Writing Our Song (5 page)

Stalking sideways up the steps so she could keep her eyes on me, I could almost feel my mom’s restraints letting go.  I’d never been beaten at home, never faced overly brutal bullying at school, but I knew danger when I saw it and right now it was directly in front of me.

I backed into my room as she approached, holding my hands out in a half calming and half defensive gesture.  It was as effective as brandishing a white flag at a tidal wave and, even though I saw it coming, I couldn’t quite believe it enough to do anything when my mom struck my face in a powerful open-handed slap that sent my head rocketing to the side, followed by a shove that sent me sprawling backwards to the floor.

“You have the
nerve
…”

My mom’s sentence dissolved into an animal snarl as she advanced on me again.  I retreated until my back hit the wall, my breaths already coming in shallow gasps as a cold sweat broke out over my forehead.

“He
died
because of this bullshit fantasy about being a singer!” she screamed as she bent over me, hands gripping my hair and shirt and shaking me back and forth until I thought she was going to rip both me and my clothes apart.

“And still here you are!  You
selfish bitch
…” she continued, letting me go and walking to my desk, pulling things off and throwing them at me.

My phone hit me right on the knee, a snow-globe my dad had bought me when I was four years old shattered on the wall by my head, spraying me with glass, water and plastic.  Throughout it all my mom screamed insults and accusations at me until I curled up into the fetal position, barely feeling whatever else hit me until suddenly it was quiet again.

I looked up and she was right there, kneeling by me, as angry as ever but chillingly under control again.  Through bared teeth she hissed out words so quiet I could hardly hear them.

“He
hated
listening to you sing, you know…”

“I’m sorry, Mom… please…”

“Every night he’d be forced to hear your screeching he’d say what a cookie-cutter pop-voice you had…”

I rolled my eyes up at her from the floor where I was lying, my throat closed up despite how desperately my body tried to hyperventilate.  I’d always thought he liked to hear me sing, he’d always given that impression.

If it was anyone else telling me this I would have called them a liar but this was my mom, his wife.  Don’t married couples confide in each other things they would never tell anybody else?  Was it possible he really did hate my singing but simply didn’t want to hurt my feelings? 
Him
?

Even so I still might have been able to shrug it off but hadn’t my dad said something about my pop-voice breaking his heart?  I was sure he had, and that gave everything my mom said the weight of truth.  While these thoughts were racing through my mind, my mom leaned in even closer.

“You forget about all that crap, you hear me?  Sort yourself out at school or get a job and start contributing.  You’re not a singer, you don’t do that anymore.  Understand?”

I nodded.

“Say it!”

“I… won’t sing.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

With one last shove on my shoulder that assisted her back to her feet, my mom stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind her.  I stayed right where I was, surrounded by water, little pieces of glass and my other belongings that had become missiles.

When it was full-dark outside I tentatively sat up and lunged for my bed, almost yelling in fright with the thought that the hands of some boogeyman might shoot out from underneath and drag me away.  I hid under my covers and didn’t move until the morning when I heard my mom leave the house.

I found my phone, miraculously unscathed from its flight and impact, and sent a message to Blair.  Clearly I wouldn’t be making it to band practice, but there was more I needed to tell him.

‘
Sorry.  Have to quit the band.  Can’t do it
’

Feeling almost empty, I mechanically gathered a few things from my room and then some newspaper and matches from the kitchen before going into the back yard.  Standing there in the unkempt grass was an old barbeque.  No gas, just a grill over an area you could put some charcoal.

I bunched up the newspaper into loose balls, stuffed them in, piled my things on top and set a match to the whole lot.  As the flames took hold of the newspaper and grew bigger they spread to the real meat of this cook out.

First to catch was the hat I had worn when I sang in my first school musical, next was the certificate I’d won in a talent show.  Before my eyes everything blackened until at last my scrapbook was consumed too.  In it were all the school newsletters and newspaper clippings that mentioned my singing, all my ham-fisted attempts at writing lyrics.  My secret hopes and dreams, written on the pages I’d never shown anybody.

I watched it go up in smoke and tried to forget all about what it felt like to be on stage and flying.

Chapter 5

I didn’t do too well in my exams at the end of the year but the school, or whoever can pull these kinds of strings, took pity on me and bumped up my grades where needed based on my achievements from… before.  Over the summer I applied for a job in the exciting field of fast food.  In the beginning I’d be cleaning up the lobby area where customers ate but if I worked hard and played my cards right I was promised I could one day also flip burgers and work on the tills at the front counter.

It was mindless work, but it did keep me out of the house.  After that night in my room I avoided my mom as much as possible, it was safer that way.

When the weather, my shifts at work and daylight hours permitted it, I would go to the cemetery to visit my dad.  Even after such a short time, the fresh dirt over his grave was already growing grass and would be indistinguishable from the area around it soon.

Usually I sat just to the side of his grave marker, if the ground was dry enough, and leaned my forehead against it.  The stone was so cold, whereas the person had been so warm, but it was the closest I could get.

I almost always spoke to him, and I almost always began with an apology rather than a greeting.  There was never any forgiveness, but that didn’t stop me.  It was also the only place I consciously let myself lose control of my emotions, rather than when they steamrolled over the walls I was building inside myself.

“I’m sorry, Dad.  I’m trying to do better.  I’m not living in a dream world anymore, I’ve quit the band.”

Tears squeezed out of my eyes and dripped off the tip of my nose.

“Hey, speaking of which, I saw Blair, Drew and Darrin today in the restaurant.  I don’t think they saw me, probably because I hid when I spotted them.  Anyway, looks like they’ve got a new singer, Helena Tyson from Blair’s year.  Can you believe that?  I… I hope they do well.”

I talked for the best part of an hour and when I looked up I saw the cemetery was entirely deserted except for me.  That was hardly unusual though, I rarely saw anybody else there except for the times when somebody was actually getting buried.  How quickly people seemed to forget.  It was almost like letting their loved ones die twice.

“I won’t forget you, Dad.  I love you.  I miss you.”

I kissed the tombstone and stood up, hoping I could get home and into my room without running into my mom.

*****

When school started again I was still nervous about being in that crowded environment, facing questions and expectations, but it seemed I’d managed to push everybody away by the way I acted at the end of the previous year and my summer-of-silence.  I sat by myself at lunch, I kept to myself in class.  I just didn’t care.

It wasn’t long into the year before I heard that Blair was dating Helena Tyson.  We had never ‘officially’ split up, but I guessed by this point I’d essentially dropped off all contact for longer than we had been together in the first place.

I tried to think back to how I had felt that night of our big show, when he had first asked me out on a date but I couldn’t do it.  I knew the word ‘happy’ but it might as well have been gibberish for all the meaning it held.

That didn’t help when I passed them in the hallways between classes, or when they performed in front of the school assembly.  I saw myself for what I was.  Easily replaced.

I had regular meetings with the school counsellor and I was doing my best to put on a brave face during them.  What I really wanted was for him to just give me the ‘all-clear’ and be done with it.  It felt like as long as I was still required to see him, there was still something ‘wrong’ with me and I couldn’t move on. 

“Come on in, Beatrice,” he said from just inside his office.

I stood from where I had been sitting in his little waiting room, or holding cell if that was a better term, and walked inside.  As usual I went to the seat in the corner, next to the box of tissues.  Not that that was the defining quality of the spot, pretty much everywhere I could have chosen to sit had easy access to tissues.

“So how are you?” he asked.

“Fine.  I’m absolutely fine,” I said, and even offered what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

“That’s good to hear.  Your teachers tell me that your quality of work is definitely improving.  Are you finding it easier to concentrate in class now?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, good.  And how are things at home?”

“Normal, I guess.”

“What does that mean?”

I shrugged, “Just… I don’t know.  One day at a time, chores get done, food gets eaten, rinse and repeat.  Normal.”

“You’re looking a lot better, speaking of food getting eaten.  I did think you were starting to look like you were missing some meals.”

“I got a job at Eddie’s Diner over the summer, I guess the staff discount is fattening me up a bit.”

“You’re not fat, Beatrice, just make sure you eat healthy, keep your energy up.  Drink lots of water too.”

Eat food, drink water, great advice.  I looked to the side for a moment at one of the many clocks he had in the room, unable to maintain eye contact through a sudden flare of anger.  As always, I was amazed at how many time-pieces he had in the room.

What was the point of all that?  With all his fancy psychology qualifications I felt like I always had to be on my guard with him.  Like everything he said was an elaborate trap, a way to verbally paint me into a corner and make me confront something I didn’t want to confront.

Were the clocks part of some mind-game he was playing?  Next to the box of tissues was a digital clock with built in thermometer and barometer, on the wall was a regular clock with roman numerals for numbers, on the book shelf was another digital clock, on his wrist was a watch, on the table next to him was his phone, which also had a clock displayed whenever he wasn’t using it, the computer screen on the desk in the corner had its own clock.

I could even see a clock tower out of his window.  How unpunctual would a man have to be to require so many reminders of what time it was?  There must have been something to it, but I couldn’t figure it out.

“What was that?” he asked.

“What was what?”

“You zoned out for a minute there.”

“Sorry, just a bit tired I guess.”

“How are you sleeping lately?”

I wanted to bite my tongue off, I knew as soon as the words were out of my mouth that I had opened a can of worms.  At a previous meeting I had admitted that I was having nightmares and then had to talk for almost the whole hour about them.

“Sleeping OK,” I lied.

“And the nightmares?”

“Nope,” I said.

Eli put his pen and pad down on the table next to his phone and interlaced his fingers over his stomach.  After an awkward pause he spoke again.

“So, same nightmare then?”

I cast my eyes down, feeling like there was no point in denying it.  Elias Rothenberg with his uncanny psychology voodoo would see through it.

Truth be told, I was having multiple nightmares.  Most of them were about my dad, and those didn’t take any kind of expert to decipher.  One was different though.

In that one I was going to Blair’s house for band practice, back when I did such things, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.  When I arrived I saw Blair and Drew there waiting for me, having already done whatever warm-up exercises they utilized for their guitar and bass, but the stool behind Darrin’s drum kit was empty.

“You’re late,” Blair would say, “you ready to start?”

“What about Darrin?” I would respond.

“What are you talking about?  You know Darrin’s dead, stop being such a stupid bitch.”

I’d turn to Drew, with a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes.

“Drew, what about Darrin, he’s your friend!”

“Who?” he’d say.

Then we’d just practice a few songs, the others not seeming to care about Darrin in the slightest, forging ahead with their practice like nothing was wrong.  I sang terribly, forgot all the words and just couldn’t do anything properly.  Then I would wake up and hope it was morning so I wouldn’t have to try to go back to sleep.

“You know,” Eli said, “there is a school of thought that, when we have dreams about people, each person in the dream represents an aspect of ourselves.  What do you think that might mean for you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Try.”

“Um.  Like, something has died?”

“What?”

“A… a part of… me.”

“What part might that be?”

I thought about that for a moment.  About the way my mom treated me now, how cold she was.  About how I’d lost my friends, my place in the band, my place in the world, my boyfriend.  Then it hit me.  If a part of me had died I had a suspicion as to what it was.

“The… the… lovable part.”

I covered my face with my hands as the tears poured from my eyes.  Damn him, he’d got me again.

*****

My birthday came and went without anybody noticing.  Even I missed it until the day after when I was sitting at my desk doing homework and spotted the date on my phone.

“Yay.  Sweet sixteen plus one day,” I said without enthusiasm.

The same went for Christmas.  Just another day at our house.  Last year had been different.  I’d leapt out of bed at seven o’clock in the morning as excited as if I was still five years old, we’d had a tree, presents, laughter and everything good.  This year I didn’t get out of bed until around noon.

The school year flew by for months with no particular break from the tedium.  I didn’t know if I was getting better or just getting better at my act, but my sessions with Eli never seemed to end in tears anymore.

Around April my mom got herself a job as a secretary in the city, which was fine by me.  It meant that I could, on evenings that I wasn’t working, have a few hours after school in the house by myself where I could make some food, and have some complete peace and quiet.  I made sure to be in my room by the time she came back though.

One afternoon in early June I had the evening off so came straight home from school.  I walked in the front door and past the entrance to the living room and then did a double-take.

Taking two steps backwards I looked in and saw a big bunch of red roses in a vase on the mantelpiece over the fireplace.  I took a few tentative steps into the room, looking around in case my mom had come home early.

I saw no sign of her, I guessed she must have put the flowers up there the previous night or early this morning before she went to work and I had just not seen them when I went to school.  The roses were not only red but
so
rich in color they seemed to almost shine with their own light.  I reached up and flipped open the little card attached to the side.

‘To Kate, You get more beautiful every day, Eugene’

What the hell was this?  Flowers from some guy for my mom?  My dad hadn’t even been dead for a year and she was accepting flowers?  How could she have forgotten so soon?  Anger, hot and bright, flared up inside me and I almost took the vase outside to heave it as far away from our house as I could but I managed to stop myself.

It’s OK, Beatrice, they’re just flowers.  She didn’t want to be rude, that’s all.  They’re probably from somebody at work and she didn’t want to make a scene.  That’s it, it’s OK.

But it wasn’t OK.  That bunch was replaced with another, and another.  Sometimes there was a bunch on the kitchen table too, if the ones on the mantelpiece hadn’t wilted yet.

Red.  All of them red, just like the first bunch.  They would have been beautiful if it wasn’t for what they represented.  As it was, I hated them.  They truly made me sick to my stomach.

My mom started changing too.  On the odd occasions where I saw her at home, she was putting a lot more effort into her make-up, and buying new clothes.  Worst of all was when she started wearing a new necklace in place of the one my dad had bought her for one of their anniversaries.

I felt invisible at home but after a brief debate I decided it was better than bearing the brunt of my mom’s hatred, though only marginally.  She started staying out in the evenings, I would sometimes go for days without knowing if she had even come home at all.

*****

Ferrari.  That’s what it said on the side of the car I was looking at.  I looked left and right up and down the street and compared it to the other vehicles I could see.  It really stuck out like a sore thumb.

I couldn’t remember if I’d ever seen a car like this before outside of television or the internet.  I certainly had never seen one of them in torrential rain like I was currently standing in.  Cars like this are always shown in bright sunshine like God himself wouldn’t dare get it wet and ruin the red paintjob.

So what was it doing parked outside my house?  I looked to the right again and considered the station-wagon that belonged to the Jones family next door.  Baby seat in the middle of the back, and the rear area littered with various toys that kept their shaggy dog busy on any car rides they went on.

Years ago I had sometimes gotten rides to school with them, back when they had two kids instead of the three they had now.  Tommy, their oldest boy, was only a few years younger than me, so we used to go to the same elementary school.