The Girl On The Half Shell (26 page)

I climb into Alan’s bed and curl around his pillow. I stare at the door. A day alone. I don’t want to be alone, but at least in Alan’s apartment the air still feels of him. But the time alone is a very good thing. A few moments to be calm and think.

* * *

By 11 p.m. I am angry and climbing the walls of Alan’s bedroom. The noise from the apartment hasn’t ceased, and I am trapped here without even a phone call to tell me what’s up. Wouldn’t a phone call be a reasonable expectation? He left without a word, but at least he could let me know if he plans to return anytime soon.

I flick on the TV. There’s never anything worth watching, even though Alan has everything from BBC to some really awful porn stations. I stare at the cabinet where Alan said there were Polaroids of other girls if I want to burn them. I don’t know why I remember that, except it reminds me how little I really know about him.

The cabinet is a magnificent eighteenth or maybe nineteenth century armoire, deep, with a mirrored front, and graceful lines. It’s full of highly personal stuff and this is just plain wrong. Messed up.

There are letters from Linda, whoever Linda is, and family photos from when he was young. Such a cute little boy, but why does he look so sad? So very sad, even as a child. And older. Like a harsh, stressed forty-year-old and he can’t be more than ten.

Jeez, this must be a photo of Lillian, the terrible mother and magnificent agent. OK, not such a mystery why he’s sad. She intimidates the shit out of me pressed only on photo paper. Severe. No other word for her. Severe.

I rummage through the type of keepsakes that everyone keeps, little bits of this and that which only have significance to the person who retains them.

I pick up a small ceramic bowl that looks handmade by a child. It is lopsided and the colors don’t match and it makes me smile. What do they do to children? Teach them deliberately how to make awful pottery? I gave Jack a small bowl that looks almost exactly like this. I turn it over.
Molly
. I wonder who Molly is. Maybe Alan has a sister.

What I don’t find is a treasure trove of Polaroids. There are pictures, but none seem of a particular girl, and the collection has the feel of a friendship stack like Rene and I keep.

I’m lifting the pictures one by one, when suddenly I freeze. Why would Alan have a picture of me? God, and when was it taken? Maybe last year? I don’t remember the picture, I definitely don’t know how he got it, and I sure don’t know why he would have it.

I sink to the floor on my knees and turn the photo over. It’s a note from me to Jack. My freshman year photo, the one I gave to Jack to carry with him. But why would Alan have it?

Frowning, I tuck it back in its resting place on the shelf and then notice the cello case. Why would Alan have a cello? Does he play the cello? There is a note taped on it, and I open the note:

“Dear Chrissie, Please accept my apologies for ruining your Christmas Holiday. Regards, Alan Manzone.”

I set the cello case on the floor, open it, and my mouth drops.
Oh my god
. I’ve never seen one except in a book, and I can’t even imagine what it cost. This is Alan’s idea of an apology gift for ruining Christmas for a girl he doesn’t even know?

It is a Domenico Montagnana, from the seventeen hundreds. Yo-Yo Ma has one. They are extremely sought-after by collectors and musicians, but no one can afford them and you don’t ever see one unless it’s being played by a virtuoso or in a museum.

I lightly finger the wood and then quickly pull back my hand. I shut the case and carefully return it to its resting place. I tuck the note back in the envelope, and then slip it beneath the tape.

Why would Alan buy me a Domenico Montagnana cello before he even knew me? I haven’t called Jack in days. I’ve been avoiding the emotional confusion of that experience, the weirdness of calling my dad from the apartment of a guy I’m sleeping with.

I crawl onto Alan’s bed and reach for the phone. What time is it in California? I check the clock. Eleven here means eight California time, right? Good, Jack should be home.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Dammit, Maria, answer the phone. Don’t send me to the service. A call back number would be a crummy thing at present.

“Hello?”

Finally, Jack.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Baby girl, I was just getting ready to call you…”

I tense.

“…I wanted to see how you were getting along without Rene and if you changed your mind about flying back early.”

I relax. “I’m doing well. Catching up on my reading. Seeing the sights.”

“So long as you are doing well.”

“I’m doing well.” A pause. We’ve run out of chitchat. You are not going to learn anything unless you ask, so here goes nothing. “Can I ask you something, Daddy?”

Jack laughs. “Sure, baby girl. You can ask me anything. No boundaries. No limits. You know that.”

He always says that, but I’ve never felt that, so this is going to be one of those trial-balloon moments.

“It’s just…” I run my tongue along my lips to wet them and take a deep breath. “Why would Alan Manzone give me a Domenico Montagnana cello as an apology for ruining my Christmas?”

Silence. “Oh, shit.” More silence. “Chrissie, did you accept it?”

“No. It’s a Domenico Montagnana.”

Another pause. “Don’t accept it. I’ve already told Manny I won’t allow him to give it to you. Manny is in a rough place right now. He needs to learn new habits. The only way he will ever learn to deal with his issues is if the people around him don’t let him buy his way out of them.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know, Chrissie. Just don’t accept the cello.”

“But…but, Daddy, why does he think he owes me an apology?”

A heavy sigh. “He’s the reason I flew off at Christmas. The reason you were left alone. The reason I haven’t been around as much as I should for you lately.”

“Oh.”

“Hey, I’m glad you called,” Jack says. “I’m glad you felt you could discuss this with me. You don’t tell me enough about what’s going on with you and you
can
tell me anything.”

I am plunged into that familiar anxiousness and whispering sadness. I can’t tell what my father knows, and if he knows everything, why won’t he just talk about it?

“Listen, Chrissie. Another thing. I would prefer you stayed clear of Manny.”

Now I’m cold and shaky. Jack being parental. “Why?”

“Manny’s got issues. He’s complicated, and he’s not ready for even a friendship thing with you.”

“I know about the drugs. About Rehab.”

Another pause. “Baby girl, drugs are a problem, a symptom, they are never the issue. And he’s got big issues.”

What could be bigger than drugs?

“He seems very nice,” I say.

More silence. It feels through the phone line almost like Jack is debating with himself how much to divulge.

“I can’t tell you the details. And this is in confidence, Chrissie. You tell no one. Somehow we’ve managed to keep it from the press. He wasn’t in Rehab. He went from detox to a lock-down mental hospital. He’s not ready to be in New York. He’s not ready for the circus. Manny tried to kill himself last year.”

Oh god…
Alan’s voice whispers through my head:
I lined it up and I snorted it all and I said, fuck it, maybe I’ll just stop thinking today.
Oh god, I didn’t even realize what it was he told me.

I manage to hold it together through the remainder of the call, but long before I drop the receiver back into the rest I am shaking, and everything is running wildly loose through my body.

Oh god, what is wrong with me? Is that what I feel in him? Why I am drawn to him? I’ve touched a dead person before. My brother. It changes you. Death lingers in your flesh. It is not something you can shake off; it is metaphysically altering. Am I even more fucked up than in the ways I already know?

Oh shit, oh shit, of shit! There is more going on inside of me than ever before at any time, like a fast free-fall instead of a wave, fragments in my brain running and colliding, emotions accelerating. What is that pounding on the edge of my consciousness, fighting to get in? I am feeling it again, like I did at CBGBs seeing Vince Carroll, this horrible picture fuzzy and fighting to become clear.

I want it to stop. Oh, please make it stop. I realize I am sitting on my knees on the cold marble bathroom floor, in front of the vanity cabinet, unaware of how I got here. I jerk the heavy black lacquer box out and dump the contents on the floor: pills, so many pills, weed, pipes, coke vials, balloons, a tie off, needles…

I pick up the needles in my shaking hands, the world falls away beneath me and I sink to the floor. Oh god, please no! And the messy inside of me is no longer mess. It is dark and ugly, in focus and real.

Chapter Ten

My name is being called and it sounds far away, as if in a tunnel. I stay motionless, curled on the bathroom floor.

Then the cold and lifeless air around me is supercharged with the feel of Alan’s presence.

He drops to his knees beside me. “Fuck, Chrissie! What did you do?” I feel limp like a rag doll, as he pulls me from the ground and drags me into his lap. “What did you do, Chrissie? Baby, what did you take?”

He is rummaging through the mess of his stash box splashed across the floor. He slaps my face. “Baby, you’ve got to tell me what you took.” He slaps me more. I can’t feel his touch, I can’t feel my lips, and I can’t find the words in my head.

Panicked and terrified, Alan starts to drag me across the floor. “Oh fuck! Damn it, Chrissie. What did you take?” He is pushing me over the toilet and his fingers are pushing in on my mouth.

Part of my brain focuses.
No, no, no. This is wrong. I don’t need to throw up.
I plant my hands on the porcelain and struggle to break free. “I don’t do drugs. I didn’t take anything,” I say, my voice breathy and toneless.

Alan releases me and sinks on the floor. He is shaking. “What the hell is wrong with you? I thought you OD’d. Jesus Christ, I thought you’d OD’d.”

His breath is rapid, hard and ragged, as if he’s just run himself to exhaustion. When I finally look at him, he is sitting elbows on knees, face in hands.

His eyes, burning and angry, lift to fix on me. “What the fuck is that doing scattered all over the floor? What game are you playing here? Are you fucking out of your mind, pulling a stunt like that?”

I curl into a ball and stare. Alan starts picking up the mess from the floor, tossing it back into the lacquer box before slamming the lid shut and putting it back beneath the vanity.

He stands above me, rigid and enraged. “Goddammit, speak to me. Is this some fucked up little girl tantrum because I had to leave today? I don’t do bullshit, Chrissie, and I don’t play little girl games.”

When I don’t answer, he reaches out and grabs me from the floor. He is hauling me from the bathroom, his fingers tightening and tightening with each step. They press too hard into my side and I wince.

He jerks up my shirt and the color drains from his face. “Oh fuck, Chrissie. Why did you do that today? Baby, just tell me. I don’t know how to help you.”

I curl on my unburned side and wrap myself around his pillow. I start to sob, quietly at first, and then harder and harder because the numbness is fading and the distraught look on Alan’s face made it all come tumbling back.

The things I now know for certain to be real. The things I remember. The things I want to forget. The things about Alan that terrify me. The things about myself that I hate. My thoughts are echoing and bouncing inside my head, and he wants me to tell him how to help me. He can’t help himself. We are two fucked up people. Jack had it half right. Neither of us are circus ready.

I feel his fingers in my hair. “Hush, baby,” he breathes, and gently he pulls my paralyzed body into his arms, burying his lips into my hair. “Can you tell me what happened?”

His voice is so achingly anguished. I force myself to shake my head no. He exhales what sounds like a sigh of relief that I’m responsive and continues to kiss gently all through my hair.

“Did something happen to you, Chrissie? Did someone hurt you?”

I shake my head. He exhales again.

“Are you upset that I left?” He runs a shaking hand through his hair. “I should have called. I would have called. I didn’t have a chance to.”

I shake my head. His hands, soothing and tender, move to my arms, gently rubbing up and down. “Shit, you’re freezing cold. How long have you been laying there?”

I shrug. He scoops me up and carries me back into the bathroom. He is worried and almost despondent. “I don’t know what I did. You have to promise not to do this again. Just get angry. Just yell. Why can’t you talk instead of doing this?”

I watch him from my perch on the toilet while he fills the tub. After shutting off the knobs, he comes back, eases off my shirt, examines the infinity burn on my lower left abdomen, and then transports me into the warm water of the tub.

Alan collapses into a sitting position beside the tub, long limbs exhausted, and I curl in a ball in the center of the tub hugging my knees silently.

We sit together like this, neither of us moving or talking for ages.

“Does the water make it hurt?” he asks after a long while.

I turn very slowly until my cheek is against my knees so I can face him. “A little. Not bad. I like the pain.”

His eyes flash. “Well then you are one fucked up little girl, because I can’t even stand the sight of you in pain.”

I don’t know why that does it, but it makes me cry, a more normal and emotional cry.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you through that.” I use the towel on the ledge to wipe my nose.

“I’ve never had anyone scare me more in my life,” he whispers, eyes widening, the fearful expression returning.

“It’s no big deal. It’s just what I do when everything gets too close and too real.”

“I understand the too close and too real.” His eyes close again and I watch myriad emotions cross his face. “But please, for me, don’t do that again. I’ve seen a lot of shit, but that was the fucking worst. You looked dead. Why did you do it? Goddammit, talk to me!”