To Catch a Falling Star (4 page)

“Don’t worry, it will get better. Mel will get you talking in no time. You have no idea of the things I’ve confessed to her over the years.” She grins.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid.” Really? No wonder I acted like a wimp and confessed how broken I am. There’s no way in hell I’m going back. The sooner Portia knows that the better.

“When is your next session?” she asks. Her hopeful eyes search mine in that way that I know there is nothing but unconditional love there. Portia is one of the few people in the goddamned world who genuinely loves me.

“Tuesday.”

“Oh, Tarry. You’re gonna get over this addiction. I have a good feeling this time. You’ll see.” She clasps my arm, rests her head on my shoulder, and fucking sighs with delight. I’m in deep shit.

“Yeah, we’ll see,” I whisper, but I don’t think she hears me.

“It is so peaceful here,” she says. “You need peace to heal, Tarry. Just like I healed my wounded heart, you will heal yours.”

Mentally, I cringe, but I refrain from a response. Portia has become very touchy with her pregnancy. I don’t want to upset her. She is cheesy and overly optimistic, like she has been brainwashed into this person who is corny as hell.

Portia is one of the most acclaimed movie stars of our era. Before she met Will, she led a wild life. Now she has it all with a brilliant career and a dreamy family. I’m thrilled for her. I really am. Throughout her life she has lacked for love just as much as I have. She deserves to be happy. I just wish she understood it is not for everybody.

Portia and Nillie have been my only and best friends since I was nine. I will do anything to keep them happy. However, I know certain demons will always get the best of me. It’s only a matter of time.

“Uncle Tally, can you sing my favorite song after dinner?” Dominick jumps on my lap.

“Sure, but only if I can get a real good drum player. Every musician needs a band, y’know.” I muss his dark hair.

“I’m really good. And guess what? We can even use my set of drums.” He grins and, I swear to God, I think it is a mini-Will staring at me.

“Dinner is ready,” Will shouts from the grill.

“Let’s go, spikes.” I put him down and he dashes to his father.

“Daddy, Uncle Tally told me I can be his band.”

“Oh, really cool.” Will picks him up and seats him on a chair at the patio table.

Portia holds my hand as we stroll to the patio. It all seems surreal, like some twilight-zone shit. I wonder if the pain tugging at my heart is longing to find what Portia has found. Maybe that’s why I avoided her these last few years.

I slump in the chair. Will comes around the table with a pathetic grin on his face and he dumps a huge steak on my plate. I glance up at him, and he shrugs. He knows I’m not hungry. But we both know Portia is regarding my every move. He is such a smartass.

“OKAY, CHAMP. I have to go to bed; it’s past my bedtime.” I raise my hand and high-five Dominick. After a session of awfully noisy drumming and guitar playing, my body aches as if I were an arthritic eighty-year-old man.

“Oh, don’t go yet, Uncle Tally.” He clings to me.

“I have a curfew, ya know.” I kiss his round cheek. I love this kid. He’s found a way into my heart just like his mother. It is hard as hell saying no to him.

“That’s true, Dominick. It’s way past
his
bedtime.” Portia snatches him from me.

“Don’t forget to call Nillie. She’s anxious to know how the therapy went.” Portia kisses me.

“Sure, thanks for dinner and… for everything.” I kiss her head.

“I love you, Tarry. We got each other’s back, right?”

“I love you too, peaches.”

“Bye, Will.” I wave to Will sprawled on the couch. He sprints up and shakes my hand.

“Bye, dude. See you tomorrow.”

Before I leave, I look over my shoulder into the spacious living room. Will embraces Portia’s waist, kiss her lips, and says, “I’ll put him to bed. Wait for me.” They exchange a secretive smile, and Will takes Dominick.

I let out a long breath of air. Yeah, tacky, but I do have a self-pity party when I look at their bond. The worst part is I am alone in my party. I don’t have anybody to invite. Misery loves company, so they say, yet my misery has no company.

The warm summer breeze greets me outside. I snatch the last cigarette from my pocket. Trembling, I light it up. I hate this withdrawal shit. It’s been over two months and my body still cries out for the damn drugs. I pull a long drag of smoke and the end of the cigarette brightens the terrifying blackness of the night.

I look up. A few stars surround a half-moon. They seem to exchange ancient secrets not meant for humans. It makes me want to compose. A night like this is perfect for booze and writing. I kick the gravel and drag another pull of smoke. Damn this craving.

I remember when Mel asked me if I feel tired. Hell, yeah, dead tired. It starts with my aching body and extends into my crippled soul.

I stand outside the barn to finish my cigarette and watch the night sky. Fatigued, I hear the sounds of the night. Summer evenings offer an endless symphony of unique music. It would be soothing to my soul, should my soul still be repairable.

I stamp on the stub of the cigarette and go inside. The place is inviting and warm. However, it still carries a faint smell of oil paints. It used to be Will’s painting studio. Portia thought the barn was too far from the house and so they built a large addition onto the house to be his studio. They agreed a two-minute walk was too long. Corny and embarrassing, but, I have to admit, they are so happy together. They really are.

Unconsciously, I scratch the patch of skin on my chest. The itch drives me nuts through the day and the evening. Yeah, I’m embarrassed to scratch myself in public. It’s as if I’m announcing, “Hey, look at me, the bastard speedball addict who just crashed.” No, I save the goddamn scratching for private. And, yeah, I look like a goddamned flea-infested dog. I go to the bathroom and open the medicine cabinet. The tremors in my hands have increased. I’m due for my meds. I’m a pathetic addict. Whether it’s illegal or prescribed, my body dictates when it needs the drugs.

A brutal urge to find an ending grips me. Why not me, instead of Monique? I pop three pills in my mouth and chug them down with water. Right now I’m dying for a snort, but I could die from an overdose. Does it make any sense? Either way I am doomed. It’s like jumping from the Titanic when it hit the iceberg.

I dump the rest of the water in the sink. Waves of pain ripple inside my skull. Even my brain hurts. I open the faucet and splash cold water on my face.

Images of the last night I spent with Monique twist in my mind. I only remember flashes, as if a sliding disc rotates repeatedly on my mind’s eyes. We didn’t talk or laugh, we just sat on the luscious, carpeted floor and injected speedballs, snorted, and tried to chase our individual demons away. I had “Sweet Death Agony” on repeat. Each one of us retreated into our own zone, competing about who could snort more lines or get to the end of the line first. She won.

I think of when we met more than three years ago. I was in Milan for a concert and she was there to do a spread for
Vogue
. During my concert’s after-party, she pulled me to a rough wall and pretty much violated me. It rates on the top of the chart as the best sex I’ve ever had. We never loved each other. But, boy, did we have carnal chemistry. Fuck, she could suck my dick like no one. She could also snort a line of cocaine like no one.

Guilt and regret sweeps over me. I fear I’ll drown in it.

My entire body shudders and my heart rate skyrockets. My skin tingles. I try to breathe, but it is as if a pillow is shoved against my face. I scramble toward the king-sized bed in the middle of the barn. I tug the covers and crawl in. I huddle, wrapping the covers around my shaking body. I inhale deeply, willing the tremors to go away.

My body feels cold and I wonder if I have a temperature. I close my eyes and, firmly, I press the palm of my hand against my diaphragm. I remember my former therapist saying through her nasal voice, “Smell the roses and blow the candles.” Slowly, my heart rate decreases and the tremors subside. I hate these anxiety attacks. They make me feel like a pussy.

I continue to take long deep breathes and my mind drifts to the session with Mel.

Wings. Mel’s eyes were sad when she handed me the coin. At the time I was too absorbed by the lust of staring at her damn beautiful face. But, in hindsight, she was sad, but not for me. Her eyes were broken. How did I not notice? Her words, “We all have chips on our shoulders.” I fish for the golden coin. My thumb slides across the wings. I’ve just had too much of this pain. Does she know I want an end? Is that why she said this is a lifeline token?

I hold the coin and scrape my chest with it. Oh, it feels good, another cheesy benefit to the piece of shit, a scratcher.

The buzz of my cell startles me. Jumpy rock star. I am getting lamer by the minute. I rummage my pocket for my cell. The screen displays a picture of Nillie blowing me a kiss.

“Hello, Nillie. What’s up?”

“Hey, favorite rock star, how did it go?”

“It, uh, you know, it went all right.” I wince, relieved she can’t see me.

“When are you going back?”

“Tuesday.”

“Good. I know this is hard for you, Tarry. But you just need to hang in there.”

“No shit, this is fucking hard, Nillie.”

“How do you like your new therapist?”

“Mel? She’s all right. But I want to wait for the pastor to come back. I don’t know, but it is weird talking to her.”

“Oh, God, no, you can’t afford to wait, Tarry.” She pauses. “Did you tell Portia?”

“Hell no, she would deliver that baby of hers prematurely. I don’t want any additional guilt over my head.”

“Yeah, she would freak out.”

“How is everything with you? How is Mr. CEO?” I change the conversation.

“Not you too, Tarry,” she complains.

“How is my little guy?” I smile at the thought of her son, Noah.

“He asked about you the other day. We were at the grocery store and he saw a picture of you on a tabloid cover.”

“Tell him I said hello. I miss him. Are you still coming to visit?”

“Yeah, I’ll do my best to come out. You know Ray. He likes everything planned way ahead.”

“Yeah, I hope you can make it.”

“Me too.”

“Listen, I gotta go. I’m dead tired.”

“Talk to you tomorrow. Good night, Tarry, love ya.”

“Bye, Nillie. Love you too.”

I switch off the phone and stare at the coin burning the palm of my hand. I study the wings. It’s stupid, but I want to call Mel, just to hear her melodic voice. It’s soothing. It really is.

I slide the coin back inside my wallet. I know it’s lame as hell, but I want to believe the golden piece connects me to a lifeline. There is not much more keeping me afloat. I force my eyes closed. Yeah, I’m at the very edge of the end.

I SNAP MY eyes open. Five thirty. My half hour begins now. I lean toward the bedside table and rummage through the drawer. I find the handmade leather clutch holding the letters Tim wrote me starting when we were five. Clasping the clutch, I bring it to my chest. Pain slithers through my heart and sorrow grips my soul, squeezing it tight. Pain or void usually fills my lonely moments. I prefer pain. It makes me feel alive.