Some Kind of Miracle (27 page)

“I plead insanity,” Sunny said. “I watch
Law & Order
on TV. People who are insane can get away with anything. And I’m not a
pretend
crazy person who
puts it on to stay out of jail. I’ve got credentials. Full-out fruitcake aborts baby of man she loves more than she loves breathing. Doesn’t that prove it? What are you doing here, Norman? Surely in Boca Raton, Florida, there are women standing in line waiting to be with a rich widower doctor like you. Why are you bothering with a schizophrenic songwriter who can barely make it through the day? If you have any self-respect, you’ll open that door and run as far the fuck away from me as you can. And I guarantee you’ll be married to some nice Florida matron—or better yet a young wife who can start a whole new family with you—any minute.”

“Sunny…”

“You’re a schmuck if you stay here for me. I could be the way I am right now forever. On the edge, never sure, fragile, so needy I’d suck every ounce of energy and joy out of every moment. Who needs that, Norman? Maybe I’m saying this because I love you so much. But given the life you’d have to look forward to with me, I believe you should go now and never look back.”

Dahlia clutched the front of her robe together and said a silent prayer to her parents and Sunny’s. Please, if you’re up there looking down, don’t let him listen to her and leave. Let this man be better than that, and make him stay. The silence was too long, and Dahlia was worried. An eternity passed until Norman spoke, so softly that Dahlia had to get closer to the door to hear him.

“Sunny, don’t test me. Don’t think you’re going to get rid of me this time, because you never will. I’m
back in your life to stay, until I die, and no matter what you do, I’m not leaving you. So just tell me the most important thing: Why did you stop taking the pills?”

“How do you know?” she asked.

“Look at you. You told me a doctor gave you pills that helped you hold it together. But you’re trying to get me to leave you, and that’s the craziest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I don’t know why,” was what she said.

“You don’t know?”

“That’s how it works sometimes. You do stuff and you don’t know why. But, Norman, honey, this is only the tip of the iceberg.” That was when Dahlia stepped forward into the living room, just as Norman followed Sunny into her room. When he entered, he saw what Dahlia could now see, too—the magazine photos once again taped and clipped and pushpinned everywhere, of the movie stars, models, and princesses. It looked to Dahlia as if the collection had increased tenfold. That’s what Sunny had been doing in there all those hours, taping and gluing and pinning them to the walls and ceilings.

“Who are all these people? Why are their pictures all around?” he asked gently, knowing already that the answer would have to come from Sunny’s madness.

Dahlia leaned on the doorjamb for support. If Sunny went into her spiel, he would finally see how powerful her demons really were and find a reason to leave her after all, in spite of what he’d said. But Norman sat on the bed and listened to the whole thing about how the studio audience conspired in the death of beautiful women, about how they watched every
one in the world from the other side of mirrors, and how she was onto their evil. When she finished, he took her hand and gently pulled her onto his lap.

“Sunny,” he said, “when did you take your last pill?”

“A few days ago,” she said.

“Let’s go and find them right now and give you one. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said. She went to one of her dresser drawers, opened it, and produced a small vial, which she handed to Norman. Dahlia, now in the living room, watched him hold it far away from his face and squint to read the directions.

“I’ll go get some juice,” Dahlia said, and Norman turned.

“Thanks,” he said.

D
ahlia sat nervously in Harry Brenner’s living room, looking at her watch. When she saw that it was ten-fifteen, she tried to picture Sunny and Norman sitting with Joe Diamond. Before they parted that morning, Sunny had hugged her.

“We’re both grabbing for what we want,” she said. “What we each wished for on all those stars so long ago. I got my wish. You can get yours.” Dahlia had worked the whole morning on the speech she was going to make to Harry.

First she’d tell him that Sunny was dropping out. That she had instructed Dahlia to tell Harry that all the songs she and Dahlia had written together were okay to sell if anybody wanted them, but Sunny didn’t want to make an ongoing deal with anybody. She wasn’t going to stay in L.A. and write songs. Maybe Dahlia would skip the part about Sunny’s
wanting only one thing, and that was to be a receptionist in her soon-to-be-husband’s medical office.

Harry’s housekeeper had shown Dahlia into the living room twenty minutes earlier, telling her that Harry was on a phone call in the studio and that he’d come and get her when he was ready. The wait was giving her more time to remind herself to “turn on the power” and to go over the new song in her mind so she could play it for him this morning.

“Hey, gorgeous, come on in.” Harry opened the door from the pool and walked inside. “Sunny in the powder room?” he asked, looking around.

“She’s not here, Harry.”

“Oh, then let’s wait. You want something to drink while we’re waiting for her?”

“We’re not waiting,” Dahlia said. “She’s not coming at all. Let’s go out to the studio and start the meeting.”

Harry looked disquieted. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

Dahlia didn’t answer him until they were seated across from each other on the leather sofa in the air-conditioned studio. Turn on the power, she said to herself and sat up straight.

“Harry,” Dahlia began, “I owe you an apology. Sunny and I agree that you can run with the songs on the demo or any other songs she and I have written together, and in terms of management, you can have me as a client on my own. But if that doesn’t work for you, then we have no deal.”

“Is this about that turkey Louie who keeps calling me? The brother who wants to manage her career out of his hardware store?” Harry asked.

“No,” Dahlia said, “it’s because Sunny is getting married and retiring from the music business. I’m the one who prodded her into working with me, but she doesn’t really want it. She’s glad Faith’s song is climbing on the charts, she’s happy if you can place the others, but she quits.”

Dahlia watched the redness start in Harry’s ears and spread to his face. “What
is
she, crazy or something?” he asked, shaking his head, as if Dahlia had been speaking to him in a language he’d never heard before. “Say this again? Doesn’t really want it? This isn’t a bid from the sorority we’re talking about here. I’m getting offers up the wazoo for these songs, record deals where big-time labels want you two to write a song a week for them—and she doesn’t want them anymore? That’s completely fucked! Let the boyfriend wait a year or two! First you cash in on all the buzz about these frigging songs and become independently wealthy. Then she can get married and be the dentist’s wife.”

“Cardiologist,” Dahlia said.

“Who gives a crap?” Harry screamed in her face. “You started this by lying to me about the authorship of the Faith song, then you told me I had the two of you, and now you’re telling me I got you and not her? What
is
this?”

“You’re right, and I apologize, but all I can offer is what exists,” Dahlia said, surprised to find that seeing this hysterical side of Harry seemed funny to her and not threatening.

“Well, let me tell you something, doll.” Harry stood, and Dahlia knew that whatever was coming next was not going to be nice. “You better see if you
can buy that old van of yours back, because unless you got Sunny and her tunes in your corner, you’re not gonna be able to cut it without her. You know what I’m saying to you?”

Dahlia bit her lip. “I know exactly what you’re saying, Harry,” she said, “so that pretty much ends our association.” She walked out of his studio and over to the Celica that sat at the curb with the top down. After a minute she took a deep breath, started the car, and all the way back home she sang her new song at the top of her voice.

Norman was back in Florida. Sunny talked to him ten times a day, and she spent the rest of her time shopping with Penny for outfits for the children and a wedding dress for herself. This morning she was sitting in the kitchen reading the newspaper when Dahlia wandered in for breakfast. The paper was opened to the obituary page. Dahlia saw that Sunny had circled one of the obituaries she wanted her to see, but the name of the man whose obituary was circled wasn’t familiar to her. Bill Gibbons of Santa Monica had died of heart failure in San Diego on Monday. Dahlia’s eyes continued down the column to read that Mr. Gibbons, once the CEO at Rainbow Paper, had been living in San Diego for the past fifteen years. Sunny looked sad.

“I’ll bet nobody will even have a memorial service for him,” she said. “His family basically left him for dead. He broke down in his late forties and could never quite come back. He always loved music. Even when he was in big business, he had some of the guys at work with him form a barbershop quartet.”

Dahlia looked at Sunny curiously. “Why are you showing this to me? Am I supposed to know who this is?” she asked.

Sunny nodded. “You
do
know him. It’s my friend Bill. You met him. The big fellow with the white hair and beard. He was very successful in business here in L.A., but he had a breakdown years ago, and his whole family abandoned him. He was in and out of the mental-health system for years, and he finally seemed to find his only peace of mind at the Sea View, believe it or not. Conducting our choir was the thing that seemed to make him the happiest. I wonder if any of them will remember and do something for him.”

Santa Claus. Dahlia remembered him now.

“I need to go down there. Will you take me?”

The Sea View looked the same to Dahlia, but she wasn’t surprised to hear that to Sunny it was practically unrecognizable, probably because in a way she was seeing it with new eyes. “It looks so different,” Sunny said. “I never realized what a dump it was.”

The minute the car stopped, she opened the door and hurried toward the porch, with Dahlia behind her. Her pale blond hair caught the sun and sparkled as she moved. The four men on the porch puffed on their cigarettes and didn’t look at the two women at all. Sunny stopped to look at them. “Hello,” she said. Two of them glanced over, but there was no recognition in their eyes. She looked dramatically different than she had when she was a resident, so there was no reason why they should. One of them nodded.

Inside the front door, a woman in a nurse’s uniform
was dispensing medications from a cart. “You ladies here to see someone?” she asked.

“I’m here to see everyone,” Sunny proclaimed. The black woman who chattered to herself was just taking a cup from the cart. “Hello, Ella,” Sunny said, and the woman looked at her blankly. “Do you remember me? I’m Sunny.”

The woman studied Sunny’s face for a long time before her eyes filled with recognition. “Why, of course I do,” she finally said, and she opened her arms wide. Sunny hugged her warmly, then looked into the living room, where the usual group sat watching
Oprah.
“Hello, everyone,” Sunny said loudly, but nobody turned to look.

“They don’t pay much attention to strangers,” the nurse said.

“I’m not a stranger,” Sunny said. “I lived here for twelve years in room three.”

“I’m in room three,” a skinny woman with silver hair said. She had just reached the bottom step, and the nurse handed her a cup, but she didn’t take it, just looked at Sunny nervously. “Did I do something wrong? I try so hard to do everything right, but accidents happen. It isn’t my fault.”

“You’re fine, Grace,” the nurse said. “This lady used to live in your room, but she moved away. That’s all.”

“Mind if I use this?” Sunny asked, picking up a bell that the nurse used to call everyone to medication and shaking it. It worked. Most of the TV watchers looked over.

“I’m Sunny. I used to live here,” she said. The men who had been on the porch were standing in the door
way peering inside now. “I read in the newspaper that Bill Gibbons died.” A few people nodded. “And I’m sure you must miss him. He was my friend when I lived here, so I thought maybe we could all get together and do something in his memory. He was so kind to all of us and so proud when we sang.” She walked to the piano. “This was Bill’s favorite song,” she said. Then she repeatedly played a note to give them the pitch and said, “So why don’t we sing it to help Bill’s journey to the other side?”

Now the men came inside from the porch. Dahlia recognized the tapping man and the man named Eddie.

“Ella,” Eddie said to the woman who chattered, “stand up! You have to use your diaphragm, and it isn’t gonna work proper if you don’t stand up.”

“Everyone remember this? It’s an easy one,” Sunny said, “that Bill loved.” Then, in her biggest voice, she sang the first line all alone. “Come by here, Lord. Come by here.” The people moved closer to the piano, and one or two joined in haltingly, as if they had only a vague recollection of the song. “Come by here, Lord, come by here.” By the end of that verse, a few more had joined in.

“Someone’s praying, Lord. Come by here. Someone’s praying, Lord. Come by here.” Now more of them seemed to remember, and Dahlia watched the magic of the music envelop them, causing their postures to change while their voices rang out. It was such a simple song that even the ones who’d never sung it before were singing now. “Oh, Lord, come by here.”

“Someone’s crying, Lord. Come by here.” Sunny’s voice was the loudest of them all. “Someone’s crying,
Lord. Come by here.” Dahlia felt the tears rush into her face, and someone was definitely crying as she felt around in her purse for a tissue and sang along with all of them. “Someone’s crying, Lord. Come by here.”

“Oh, Lord. Please come by here,” they all sang proudly. And at the end they applauded for themselves, and Sunny bowed her head and said, “Thank you, everyone, and thank you, Bill.”

The chattering black woman and the short, stocky woman hugged Sunny, and so did the new woman, Grace.

“We all miss Bill so much,” the black woman said.

“We’re glad you came, Sunny,” the man who tapped told her as he accepted her hug.

“Thank you for letting me do this,” she said to everyone, including the nurse, who was wiping her eyes and blowing her nose as she told Sunny, “When Grover was prepping me to do this job, he said that none of them would ever say thank you to me. He said they were too zoned out. But he was wrong. They say lots of nice things all the time. His problem was, he couldn’t really see them. He saw mental patients. I see individual people. You were good to come back. Gives them something to talk about, and the way you are gives them hope.”

Sunny stood for a long time watching the others move back to their chairs and back onto the porch before she turned to Dahlia to say, “Thank you. I’m ready to move on.”