To Be Someone (21 page)

The cheering intensified as Justin struck up the intro chords of the first number, and from that point the set flashed past, seemingly in seconds. The four of us were in harmony, literally, emotionally, almost spiritually. I felt the strange blissful connection with the others, the same as I got when I used to go to church—a feeling of true belonging.

When I was onstage, I never focused on my surroundings too closely. Small details caught my attention for a second and then flitted away again: the way Justin’s ears got pink and transparent when backlit by a red stage light, the way the girl in the front row recoiled in pain when her boyfriend shouted too loudly into her ear, how silly Joe’s guitar-playing stance was—he always put his feet in Fourth Position in ballet.

I tried never to look right into the audience’s faces when I was singing. Justin stared hard at them, trying to intimidate them, but I found that very off-putting. Instead I became an expert at the sweeping glance that roved over thousands of eyebrows, foreheads, and hairlines, but never directly into the eyes.

I also loved to chart the progress of one individual through the crowd. I would pick someone distinctive—usually a tall man with a punk hairdo or a hat—and glance discreetly over at him every now and again to see if he’d moved or not. Almost always he would end up in an entirely different spot from where he started. Sometimes he pushed his way to the front, elbowing and ducking and weaving, eliciting scowls from those who’d been waiting patiently for hours to get that close. More often, though, the person was just borne sideways, organically carried across by the ebb and flow of moving bodies packed together. That night, though, I just kept my eyes on Sam, and the Cheshire cat grin of pride splitting her face told me that I’d finally made it.

The show went really, really well. When we finally left the stage, glowing with triumph, I grabbed Sam’s hand and heaved her through the crowd with me to the exit, wanting her to share the moment. I could see Mickey and Willy at the side, grinning maniacally at each other. Then they, too, started shoving toward the back, paralleling our own progress but getting there much faster (they didn’t have the congratulatory slaps on the shoulder or attempted kisses and hugs to deal with en route).

Unable to bear the sweatbox any longer, we all went out to a nearby bar to celebrate the successful night. Mr. Wallberger (Rob, finally, to his face) had arrived in time to catch the last few numbers, and obliged us by putting his much-vaunted credit card behind the bar so the drinks could flow freely. Besides us four, along with Sam, Mickey, Willy, Troy, Rob, and Dean, there was a small crowd in attendance that included several Ringside promotions people; our product manager, Tom; a couple of journalists and radio program directors; Aunt Sandi and her latest boyfriend; and a few of the boys’ old school friends who had driven up from Freehold for the show.

Sam, predictably, snogged Justin in a corner, and then crashed out from jet lag and excitement. Mickey carried on what he’d started with the press assistant, and David got off with a young Chinese fan. Only Joe and I failed to score—but I didn’t care, since I hadn’t been trying. My spirits, like my knickers, remained undampened. It was a great impromptu party, and I felt on top of the world, successful, happy, replete.

I danced over to Joe, standing hopefully by the door of the ladies’ restroom.
“ ‘To be someone must be a wonderful thing,’ ”
I sang joyfully in his ear.

He grinned and clinked his beer bottle against mine in a triumphant toast. “It’s a
damn
wonderful thing, baby!” he crowed back at me.

MARY ELLEN APPLEBAUM

I
T WAS EIGHT-THIRTY A.M. I’D BEEN WRITING FOR TWO SOLID DAYS
,
including since three o’clock that morning, and I was exhausted. I was starved for fresh air, my limbs felt numb, my back was stiff from being hunched over my computer (not only was I writing new stuff, but I’d also been transcribing the notebooks I filled in hospital), and my eye was red, watery, and aching. Above all, I was furiously angry.

Rather irrationally, the object of my rage was my eighteen-year-old self. I remembered, with crystal clarity, the elation fizzing up inside me after that New York show with Sam: Joe and I clinking bottles and congratulating ourselves. That night, in that sweaty venue, I had it all, and didn’t realize. I was beautiful, and didn’t notice; healthy, and didn’t appreciate it; talented, and took it for granted.

I couldn’t imagine ever feeling that happy again.

There was a strange silence in the house. At first I welcomed it, since it indicated that my stalker had gone to the garden center, or on a day trip to Hastings, or whatever it was that stalkers did in their spare time. Then I realized that it was the prolonged absence of the sound of my own voice. Since Mum had returned to New Jersey five days earlier, I had not spoken once. She had left several messages, beginning with a sarky “Thank you for checking that I landed safely,” working up to a stroppy “For heaven’s sake, Helena, pick up the telephone,” but I’d ignored them all. I decided to talk to her only when she started sounding actively panicked.

Now that I was alone, I no longer even had to pretend to be coping. Plus the more time passed, the harder it got to cope. The adrenaline of mere survival had finally dissolved altogether, dissipating into the air around me like the smell of my mother’s hairspray. Only a teeth-gritting determination to finish the manuscript prevented me from giving up completely.

I knew I should try to snap out of it, but I didn’t have the energy to do anything further than glance at the psychotherapist’s phone number, which my mother had left on a Post-it note, stuck prominantly to the top of my computer.

I had refused to see Dr. Bedford again after leaving hospital, much to Mum’s chagrin. I was all in favor of the
concept
of therapy—I’d just found it too damn difficult, and, in my case, irrelevant. After a few bedside talk sessions, I decided that it was a waste of time for me to concentrate on any kind of long-term recovery.

I peeled off the Post-it and flicked it into the corner of the room, where it lay forgotten behind my dusty bass.

I didn’t need therapy, but I did need a rest, so I decamped to my TV room and lay down on the squashy leather sofa. Remote in one hand and can of Coke in the other, I embarked on a marathon of daytime television. I started with the breakfast programs and post-breakfast chat shows, the tame English versions of
Jerry Springer
and
Ricki Lake
. Instead of “My Son Is Having Sex with My Mother,” the subjects were “Am I Doing Too Much Gardening?” and “Help! I’ve Got a Crush on My Dental Hygienist.”

Then I moved on to the children’s programs. Teletubbies. Noddy. Someone called Kipper the Dog and his friend Tiger. Lurid, unlikely representations of humanity in all shapes and sizes. What did toddlers make of those fake beings, those Day-Glo–padded mutant creatures who talked baby talk and danced? I wondered. Did it make them believe that they might see Dipsy or Laa-Laa strolling down the high street, doing a spot of shopping?

I thought of Ruby, little proud Ruby with her twangy curls and fake fur coat, her inexhaustible capacity for cuteness and her sad eyes. I wondered how she was and then realized this probably depended on how her parents were.

Through a lunchtime quiz show, I daydreamed about Toby. How he had gotten me through those weeks in hospital simply by treating me like a normal, whole, appealing person. God, that was more than most men ever did when I was whole and relatively appealing. Suddenly I missed him. Why, with his wife unconscious down the corridor, had he kissed me and flirted with me, and then gone cold?

I supposed, over the one o’clock news, that there were a few possible reasons. He could be some kind of groupie, clinging on to an idea of Helena Nicholls from a long time ago—perhaps he’d collected my records, masturbated to my poster, featured me in his own private porn movie. Then again, maybe he’d just been trying to prove something to his wife. Happily married people whose spouses were in a coma didn’t, on balance, start affairs with other patients in the same hospital.

Or he really was in love with me.

I dismissed all of the above. The groupie scenario because Toby was about my age, and unless he’d been a fan in the early days, he would have been a bit old for all that adolescent fantasy stuff. Besides, he’d never come across as starstruck, or even particularly as a fan. The “proving something to Kate” theory was also unlikely, because it was a nasty thing to do, and Toby wasn’t a nasty person. Plus he’d obviously felt guilty about it. Which left the last option: Toby in love with me. Well, this was also unlikely, despite his professing that he’d fallen for me at first sight. He’d only kissed me twice, and had not tried to contact me since our argument in hospital.

Hang on, though, I thought to myself over another can of Coke and the weather forecast; how did I know he hadn’t tried to get in touch? I toyed with the idea of calling the hospital to see if he might have asked Grace or Catriona for my telephone number, but then decided against it. I realized that since I’d put the fear of God into the nursing staff about guarding my privacy, they were unlikely to have handed out my home number to the first person who requested it.

In the sudden vain hope that the postman might just have brought a passionate epistle from Toby, I hauled myself off the sofa, swaddled my head in a huge woolly scarf (despite the temperature being a sunny seventy-two), and ventured outside for the first time in five days to inspect the contents of the mailbox by the front gate.

Seven takeaway menus representing the cuisine of four continents, three free property newspapers, a plethora of leaflets advertising the services of local handymen and gardeners, five assorted envelopes from banks and credit-card companies, and one flimsy blue airmail letter with American stamps on it were jammed into the box. The return address on the airmal letter was smudged and illegible, but it was postmarked Freehold, so I suspected a sugary note from one of my mother’s bridge friends. Nothing at all that might conceivably be from Toby.

Just as well, I thought as I trudged back into the house again, heading TV-wards. It was good that he hadn’t gotten in touch, however much I missed him. I had to look at the big picture, the limited future. The reason I’d picked a fight with Toby in hospital still stood: What was the point of pursuing a new friendship, let alone a relationship? I wasn’t going to be around after the show.

Ensconced on the sofa, in the indentation left by my morning’s viewing, I ripped open the American letter and extracted two tissue-thin wisps of writing paper and a photograph of two strange children (as in unfamiliar children—although all children look pretty strange to me, with the exception of Ruby, who is gorgeous).

June 1998

Dear Helena,

I know it’s been years and years since we last talked, but I always wished you well, and followed your progress as much as I could in the papers. I felt so proud that we were once friends. I had a feeling that great things would happen in your life. You always had that air about you. I remember when you first came to our Bible study meeting, you were kind of heavy, and so shy and nervous—but at the same time you still had this sort of inner confidence. I don’t know what it was, but I remember watching it grow and grow, once you joined the choir and started writing songs. You just got more and more beautiful, inside and out. It was a lovely thing to see. I guess it was a kind of power, that you could do anything you wanted.

Margie said you’d been feeling kind of down since your accident, which is understandable. I thought it may perhaps make you feel a little better to know that an old friend is thinking of you. I don’t want to preach or anything, but please try not to let this ruin your life. You still have so much to offer in so many ways. Jesus will take care of you, if you let Him.

Mary Ellen Randall! Well, well. I snorted with derision at the notion that I still had so much to offer. Thanks, hon, I feel so much better now.

I couldn’t summon up the energy to read on, and instead turned back to the TV. An old Ealing Studios matinee had just begun on Channel 4, and I watched a violent but very gentlemanly murder take place in a frightfully well-coiffed lady’s front parlor, but somehow my attention kept drifting back to Mary Ellen’s loopy writing.

I don’t know if it’s of any interest at all to you, but I run a program here in Freehold that organizes missionary trips to Africa. Don’t be misled by the name “missionary”—they aren’t colonial dictators, trying to brainwash the natives into their way of thinking. These days they are more like volunteers who go to remote villages to live with the locals to help them with basic health and education issues. Some of the people who go out there aren’t overly Christian, although obviously it helps if you believe in God! It depends more on the type of person than how religious they are.

Anyways, I just wondered if you were looking for a change, or a break of some kind? It might appeal, and I’m sure you’d be great at it. I’m always looking for good new people who don’t have too many ties at home (Margie said you weren’t married, but she didn’t know if you were in a relationship or not). If you are interested, let me know and I’d be happy to send you some literature. But please don’t think that I’m trying to coerce you into anything. What’s that expression: A change is as good as a rest? Well, the work sure isn’t particularly restful most of the time, but I have known other folk who’ve gone out there after a big personal tragedy, and they certainly say it helped.

A missionary! Me! If the idea hadn’t been so preposterous, I’d have found it hilarious. Idly, I wondered how the well-coiffed Ealing lady, who by now had been taken hostage by the murderer, managed to go to the toilet, since she’d been held in her parlor for over twelve hours. This reminded me of my own need for a wee, so I peeled myself off the sofa and staggered into the downstairs loo, still clutching the letter. I sat on the loo and read on.