeding all the signs on the road and careful to keep both hands on the wheel.  Whenever Levon has been in the car with her before, she has always been an alert and confident driver.  “It’s much more serious once you have a license,” she turns to him and says, “But you know that already, don’t you?”

“I can’t believe she let me out tonight,” Levon says.

Without taking her eyes off the road, Lucy replies, “That would be punishment for her, not you.”

“Don’t try to sugarcoat it,” he says.

Stealing a glance at the golden locks that punctuate her cheekbones, he thinks she looks different, already sixteen.  He looks down at his black polo and jeans and hopes he made the right choice.  Cool and understated were what he had in mind.

“Which way am I going?”

“Take La Gorce to Forty-first, and we’ll go up Alton.”

Levon checks by his feet to see that the present he had Chloe wrap is there on the floor.  It is a system of checking and re-checking that tames his jumpy legs.  He doesn’t answer.

Lucy drives with the windows and sunroof open.  She says it’s her favorite thing so far about Florida, letting the cool air in, feeling the breeze against her hair and face.  The fresh air steals the day as the warm sunshine fades, and they make their way along the traffic-infested streets of South Beach.  Wyclef Jean is filling the car with “The Sweetest Girl.”  His famous voice mingles with the breeze while Lucy sways her arms and hips against the torn upholstered seat, mouthing the words.

She stops swaying and says, “My dad thinks the Internet’s ruined music.” 

When she realizes that Levon has no witty comeback, she continues.  “When he was growing up, they listened to songs on the radio and waited for the DJ to tell them the name of the song and who sang it.  Then he’d wait for an eternity for his parents to drive him to the record store to buy it.  Sometimes, when he had to have a song, he’d sit there with his tape recorder against the radio speaker, and press record when it came on, which was always a crapshoot.  He’d sit there for hours waiting and waiting.”

Levon agrees that music is certainly more accessible these days.  He couldn’t imagine having to actually wait to hear a song on the radio.

Lucy goes on talking.  “He says that songs today don’t have a shelf life.  We hear a song on Monday, hold up our iTouch to the speakers, and Shazam tells us the name and the artist.  Then we download it to our phones or our computers and listen to it over and over again for days, and we’re sick of it by Friday. We’re killing my father’s business.”

“We didn’t,” he objects, “the Internet did.  You said it yourself.”

“It’s kinda sad,” she says, “how the evolution of technology, however efficient, diminishes the humanness of things.  We’ll never know what it feels like to really yearn for something, life without instant gratification.” She turns away from the road to sneak a glance at him.  “You know, the excitement of things to come?”

Levon reminds himself that Lucy is a girl who has been violated in the most inhumane way.  Her experience of the most intimate, loving act has been spoiled by a boy who was out of his mind and out of control.

But Lucy wasn’t talking about love and romance.  She was talking about cassette tapes and a new technology named after a Marvel superhero.

“Sure I do,” he says.

They reach the end of Alton Road where the dilapidated South Shore Hospital sits in sharp contrast to the sparkling green bay behind it. 

“Get on the MacArthur and head west toward downtown,” Levon says.  Wyclef has ended and he notices the familiar call letters of Y-100 on the radio dial and asks, “Do you only listen to his stations?”

“I cheat sometimes,” she says.  “Clear Channel owns 105.9 and Zeta and Love 94, but I’ve been known to crack open a little Power 96.  Don’t tell my father that though.  It’s all about the ratings.”

“Does he get to meet a lot of the musicians?” Levon asks, wondering why they have never discussed this before. 

“The artists?” she asks.  “All of them, though he leaves most of the courting to his radio promotion people. He would much rather be home with my mom than out at clubs and restaurants with musicians.”

“That’s nice,” Levon comments.

“My parents are weirdly cute together,” she smiles, which leaves Levon speechless.

“How’s that situation been going?” she asks, her smile dissolving into sympathy.

“She wants him to move out.” 

He says it like it means nothing when it’s everything.

“Are you serious?”

“Would I lie about something like that?”

“My mother always told us to pick a spouse carefully.  Rule #501.  A huge percentage of our joy and pain will come from this single decision.  Where would he go?”

“He has a bunch of properties. He can stay at any one of them.”

“Do you think he wants to go?”

“Wouldn’t you?” he asks, a question that really does not require an answer, though speaks volumes. “That’s why she ripped my head off this morning.”

“She’s always ripping your head off,” Lucy adds.

“Last week we all went to family counseling together.  They were talking like I wasn’t in the room.  I tried to put myself in her shoes, and you know what I came up with?  I’d hate me too.”

“Don’t say that, Levon.”

They are back on the MacArthur, and the last of the cruise ships is sneaking out of the harbor.  Darkness continues to creep through the car windows, and Levon watches Lucy hug her white scarf closer to her shoulders.  The afternoon in Dr. Lerner’s office with the three of them together was intended to heal the family, and all it did was leave Levon feeling crappier about himself than ever.  Their family had many obstacles to overcome, the shrink told them.  The death of their son and his brother would change them forever.  In addition, there were deep-seated issues that had to be dealt with if they were ever going to manage their grief together as a unit, which was ironic because his father was on the cusp of moving out.

“You have a lot of decency, Levon.  If you didn’t, I wouldn’t be caught dead with you,” she teases.  But the joke is lost on Levon who is staring at the Miami skyline and missing his brother with an ache so profound he gasps for air.  It sneaks up on him, paralyzing him with sadness.  He wants many things, none of them possible: to talk to his brother, to watch him carry Chloe around on his shoulders.  He is starting to forget the sound of David’s voice and that scares him.  And what if he loses Chloe too?  His little sister’s disease has always been at the forefront and has taken a backseat since the accident.

Levon begins to hyperventilate.  Why did he have to pick now, Lucy’s big day, to fall apart?  Clutching at his neck, he says, “Something’s wrong.”

She either doesn’t hear him or she can’t discern the worry in his tone.

“Lucy,” he tries again, “I can’t breathe.”

“I hear you panting.  You’re breathing fine.”

“I think I’m dying,” he says between exhales.

“You’re not dying, Levon.”

“It’s happened before.”

“What’s happened?  Your dying?”

Levon fights the urge to jump out of the car.  He’s dizzy and can’t seem to swallow.  “Lucy, stop the car.  I’ve gotta get out of here.”

He must be dying because Lucy has never so willingly adhered to his orders.  She pulls the car into the parking lot of Jungle Island.

“It’ll pass.  Just breathe,” she says, “in through your nose, out through your mouth.”

Levon pants, “This is just great, spending your birthday breathing in and out like a rhinoceros.”

“Don’t worry about my birthday,” she says.  “Just relax and concentrate on your breaths.  I told you yoga would be good for you.”

Levon is wheezing, every breath a gasp for more air.  He tries to swallow and thinks he can’t, that something has taken hold of his esophagus and obstructs the otherwise natural reflex to gulp.  His head feels light and dizzy.  He is ninety-nine percent certain he is going to pass out.  The heightened state of panic sends a tremor through his body.  “Give me a minute,” he whispers, finding mild relief in resting his head in his hands along the dashboard.

“How long do they usually last?” she asks.

His eyes are clamped shut, though he hears her words knocking loudly at his ears.  Her voice is loud and muffled.  He is annoyed by the question. 
What the hell does it matter how long the terror lasts when he is on the cusp of death? How can she be asking such stupid questions?

“You’re having a panic attack, Levon.  Focus on something pleasant.”

Levon ignores her.

“Go to your favorite place in your mind.”

That was once easy for Levon: Carvel.  Now his favorite place is sitting beside him in the car. “You’re not helping.”

“All right, then let’s get out of here and take a walk.  The fresh air will help.”

“No, no,” he shakes his head, changing his mind.  “I can’t get out.  Something is really wrong.” He is thinking about something and unable to say it out loud.  It is gnawing at him.  Lucy is right about that night.  The truth is surfacing in the form of a chokehold.  He thinks she had better call 911.

“Let’s make out, that’ll distract you.”

Even the image of her lips against his can’t prevent the spiral of dizziness in his head.  “Talk to me,” he says, “tell me about your day today.”  The detailing of concrete facts is certain to help him suppress the urge to jump out of his skin or shout out words that will alter many lives.

She begins to highlight her day spent with her family on Lincoln Road, replete with crowds of beautiful people, when George’s tail swats across a table of four and the glasses of wine in its path shatter on the sidewalk.  Levon doesn’t hear a word.  The lively timber of her sentences and the pandemonium emphasize the commotion ripping through his body and leads him to obsess about other things, other thoughts. He is thinking about the fancy restaurant at the top floor of the Wachovia building—the tallest in Miami—that is waiting for the two of them to arrive.  He is thinking about David’s face and how when he smiles, his lips are sometimes crooked.  He is thinking about Chloe and what her future will be like.

“Are you hearing a word I’m saying, Levon?  Get a hold of yourself.  You need to get out of your head and into your life.”

Her words are harsh, but they are true.  They snap Levon from the spell that has him spinning and bouncing like a pinball.  His breath flows smoother now; his heart rate drops to a steady pace.  He can feel his fingers.  The tingle and numbness have dissipated. 

He gets out of the car and takes a walk around the deserted Jungle Island parking lot.  When he returns, she’s waiting for him.

He says, “That wasn’t so bad.”

“Ha!” she laughs.  “You looked like you saw a ghost.”

“I’m pretty sure I did,” he says, letting his fingers run through his hair.

Reaching across the seat, Lucy touches him, sending a new wave of terror through his veins.  She says, “I know you’ve put a lot of effort into tonight, and it means a lot…
you
mean a lot…but Levon, I’m not as complicated as you.  Here’s a tip:  Don’t overthink.  Keep it simple.  Rule #126.  Take me to Bayside.  I heard it’s fun. Or,” she says, eyeing the jumbo green letters adorning the café au lait walls beside them, “we can be really naughty and sneak into the parrot cages.”