Healing Melody (5 page)

When Layla steps out of the elevator with two cups of coffee, she’s surprised to see Shane and his two bodyguards standing in the hallway.

Shane smirks as he admires my sister in a long, lustful gaze. “Hello, Layla. Looking as beautiful as ever.”
 

“Thanks,” replies Layla in a flat tone as she walks past them and toward me. She hands me my cup of coffee. She then turns and watches as Shane and his men step into the elevator and disappear.

“I’ve never liked him,” she says. “What did he want anyway?”

I don’t answer her. My mind is still spinning from my conversation with Shane. I take a sip from my coffee, trying to process it all. Shane might have been my best friend growing up, but I feel like I just made a deal with the devil.

“Kade, what did he want?” repeats Layla.

I finally snap out of it. “He offered to help with Max.”

Layla looks surprised. “How?”

“He’ll pay for all the treatments.”

Layla’s expression slowly changes to one of suspicion. “In exchange for what?”

One Year Later…

“I need you to increase my dosage.”

“You’re already taking a pretty high amount.”

I eye my therapist coldly through my mask. “It’s not enough,” I say. “I still can’t get any sleep.”

“Nightmares?” she asks, staring at me through her glasses, her notepad flipped open on her lap.

I nod.
 

She scribbles something down. “Describe this last one for me.”

I sigh, annoyed, and then shake my head. I don’t want to relive it. “It’s the same as all the others,” I reply.

“You’re trapped in the car,” she begins saying. “The fire.”

I nod. I know it’s impossible, but when she mentions the word fire, it feels like hot flames suddenly attack my skin. Images of that paparazzi guy filming me, as I begged for help, trapped inside the burning inferno of my car, flash instantly through my mind.
 

It’s been a year since that horrific night, but it feels like it happened only yesterday.
 

After eight months of rehabilitation, I finally started walking again. I’ve had multiple operations – on my body and my face. I have scars everywhere. I still have a few more facial surgeries scheduled, and as a result, I wear a mask whenever company is around. It’s a white mask that wraps around my head.
Trust me
, you wouldn’t want to see me without it. I guarantee if you saw my face, you’d scream and run away. I still cringe whenever I take the mask off and stare at myself in the mirror. I look like I’m straight out of a horror movie. But I’m not wearing any special effects makeup to look scary. This is my real face. I look like the deranged monster in a film I starred in a few years ago…
The Monster Under the Stairs
. I’m the female version of that gruesome beast. The doctors insist the next round of plastic surgery will do wonders. But I’m not so sure.
 

One thing is certain: I’ll never look the way I did before the accident.

“I don’t think prescribing you more medication to help you sleep is the answer, Melody.”

I shoot my therapist an annoyed look.
 

“Why is that?” I ask, unable to hide my frustration.

She crosses her legs and glances at the pad of paper resting on her lap. She lowers her glasses down the ridge of her nose. “Well, I think the nightmares are a sign that you need to start dealing with what happened. The accident happened a year ago. It’s time you start taking steps to reclaim your life.”

“Here we go again,” I mumble under my breath. She doesn’t have any idea what I’m going through. She doesn’t know what it was like, after the crash, when I finally got discharged from the hospital and came home. She doesn’t know how dark and lonely that experience was… and still is. She doesn’t know that I took a bottle of pills to kill myself but last minute forced myself to puke them up.
 

She has no clue. But she acts like she does, which is really fuckin’ annoying.

I’m hanging by a thread here. The least this motherfucking therapist can do is prescribe me something to help me sleep.

“I know you don’t want to hear what I have to say,” she says, clearing her throat. “But I think it’s the only way you’ll be able to move past what happened.”

“Moved past what happened?” I blurt. “Do you even know what it’s like to have everything you ever wanted, everything you worked for, snatched away from you? And then to top it off, I’ve become a side show freak.”

“You can still write music,” she begins to say.

I hold up my hand, cutting her off. “Don’t! I’ll never be able to step out on stage looking the way I do.”

“But aren’t you going to have another procedure –”
 

“Yeah, to make me look a little less freakish,” I acknowledge. “But not by much. My face is permanently ruined. In this industry, it’s not the music that matters but the image. And I’m a horror show. So, Jeanie, don’t even begin lecturing me on what you think I need to do. You have no idea what I’m going through. Just do your job and prescribe me more sleeping pills.”

She looks at me shocked and slowly shakes her head. “No.”

“Fuck you,” I snap.
 

She sighs and takes off her glasses.

“At some point, Melody, you’re going to have to make a choice. Right now, you’re stuck in a moment, in a freeze frame. I’m not going to tell you I completely understand what you’re going through. But I’ve counseled many patients who have suffered traumatic injuries. You have to begin with baby steps. For example, instead of insisting to meet in your house, we could have had this session in my office downtown.”

I shake my head. “Hello? Have you not noticed the paparazzi in front of my house? They’re dying to get me on camera. It’s safer this way.”

She motions with her arm to the room we’re in. “So, is your plan to stay stuck here, in your mansion, for the rest of your life?” she asks.
 

I look at her and shrug. “Maybe. At least I know I’m safe here.”

“Let’s explore that more,” she says leaning back in her chair. “So, you feel safe in your house. But the world outside makes you feel what?”

She stares at me, waiting for an answer. I fuckin’ hate her. I am boiling over with frustration. I shoot her a dirty look through my mask. But I doubt she can see it.
 

“Are you going to prescribe me more sleeping pills, or what?”
 

She shakes her head. “I really think we need to address the underlining issue–”
 

“The underlining issue,” I say cutting her off, “is that you’re a shitty therapist and you’re fired. I should have fired you years ago.”

She looks surprised. I guess she didn’t see that coming.
 

I point my finger at her and hiss. “Jeanie, I’m paying you a thousand dollars an hour because you’re supposed to be some amazing therapist. But from what I can tell, you’re an overpriced hack. And if you’re not going to prescribe medicine to help me sleep, than what the fuck are you good for? I think it’s time you get out of my house.”

After a stunned silence, Dr. Jeanie Mendelsohn finally replies, “I see.” Looking visibly flustered, she gets up from her chair and walks out of my study. I follow her out. As we walk the long hallway to my kitchen, and toward the back entrance of my house, she advises, “I think you need to start facing what’s happened, Melody, and not run away from it. You need to accept that there are certain things you can not change.”

“Well, the one thing I can change,” I respond, “is therapists.” When we enter the kitchen, I open the door leading into my backyard. I don’t use the front door of my house anymore. I don’t want those paparazzi assholes surrounding the front gate to get video of me. As I fling the backdoor open, I’m surprised to see Suzie standing outside. She has her set of keys in her hand.
 

“Hey, Melody.” She then notices Dr. Mendelsohn standing next to me. “Hi Jeanie.”

“She’s leaving,” I say sharply. “For good.”
 

Dr. Mendelsohn walks past me; her face is red and angry. I motion Suzie to come inside. Once she’s in the house, I close the door on Jeannie.

“You need to find me another therapist,” I tell Suzie flatly as I walk toward the kitchen counter island.

“Seriously?” she replies. “I thought you liked her?”

“She’s a hack. Remember when she thought I had a sex addiction problem?”

“Well, I kind-a-thought you had one too, ” Suzie admits.

“Really?”

Suzie shrugs. “Just a little one, not a full blown addiction. But face it, Melody, you had a hard time keeping your legs together.”

“I haven’t had sex in a year!” I shout. “I do not have a sex addiction problem!”

“Before the accident, it was debatable,” Suzie replies.
 

“Whatever,” I grumble. “Just find me a therapist who actually knows what he or she is talking about, okay?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” She places a bunch of letters on the counter.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Fan mail.”

“Seriously?”

Suzie nods.

“Haven’t they heard of email?” I ask.

Suzie rolls her eyes. “Melody, you haven’t replied to fan emails since the accident. You’re not on social media anymore. Some of your loyal fans really want to hear from you. They want to know how you’re doing. I think it’s cool that some of them actually took the time to write you a real, physical letter.”

I stare at the stack of envelopes resting on the counter.

“Can you reply for me?” I ask.

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s bad karma. Plus, I think it would be good for you to start writing again, even if it’s only letters.”

Suzie is the only one who can tell me what to do. Maybe because she’s my lifeline to the outside world. Since the accident, she takes care of everything for me. She’s the only person I trust.

“I’ve got a plumber coming by tomorrow to take a look at the toilet upstairs,” Suzie says as she studies the calendar on her phone.
 

I look at her with worry. I don’t like to interact with strangers. I don’t like them staring at me. “You’re going to be here to deal with him, right?”
 

Suzie nods. “Yes, I’ll be here. I’m just reminding you. And don’t forget we have an appointment with Dr. Henry this Wednesday. It’s a consultation before the next plastic surgery.”

I sigh as I take a seat on one of the stools surrounding the kitchen island.
 

“I’m sick of doctors,” I mutter.

“Well, you only have two more procedures to go,” Suzie says, her tone always positive. “Pretty soon you’ll be able to take off that mask.”

The thought of exposing myself to others frightens me to death. Once the plastic surgery is done, I’m still not sure I’ll be able to take off this mask. My face is always going to look weird, scarred.
 

“I’m going to the store now,” Suzie says. “Is there anything else you need that’s not on the list?”

“Oreo Cookies,” I reply.
 

“Got it.” Suzie adds it to the list on her phone. “Now, remember, tonight I’ve got a date. So, I can’t come over for movie night.”

I nod. Every Monday night, Suzie comes over to watch a movie with me. I’ve lost touch with everyone else in my life since the accident.

“Okay, hon, I gotta go.” Suzie gives me a hug before she leaves.
 

 
The door closes behind her. Then I turn toward the stack of letters. I sigh as I remove my mask and place it on the kitchen counter. I reach for one of the letters. I’m about to open it, when suddenly, I stop. These letters are addressed to Melody Swanson.
 

She no longer exists. She’s dead.

I raise my hand and gently touch the patchwork of skin on my face. I can’t go back to being the person I was, the person these fans remember. I don’t know who I am anymore. But I’m definitely not her.

I’m nobody. I’m just a freak.
 

If I read these letters, I’ll be reminded of everything I’ve lost. I place the letter on the counter and walk out of the kitchen.