Composing Amelia (21 page)

“Come on. What’s on your mind?”

“Really, it’s nothing.”

“I don’t believe you.” He sat up and folded his arms, deciding to get to the bottom of this before they did anything else. Better than waiting to have such a downer of a discussion ten minutes before he left for the airport. “I know something’s going on, Amelia. Please just tell me.”

Her back was to him, but he could tell from the set of her shoulders and the vibe of tension she gave off that she was on the verge of tears. He gently rested a hand on her shoulder, just to let her know he was there, and it was as though the extra weight finally broke her. She cried harder than he’d ever seen her cry. He lay back down and held her while she sobbed, saying nothing and praying that whatever was wrong wasn’t nearly as bad as she seemed to think it was.

After a few minutes she reined in her tears and, still sniffling, sat up and let Marcus wrap his arm around her shoulder. She leaned her head against him and eventually said in a voice so quiet he had to close his eyes to hear it, “I think I’m losing my mind.”

“Okay …” He waited for elaboration, but none came. “What makes you think that?”

“I can’t focus … I can’t sleep at night, but during the day it’s all I want to do … And I’m so, so sad all the time. Like, to my core. I can’t remember the last time I felt honest-to-goodness happy. Even when I saw you last night, I didn’t feel happy. I just felt this immense relief, because I thought maybe you’d be able to figure out what’s wrong with me.” Her voice began to quaver. “I don’t even want to play music anymore. I’ve never
not
wanted to play. Music has always been the one thing that made everything steady. Now whenever I play it sounds horrible to me and I’m sure everyone is laughing at me for thinking I could ever do this as a professional.”

With every problem Amelia listed, Marcus felt the weight in his chest grow heavier. He recalled his psych classes from seminary and didn’t want to tell her what he suspected the problem was because he knew it wouldn’t go over well.
And I’m no doctor. Maybe I shouldn’t say anything. Why make things worse?

But as Amelia began to cry again, soundlessly this time as her body shook, Marcus knew he had no choice but to say something, because unless he helped her get on the right track for treatment, chances were she wouldn’t do it herself. Not when the diagnosis might dredge up memories and comparisons that he knew she’d rather avoid.

“Babe, I think I know what’s wrong.”

She sat up and wiped her eyes with the edge of the sheet. “What?”

Please don’t let her freak out, God.
“I think you’re depressed. Not just sad—I mean, clinically depressed. I think you should see a doctor.”

She frowned, shook her head slowly. “No, I don’t think … It’s just—the separation. Right? We just need to come up with a new arrangement.”

“It might be. But I think we should set an appointment with a doctor to make sure.”

She went silent, but he could practically hear the wheels turning. Suddenly she sat up and slid from the bed without looking at him. “You’re wrong.” She yanked a blouse from a hanger in the closet, snatched a pair of jeans from the floor, and disappeared into the bathroom with a slam of the door.

The hot spray did nothing to ease the knots that had become chronic in her neck and shoulders. She’d been in the shower for ten minutes but still hadn’t so much as picked up the soap. Marcus’s diagnosis had to be wrong. Taking Psych 101 and pastoral counseling didn’t make him a psychiatrist. What did he know?

At the word
depressed,
Amelia had heard her mother’s voice. “Depressed? I’m not depressed. Artists are never depressed—they’re creatively jammed.” She saw her father roll his eyes and heard him curse as he left the bedroom where his wife had been hiding out for three days straight. Amelia had seen it all from her parents’ closet where she’d run when her father had come home. He didn’t like Amelia to visit her mother when she got that way. He never told her why. But she hated the thought of her mother all alone, even if she was choosing the solitude.

Amelia had been eight when she’d witnessed the exchange. She didn’t know what
depressed
meant, so she’d looked it up in the dictionary that night.
Sad and gloomy; dejected; downcast.
The words had summed up her mother pretty well. But the description didn’t carry the weight the word had when her father had used it. And the vehemence with which her mother denied it told Amelia there was more that the definition didn’t mention.

By the time Amelia understood the full meaning of the word, she’d been living with the reality of it for so long that it didn’t really faze her. Her mother didn’t just “have” depression. She was depression embodied. Well, depression with a twist—nonsensical rambling and frenzied cleaning jags and days without sleep would creep up out of nowhere and throw the dynamic of the household into chaos. But after a week or two, her mother would settle back into the fog; her father would go back to his workaholic tendencies, and her sister Evie would go back to being the quasimother who made the meals and did the family’s laundry.

And Amelia—Amelia would go back to her piano. Actually, she never left it. When her mother was depressed, she asked Amelia to play. When she was going on hour forty without sleep and insisted on having company while she rearranged the living room again, she asked Amelia to play. And when she was passed out drunk or finally asleep, Amelia played for herself. The girl and her piano, till death do they part.

Except now the piano did nothing for her, and the label that she associated with her broken, haunted mother hung over her head like a judgment. Her worst nightmare—the thing she had shoved far enough into her subconscious that she’d assumed she’d never recall it—was coming true.

Did that mean her fate would be the same as her mother’s?

She barely had the energy to stand, but that thought was enough to get her moving. She bathed and dressed and joined Marcus in the living room where he was reading a Bible commentary.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“Much,” she lied with a bright smile.

“Good. Let’s figure out what we can do.”

“About what?”

“About the depression, babe. We can’t ignore it.”

She held her head higher. “I’m not depressed.”

“Ames. Please.”

“You’re no doctor, Marcus.”

“And you’re no actress, Amelia. I know what you’re trying to do, and I’m not buying it. Look, it’s not the end of the world. Far from it. There are a million drugs out there you can take to treat it, a million therapists you can try—”

“Forget it. Drugs will kill my creativity and therapists will just tell me it’s all my fault.”

Marcus frowned. “What on earth makes you think that?”

“That’s—um—I mean, everyone knows that.”
Right?
She’d heard her mother throw back that excuse every time her father accused her of being depressed. Her mother wouldn’t have said it if it wasn’t true.

“Amelia.” Marcus closed the book and stood. “You’ve got a choice to make. You can either get help, or you can get worse. And … I’ve been thinking about this, and I swear I’m not trying to use this situation to manipulate you … but if you were to come to Nebraska, it would be a lot easier. And cheaper. My insurance through the church isn’t too bad, but I doubt there are many doctors in-network with them here in LA. And you wouldn’t have to work at the deli anymore, or stay holed up in a single room. The cost of living is just so much lower. It would be … man, Amelia, it would be so much better if we were together. I miss you so much. And I can’t take care of you if you’re all the way out here, and that’s what I’m supposed to do. I’m your husband, for Pete’s sake. Please. Let me take care of you.”

Amelia had no ammunition to fight with, but she tried anyway. “But the theater—it’s my only opportunity to play right now.”

“But you hate it. You don’t even want to play. ”

“My career—”

“Isn’t going to go anywhere if you don’t even want to touch the piano. Look, when you’re better you can come back. Leaving doesn’t mean staying away forever. It just means taking a break so you can get healthy.”

Amelia swayed on her feet. She was so tired, even after a decent night of sleep. Her stomach was still making threats. The dark cloud that lived in her chest was there like always, solid and painful as ever. But the thought of quitting the deli, of having Marcus with her again, of no longer living with the daily fear of messing up a performance based on exhaustion sounded like pure heaven.

“Okay.”

Marcus’s face glowed as though lit with a spotlight. “Seriously? You’ll come?”

“Yeah.” She sat hard on the armchair, defeated. But also, ever so slightly relieved. “Yeah, I’ll come.”

Marcus knelt before her and took her hands in his. “I’ll take care of everything, okay? You just give notice to your jobs and pack your things. Don’t worry about the details. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He kissed her hands, then her cheek. “Can I get you some breakfast?”

She felt her face go green at the mention of food. “No. No thanks. In fact,” she said, forcing herself to her feet. “I think I’m just going to go back to bed.”

“Okay, you do that. I’ll start in on your move. Let me know if I can get you anything—”

She shut the bedroom door on his offer and slid between the sheets.

C
HAPTER 7

When performances started, the troupe went down to just one rehearsal a week. The day after Marcus returned to Nebraska, where he promised he would continue to work out all the details of Amelia’s move, Amelia went to rehearsal with mixed emotions over her announcement. Most of her was overcome with relief. Once they found a new pianist—or once the second week of April arrived—she’d be off the hook, no longer burdened with the fear of public humiliation. But there was still a sliver of her that was convinced her life as a professional musician was over. There would be no opportunities in Nebraska, and coming back to LA seemed unrealistic. Once Jill had the baby Amelia would have nowhere to stay. And while she had once sworn she’d do anything to advance her career, she knew now that it wasn’t true. She’d be staying in LA if it were.

Amelia walked into rehearsal and saw she was one of the last to arrive; only Gabe and Ross were missing. She set up in silence while the others bantered and conversed around her. Her stomach knotted as she thought about how the directors, Ross especially, would react. She was well aware of the mess she was creating for them—hopefully they’d recognize that it was far less messy than her continuing to play would be.

Gabe came in two minutes before rehearsal was to start. “Sorry, gang,” he said. “Awful traffic. Ross is about ten minutes out. I told him we’d get started without him. Everyone ready?”

As the others called out their answers, Amelia walked up to Gabe and forced herself to look him in the eye. “Can I talk to you a minute? In private?”

“Oh. Sure.” He led her to the back of the theater, where he leaned against the wall and Amelia sat on the backs of the last row of seats. “Is everything all right?”

She took a deep breath and launched into the statement she’d practiced. “For personal reasons I’d rather not discuss, I’m going to have to quit.”

Gabe’s face remained neutral. “All right. When would your last show be?”

“I can play all the shows up until April ninth. But as soon as you find a replacement they can take over—I won’t make them or you wait until I leave.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay. I’m very sorry to see you go.”

“Thanks, Gabe.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “This isn’t because of Ross, is it?”

Amelia blinked, surprised. “No—not at all.”

“I know that he, um—”

“No, really, it’s not about him.”
Please don’t make me have this conversation.

“Okay, I’ll take your word for it. But if there’s anything we can do to convince you to stay, just tell me what it is.”

Amelia couldn’t believe he wasn’t jumping at the chance to let her go. “There isn’t. But thanks.”

He nodded. “Now, would you like me to tell the troupe, or would you prefer to do it?”