The Whys Have It Page 4

  I drag my car keys off the counter, pull on a pair of slippers that hopefully pass for shoes, and make it to my car. It only takes a few minutes to pull into a parking spot at Maplewood Care Center—the closest and best nursing home in Springfield. I rented my apartment last year based on location alone. With work and Kassie and so many other things to take care of, I needed my dad close, if for no other reason than to make the routine more bearable.

  Now even that seems laughable.

  It takes only one glance at the nurse’s station to know that the news proceeded my arrival. Heads dip. Eyes dart away. The name Cory Minor floats over the area in a series of hushed whispers. Everyone busies themselves with paperwork and chart-flipping and refilling cups of coffee. Everyone except for Phyllis. Always Phyllis. The woman’s soul is as light as her skin is dark—there is no in-between with her. She comes around the counter and pulls me into a motherly hug so tight that it steals my breath and ushers in tears. It’s been so long since I’ve had a real hug that I barely remember the sensation. It’s warm, comforting, all-encompassing. Phyllis hugs with an abandonment rare for most people because she knows the secret: that humans need contact to thrive, that a broken heart is only one crack away from a broken spirit, and that both can be mended by smoothing on thin layers of love. With Phyllis, if you felt unloved before one of her hugs, it’s impossible to feel that way after.

  “It’s okay, baby,” she sing-whispers over and over as we rock back and forth. I let her sway us along, comforted by the feel of her hand patting the back of my head. “You go ahead and cry. Cry it all out and then cry some more. I hear your heart. I don’t mind your tears.”

  It’s a good thing, because I manage to shed buckets before I finally break away. The tension from the other women in the reception area is palpable until Phyllis sweeps her gaze over everyone in a message to stop staring. Immediately papers shuffle along with feet until Phyllis and I are the only ones left standing still.

  “Don’t you worry about them, sweetie,” she says, pulling a tissue from the box on the counter and handing it to me. “They’re all just worked up right now, what with this involving a celebrity and all.” I don’t ask how they know. It’s probably not something I want to hear anyway. “Is there anything you need from me? Do you want me to go in there with you?” She nods toward room twelve. My father waits behind that door like he’s waited for two years now. We both stare at the brown paint, taking in all it represents.

  Finality.

  Heartbreak.

  Isolation.

  All reserved for me, because I’m the only one who will feel the impact.

  I wipe underneath my eyes and ball the tissue in my fist. “No, I need to do it by myself.”

  She nods, then bites her lip on a frown. I know what she’s going to say before the words escape. “Honey, you know your daddy’s not going to—”

  “I know.” I nod once, filled with resignation. “I know it won’t matter to him. He doesn’t even know who we are anymore.” Grief stabs at my insides at the familiar we. There is no we. Now it’s just me. “But I have to tell him anyway. If nothing else, just to know that I did. Maybe someday he’ll wonder where she is, you know? I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I’d kept the news from him.”

  Phyllis reaches for my hand, and I let her hold it. “I understand, baby. You come find me if you need anything at all.”

  “I will.”

  Phyllis turns and walks down the hall as I stare after her, working up the courage to go inside. And that’s the thing about visiting a patient with Alzheimer’s, it always takes courage to visit, because you never know what you might find when you show up. One day, a welcoming attitude. One day, recognition. One day, nothing but anger. One day, foul words and empty threats. You might even get hit.

  It’s been months since my father gave me anything but a blank stare. I’ve spent the past year resenting his condition, but today I’d like to trade places with him and forget everything around me. Ignorance is bliss I suppose, but that’s something I’ll never have the benefit of knowing.

  I push my way inside the room, then tell the man who raised me that his youngest daughter died yesterday in a horrible accident. That the wreck had already made headlines…that everyone would soon be talking about it simply for the notoriety of it all.

  I don’t expect him to care.

  I don’t expect him to recognize me.

  My father doesn’t disappoint.

  * * *

  “Daddy, do you understand what I’m telling you?” I scoot forward in my seat and reach for his hand. As normally happens, he pulls back before I connect and grips the blanket on his lap. Physical contact agitates him; the lack of it crushes me.

  He glances at me for a moment, then begins to rub his thumb and fingers in a circular motion—a bewildering pattern that began nearly a year ago and has grown increasingly confusing since. Alzheimer’s patients find comfort in patterns, all of which start without warning and grow in frequency until patterns become the only movements they make.

  He circles while I wait for him to speak. The words are always the same.

  “When am I going home? My momma isn’t here yet, but she’s coming to take me home. Any minute now, she’ll be here to take me home.”

  My grandmother has been dead more than two decades. My father remembers only the boy he used to be, not the man who married a beautiful woman and raised two daughters.

  “I’m sure she’ll be here any minute, Daddy.” My voice breaks. “Do you mind if I sit here and wait with you until she shows up?” I have nowhere else to go, no one else who needs me. No one is going to show up. Maybe no one ever will. My dad doesn’t respond, so I do the only thing I know.

  I sit back in my chair and stare out the window, trying not to notice the way his hand hasn’t stopped. It still circles back and forth, like he’s smoothing out a pizza crust, in a pattern he doesn’t know he’s making. It’s the only thing about my father that stays the same anymore.

  I blink at the skyline visible through the window, knowing the only thing waiting out there for me is a funeral home.

  CHAPTER 8

  Cory

  Everything feels off tonight, and not just because of the throbbing headache that begins at my left temple and stretches its talons to the back of my neck. Stitches pull against my eyebrow from under the bandages—it took six of them to close the wound. They itch. They hurt. I want to rip them out. But that isn’t the worst of it. The worst of it is my performance. The show must go on, as someone once claimed. Sal claimed it too, just last night when I was begging to cancel. Both those morons should go to hell for handing out bad quips.

  My feet are mired in thick sludge, each movement feels forced and labored. My bruised shoulder strains against the weight of my guitar—the guitar which normally feels as natural as an extra appendage but now seems more like a noose intent on squeezing the life out of my left side. My normally raspy voice is rougher than usual—probably from the yelling that turned to crying that turned into coughing up radiator fumes. I should have demanded we cancel the concert. Now that I’m here, I owe it to the fans to step it up. I keep picturing the redhead, knowing I’ll never be able to repay the debt I owe to her. To everyone.

  I just hope the fans can’t tell how much I’m struggling.

  We’re in the middle of the second chorus of Try Me for Free, the first single from my debut album that I’ve played a thousand times before, when I make the mistake of glancing over at Mark, my bass player. I don’t miss the what’s with you look he gives me, but I don’t acknowledge it either, just turn away and begin the lead-in to the last verse. I’m responsible for the death of someone. I made the driver wait, even though he was tired. I went back for the blonde, even though I knew better. I bent my own rules, even though they were there for a reason.

  My mind jumps backward a decade before I shove it back into the present.

  There’s a big difference this time. This time, I’m not soaked
in muddy water and shivering from icy fear. This time, I’m going to make things right. I clench my jaw together and breathe through my nose.

  Always this. Every road I take leads to this same place. No matter how far I rise, this one thing will always bring me back down.

  Be awesome. Those are the last words I spoke at that concert a couple nights ago. It’s how I finish up every concert, every single night. My last chance to say something meaningful to a crowd of twenty-thousand who paid good money to hear me, and that’s what I say. Be awesome. Because I’m seventeen all over again, high on weed or meth or whatever vice kids use these days. I might as well have stumbled around onstage and slurred my words for how ridiculous they seem to me now.

  Be awesome. The last words that redhead heard me say onstage before her life was cut short because of my tour bus.

  Well it won’t be the last words these people hear tonight.

  The final chord fades and I step up to the microphone. The band is already leading in to the next song. They won’t like my interruption, but it’s my name on the merchandise, my name on the tickets, my name on the bus.

  I hold up my hand to stop the music. Confused, one-by-one, the band quits playing. Even the audience quiets down, something that almost never happens. I take a deep breath and begin to speak the words I suddenly wish I had rehearsed.

  “I just…I just want to—” The microphone is louder than usual. Or maybe it’s that my nerves are tighter. Either way, I feel more on display than ever before. Someone yells from the back of the arena. Holding tight to my guitar, I ignore the sound and keep going.

  “Some of you may have heard about the girl who was killed after our concert in Springfield a couple of nights ago.” An uncomfortable cough comes from behind me. Mike wants me to stop talking, but I don’t need his permission to speak. “Anyway, I just wanted to say that I feel terrible for what happened. Kind of responsible, you know?” My voice breaks. Someone yells it’s not your fault as a smattering of we love you, Cory’s travels throughout the room. The pronouncements usher in a whole new wave of shouting. The band takes it as a cue to start playing, but I’m not finished. I raise my hands to hush the crowd.

  “Just let me finish, okay? Then I promise we’ll get back to what you came here for.” Slowly, the noise dissipates. “I just want to say that life is short. So when you leave here tonight, go out and live the best life you can, love the people you love, and be happy. But above all, be safe.” Applause grows, but I have one last thing to say before it drowns me out. “So I want to dedicate tonight’s concert to a fan, to a girl who came to a concert two nights ago—that’s all she did—just came to hear me sing. And she was killed on her way home.” My voice cracks on the last word. It takes a minute to regain my composure. “This one’s for Kassie.”

  Kassie. All I have is her first name.

  I step back to get myself together. I’ve never been this nervous or scared in a concert, not since my very first one.

  I force myself to reengage with the crowd, to push through the melancholy and get back into the moment. I have a show to finish, and these people deserve the best I have to offer. For the next twenty minutes I’ll play my heart out so they can go home satisfied.

  But later, I have a plan. One that’s been swirling in my mind since I came onstage. It isn’t the greatest plan, but I have to start somewhere. There’s got to be a beginning to get to a middle and end, right?

  One way or another, as soon as the lights go out tonight, I’m going to connect with that girl’s family.

  * * *

  She was even prettier than I remember—striking in a way that would make men glance back for a second and third look—while at the same time being wholesome and earthy. Had I seen her on the street, I would have openly stared. Maybe even had someone inquire about her. The concert didn’t do her justice; it didn’t accent her deep blue almond shaped eyes, or the toned legs that stretched for miles. She was tall—the pictures make it obvious in the way she towered over her friends. In this particular picture, she’s wearing a pink Victoria’s Secret tee and laughing as though she’s just been told the punch line to a side-splitting joke.

  But she was young. Younger than I thought. That reality stabs me through my already guilt-laden conscience.

  Seventeen is too young to die.

  Any age is too young for me to be responsible.

  I’m an expert on that fact.

  I open another image on her Instagram page, one taken only last week. In it, she wears a blue graduation gown. She stands in front of a red brick building next to what looks like a slightly older version of herself. She’s holding two small slips of white paper in one hand while her other hand flashes the peace sign. The other girl—woman, actually—has the same auburn hair, the same cornflower blue eyes, the same sly grin as though the two share a secret. The older girl’s hair is longer and falls in waves past her shoulders, but the face…their faces are definitely the same.

  The difference is in the eyes. The younger girl is innocent and full of life; I remember those eyes smiling up at me. I remember the way they sparked and popped during the concert. But the older girl, she’s known pain. She looks weary, like the weight of life rests directly on her shoulders. She’s compellingly beautiful, but there’s a depth to it that goes much further than a surface look designed to turn heads.

  She would definitely turn heads, mine included. But then the admirer would be too mesmerized to look away.

  Both girls would turn heads. I knew they were sisters before I read the caption.

  Feeling sick and curious in a nauseating combination, I scan the words underneath the photo once again and immediately wish I hadn’t. Cory Minor tickets! My sister gives the best graduation gifts ever! The sister is tagged in the photo: Samantha Dalton. I can’t help but click on her profile. The need to know more consumes me, and now that I’ve come this far I can’t make myself stop. I’m like a masochist with a fetish for self-mutilation; it hurts, but I dig in for more.

  I scroll through her page looking…looking…hoping for answers despite being unsure of the questions. I stop short at the sight of a photo taken this Spring and click on it. Samantha and Kassie flank an elderly man lying in a hospital bed; they smile, he offers nothing but a vacant stare. The caption reads simply: My family. I stare for a moment trying to process, then set my phone on the desk and swivel my chair toward the window. In my world, family is made up of cousins and grandparents and brothers and step-people I wouldn’t recognize in a room full of fans. Surely this isn’t all they have.

  Unable to help myself, I snatch up my phone and keep reading until a comment under the photo brings me up short. I can’t believe it’s been ten years already…your mother would be proud of you both. Then more recent comments, the latest one posted only fifteen minutes ago: I’m sorry to hear about Kassie. She was such a great girl and will be missed. Let me know if you…

  I swallow, unable to read more. This chick named Samantha has lived through hell.

  And I just struck another match.

  I fling my phone toward the bed and reach for a ball cap, pulling it low enough to cover my bandaged eyebrow. It’s hot in here and I need air. A distraction. A way to turn back the clock forty-eight hours and reset it to a time when my biggest worry was which pair of designer sunglasses made the best impression. Instead, I shove my arms into an old denim jacket, skip the sunglasses all together, pocket my hotel room key, and walk out the door. Sneaking past Big Jim might be a problem, but if I can manage I might be able to feel normal again in a few short minutes.

  Miracle of miracles, I make it outside without being seen. Three minutes later I duck inside a corner pub and walk toward the back. It’s darkest in the back and lessens the possibility of being recognized.

  One hour later I’m sipping my third beer and contemplating a fourth. Sal and his don’t drink too much advice can suck it. Getting drunk is the primary goal tonight, and after that I’ll…

  Well, I don’t know
what I’ll do. Is it always necessary to have a plan?

  This pub is more of a dance club than a quiet hangout, and it’s kind of giving me a headache. Or maybe that’s the alcohol. I shake my head and tip my glass to look over the crowd. A mosh pit has formed on the dance floor—men and men, women and women, couples doing all sorts of dancing and grinding that will no doubt keep them busy most of the evening. This beer will keep me busy, I hope.

  But of course I’m not that lucky.

  A woman in a slinky silver dress slides into the chair across from me. I think the dress is supposed to be expensive, but it reminds me of a Doublemint gum wrapper. I wonder if it crinkles when it’s touched.

  “What are you doing back here all by yourself?” she says. She places her drink on the table and stirs it, eyes on me, waiting for me to look up. After a reluctant moment I do, careful not to reveal too much of my face. It never takes much to be recognized—normally not a problem. Tonight, I’m not in the mood to play the fame game. I say nothing, just drape my arm across the back of my chair. I’m also not in the mood to talk.

  “Did you hear me? You should be out there dancing, not sitting back here all by yourself.” Her voices purrs. I know a come-on when I hear one.

  “I’d rather sit here and enjoy the view.” I haven’t taken my eyes off the woman, making my words sound like an invitation. Too late, I realize she takes it that way. She scoots closer, elbows on the table, cleavage on display. I fight an eye roll. It’s all so predictable.

  “You know, has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Cory Minor? Same hair. Same eyes. Same crooked grin. Same bandage above the eye.” And there it was. The news is already circulating, and no matter how clever I try to be, a disguise never works. Not sure why I thought it might tonight. Big Jim will be furious, especially if I have to run from a mob. Especially if I get hurt more than I already am.