A Lush Betrayal (29 page)

In the evenings, my dad comes home, tells me some stupid story about his crew at work, and then we pop a few brews and watch a game or he listens to whatever songs I’m working on. He actually has a good ear, and I found out he even used to play some guitar himself.

We don’t talk much about the past. I have those discussions with the energy therapist. I know one thing for sure though, Joseph Senior might not know how to be a dad, but he does know how to be a friend. At this point in my life, that’s enough. It’s comfortable, and I don’t feel so alone anymore.

After Dave’s call, I allow myself to think about Mel. I worked really hard at first, putting her out of my mind. Sometimes at night I’d wake up in the dark and reach for her before remembering she was gone and it would all come flooding back. It felt like something poisonous was destroying me from the inside out. It hurt that bad.

But more and more lately, I’ll find myself thinking of her during the small moments of the day. As I look at a tree outside or strum a certain chord in a song. When I taste a food I know she likes or hear a joke I think she’d laugh at. It’s less intense but more pervasive. Almost as if she’s become an actual part of me that I’ll never lose yet still always miss somehow.

My energy therapist says it’s because I’m getting more balanced and all the crap that’s blocked me for so long is dissolving. She says that it’ll be tough but worth it in the end because my feelings will be pure, not driven by negative things in my past. All I know is, the more I think about Mel, the more I want to think about her and the more I want to be with her.

Now, at five thirty a.m. on a Thursday, I’m lying in bed and wondering where she is and what she’s doing. I’ve talked to Colin a few times and he says she’s been staying with Tammy. I’m glad. I couldn’t take knowing that I destroyed their relationship too. Whatever problems they might have, Tammy and Mel love each other a lot. They need each other right now. Unfortunately, what they don’t need is me. But then no one from my life during the last twenty-eight years needs me anymore. I’m not sure my dad needs me either, but at least he doesn’t mind me. That’s something I guess.

I
T STARTS
off with an email. I’m writing a song one evening as I sit alone in my dad’s apartment. He’s gone out with some guys from work. They invited me along, but I’ve had this song banging around in my head all day and I need to get it down. When it’s finally done, I sit and look at it. It’s about her. But then, they all are.

So often I think about sending the songs to her. Trying to tell her what I feel. I’m not sure why this time I act on it, but before I can stop myself, I give in to the need to tell her. I touch the email icon on the iPad and open up a new window.

To: picsbymel

From: RockStar1

I once told you that every love song I’d ever written was about you. Now I can truthfully say that every song I write is about you. The love songs, the sad songs, the happy songs, the beautiful songs, it doesn’t matter
,
they’re about you. Today I wrote this. I hope you like it.

The Girl From Shangri-La

I knew her once, the girl from Shangri-La

She taught me what it meant to fall and fall

It was but a minute in her life

But it was all the minutes in mine

She taught me what it meant to fall and fall

That beautiful girl from Shangri-La.

Love, Joss.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself, and then I begin the wait.

Mel

T
AMMY IS
determined to find Walsh. She hasn’t told me what she intends to do once she knows where he is, but I’m really worried it won’t be good for her. I talk to her therapist about it and she agrees that Tammy needs to tread carefully. Her recovery is going well, and being rejected by Walsh right now might be more than she can handle. But we’re seeing that as she gets well, the old Tammy is reemerging, and she’s a force to be reckoned with. Not many people are able to tell her what to do.

My life has been in a holding pattern for over three months now while I’ve taken care of Tammy. I haven’t checked my school email account in all that time, so I have no idea what happened with the remainder of my case, whether Seattle College decided to let me retake the class or not. I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. So many things don’t seem to matter anymore. I spend my days taking care of Tammy, making sure my parents know how she is, coordinating with her doctors, and supervising what needs to be done at her house. It’s all I can really deal with right now.

Luckily, I too received a severance package from the band. Plenty of money to keep me going for the next year, open my own business, whatever I want. It would have made me feel like a hooker if I hadn’t also delivered the tour photos to Dave. It wasn’t the story of a rock band on tour, however. When we returned from California, during the many times Tammy either slept or was in therapy, I looked through the hundreds of photos I’d shot. I was shocked to see that it told the story of endings—the end of friendships, the end of loves, and the end of a band.

When I started the Lush project, I thought I’d be faced with photos of rock stars behaving badly. What I ended up with was photos of rock stars suffering pain. Things like Mike and Joss arguing, Tammy watching Joss with guilt and pain in her eyes, Walsh holding Tammy protectively, and Colin alone, apart from everything and everyone around him. The things that clearly showed the path we were all on but couldn’t see when we were in the midst of it. I don’t think anyone else will ever see what I created for Dave, but at least I’ve seen it, and at least he knows what happened. I feel like he deserved that much, given he lost his most lucrative client overnight.

I’m cleaning up some of the final files from the band project late one night when the flag on my inbox flashes. I click on the icon and open up the screen. There, as if not a day has passed, is an email from RockStar1.
Joss
.

My hands start to tremble, and I gasp. I feel the tears well up as a sense of panic explodes inside my heart. I lean back in my chair, hands over my mouth as I try to regain some control. It takes me nearly five minutes before I can extend a shaky hand to click on the message. I never even consider not opening it. The primal, visceral reaction I always have to him extends through the miles, the technology, the pain. I cannot turn away from Joss Jamison, no matter what he’s done.

When the message opens, there’s no “Dear Mel,” no “How are you?” Nothing trite or ceremonial, just essential Joss—a few lines and then the lyrics to a song.

I read it over and over again.
The Girl from Shangri-La
. I sit and stare at the computer screen for hours. I stare until my eyes burn and I can see the sky growing lighter outside. There are no thoughts in my head, just a low hum that accelerates and recedes in time with the pounding of my heart. Finally, something inside of me snaps. I reach out, click delete, and move to the bed, where I close my eyes and dream of Joss like I have every night since he left.

T
HE
G
IRL
from Shangri-La
is only the beginning of the emails that come from RockStar1. Every second or third day, I open my email to discover a new song along with some small description of what Joss is doing that day.

November 12:
Staying with my dad right now. Today we started tearing out one of the walls in his dining room. I convinced him to put in French doors
—

November 15:
I wrote this one while I was at City Park. There were about a thousand geese there, and one kept trying to bite my foot. Luckily I was wearing boots because the fuckers bite and shit everywhere
—

November 20:
Talked to Dave today. I’ve decided to sell some of my songs. I don’t know when I’ll perform again, if ever, but I won’t sell
The Girl from Shangri-La
. That one’s for you alone
—

November 23:
Had my first real run-in with the paparazzi today. I guess they’ve found out I’m in Denver. Luckily they don’t seem to know where my dad lives, so I haven’t had to leave yet, but it’s just a matter of time. I might have to move to a hotel, which is kind of a bummer. My dad’s a good roommate. We’ve done well together. He’s a pretty chill guy, but he never had an iPod until I bought him one. Hard to imagine, isn’t it?

November 29:
I’m hoping you had a good Thanksgiving, sweet Mel. My old man’s got a few “lady friends” (I bet that doesn’t surprise you), and one of them had us over for turkey. I think she really just wanted to introduce me to her daughter who is a very large divorcee with six Pomeranians.

Luckily my dad knew it was coming, so he spent a bunch of time talking about “that gorgeous redhead you had on tour with you.” One of the Pomeranians came in handy when I wanted to get rid of the stuffing I hated. He barfed it all up later, but at least it was him and not me. I realized it was the first Thanksgiving dinner I’ve had at someone’s house since my mom died. The things that strike you out of the blue like that are strange sometimes
—

Each email talks more about his life. I keep deleting them, but I read each one, and I never empty the trashcan in my inbox. I’ve hover over that “empty” button a thousands times over the weeks that go by, but I can’t bring myself to press it.

Finally, on December 12
^th
, I open up another email from Joss, and this time, for reasons I will never understand, I don’t hit “delete.” I hit “reply.”

To: RockStar1

From: picsbymel

Yes, I do still like my coffee with almond milk instead of real milk. Someday you’ll find out I’m right about that. You should tell your dad that I saw a photo of that huge neighborhood he’s building where the old airport used to be. I could picture him there, his hard hat on, staring everyone down with the Jamison scowl.

Dave came by the other day to talk to Tammy. I’ve been living here at her place since we got back from California. I’m not sure what Dave told her, but she seemed really happy after he left.

And so it begins. Emails between Joss and me. I don’t know if it’s a good idea or a bad one. I only know that, for the first time in over four months, I feel as if I’m closer to being whole. More than this tragedy that has defined me. More than a robot caring for her sister while her heart bleeds inside her chest. I feel like me again just the tiniest bit, and I’m not willing to give that up, no matter how dangerous Joss is.

Over time, the song lyrics in Joss’s emails fade, and the stories about his life become longer and longer. We talk about our days, about his dad, about my sister, about the silly little things that you notice and think about—a song you loved, a beautiful sunset you watched, the person who was rude to you in line at the grocery store.

We talk, and it isn’t about a future or a past, it’s just about our lives. He’s writing and selling songs, I’m thinking about opening a photography studio. It’s simple, and it’s without expectations or promises. We become friends, something I realize we never really had a chance to be before.

It’s six weeks after I start replying to Joss when I get a letter in the mail from Patterson and Assoc., Attorneys at Law. It’s informing me that Seattle College looks forward to enrolling me for the summer session in an independent study course that will fulfill the requirements for my degree. In August I’ll be granted my MFA. Joss’s lawyer has been working this whole time to get me reinstated and I had no idea.

I sit in the huge kitchen at Tammy’s house, surrounded by marble and stainless steel, staring at the sheet of paper, so relieved that my entire body feels limp. I hadn’t realized how intensely I still cared about this.

Tammy walks in from the garage carrying a suitcase. “What’s happened to you?” she asks. “You look like you’re going to faint.”

I hold out the letter. She scans it and stops on the letterhead.

“These are Lush’s attorneys.”

I nod.

“What are they talking about? You’ve been reinstated? You finished your degree last spring.”

I’m grateful that Tammy’s well again, because now I have to confess to my mistakes. Somehow after everything we’ve been through though, my escapades with Professor Marin don’t seem very significant anymore.

I’m shocked when I tell Tammy the story and she laughs. “Oh my God, Mel. Seriously? You were sleeping with your prof?”

“Yes. What’s so funny about that?”

She shakes her head. “Well, it just goes to show that I didn’t know you nearly as well as I thought I did. To me you were my sweet little sister, this sensitive artist who needed to be sheltered from the world. I guess I just pushed that on you, because you’ve turned out to be so much stronger than me.

“All our lives, I’ve acted like you needed me to take care of you when you were the one who went out in the world and tried things, met people, took on challenges. I’ve never been anything but Walsh Clark’s girlfriend, here in my hometown, since I was fourteen years old. Without that—without him—I have no idea who I am. Meanwhile, you catch the eye of these powerful, sexy men, you try life and love, and when your world comes crashing down on your head, you pick yourself up, assess the damage, and fix shit.”