The Last Cymbal

Hey everybody. I'm attaching a few pages to my new adult novel, THE LAST CYMBAL. I'd appreciate the feedback. Thanks!
Chandra

*Warning: This material contains language of a mature nature. Parental discrection is advised*


Manuscript: Finished, unedited (rewrite)
Word Count: 118,365 (Complete)
Pages: 365

Synopsis: Marley, Billie and Lennon McKenna have lived the life other kids would only dream. But, when their father, Nash McKenna, dies at the age of 40, he leaves behind a devestating legacy of drug and alcohol abuse. In the wake of his death, his children, now grown, are forced to come to terms with secrets they kept while their father was alive. Now, with the threat of exposure, their lives are turned upside down and trying to find a reason to hide who their father really was, is fast becoming the reason they are drifting apart.  The only thing they have left of their father, are the terrible memories of his mistakes and the memorabilia of his band, Tantra, that made him a music legend.  Keeping his secrets did not come without consequences: either they told his secrets and lost him forever; or they kept his secrets and lost a piece of themselves. 
   THE LAST CYMBAL is a story about love, redemption and finding forgiveness even through the most horrific mistakes.







                             THE LAST CYMBAL

 

“For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”

2 Corinthians 4:17-18

 

 

 

Forward

 

Marley

 

Seattle, Washington 1997

“Wanna feel God?” my father asks.

   “Isn’t he everywhere?”

   “Yes, but he’s even closer outside.”

   He led me by the hand into the monstrous garage and pulled the black tarp away with a quick flick of his writs. The 1979 fully restored Harley Davidson glistened under the florescent lights. The sleek, black paint ominous and fascinating. He pushed it onto the oil stained pavement with little effort.  

   “Hop on honey,” he whispered.

   “I’m scared Daddy. You know I don’t like bikes” A cold rush of liquid adrenaline fear shot down my spine.

   “Don’t worry, God is on our side.”

   Dad straddled the seat and the bike roared to life. A new fear bubbled to the surface: is this the moment the whole world comes crashing down around us?

   It’s an unfortunate reality. Daddy always got by, always made it through unscathed. But, would his luck finally run out?

   Would he take me with him?

    The engine revved, snarling, piercing my eardrums, caused my heart to race. It wasn’t courage that made me jump onto the seat. It was the continued faith no harm would come to us.

   Hadn’t he lived through worse? Hadn’t I?

   “Ready to fly?” I wrapped my arms around his waist.

   “Not really, but I trust you.” The fear undulated through every muscle. But I kept it at bay and didn’t listen to my instincts. 

   With a loud peal of rubber, we were off, speeding down the long, deserted road. The wind grabbed at my hair, pulled at my face. My cheeks felt like rubber and I clenched my teeth and pressed my lips together to avoid bugs that might find their way into my mouth.

   The fearsome roar of the engine disappeared, replaced by the sound of rushing wind. I kept my head tight against my father’s back, squeezing my eyes shut so the sight of the grass that had become a greenish brown blur wouldn’t make me sick.

   “Can you feel him yet?” Dad was barely audible through the sound of racing wind and roaring metal.

   “What?” I shouted.

   “Can you feel God?” he yelled. 

   “Yes Daddy, I can,” I lied.

   Maybe it was my sense of his infinite desire to push himself to the limit, not caring who he would take along with him. A free ride, as he called it. I was absolutely sure he would push the bike as fast as it would go. Just as sure as I was he dropped acid right before we left the house.

   Another fight with Mom, another shot of pain killer.

   It was easy to see, the glossy look in his eyes, the way he kept putting his hand on his right shoulder as if someone were touching him, but no one was there.

   “We’re free,” he yelled triumphantly, closing his eyes and letting go of the handle bars.

   “No Daddy! Don’t!” I screeched as the bike began spinning out of control.

  

“When life brings you to a fork in the road, and you are forced to make a choice, I usually choose the wrong one. But I live free and choose to be an eagle. To fly above the clouds and not look down. To fly over the trees and into the horizon. This is the path which I choose to follow my life.”

-Nash McKenna: Time Life Interview 1993

Chapter One

Marley

 

Seattle, Washington- 2006

   “My father was one of a kind. He loved all things beautiful,” I insisted.

   “Oh yeah, definitely,” Lennon agreed.

   “How about you Billie? What do you think of your father?” the reporter asked.

   “I don’t,” Billie replied, shrugging her pointy shoulders. She took our filthy looks with a grain of salt. The reporter looked at Billie, smiling then turned back to me.

   “Marley, that is such a pretty name,” she added. “How did you get it?”

   I love telling this story, it makes me smile.

   “My parents named me after, Bob Marley. They were into peace and equality.”

   “We’re all named after music legends,” Lennon added, interrupting my narrative.

   “I’m guessing you’re named after John Lennon?”

   “Yeah. My sister here,” he said, jabbing his thumb at Billie, “is named after Billie Holiday. That’s actually her full name, Billie Holiday McKenna.”

   “Wow, that’s interesting; three different genres of music. Your parents must have been eclectic.” The reporter, Sheila, situated herself into the-in my opinion-gaudy looking red velvet chair. “So, how was it, growing up with a music legend like Nash McKenna?”

   I shot a glance at Billie, distaste at the memory of our father apparent on her face. Sheila skipped over her all together.

   “It was great,” I started quickly. “He was the epitome of a free spirit. He always had us on the edge of our seat, ready to dive into the next stage of his life. He was eclectic; even when it came to his life in general. Once,” I chuckled, reminiscing, “he found a rusted out old Harley Davidson. He found someone to work on it, they brought it back to life; then he decided to just up and buy a brand new one, leaving that one with the man who had fixed it up. All the money, all the time he put into it, and just like that, he changed his mind. He loved change. I think that’s the thing I loved most about him. He always brought a line of difference. It was easy to follow his lead. He was so in tune with people and life. He could out do everyone in anything.” I laughed, the memory of Dad like a blanket of warmth wrapped around my shoulders.

   “Yeah, he could out do any veteran alcoholic any day,” Billie hissed. We all fell silent. The words bringing up old, but not forgotten memories of the Nash McKenna I wanted everyone to forget. 

   “Well, that’s all for now,” Sheila decided. “I’ll get in touch with you again. Thanks for your time.” She stood, shaking our hands while I followed her out of the house.

   “Thanks for coming,” I offered as I watched Sheila smile and get into her silver Beamer.

   I slammed the tall oak door and stormed back into the living room, my black lips in a hard line.

   “What the fuck?!” I glared at my sister, whose posture held all the contempt I felt for her. “Why do you always have to trash Dad like that?”

   “What, you can’t handle the truth? Come off it, Marley. Everyone in the music industry knows damn well Dad was a flagrant alcoholic and drug addict. That’s how he died isn’t it? Do you think that was lost on them? If you do, you need your fucking head examined.” She marched towards the stairs and up to her room.

   “Why does she do that?” I asked with distain seething in my voice.

   “Because she can,” Lennon answered. “Look, Dad was awesome, but he did have his problems. Billie just doesn’t understand the pressures he was under; being a musical genius isn’t easy. Dad couldn’t cope with the whole thing, not really. That’s why he used. Can’t blame him though,” he said, playing with the keys on the black polished grand piano sitting off in a corner of the monstrous living room.

   “He left her enough money to last her a lifetime. Doesn’t that mean anything to her? He worked his ass off for us.” I was angry. Stirred to the point of boiling.

   “Get off it Mar. He worked his ass off because it’s what made him happy. It had nothing to do with us.”

   “Oh, so you agree with her now? So what, Dad was a good for nothing who didn’t give a damn about us?” This couldn’t be happening. My own brother, Dad’s prodigy of music, didn’t know anything about him.

   Lennon slammed his hand against the piano keys; a mix of piercing sounds echoed around the room. “That’s not what I’m saying!” He took a deep breath to calm himself. “All I’m saying, is Dad loved his work. Look, I know you hold Dad on some kind of fucked up pedestal, but the truth is, he screwed anything with two legs, beat Mom and used excessively. Don’t try to deny your legacy. It’s what he left you.”

   I could feel my face flush with anger and I continued to glare at him, wondering how the hell my parents managed to birth the two most ungrateful children God ever put on this earth.

   “What, you don’t think people expect we’re gonna turn out just like him? Don’t blame Billie ‘cause she refuses to be a drunk and an addict. She is going to make something of herself, away from the music industry.”

    I couldn’t take much more. I grabbed my black bag and slung it over my shoulders.

   “Where are you going?” he asked, now flicking at the piano keys.

   “Out to meet everyone’s fucking expectations.”

   I walked to the kitchen and grabbed my keys. I found my car amidst a sea of others, all restored classics, in the carnivorous garage and unlocked it all the while thanking the car gods for keyless entry: less work.

   My foot itched at the pedal, my eyes adjusting to the sunlight that spilled in through the windshield. Then, I stomped on the gas, leaving black rubber streaks on the oil stained driveway. At the mouth of the gate, I stopped, pondering my next move. Left would take me further into the country, while right would take me to the sprawling city, and to Josh.

   My smile was radiant as I veered right onto the blacktop highway. My finger found the button and the window opened almost silently. The wind was cool and caught my blonde hair in its fingers, toying with different shapes and tossing it into my eyes.

   Flashes of my father’s face-mostly his eyes-filled my mind. Sadness rolled in like waves, crashing over my head, the undertow waiting to pull me into the murky depths below.

   The sound of Dad’s drum solo was playing on my overly priced Mercedes Benz. It was my pride and joy, the last thing he bought for me before he died.

   My eyes found the rearview mirror and in that instant, his ghostly image peered back at me. I gazed at him, my mouth turning up at the corners.

   I always saw him, always felt him. Was I crazy? I didn’t think so, but that didn’t make it any less true. He was still there, in the mirror, his eyes holding all the secrets to his forbidden life. Music was a passion he was lucky enough to earn a living through. But it didn’t stop him from ruining his life.

   “Hi Daddy,” I whispered at his smiling face. He never spoke to me, just winked, as he always does, and started moving his head and air drumming to the recorded music he so heavily believed in.

   Beliefs. One thing my father did have were beliefs. As stupid and unholy as it sounded, he believed in God. He worshiped him.

   Sometimes I wondered if God would find it in His heart to forgive Dad for abusing his body. In church, the religion teacher Mrs. Jefferies always said our body was our temple. So did Mom. With all that, I couldn’t help but worry God would shun him. Which is what he believed he deserved after all.

  If I closed my eyes long enough, I can still see the fine, white powder fanned out on the coffee table like fairy dust. That’s what I used to think it was, because my father always felt like he could fly after he used it.

   “It’s magic dust,” one of his druggie friends once said.

   So I tried it on my tongue one time, just to feel the wind beneath my invisible wings. But all I got was a numb tongue and a bitter taste in my mouth.

   I never understood the lure it had, the control. And while I drove closer to the city, I wondered how the hell I managed to survive as long as I did.

 The smell of weed and alcohol that usually hit you when you first entered the house was, at one time, overwhelming. It was always a constant party for him. Four day parties that included coke, booze, weed and sex.

   Sex was the one thing he thought he had successfully hidden from us. We were not allowed downstairs after nine and we knew it. But when I was ten, I wondered down the staircase to grab a glass of water from the kitchen. When I was at the last five steps, a sound caught my attention. It was a grunt and then a moan followed. My eyes drifted to a man and a woman sprawled out on the expensive Persian rug.

    My mind tried to grasp the situation. The images undulated through the folds of my brain, searing them to memory. Then, my gaze reached the recipient of the blow job. He smiled and winked and I realized that they weren’t the only people there. I ducked my head further down, catching glimpses of others who took in the orgy without qualm.

   My feet couldn’t move fast enough. I shut and locked the door behind me, then decided it was time to bring Billie and Lennon to sleep with me in my room.

   When I turned thirteen I was very developed and the same winking man made his way into my room one night. My threats of punishment were heeded and he stomped out of my room with a revolting backward glance.

   My heart was slowing, my lungs burned with the first breath I took. Then the screaming began. I could hear my sister’s panic through the sounds as they echoed through my room. And I froze, my appendages unwilling to move. The last scream and something inside me gave way and I threw off the fear and rushed towards her room.

  

   In the hall, I realized her screams had woken my little brother. He stood on the carpet in his socked feet. His Old Navy pajamas checkerboard with black and white shook as he quivered with fright.

   “Grab your baseball bat!” I screamed, hoping my father would hear and try to find out what was wrong. He never did.

   When he emerged from his room, I noticed the bat was shaking. His hands were trembling and I couldn’t have that. I grabbed it and yelled for my father. Then, I stormed into the bedroom and saw the man on top of my little sister, naked, his hand over her mouth.

   Nausea took root in my gut as the bat connected with his head. I remember the sound, crunch! After that, his body went limp and he rolled onto the floor.

   I sat beside my sister, who was still shouting, her eyes seeing nothing. “It’s gonna be okay, Billie,” I tried to reassure her. My hands found her shoulders and I shook her, trying to get her to stop screaming.

  “Billie!” I shouted, and finally my hand came down her across her cheek.

   That seemed to work, but she held on to me, clutching at my nightgown for dear life. My voice was shaky and I spoke to her as if she were just an infant, needing to be consoled.

   “There, there, Billie. It’s all going to be okay.” My mind shifted to another plan of action. “Go get Dad, Lennon!” I ordered. But he stayed frozen, watching as the blood pooled around the stranger’s head.

   “Lennon! Now!” His eyes blinked and he ran out of the room, towards the staircase.

   “Billie, calm down. He won’t hurt you, not ever again.” I smoothed her hair, pressed her head against my chest, my mind racing with possibilities.

   Would I go to jail? Even in self-defense I might very well be locked up in juvi forever. And it wasn’t really self-defense because I saved my sister, not myself. So was it sister defense? My thirteen-year-old brain refused to drown out the consequences and all the while I am still saying “shh.”

   At the top of the stairs, I can hear Lennon calling out. “Dad! Come quick!”

   “Lennon, didn’t I fucking tell you never to come downstairs?”

   His voice was like a vice grip around my heart. What would he think of me? His was the only opinion that mattered and I was deathly afraid of losing it. But, my mind triggered back to reality every time Billie grabbed at my nightgown.

   It must have been Lennon’s face. Or maybe it was the way Billie’s hiccup of sobs rang out through the room, because his voice went from threatening, to worried and confused.

   “What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked.

   He appeared in the doorway, in silk red boxers and a black satin robe. My mind refused to believe he could be mad at me for saving my sister (his daughter) from being raped.

   “D-Daddy,” Billie whimpered.

   “Marley, what happened?” He ran up to the bed, and tried unsuccessfully to pry Billie out of my arms.

   “He was trying to rape her, Dad,” I said, fighting the bile that rose in my throat with the word ‘rape’.

   “Is he dead?” Dad asked, his voice so shaky, I thought I might have heard wrong. I answered anyway.

   “I don’t know. Are you going to call the police?” My teeth began to chatter, the fear of punishment aching in my bones.

   “No,” he said. “Give me a minute.” He wiped the tears from Billie’s eyes and stood up and walked over to the unknown man.

   “Well?” I couldn’t take the pressure any longer. “Is he dead?”

   “No, he’s got a pulse.” The three of us watched as Dad called for help and then watched as they carried the body down the stairs to places unknown.

   We never spoke about it again. My worry that Mom would take us away from Dad had me forcing my siblings into promising they would never tell a soul.

   They kept their promise. But I began to realize that every secret comes with a consequence. Lennon’s drug use and Billie’s numbness resulted from that night.

   It was a lose-lose situation for all of us. If we told, we would never see him again. If we didn’t tell, we would lose a part of ourselves, Billie in particular.

   These are the consequences of secrets.

   I wondered if that night would be brought to light after his death; if Billie would perhaps tell a shrink or a friend. But my sister never said a word. Never admitted that someone had once come into her room while she was sleeping and tried to take her innocence.

   It was all my fault.

  

   The tires treaded along the streets and the noise helped to drown out the sounds of my past. As the trees flew by and the wind whipped my hair around my face, the sight of the Seattle skylines came into view.

   I pulled into a parking garage and left my car there, wanting to take the bus to see Josh. I always took the bus to see him. It always gave me a sense of peace. During the ride, no one watched or judged me. On the RTA, I wasn’t Nash McKenna’s daughter. I was just another body filling space.

   It was the best way to avoid another unfortunate consequence of my father’s everlasting fame, the paparazzi. They followed us everywhere, tormenting us with cameras and questions. Every now and again, I’d see an unflattering picture of myself in a tabloid. They always got my bad side. Of course I could see pictures of Billie, in her all-too-perfect getups. They always caught her coming out of the trendiest stores. My sister was a fashion icon. Most young girls emulated her, due in large part to her wardrobe.

   Out of my pocket, I pulled my change and found a seat at the end. I leaned back, watching other pedestrians walk outside. Some were tourists, others people on their way home from work.

   In my head, I could still see Josh the first night we met. It was at a bar I frequented with Lennon where he played guitar with some local loadies every Friday night.

   I grazed his half-naked muscular form. How they flexed as he thrummed on the drums. He was so confident, alluring. When our eyes met, his smile faded for a second, and then he regained his composure and winked at me.

   A cold chill of pleasure ran down my spine and I could feel different parts of my body radiate an invisible white hot fire. Although I had yet to experience a man, lust was a word I was familiar with. Josh didn’t know that. I refused to give into the temptation I craved.

   Every boy I met wanted that part of me. But what good would it do me? In the end, it was Josh who fought the hardest. He constantly called, sent e-mails and CDs of his band.

   My virtue was all I had, but I couldn’t figure out who I was saving it for. A husband maybe? Then again, it would be impossible to find someone who wasn’t after my money or notoriety. The glory of belonging to Nash McKenna had its consequences.

   There wasn’t anyone who didn’t want a piece of my legacy. And I hated it.

 

Josh

 

   My drums never let me down. They were always there for me to comfort and heal. Even though their sound is rugged and sharp, its music still gave me a feeling of well-being, like water rushing down a stream.

   Practice makes perfect. All I thought about was the beat of the songs. The heart of the sound and nothing could ever take its place. My heart beat in time with the music and I seized the moment, taking the sticks in my hands and lulling the tune to a gentle cadence of beats.

   The third knock broke into my deluge of notes and I eyed the door scornfully. Who the hell could be coming around at this time in the afternoon? Most of my band mates were still nursing hangovers from the night before.

   I cursed under my breath, setting the sticks down on the stool before I walked over to the door. I wasn’t expecting what was behind it.

   “Marley, hey.” I stepped aside to let her in. 

   “Hey,” she said, and leaned into me, her head on my bare chest. 

   “Hey, are you alright?” I asked and I could hear a slight trace of concern in my voice which surprised me. I didn’t have to fake it. 

   “Yeah, just wanted to see you, that’s all.”

   “Well, I’m glad you came.” I took her hand and walked towards the kitchen. “You wanna beer?”

   “No,” she said flatly.

   “Mind if I have one?” I had to ask. It would have been rude to pretend that I didn’t give a shit whether she liked it or not.

   “It’s your place.” She gazed at me as I grabbed a cold one from the refrigerator and yanked a dirty yellow kitchen towel off the grimy countertop.

   I popped the top open and took a long pull, quenching my thirst with my favorite indulgent. I used the towel to wipe the sweat from my brow, tossing the metal cap into the sink piled with dishes.

   Sometimes I wish I had a maid.

   I walked over to the barstool she sat in, leaning against the counter and appraising her speculatively.  

   “So, what made you decide to come over?” I was grateful the brunette had already left.

   “Nothing, just wanted to come by. Are you mad I came? I could leave if you want.” Her expression was playful, but I could see the anger and hesitation in the shape of her mouth and the determination to be strong in her solid green eyes.

   “No, of course not. It’s just you never come over unless your already in town or Lennon has a gig. I was just curious.”

   “Just wanted to see you.” Her smirk was amiable, but still slow to warm me. I was used to this game. It was so easy.

   “Well, I’m glad you came,” I said, touching her cheek with the back of my hand. She stood and walked around my less than stellar apartment.

   I watched as she dragged her fingers across the exposed red brick on the walls. I could feel the chip on her shoulder calling to me like a siren. My lips curled into a smile and I set the bottle down on the counter and walked over to her and wrapped my arms around her. Her body went rigid under my embrace.

   “What’s wrong?”

   “N-nothing. I’m just…I don’t know.”

   It was getting a little irritating, trying to figure her out. The way she moved, the way her eyes lit up when she saw me, then dimmed again only seconds later as if she found me repulsive. Yet there was something in the way she spoke, the way she breathed, as if every breath was vital and existential.

   “Relax, I’m just holding you. There’s nothing wrong with that, right?” And here was my pillow talk. My special means of manipulation. I was a master at it. I knew it well.

   “Guess not,” she said after a few quiet seconds. She twisted around to look at me and I could see the indecision staring at me. I knew she wanted me as much as I wanted her.

   The silence lingered in the air, just the sounds of our breathing increasing in tempo with each other and I took a chance. I pulled down the zipper to her black hoodie and slowly, with as much seduction as I could muster, slid it off her shoulders. It fell to the floor with a clinking sound. 

   “Don’t hurt me.” Her voice was low, soft and for a moment, I wasn’t completely sure she was talking about the sex itself.

   “I promise, it won’t hurt at all,” I whispered in her ear.

   Taking her hand I pulled her in closer, and she trembled against my flushed skin. My mind was racing, my heart pounding in my chest like my own personal drum. I raised my hand and pressed my palm against her cheek, raising her head up enough so that her eyes were focused on mine.

   I needed this, like I needed air to breath. It wasn’t just because it was her, it was because she was woman and my obsession with what was between her legs only served to fan the flame of lust.

   My thumb swept across her lips, smearing her black lipstick. Her groan was quiet, her breath quickening, her eyes closing. I leaned forward, pressing my lips to hers. She tasted of cigarettes which I didn’t mind in the slightest. 

   Sliding my tongue past her lips, I felt the heat from her mouth, her soft, subtle moans that made me tingle right below my midsection.

   I was used to sleeping with other girls, but Marley was different. She was the daughter of my idol, Nash McKenna.

   She would make an exceptional addition to my roster. The bet was already four months in, but I was way ahead of the game. Marley was my last conquest and it would be mine. My other band mates knew I’d win. They knew I’d do anything for that particular prize.

   The last cymbal. The last one Nash McKenna used before he bit it. And what better way to win than to lay Nash’s oldest and coldest daughter?

   I was already at the helm, working my magic, popping open the third button of her shirt. Then, as she is famous for, she puts her hands up.

   “Stop.”

   “For what?” My fingertips grazed her breast.

   “I don’t think I can do this.” I wasn’t going to let her get away with that. I pulled out the heavy artillery.

   “This is what two people who are in love do. Sex is just a natural part of the human condition. Don’t you know that?”

   “No,” she answered, her eyes narrowing. “So you’re trying to tell me you love me now?”

   “Yes, I do.” My eyes softened, my most prized possession. The blue of them always seemed to sooth girls. And I milked it for all they were worth. 

   “I don’t believe you,” she said and pulled away from me. She walked towards my unmade bed. “I know you. I know your reputation. You don’t fool me for one fucking second.”

   My patience was teetering on thin ice. I sighed, forcing a smile and walked over to the bed. I could still smell what’s her name’s perfume and I worried she could too. My elbows found the mattress and I leaned back, staring at the back of her blonde head.

   The only way to get her to succumb was to hit her where it hurt. And I knew exactly what line to play.

   “I’m not the kind of guy you think I am. I understand your pain. You know, my father left me when I was a kid. I haven’t seen him since I was four. Things do get easier, Marley. You just have to will them to.”

   This at least was the truth. My good for nothing father had walked out on me when I was four.   

   “Look, my father was all about the love and free spirit mess. My mother isn’t so easy to sway. She used to be like him, she loved him and would have followed him anywhere. I know the things she used to do. She dropped acid, did coke and smoked pot with him…to please him. But, she grew up, and she learned life wasn’t one big party. She raised Billie, Lennon and me by herself. And the thing she made sure I knew was I needed to keep true to myself. If something feels wrong, then it usually is.” She stared at me her piercing green eyes silently stripping my faux morality apart bit by bit.

   “This feels wrong to you?” I asked, intrigued now. I wasn’t used to rejection.

   “Yes, it does.” She took in a deep breath then let it out slowly. “I don’t want my first time to be with someone I don’t love. I just can’t do that to myself.” I felt the shock on my face.

   “You don’t love me?” I was surprised. This was something totally new to me. All the girls fell in love with me. I was the one who always walked away. She couldn’t be any different.

   No female had ever been able to resist the lure of rock and roll or the sight of my sweaty, half-naked body banging against my drums.

    “No, I don’t.” She said this so matter-of-factly that it through me for a loop. When she rose off the bed and grabbed her black hoodie from the floor, I didn’t even move to stop her. “Sorry.” She shrugged then disappeared out the door.

   I was left to wonder how the hell this girl was able to see right through me.

 

“It’s easy to fall into the abyss which is sadness. It’s easy to love with only half of your heart. It’s harder to love with your whole soul; because that means you have to give someone a part of yourself. I mean come on, how willing are you to lose a piece of your heart?”

-Nash McKenna: Rolling Stone Interview-1999

Chapter Two

Marley

 

   The rain was already pouring down when I hit the humid street. I felt dirty, used and unsure. I lifted my head and let it splash against my face, trying to rid myself of the shame. My eyes drifted down to my black secondhand Doc Martins. Shame I was used to. Feeling isolated, too. But leaving that apartment made me feel even worse than any of those two things put together.

   Maybe I was a prude. Or maybe it was just my bullshit detector reading his words as false. But above all else, I hated myself for not being able to give into temptation.

   My father always did. Yeah, look where it got him. My brother always did. Even better example. But the one time I tried to be someone other than myself, my mother’s voice popped into my head.

   “Wait. It won’t hurt you to save the only thing you have that is up to you to give. Virtue is a gift. You need to be particular with who you give it to.”

   Of course she was right, but I was tired of right. I wanted wrong. I wanted to be free to make my own choices without the ghost of promises and words following me.

   I took off down the street, passing Goth clothing shops and music stores, all closed for the day, hating myself.

   Night was my favorite time. It was easy to get lost amongst strangers this way. Drunks that lined the streets at eleven o’clock were a mix of bar royalty. I wasn’t unfamiliar to this life. But the question now, the one that seemed to scream at me internally, was: Is this the life I wanted for myself?

   I chalked it all up to intuition. That’s what made me leave the apartment and Josh Duncan behind. He was a user, just like my father. And it pained me to admit to that.

   For a moment, I thought about my mother and how she always ended a day with a fresh black eye or new bruises on her cheek, torso or arms. I remembered the way she used cry when she found out about my father’s newest conquests.

   Anger had become like a security blanket for me.

   I was angry at everything.

   At my father for not being normal. For pushing himself to unimaginable limits, for abusing his body to the point of death. My anger at my mother was more than undeserved. For years I blamed her for leaving my dad, for not making things work. But seeing it in this light, what more could she have done? How far would he have dragged her down with his destructive behavior? I knew that he would eventually have taken her life just as he had taken his own.

   The heart attack wasn’t suicide, but it might as well have been. Booze, drugs and women were the reason behind his death. Thirty-four was too young…too young.

   I was furious with Billie. Mostly, because I knew she was right. I loved my father with my whole heart, but he left nothing in the wake of his death but a legacy of utter chaos. Billie knew it and made light of it every chance she got.

   Lennon. My anger with my baby brother was so surreal it was almost unbearable. He was following in Dad’s footsteps. His drinking and using were slowly winning the battle for his soul. He wasn’t completely heartless, sober. But while he was on his kick, he was coldhearted. Evil in some ways.

   How? How could he do this after everything we saw? After everything he experienced growing up? His drug use was reaching new heights. He decided to one up dad and began using heroin. That’s the one drug my father never tried. And that’s not to give him compliment, because the ones he did use were just as horrible.

   I remember the day I found his kit under his mattress. My stomach turned, my mouth went dry. There was something there, I could see it in his eyes. That’s why I took it upon myself to find out what. My mother was too busy trying to console herself after my father’s death. Billie…well, she just didn’t give a shit. So it was up to me to find the answers.

   And I found them.

   All my anger, rage and disgust centered around my dysfunctional family. But the majority of it lay with me. I hated myself for caring. I wanted an escape: I was nobody’s savior.

   If Billie chose to be a martyr, or if Lennon chose to be a junkie, it wasn’t my problem. It shouldn’t be my problem.

   But it always was.

   I stopped at the bus station, just as it pulled up to the stop, filling the air with sick smelling black exhaust. My hood up, my eyes to the floor, I boarded, paid the fair and found a seat in the very back.

   My boots squeaked against the rubber mats, my clothes wet with rain. I peered around at the other passengers. An old woman sat ahead to my right, with a brown bag of groceries and a maroon purse, filled with yarn. There was a young black man to my left, with dreadlocks up to his shoulders, thrumming his fingers against his legs. His jeans had holes on the knees and he was busy listening to his portable CD player.

   I leaned back against the seat, feeling the cold of the vinyl through my wet tee shirt. Not even my hoodie provided any kind of warmth. My attention drifted to the old woman whose left forefinger was wrapped in yarn. In her right hand was a gold crocheting needle that glistened in the dim light of the dank bus.

   I kept my focus on her, hiding under my hood, watching her thread each loop into itself. Then I began to wonder about her life.

   How old was she? Had she ever been happy? Was she happy now? She seemed so content to just sit there, her brown bag of food on the seat and her purse full of yarn that lay atop of her lap as she tugged at the fiber, extending her creation. I made note of the way her knuckles seemed larger than usual. My mind drifted to the medical textbook Dad once bought me in hopes I would take it as a sign.

   Was she rheumatoid? If she was, it didn’t seem to bother her.

   Then my mind drifted to something else. I began to see myself on the bus, crocheting a scarf for someone I loved, old and carefree. In that moment, I felt envy for this stranger who was reaching the ending of her life instead of just beginning it.

   The feeling was potent and I wanted the ease of letting go of any mistakes, any sins I had committed, knowing that my time on earth was limited.

   I felt my lungs expand and ache as I sucked in a deep breath. What I wished for and what I had were two different things entirely.

   Instead of a life lived, I was beginning to become a lived life. A life full of riches and misery. My father’s money bought me material things, but it couldn’t buy him back. His life was over and no amount of money could buy him more time. No matter how much I prayed, no matter what I would sacrifice, he was never going to be whole again.

   I turned to stare out the window. Fear shot down my spine, my eyes wide with horror. In the glass was the image of a girl. Not just any girl, but a broken one whose eyes were listless and empty.

   Her lipstick was smudged across her right cheek and her black eyeliner and mascara left black muddy streaks where the rain had washed her face. For a moment, I felt pity for her, until I blinked and she mimicked me.

   She couldn’t be me. This girl, she seemed so broken, so lost. But she was me and this was the whole of my truth; because I didn’t recognize the girl in the window. Not anymore.

   I wiped the black smudges from my cheeks with the sleeve of my hoodie, feeling my eyes sting as small crystal sized droplets smarted from my eyes. I looked at my worn hands and squeezed them into fists, all the while hoping that somewhere, the Marley I once knew still existed. I brought my fists to my head, leaning my elbows against my knees and banged lightly against my temples.

   I was broken, defeated by a life of expectation. Of having everything handed to me. The shame was almost too much to bear. I had always been the strong one, the streetwise one. My eyes shifted uncomfortably back to the window and the reflection proved to me what my subconscious had been shouting all along.

   That Marley was gone.

   The only Marley left was the one damaged by her father’s absence. The bittersweet end to his life was a gut wrenching consequence of his death. Bittersweet to most, but the end of all to me. I couldn’t find my way out of that abyss of pain; the ever-present anguish of his loss.

    Life has a funny way of showing you the path that fate has chosen. Closing my eyes, I can still see his lifeless body, tangled in the red satin sheets. I remember the cold of his skin and how my brain immediately connected it to a cold slab of meat. That was the extent of my reasoning.

   I became a vegetarian after that.

   My thoughts were drifting. I forced myself back from those memories and searched the bus for the old woman. But she had come to her stop and almost silently climbed off the bus and walked to places unknown.

   I pulled my jacket tighter against my body. The warmth was completely gone, replaced by a cold ache of misery. Could someone actually die of loneliness?

   I felt I would.

 

   The bus pulled up to my stop and I got out, feeling hollow and confused but very certain of my unwillingness to fix what I knew was broken.

   The words ‘damage goods’ came to mind.

   My legs felt as if they were filled with lead, but I kept on walking toward the parking garage where my car sat waiting to take me home.

   The skyline hazed over and then completely disappeared from sight in the reflection of my rearview mirror. I focused on the road ahead of me, lonely and surprised how much I was feeling at that moment.

   Most of the hurt and anger I hid within myself. But then there are always exceptions to every rule and that exception didn’t prevent me from lashing out at times.

   Guilt quickly replaced that. My mother bore the brunt of most of my anger. All the things that made me who I was revolved around my father. When he died, I felt empty and alone. A part of me buried six feet within the earth along with him.

   I always wondered if we were one person. If that was even possible. Unfortunately, I realized too late that we weren’t. That my mother wasn’t responsible for his death and mine.

   My death was all me.

   Just because I was walking and breathing and functioning as a normal human being would, didn’t mean I wasn’t completely dead inside. That fact was a certainty. My soul seemed shriveled and cold. As if it didn’t reside in my shell anymore.

   How cold that seemed to me.

   I drove through our street, passing mansions and gated housed requiring codes to get inside. The street was wet and the lights from the houses illuminated the slick road with an eerie glow.

   My mind drifted, to a time when only our house was fixed on this land. As it was, we were the only ones with over twenty acres. Our house was by itself on one side of the street. As I drove closer, the street darkened and the lights to our gate were the only offer of brilliance for the driveway.

   I stopped before I reached the edge of the gate and stared down the black road. With my hair already dry and my clothes halfway there as well, I left the car idle on the road and opened the door, inviting the humid night to greet me.

   Mist settled onto my hair, not quite soaking the roots. I gazed ahead, at the pine tree that still stood mighty and strong along the bend in the road. I walked toward it, my hands shoved into my pockets, my breath caught in my throat.

   Then the sounds of peeling rubber and crunching metal began to echo, like the ghost of it was still ever present and vital to my memory.

   I flew off the bike that night. I almost died.

   They covered it up.

   The police never drug tested my father, never tired to piece together the events that led to my near death.

   I hated them for that.

   Maybe if they had, he might never have used again. After the accident, he drowned himself in guilt with his favorite painkillers by his side. He couldn’t look at me for months afterward. I felt awkward and alone. My father was the one person I needed, but the guilt and shame were two things he couldn’t face without help. And that help just caused our family more torment. 

   A car horn blared and I realized I was standing in the middle of the road. All I could make out from within the B.M.W. was someone’s middle finger. With a heavy sigh, I walked back to my car and pulled into the garage.

   The house was silent, all the lights off. I figured they were out, maybe asleep. But it was unusual for my mother to leave all the lights off in the kitchen, especially when I hadn’t arrived yet.

   I pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge and leaned against the cool marble of the island countertop. I took a long pull from the bottle and felt the icy liquid surge down my throat and pool in the pit of my stomach.

   When I looked down, I saw a folded piece of paper sitting atop of the marble with my name scribbled across. It was Billie’s handwriting. I pulled it toward me with my forefinger, trying not to get the condensation from the water bottle on the ink.

   It didn’t take but a second to get the gist of the letter. I pulled my car keys out, the note crumbled in my hand. It held all I needed to know.

   We’re at the hospital. Lennon o.d.ed.

Billie

 

   The familiar sound of beeping monitors pulled at my gut. I loathed those sounds. The same sounds that emanated from my father’s room when he overdosed. The same sounds that lingered in the air when Marley lay unconscious in the hospital bed, fighting for life.

   Why did I always have to be the good one?

   My sister, the hardcore Goth girl, the martyr and my dumb ass brother who was supposed to be the free spirited one with the drug problem all had their place in the family. All wasted talents.

    All I had were brains.

   I missed my apartment, my classes at N.Y.U. New York in the summer. The sounds of the bustling city, the food joint right down the street from my place. What I wouldn’t have given for a cup of Dean and Deluca right then. I needed to go home. A place far away from my family.

   I loved my mother and siblings of course, but I didn’t need them and if I were being honest, I was happier without them.

   The doors to the emergency room flew open and through them marches Marley in all her enraged glory.                         

   “Where is he?” she demanded running into the hallway of the emergency room.

   I glared at the wet blonde tendrils that clung to her face and neck, her make-up that was smeared, looking like she’d just stepped out of an audition for a horror movie. And her clothing, God! You would have thought we were raised poor.

   “What the hell happened to you?” I folded my arms across my chest.

   “Who gives a shit? Where’s Lennon?” Again with the surly attitude.

   “In there.” I pointed towards the faux wood door.

   She pushed through the door, looking like an angry bull, the hoodie to her God awful jacket pulled over her head. I followed in behind her, my heels clicking against the laminate floor.

   Suddenly, she was frozen, rooted to the laminate. I almost bumped into her, before I realized it. She stared at Lennon’s pale, unconscious body, her eyes narrowed into near basilisk slits.

   “Marley?” Mom whispered softly. Her cheeks were tear streaked, her eyes red and tired.

   “Mom? What the hell happened?”

   I was tempted to say, what the hell do you think happened? But I kept my mouth shut.

   “He overdosed.”

   “On what?”

   “Heroin.”

   “Who found him?” I could hear the rage building in her voice. The anger she was so famous for. If Lennon lived through this, she’d probably kill him herself.

   “I did,” Mom choked out. “I tried to revive him…but…I couldn’t. He has a pulse, he’s going to be fine. I just know it…I just know it.”

   “Bull shit,” Marley growled.

   “What?”

   We both turned to stare at her.

   “This is bull shit!” I worried the nurses would come in to find out what was going on.

   Then, she walked over to him, glaring crazy-eyed at his lackluster body, dressed in his ugly green hospital gown.

   The first slap wasn’t particularly hard. His head rocked to the side, his mouth was still hanging open and my mother and I stood there, not knowing what to do.

   “Wake up, Lennon! Now!” Another slap, then another, then another. “Wake up Goddamn you! Wake the fuck up!” The hits kept coming until her eyes were so full of tears, she couldn’t find his cheeks anymore.

   For the life of me, I can’t figure out why I put my arms around her. The pain in her voice, her eyes, touched a part of me that I thought I had lost for good.

   “Marley, stop.” My voice was surprisingly soothing. “Let it go. He did this to himself. You can’t save everyone.” 

   “I can’t lose him, too,” she said as she wept. “Not like this…not like this, Billie.” She shook her head, crying and fell to the floor, pulling me down with her.

   I held on to my sister, smoothing her hair and rocking her back and forth.

   It was the least I could do. 

 

 

  

 

Sophia

 

   What more of a nightmare could I ask for?

   My baby laying in a hospital bed. My daughters clinging to each other for support and me feeling like I didn’t deserve to be kneeling down and leaning in against them to offer any type of comfort. Who was I to do that? Me, their mother, yet I had never exactly been the comforting one. Me, the victim, not the savior. The unequivocal deal I unwittingly struck with the devil the day I married Nash McKenna.

   So there I sat, my eyes soaked through with tears, my heart full of unfathomable fear. Something needed to give. There had to be a way to turn the tables. My children needed me, Marley especially. Lennon was on the verge of self-destruction, following in his father’s footsteps. Billie. I never had to worry about her.

   That was my one allotted comfort.

   We settled into the oversized hospital room, all of us silently praying for Lennon’s safe return to reality. My fear that he had indeed chosen Nash’s path was the worst part of this nightmare. While we sat together, Billie’s head resting against my chest, her auburn hair smelling of the most delicious strawberries, her chest heaving up and down with sleep.

   Marley sat at my feet, her knees to her chest, her eyes focused on the bed, waiting for a sign of life. My heart ached when her head fell back, her eyes closed and then she’d shake herself awake, still focused on her baby brother. It was as if she was willing him to wake up. She had been through so much, how could he do this to her?

   My mind was a train wreck of misery. No matter how hard I tried to stop it, it kept drifting back to his bathroom and the whites of his eyes.

   With just the sound of the monitors and the bustle of the busy nurses outside, I sat in my chair, silently praying that God would find it in his heart to forgive my son for his less than better judgment.

   He had done far less damage than Nash. Right?

  

 

 

Lennon

 

   It’s a curious thing, almost losing your life.

   I woke up three days later with a new found purpose after my near fatal accident. It was just an injection of the same shit I always shoved in my veins.

   My new found purpose: I’d never buy smack off an unknown dealer again.

   The pain was so unbearable though. After a night filled with live music and taunts about my father from the crowd, who’d want to end it sober?

   I didn’t need help, just to dull the pain. It wasn’t even a needle full. I couldn’t figure out how it had managed to suck me in anyway.

   My eyes opened slowly, my head throbbed and my throat was bone dry. To my right, I saw my sisters asleep next to my mother on a large sofa type chair. I rubbed my jaw because it was a little sore, even though I didn’t remember hurting it before. Quietly, I shifted around the bed, not wanting to wake them, trying to find a comfortable spot. My tailbone was sore from being in the same position for so long. At this point, I wasn’t sure how long I’d been out to begin with.

   My skin was dirty, sticky and I was in desperate need of a shower. Around my nose, I could feel a little bit of dried snot stuck to the edges. Slowly, I leaned sideways, avoiding the tubes and needles in my arms to grab a box of tissues from the side table next to the bed.

   Everything ached. It felt as if I’d been run over by a truck. When I finally reached the box, I accidentally knocked over the white corded phone.

   “Shit,” I whispered.

   I wasn’t yet prepared to deal with Marley’s wrath. I knew how much I had hurt my mother, but my older sister was the one I worried about the most. She’d have my ass and I knew it.

   I looked over at her, but she only twitched. I was relieved when it was just my mom that seemed to hear the clatter of plastic against the floor.

   “Lennon?” she called out groggily.

   “Yeah, Mom.” It hurt my throat to talk.

   “Oh my God, Lennon!” she gasped shrugging out from between the girls.

   She rushed over to me, tears already streaming and raised her hand to my forehead. “Are you okay? I thought you were dead! How could you do that to me? To them?” Her finger pointed toward my sleeping sisters.

   “Sorry, Mom. Honestly I am. It was nothing.”

   Nothing but an endless ocean of pain. It wasn’t a lie from my stand point.

That’s exactly what I felt…nothing.

   “Nothing! How could you say that? I thought you were dead, Lennon! I thought I had lost you. Do you have any idea what it’s like to have to visualize how to go about burying someone you carried underneath your heart for nine months?”

   How could I answer that? I couldn’t even look her in the eye. She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. When I finally did look, I could see the disgust on her face. I knew what she saw…my father staring back at her through my actions. My father, the love of her life, seeping through every stupid decision I made.

    But I wasn’t my father. His strange Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde persona he took to the grave. I was just me. Just a washed out version of Nash McKenna, only on a much smaller scale.

   My mother suffered the most from his mood swings. I knew she always thought we were oblivious to her physical pain. And God knows Marley tried her damnedest to hide it, too. Her loyalty far out weighed rationality. But we did know and she had to have been crazy to believe otherwise.

   Maybe she just enjoyed living in the make believe world she created.

   As I finally found the courage to really meet her glare, I saw the resolve in her eyes and a feather of fear shot down my spine with such force, it almost knocked me breathless.

  “I’m sorry Mom. I really am. I’ll stop, I swear.”

   And the words rang true for a complete second. I could see myself going through life as a normal person; a career, wife, a couple of kids. Then the reality of such a thing sent tendrils of fear that weaved through my brain like poisonous vines.

   It wouldn’t be easy and I liked easy. I loved my escape way to much to let it go without a fight. With my best smile, I tried to convince her, although I was sure that the truth was simply detected in the depths of my eyes.

   Mom was quiet for what seemed like forever, weighing my words against experience. For a moment, I though I had won her over. After all, my father was able to do it so many times before. But the side of her-the one that was built for pain and bullshit-forced a wall between us. It was obvious she had reached her limit with me.

   And I was scared to death of the consequences.

   “No. You won’t stop. You’ll keep going and going until your dead, just like your father.” She shook her head, her eyes floating around the room.  When she finally found the courage to look at me, I knew her mind was made up. There was no turning back.

   My stomach dropped to my ankles, this new fear the epitaph of a life I was going to be forced to leave behind. “I will not lose you too.” She glared at me, her teeth clenched.

   “Mom, I can’t go to a place like that. I’ll die. I swear I’ll die.” My voice was a shaky whisper. I could hardly believe I was begging my mother not to send me away.

   “No, you’ll get better. You have to, Lennon. It’s not about you anymore. This is about your sisters and me and how we can’t take much more of this. How many times are you going to try to destroy this family? Didn’t your father do enough damage? Or is his death not enough of an example for you?” She dragged in a deep breath, closing her eyes tightly and placing two fingers against her chest.

   The words stung and picked at a nerve like a kid would a scabbed over wound.

   “You are my son. I love you. You are a part of me and I’ll be damned if I lose you to this drug mess. Your body is a vessel Lennon. And you seem hell bent on destroying it. I don’t understand…it makes no sense. After everything you’ve seen, you still have the guts to push yourself to these irrational limits?”

   “That’s enough with the bullshit psychology lessons, Mom. I’m not going, and that’s that.” My anger felt like acid on my tongue. Like hell she was sending me to a place with a bunch of freaks that sang Cumbaya and shit like that.

   “We’ll see,” she growled. “You think just because your nineteen that you earned the right to ruin your life? You must be out of your mind. I don’t care how old you are. This stops, now.”

   Her final words to me.

   In that instant I was no longer nineteen, but a five-year-old, who was going to eat his green beans whether he liked it or not.

   But this wasn’t as simple and my life was going to be turned upside down. I could only feel numb again when the people from the rehab center came to collect me from my hospital bed two days later.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Sometimes I think about what might have been. If there were a way to turn back the hands of time, I don’t think I would have done things that differently. But if you really want to know, ask me again twenty years down the road.”

-Nash McKenna, Rolling Stone Interview 1988