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“What are you going to do?” I can’t believe she’s telling me all this. I mean, I’m practically a member of the Mystics myself
—
I’ve been going to balls and serving in the queen’s junior court since I was in diapers
—
but these kinds of secrets rarely filter down to me.

“I’m not entirely sure. There’s a special meeting next week to vote on our options.”

“Which are?”

“To replace him—whether Marcie likes it or not—or to let him be king, and we all suffer the consequences, or go without a king this year. That would be disastrous.”

I stifle a giggle. Mama’s dramatic, even on her good days.

“Do you have anyone in mind to replace him?”

“Well, everyone on the committee pulled relatives out of the woodwork. I didn’t realize Mobile had so many eligible bachelors. I even thought of R.J. for a while, but I don’t think he’s got what it takes.”

Translation: We don’t have the money.

“So, enough about me and the committee. Tell me, do those new pills work? Do they do what they’re supposed to? You know, I’m not crazy about you taking them.” She fiddles with her straw.

There’s an insinuation there I don’t appreciate. “I know, Mama. I’m not either, but things are better.”

“You haven’t told anyone you’re on them, have you?”

“No! Why would I do that? No.”

I’m embarrassed, but a little pleased that she cares enough to ask. It’s for all the wrong reasons, but still, she remembers. Ever since I was twelve, I’ve had really severe…er, monthly visitations. Mama thought I was just a wimp and told me to take ibuprofen. By my junior year, it was so bad I passed out in school. Twice. Turns out I was anemic, so the doctor put me on iron and
birth-control
pills to straighten things out. After a couple of months, they’re better.

I don’t really want to talk about it anymore
so I start to tell her about the repertoire we’ve built for my audition. “Isaac said
—
”

“Oh, it’s
Isaac
now? When did you start to call him by his first name?”

I can’t tell if she’s teasing or not. It’s hard to guess, and I don’t want to guess wrong. I don’t want to ruin our almost-normal day. I study her face for a clue and decide to take the safe route. I tell the truth.

“He said it made him feel really old when I called him Mr. Laroche or sir, so he told me to call him Isaac.”

“That doesn’t seem quite right. How old is he, anyway?” She spears a crouton and pretends to nibble.

“Twenty-seven. I thought he was in his thirties, but he almost fell over when I told him that.”
We’re having a real conversation
.
She didn’t blow up.

“Twenty-seven, such a baby.
Such a great time of life.
I do wonder why he’s in Mobile again though.” She gives up on the crouton. “I asked him when we set up your lessons, but he didn’t give a straight answer. His mother hasn’t said much either. Marcie’s mentioned it a couple of times, of course, but as long as he does what we pay him to do, I don’t care.”

I want to ask what she means by Mrs. Swann mentioning it “of course”, but the waitress appears with the bill. She takes it away, and Mama reaches into her purse for her lipstick. As I watch her apply it, I’m overwhelmed with the urge to grab her hand and squeeze, tell her
I love you, Mama. I wish my love could make you better. I wish you loved me, too.
Tears threaten, so I look away when the waitress returns with the credit card slip.

The ride home is quiet, but pleasant. When we shove open the back door, Daddy is in the kitchen fixing a sandwich.

“So, how did it go?” He looks from me to Mama and back.

“Want to see what I got? They were having great back-to-school sales this weekend.”

“Sure. Can I ask how much this cost me?”

Mama bristles at his question. “We went to the outlets,
dear
, so relax. And it’s a tax holiday.”

“No, hey, that’s fine. Didn’t mean it that way.”

She disappears upstairs as he squeezes the last bit of mustard out of the bottle and tosses it in the trash.

“Did she do okay?”

“Yeah, she was fine. I mean, she was still Mama, but for the most part, we had a nice time. We even stopped for lunch.” His eyebrows shoot up. “
I know.
”

“Juli, your Mama, she’s…she started a new…the doctor put her on a new kind of medication.”

“Another one? How many is she up to now?”

“I don’t know. Just keep an eye out, okay? I meant to tell you before you left, but you guys were out the door early.”

“Sure, Daddy. No problem. So far so good this time.” And I mean it. She’s been tolerable.

“Can I see what you got now?”

“Yeah. Mama thought it would be best if I got things I could layer. It seemed like she didn’t want me to get any heavy things in case I don’t make it to Boston.”

“Oh, hey, that reminds me. Isaac Laroche called. Said he’s got all the stuff to do the recording this week. Pretty big deal, huh?” He takes a big bite of his sandwich. For a city boy, he does a good impression of a
cow chewing
cud.

“Yeah, pretty big deal.”

I show him my shirts and pants and boots. He pretends to be interested while he
mumphs
through the rest of his turkey on rye. I take off all the tags and throw the clothes in the washing machine before I head up to my room.

Chapter Six

A mockingbird sings outside my window. The sky is a shade of blue that’s unique to southern Alabama. Still giddy about yesterday’s almost-normal shopping trip with Mama, I plan to make a big breakfast for everyone: eggs, grits, bacon, and coffee. I pull on a light robe to cover my arms and open my bedroom door, but I nearly trip over the full laundry basket in the hall. At my feet are my new clothes, neatly folded and smelling fresh.

She did my laundry?

She did my laundry!

I try to stuff it down, but a little bubble of elation starts in my belly and works its way up to my head. It ends in a goofy grin. I dance the basket over to my bed so I can put away my new things. I lift the first shirt off the pile. There’s a big bleach spot on the lower-right corner near the hem.

I didn’t use any bleach
.

Maybe there was some left in the tray when I threw them in the washer.

I have to hide this from Mama.

I stuff the shirt into the back of my bureau. I return to the basket and pull out another shirt. And another.
The pants, too.
They all have giant bleach splotches.

I sink to the floor, head in my hands. She did it again. She ruined that golden day, knocked it from the pedestal I already constructed under it. I don’t realize I’m crying so hard until Daddy rushes into the room in his boxers and white undershirt. My throat rips apart, and my head is in a vise of my own making.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! How could you fall for that?

Daddy grabs me by the shoulders and gives me
a
once-over.

“She did it again!
She did this!
” I throw one of the shirts at him.

Understanding spreads across his face, and I watch both his mouth and the shirt fall. He looks so tired and defeated, so much older than he really is.

She
bolts through the door, a skeleton in a nightgown. She cries as loud as me. “I’m so sorry, Juli, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to do it. Honestly. I don’t know what came over me. You know Mama loves you. You know it, don’t you?”

She has her arms around my neck and hangs on for dear life. She sobs into my chest, and I want to feel sorry for her, but in my head I shove her into the wall. Before that happens, Daddy pries her arms from my shoulders.

He’s too late. She transferred some of her sickness to another host: me. Her poison seeps through her hands and tears and into my veins. I cover my face and hurl myself onto the bed.

I hear Daddy herd Mama out of the room with hushed words, followed by the soft click of my door. I grab a pillow and scream, and scream, and scream. I try to dislodge the painful
lump in my throat, but I don’t know if I succeed, because it’s late afternoon when I wake. I haven’t eaten anything, but someone’s pulled a blanket over me, and there’s a glass of water on my nightstand.

I grab the scissors and get to work.

***

It’s two a.m. and I stare at my
pock-marked
ceiling. Headlights throw shadows onto the opposite wall, so I pull my coverlet over my head. No dice. It’s the middle of the night and still I think, think,
think
. I flip on my laptop and check my e-mail. And Facebook. And Twitter.

Refresh. Refresh. Refresh.

I glance at the scissors on my desk.
My arms already look like raw hamburger.

It’s still warm, so I only wear boy-shorts with my long-sleeved shirt. At the back door, I pause but decide not to put on my flip-flops because they make too much noise. Once inside the studio, I lower the shades and flick on a small table lamp.
Enough to see the keys but not much else.

I’m not even sure what I’m doing.
Are the answers here?
They’re certainly not in my room.
Answers to what?
I don’t know that either. I need a distraction. I try to play but can’t. As I breathe in and out in the semi-darkness, I desperately want to let go of everything by putting it to music.

I can’t.

I raise my fists to pound on the keyboard when I remember the rest of the world is asleep. That’s when the tears finally come. Hot pearls of weakness drip down my face, plunking off my chin to the ivories below.

Guilt. That’s what this is. And loathing. I had too much time to think today.
You’re so self-centered. No wonder Mama hates you. All you can think about is your own problems.

I’ve been taking things out on Isaac. I see that now. Just when I master a piece and he’s pleased, I change my mind. I think about our latest exchange. We’d been hammering away at the same piece for over an hour.

“It’s not working. Let’s try something else.”

“Yes, it is. The fact that you can’t see it worries me.”

“You’re just saying that so I’ll shut up and get this over with. What do you care, right? I’m just a dumb high school kid. In fact, why don’t you leave?”

“Oh, come on, now. Don’t be—”

“What? Don’t be stupid? Crazy? A bitch? Little late for that, don’t you think?”

His face had been incredulous. It’s embarrassing when I think of how I treat him. It’s moments like this that I realize how easily I can be like Mama, how I’m just one step away from turning into the monster I fear. Maybe that’s the worst part of the whole thing—somewhere deep and real, I hold a piece of the monster within. I can allow it to surface anytime I want. And often when I don’t.

I know what I need to do. Now.
Right now
.

I wipe away the tears, grab my keys from the kitchen and pray no one hears me leave. There’s no way I’m getting on a bus at this time of night, so I’ll just have to take my chances with the car. It sounds like an airplane engine when I start it up. I drive south, past the cemetery and deeper into the historic district. The trees are bigger and older here. They branch out over the street on both sides to create a canopy. Despite the dark, it feels safe.

From a block away, I see Isaac’s lights. I’ve never been to his house, but I cased the place when I snooped earlier in the summer.

You’re scary. You know that, right?

He stays in a narrow, brick Victorian in the heart of historic downtown. It’s seen better days. A lone streetlight reveals green chipped paint on the tall front door and a yard like a jungle. Giant elephant ears and banana trees throw shadows over the sidewalk and rusted iron fence.

From the curb, I see right into the front room with its bizarre red walls, sparse furnishings and black baby grand in the center of the room. When I realize Isaac is sitting at the piano, I hesitate. Up until now, I’ve been bent on getting over here, breaking down the door and telling him what I need to say. Now, I’m rooted to my seat. I roll down the passenger-side window and kill the engine.

I watch.

He repeats a pattern: scribbles on paper in front of him, puts a pencil in his teeth and plays a few notes.
Paper, teeth, play.
Paper, teeth, play.

He’s composing.

Out on the street, I barely hear the notes, but I bet they’re beautiful.
Only one way to find out.

Before I lose my nerve, I slip out of the car and up the crumbling steps. A stray cat darts into the bushes. I raise my hand to knock when Isaac plays again. It’s much easier to hear now. It’s a lullaby. He’s composing a lullaby.