Beautiful Musician (8 page)

Go away how? Deeper into her madness?
I shivered, catching a reflection of myself in the closet-door
mirror. Abby and I could pass for twins, except my hair was longer
and wasn’t matted like hers. Abby wasn’t very good at personal
hygiene. That was part of the illness, too.

I turned away from the mirror. “Why
can’t you give the warrior life? Why do I have to do
it?”

“
I can’t create a
protector for my people. Someone else has to do it, and you’re the
only one I trust.” She leaned forward. “Carol would screw it
up.”

Carol was our overwhelmed aunt, who’d
taken us in when our parents had died, nearly five years ago. Abby
had been a little odd, even then, but nothing like she was
now.

I finally gave in. If I didn’t, this
conversation would go on forever. “Okay, fine. I’ll create the
warrior. Just tell me how to do it.”

“
Make him your age, so he
will get older when you get older. And make him handsome so you can
kiss him someday. He’ll deserve to be kissed for protecting my
people.”

Oh, cripes. “All right. He’s my age
and he’s hot. What else?”

“
Describe him out loud,
exactly what he looks like and what type of warrior he is. And give
him a regular job in this world, so he can blend in when he’s
here.”

“
Why does he need to blend
in?”

“
Because he won’t be able
to make himself invisible like the rest of my people. Now, think.
Picture him in your mind.”

I pretended that I was concentrating
on the task, but all I wanted was to get this stupid thing over
with. The best I could come up with was, “He’s an Indian warrior,”
because Abby was still sitting Indian-style.

“
What tribe is he
from?”

He wasn’t from any tribe, I thought.
He was a figment of nothing. But I said, “He’s a universal warrior.
He has a little of every tribe in him.”

“
Oh, he sounds amazing
already. Tell me more.”

Glad that my sister was pleased, I
went ahead and pictured him, as I’d been instructed to do. “His
hair looks black, but in the light you can tell that it’s dark
brown. It’s straight and shiny and falls to his shoulders, but
sometimes he wears it in a ponytail. His features are strong and
bold, and his eyes are piercing and fierce. But he has a gentle
side, too.” I considered what sort of job he should have and what
would make the most sense. Logic in the middle of make-believe. “In
this world, he’s an artist, and he works alone in his studio.
That’s why he’s able to travel back and forth between here and Room
105 and no one notices when he’s gone.”

“
What’s his artwork
like?”

I thought about it for a while, then
decided it should be connected to the place he comes from. “He
paints pictures of Room 105. The nice parts of it. He rides a big
black horse with a flowing mane. He’s known as the dark warrior
there. Not just because of his horse, but because of the darkness
of his skin.”

Abby looked as if she’d just slipped
into psychotic heaven, dreamy with the details. She was rocking
with a gentler sway now.

But suddenly I felt funny inside, as
if I really had created him. Fighting the notion that he was real,
I pushed away from my chair. A troubling sound, like a brand-new
heartbeat, started thumping faintly in my ears.

I had to fix this somehow, to stop him
from taking over my mind.

“
He should be allowed to
die,” I quickly said. “When’s he’s twenty-one.” Last week Aunt
Carol had taken me shopping at Forever 21 for my birthday, and it
was the first number that popped into my mind. “His warrior work
will be done by then and your people will be safe.”

My sister didn’t seem convinced. “Are
you sure?”

“
Positive. Besides, if he
dies for your cause, it makes him nobler, like the martyr of a
movie.” An angel of schizophrenic mercy, I thought, as the
unnerving thumping grew stronger. This time I almost covered my
ears, hating that my imagination was playing tricks on me. “He
really needs to be that kind of hero.”

Abby appeared to be mulling it over.
After a long pause, she nodded her matted head and said,
“Okay.”

Agreeing to let him die.

Chapter One

The warrior wasn’t
real.
Not real. Not real. Not
real
.

In the glare of the morning light, I
sat up and kicked off the covers. Then I squeezed my eyes shut,
waiting for the thumping in my ears to go away. Seven years had
passed since I’d “created” him and his heartbeat continued to haunt
me. Not all the time, but often enough to make me cling to the hope
of sanity.

When the sound finally subsided, I
opened my eyes and let out the breath I’d been holding. But it
didn’t help. I was still terrified that I would end up like Abby
someday.

My sister’s condition wasn’t improving
the way they’d hoped it would. Generally, schizophrenics with an
early diagnosis stood a better chance of responding to treatment,
but that hadn’t happened with Abby. I worried about Abby’s future
and how she would survive if Carol and I weren’t around to take
care of her.

So a few months ago, I convinced Abby
to check herself into The Manor, a private treatment center that
specialized in mental illnesses, with the hope that she would
develop the skills to manage her disease by being immersed in daily
therapy. Abby had agreed to go there because she was growing
increasingly paranoid of Carol and wanted to get away from
her.

Schizophrenia was defined by a loss of
connection to reality. Sometimes it entailed delusions, like Abby’s
staunch belief in the existence of Room 105. Auditory or visual
hallucinations, like the “people” Abby routinely saw, often
factored into it, too. Speech and reason could become disorganized.
Paranoia, of course, was another common symptom. In cases like
Abby’s, the capacity to care for one’s self was at risk and
required more than just medicine.

Abby was still clinging fiercely to
her people. She continued to talk about the warrior, too. Although
he’d yet to appear to her, she defended his absence, insisting he
would show up when the time was right.

For me, the time would never be
right.

But by next year, it would be okay.
Both the warrior and I would be twenty-one by then, the age of his
predestined death, and he would no longer be an issue.

Or so I prayed.

I hadn’t told anyone, not even Aunt
Carol, about him. He was a secret that Abby and I kept to
ourselves.

But at least I wasn’t hiding from my
fears altogether. Instead, I’d taken what I hoped was a proactive
approach. I’d joined an online schizophrenia support group, and
some of the members were meeting in person this afternoon. I needed
an outlet that wasn’t manned by mental health professionals, like
the family counseling sessions at The Manor. This would be much
more casual.

Exhausted from lack of sleep, I
climbed out of bed and went into the bathroom to shower, letting
the warmth of the water soothe me.

Afterward, I blew dry my hair and
brushed it until it gleamed. I did my makeup, as well, adding
precise placements of color to my fair complexion. I was fanatical
about my appearance, determined to separate myself from Abby’s
unkempt grooming habits.

Next, I searched my closet for
something to wear. I chose a bright blue dress that enhanced my
eyes, but quickly changed into a minty green one instead. Sometimes
when I wore blue, I looked too much like Abby.

I glanced around my room. It used to
be riddled with frilly doodads and pop star paraphernalia, but now
the décor was sleek and subtle, with natural woods and grown-up
accents. This had always been my room, with Abby’s being down the
hall, except that Abby always wanted to stay in here,
too.

I opened my door and caught the
delicious scent of bacon and eggs wafting in the air.

Immediately growing hungry, I entered
the kitchen where Carol was making breakfast. Not only did we live
together, we also worked together at Carol’s consignment shop. But
today was my day off, giving me the opportunity to pursue the
meeting.

“
Morning,” my
sixty-three-year-old aunt said, pushing a strand of graying brown
hair away from her eyes. She wore her usual morning attire: a
cotton nightgown, soft-soled slippers, and a smidgen of hastily
applied lipstick. “Have a seat. It’s almost ready.”

“
Thanks.” Although I
appreciated her nurturing nature, I was concerned about Carol
turning into a lonely old hen. My life wasn’t so great, either. I’d
never even had a boyfriend. Like Carol, I spent so much time
focused on Abby, I’d missed out on the types of things I should
have been doing. The heartbeat in my head didn’t help, either. How
was I supposed to think about having a relationship with the
warrior rattling around in there?

“
Are you going to L.A.
today?” Carol asked.

I nodded. I’d told my aunt about the
online group, but I hadn’t gone into detail. Carol wasn’t keen on
it. Even now she was frowning.

“
How many of you will be
there?”

“
There’ll be four of us,
including me. We’re the only ones who live close enough to see each
other.” Or sort of close. I was about sixty miles from the
gathering.

“
Are any of them
ill?”

The question made me flinch, along
with the ever-present fear of becoming like Abby. “It’s a support
group for family members, not for people who have it.”

“
How much have you said
about yourself?”

“
Mostly I just lurk and
read everyone else’s posts. But I did mention that I have a
sister.”

My aunt hesitated. “Are you sure this
is a good idea? Going off to meet strangers and discuss your
personal life?”

“
They’re going to be
talking about their lives, too.” Maybe one of them would even admit
that they were fearful.

Carol set a full plate of food in
front of me. “It’s a long way for you to travel for something like
that.”

“
It’s only an hour.” I was
looking forward to getting away. “It’s a Starbucks-type place in
the Media District. It’s called The Coffee Shell.”

“
Will you text me when you
get there?”

“
Of course. I’ll text you
before I head home, too.”

Carol joined me at the table, and we
ate in silence. She’d already set my vitamins out for me. I’d been
through a couple of bouts of anemia and now she insisted that I
take lots of iron so it never happened again.

I glanced out the window, which
presented a glowing green view of the backyard and the vegetable
garden we planted every year. We lived in a lovely old ranch-style
house that Carol had renovated years ago. Her consignment shop was
highly successful, affording us a comfortable lifestyle, which now
included the cost of Abby’s private care.

Later, Carol left for work, and I
prepared to leave for my outing. But then my cell phone rang with
an unfamiliar number on the screen. I answered it, and a man’s
voice came on the line.

“
Vanessa?”

“
Yes.”

“
This is
Duncan.”

He was one of the people from the
support group that I would be meeting, and he was even more of an
online lurker than I was. I barely knew anything about his
situation.

He continued by saying, “I got your
number from Linda. She asked me to call you.”

Linda posted actively in the group and
was the one who’d arranged the get-together, along with her cousin,
Jamie. “Is there a problem?”

“
Linda and Jamie can’t
make it today.”

Disappointed, I blew out a sigh. “So
it’s cancelled, then?”

“
Not unless you don’t mind
meeting with just me.”

“
You’re still willing to
talk?”

“
Sure. Why not? I’m not as
quiet in person as I am online.”

“
Me, neither.” I smiled,
feeling comforted by his easy manner. “We might as well give it a
go.” I paused for a second. “How will I recognize you?” I had a
description of Linda, but that wouldn’t do me any good.

“
I’ll be the guy sitting
off by himself drinking a double caramel macchiato.”

I laughed. As if that was going to set
him apart. “I’ll be the short, skinny blonde in a green dress and
gold sandals. How about if you look for me instead?”

“
Will do. See you,
Vanessa.”

“
See you, too.”

We ended the call, and I felt a sense
of calm. I liked that he’d been cautious online, yet was willing to
share in person. It made him seem like more of an ally, more like
myself. Was his story as troubling as mine? Was his family member
as ill as Abby? For his sake, I hoped not.

***

I arrived at The Coffee Shell and
parked my car. While still seated behind the wheel, I texted my
aunt, as promised, letting her know that I was safe and
sound.