Want (24 page)

I nod but hover close to him.

An hour later, I find out the real reason R.J. is home. He rinses while I load the plates into the dishwasher. He flicks me with water.

“Have you talked to Daddy at all today?”

“No. No other day either. Why?”

He twists the washcloth in his hands. “They diagnosed her.”

“So?” She’s been diagnosed with so many things that I’ve lost track.

“She’s seeing some new doctors, not Dr. Beatty again.”

Dr. Beatty is the unofficial doctor of the Mystics. He was alive during Reconstruction, I swear, and still
believes
in mustard plasters and ground ginger root tonics. He prescribed rest and a soothing atmosphere for Mama when she first started her moods. Eventually, he recommended wine before bed. Then he finally gave in and put her on antidepressants, increasing the dosage every few years. Then he’d add another. And another. The windowsill looks bare without them lined up like little soldiers.

R.J. wipes his hands on a towel and slings it over his shoulder. I shut the dishwasher and wipe down the counter.

“Well? What can we blame this time?”

“They went back and did her whole history. Remember when we were little and she wouldn’t get off the couch to make lunch? They think that was lingering postpartum depression. Daddy says it started when she had me but got really bad after she had you.”

“So it
is
my fault.”

“Stop.” He pulls the dishrag from my hand. “None of it is anybody’s fault. I’m just telling you their diagnoses. Anyway, it got better for a couple of years, but when we hit high school, she started backsliding again.”

He doesn’t have to remind me. Once, I forgot to make my bed before school. When I got home, the sheets were thrown all over the room, and the mattress was standing upright against the wall. She had found my journal underneath. That episode lasted three days. Another time, R.J. got caught making out with a girl whose parents weren’t in the Mystics. Mama grabbed her by the hair and threw her out the door without saying a word. Fun times.

“You ever heard of PMDD?” he asks.

“Are you serious? They’re blaming it on PMS?”

“No, not PMS.
Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder.
It’s worse.”

“Are you going to pull out textbooks? Because I have better things to do.”

“Listen to me. Don’t you want to know about this?”

“You’re the psychology major, not me. Can you give me the Cliffs Notes version?”

“Sarcasm is a defense mechanism, you know.”

“Oh, shut up. Give me your spiel so I can get out of here.”

“The disorder is characterized by substantial disruption to personal relationships. Common symptoms include despair and anxiety, mood swings and crying, lasting irritability and anger, insomnia or hypersomnia, feeling out of control, and being unaware of the impact you have on those close to you.”

“You sound like a pill commercial.”

“In its worst form, you can be so out of control that you harm others or yourself. Like that lady who drowned her three kids in the bathtub and then called 9-1-1.”

“Well, I guess I got off easy then.”

“There’s that sarcasm again.”

“I wouldn’t be me without it.”

“Juli, it’s genetic.”

“Sarcasm? You don’t say.”

“Stop it. So is Borderline Personality Disorder.”

“Awesome. Are we done?” I kiss R.J.’s cheek and make my way to the studio. I stretch my arm the way the physical therapist showed me, but it’s no good.

“Dammit!”

A sharp pain makes my whole body tense. I rub the spot. I try again. A knife rips through the muscle, triggering pain throughout my torso. And that’s when I know: I can’t do it. I can’t audition. Years of lessons, hundreds of competitions, thousands of dollars on a piano, a million frustrated tears—all for nothing. Mama got her wish.
You’re not going anywhere. You’re not leaving this room. And you’re not going to Boston.

I’d love to cry. I’d love to scream. But all the meds have made me incapable of crying. I wish they’d stop Mama’s words from replaying every night in my dreams. Words that linger long into the
day,
haunt every move I make, and every bit of progress.

She stands behind my physical therapist
who
tells me I’m doing better but should be further along by now.

“You’re not trying,” the therapist says.

If she could see the grinning specter that peeks over her shoulder, she’d understand. But she can’t. I’m tempted to tell my other therapist, but he’ll drug me up even more if I admit I see Mama. She stands over the piano and hovers over my bed at night with a pillow, poised to smash it over my face.

No, I have to keep this to myself. Isaac doesn’t understand either, when I tell him my decision the following day.

“You said yourself these eighty-eight keys are your ticket out of here!”

“I can’t do it, okay? She wins. She always wins. You think this isn’t killing me?”

I stand at the south-facing window and watch the street lights flicker on as darkness settles over the live oak branches. Inside the dimly lit studio, Isaac and I are on the verge of an argument that’s been building since he first showed up at my physical therapy appointment.

“You can’t be serious. Juli, I will be royally pissed if you don’t go through with this. Your whole life has led up to—”

“
Stop
. Please don’t make this worse, not that it could get any worse. I’ve dreamed about auditioning at the NEC since I was ten. Not Juilliard. Not Eastman. The NEC. Then, when you showed up, I figured it was meant to be. Nothing could stop me. I had no idea
this
would happen.”

I pull my arm closer to my body.

“But I can’t. I have two weeks to the audition, and I can hardly move my shoulder. I can barely play at all, let alone good enough to get in. They’d laugh. It’s over.”

I slam the lid shut on the keys and begin to put away my music. I turn my back to Isaac so he can’t see the devastation on my face. Better to get this over with now rather than draw it out. I need to push him away so I resort to my old stand-by—anger.

“I’m sorry if you
wasted
your time with me the last few months. This was just a job for you. You got your money, so I don’t see why you should be upset.”

“You really think this is about money?”

The rage washes over me, completely unwanted, unnecessary, and some part of me wonders if this is what Mama feels like when she goes crazy. The words tumble out, not even making sense. Why am I mad at Isaac? Hysterical laughter bubbles up inside.

“You know what’s so funny? I thought we were the same. I thought your problems were just as bad as mine—
that
you understood. But they’re not, and you don’t.”

Stop, Julianne. This is the time to stop.
For the first time, I answer myself
: I can’t
stop.
I can’t.

“You’re just like everyone else. You run when things get tough. You push people away and make up stupid excuses for dropping them. ‘You are replaceable.’ Isn’t that what you said?”

“Juli, quit.”

“No, you quit. Did your mama ever beat the shit out of you? Did she ever dislocate your shoulder so you couldn’t play? Put you in the hospital?
Humiliate you?
Ruin the only dream you ever had? I bet your mama never even raised her voice to you.”

He crosses his arms. “You done yet?”

“Done? Are you kidding? I haven’t even started!”

The colors in front of me swirl red and black with gold bursts. My heartbeat is in my temples and I just—I just… I want to kill someone. I want to make someone pay for what’s been done to me. I am
not
done, and it is
not
okay. I want to tear this studio to pieces, kick out the windows and bring down the goddamn rafters! I settle for bringing down Isaac.

“You think I should magically rise above this, like I’m just a whiny little princess. Well, you know what? Screw you. I did what I could, and it wasn’t enough. My problems don’t disappear with a paternity test like yours. I don’t get to mope around about interrupted hookups from a decade ago.”

He grits his teeth so hard that I can hear it from where I stand across the room.

“Listen to
yourself
,” he drawls. His voice is too calm. “Reminds me of someone.” He tucks his tongue into his molars and cocks his head as if he’s thinking. “Oh, I got it.”

He wouldn’t dare. He wouldn’t.

“You,” he says, “sound like your mama.”

Icy fingers trail down my spine, even as heat roars through my head. I’m going to fucking tear him apart.

“Then I might as well act like her.”

I lift the plant on the stand with my good arm and hurl it at his head. He ducks and it crashes against the wall, raining dirt and shattered pottery all over the carpet. I lunge and slap him across the face. It makes a satisfying crack, and I want more. I pull back to hit him again, but he catches my arm in midair.

“You think I’m like her?” I hiss. “Don’t want to disappoint you.”

I drive my elbow into his stomach, meaning to shove him into the window. I imagine shards of glass piercing his smug face. But when I throw myself against him, he doesn’t budge an inch. It’s like hitting a solid, infuriating wall.

At the last second, I change tactics. I jump up on my toes and kiss him. Not an I-have-a-crush-on-you kiss. I want to hurt him. I want someone to see us and call him out on it. Beat the snot out of him. Throw him in jail. He once used me as his whipping post. Now it’s his turn.

I want revenge.

I snake my hand around to the back of his head and yank his hair as hard as I can. I mean to pull out a handful to throw at him. He shocks me by kissing back this time. It’s the kind of kiss that will still hurt tomorrow—raw, passionate, and painful, as I sink my teeth into his lower lip.

He groans from somewhere deep in his throat and grips me tighter. For a brief moment, I wonder if he can strangle the fight out of me. He bites back and I gasp, not from pain but because I want this so badly. He backs me against the piano, his mouth never leaving mine and his fingertips hot on the skin at my waist. We’re tottering on the edge of something major. He’s not an awkward guy my own age. No, Isaac knows exactly what to do, even though he shouldn’t be doing it.

He knows it, too. He backs away, eyes as wide as I’ve ever seen them.

“
No
. This isn’t happening. This
didn’t
happen.” He shudders.

Good
.

“I’m leaving. I’ll be back Monday, but this—” He shakes his head. “
No
.”

True to his word, he spins on his heel and leaves the studio, banging the door on his way out.

I lick my lips and taste blood.

***

I make an effort to participate in the dinner conversation with Daddy and R.J., who’s home again for the weekend. He seems to be doing that a lot lately. I wonder what he’d say if I told him I saw Mama at the sink, a scowl etched on her face.

I help clear off the table after dinner and place the dishes on the counter in the kitchen, but I won’t go near the sink. She’s still there. I thought I was being smooth about it, but R.J. and Daddy exchange funny looks, so I guess I better find a way to distract myself, like homework. Homework? It seems so pointless now.

One thing I know for sure: I won’t go back out to the studio again to practice.

I hide in my room. I need to dissect what happened this afternoon.

What did happen this afternoon?

I gather my blue pajamas and take them across the hall to the bathroom.

So I went a little psycho. It happens, right?

Considering all I’ve been through, I think I’ve earned it. Besides, he had it coming.

Who does that remind you of, freak?

I lock the bathroom door, undress, and turn on the hot water until it hurts. What do I say when Isaac comes back?
If he comes back.
Will he be mad? Embarrassed? Quit giving me lessons again? I told him I wasn’t going to audition, but I don’t think he believed me.

I step into the porcelain tub and pull the shower curtain around on the rings. I stick my face directly into the boiling spray, first one side then the other, and let the water run down each side of my neck to relax the muscles. The tightness in my shoulders eases up, so I turn around and let the water soak my hair from behind. I shut off my brain for a few minutes and just
feel
—
the softness of my hair when I massage conditioner through it, the smoothness of my skin when I run the rose-scented soap over it, the painless whisk the razor makes as it glides over my legs, the warm inner glow when I look down and realize I look more like a woman than a girl.