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Ethan’s apology and confused expression did nothing to calm me down. I wasn’t ready to talk about Amanda—not with him. Not with anyone. I pulled myself together and gave him a lame explanation—how I’d never gotten a present from a boy before. Unless I counted the silly Valentine’s cards we exchanged in grade school or the rabbit my neighbor Billy tried to give me when I was six, trying to make me feel better after my dad died. Another sharp stab hit me deep in the chest. Why did so small a gesture of condolence or a heartfelt gift bring on an ocean of grief and pain?
I didn’t want anyone feeling sorry for me. Or maybe, as the Medusa Lady had said, I didn’t feel deserving of love. She’d said that Dad’s death at such an early age was perceived in my child’s mind as if he’d abandoned me—as if he didn’t love me enough to overcome his drinking. She was also quick to point out that his death being surrounded with so much tragedy and guilt was an added burden for family members left behind. But it wasn’t like I’d caused his drinking, or that I had contributed to his driving drunk and killing himself and someone else. He’d been drinking since he was in his teens according to Mom. Medusa Lady said that alcoholism was a hereditary disease and that Amanda and I were susceptible. Somehow, I’d been spared that genetic trait as far as I could tell. Even the smell of alcohol turned my stomach. Amanda hadn’t been so lucky.
The rest of the day was uneventful as I was lost to my grim thoughts and wanted nothing more than to be alone, get high, and play my guitar—none of which was likely to happen. My foul mood when I returned to the ship was evidence enough that at the very least, some alone time was called for. After ditching Ethan with another lame excuse of needing to rest up before dinner, I retreated to the upper deck, a swanky spot called the Crow’s Nest that I’d found was pretty much deserted in the middle of the afternoon.
The bartender nodded as I wandered into the spacious lounge, the only inhabitant other than the waiter who was prepping for the before dinner crowd to show up for cocktail hour. I grabbed a booth and stared out the bank of windows overlooking the port.
Provence’s gorgeous Mediterranean beaches lay stretched out in front of the modern city and its suburbs sprawled upward into the hills beyond. Several other cruise ships of various sizes floated nearby, situated among the smaller yachts and sailboats that bobbed along the coastline. The crystalline blue sea sparkled in the afternoon sun.
“Can I get you anything, Miss?” A short, mocha-skinned man with the trademark Indonesian accent pulled me out of my daydream.
“Ginger ale, please.”
The waiter raised a brow and disappeared.
Ethan and I had eaten a hearty lunch at a sweet little café on the Boulevard after our tour of the church and my stupid meltdown. Now, in spite of the motion sickness pills he’d given me, I felt a little queasy. To distract myself I gazed around the room at all the plush red chairs, polished brass, and deep burgundy carpeting, and noticed an entertainment area set up for the musician who was currently nowhere to be seen. A piano and bench sat on one side and a guitar stand and mic were set up nearby. My pulse quickened at the sight of the acoustic guitar leaning enticingly on its stand.
The waiter returned with my drink.
“Do you think it would be okay if I played the guitar a little?” I asked tentatively, fully expecting to be told the notion was out of the question.
He scoped out the empty room and exchanged a quick glance with the bartender who smiled and nodded. “I don’t see why not. No one will be coming in for another hour or so, and I don’t think Tommy would mind.” The man set down a fresh bowl of peanuts and walked away.
I grabbed a handful and popped them in my mouth, following it up with a long pull off my soda as I geared up for the thrill of playing a guitar for the first time in weeks. I wiped my hands on a napkin and slipped out of the booth. Excitement and apprehension warred within me. What if someone came in? I assumed Tommy was the musician who owned the instrument, and knowing how I felt about my own, I doubted he would be too thrilled to find some kid shredding on what was likely his prized possession. I darted another glance at the entrance as if I were about to commit some criminal act.
As I settled onto the stool, the curve of the guitar rested on my thigh and my fingers found the strings. It was a beautiful instrument—a vintage Martin with a deep mahogany back and sides, a traditional maple bridge-plate, and an East Indian rosewood fingerboard. I tuned it by ear and strummed lightly, a sense of peace washing over me like warm surf. Playing transported me out of the world and deep inside myself in a way nothing else could. It took me to happy places, sad places—lonely places. But it always took me where I needed to go at any given moment. The words to a song I’d written right after Amanda died, rose to my lips. A song I had titled:
Pieces of Love
To hear this song, go to http://www.pjsharon.com/pieces-of-love/ and type in Pieces of Love as your password. (Case sensitive and include spaces.)
Or purchase the song on i-Tunes for .99 cents https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/pieces-of-love-single/id848325918
When I was just a girl
Playing in the sun
My sister chased after me
She taught me to run
Then the clouds grew dark
And the air turned chill
The rain came down
When my sister lay still
Tears fall down from the heavens above
Til they wash away
All the pieces of love.
I cried with the clouds
But no one heard
Not one whisper
No, not one word
Tears fall down from the heavens above
Til they wash away
All the pieces of love.
Pieces of love, pieces of love, til they wash away
All the pieces of love
A life cut short
She threw it all away
Now I cry with the clouds
Most every day
Tears fall down from the heavens above
Til they wash away
All the pieces of love.
Pieces of love, pieces of love, til they wash away
All the pieces of love
Til they wash away all the pieces of love
As I finished the refrain, my voice drifted soft and low through the empty room, carrying my pain on the notes and filling my heart with longing for my sister. I continued to strum the chords, imagining myself in a time and place beyond the hell that my soul was determined to inhabit. It wasn’t like I wanted to wallow in self-pity and suffering. I’d been doing everything I could think of to evade it. But nothing helped, really. Agonizing heartache and perpetual tears that lay just beneath the surface seemed inescapable. I blew out a long, slow breath, picking away at the strings as if trying to pluck the pain from my heart.
“That was beautiful.”
My head shot up. Startled to see Ethan standing a few feet away, I stopped playing. “I didn’t see you come in.”
“I’m not surprised. You were pretty lost in your song. You sounded awesome. Did you write it?”
Heat crept up my neck. “Yeah, I did. I know it’s probably not very good, but putting words to the music in my head helps me get all the crap out, you know?”
Ethan sat down on the piano bench.
“Why would you think that wasn’t any good? It was better than most of the stuff I hear on the radio. It was fantastic actually...and so...real.” He studied me carefully, sending an uncomfortable shiver across my skin. “You didn’t mention you had a sister.”
“I don’t,” I said too quickly. “Not anymore.”
“Um...do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really,” I snapped. I took another deep breath, afraid the emotions I’d stuffed down for so long would bring a flood of embarrassing tears screaming to the surface. “Sorry. Amanda...” I started, then stopped, suddenly unable to sit still. I set the guitar on its stand and began to pace like a cornered cat. A few people wandered in. If I was going to spill my guts to Ethan, now was as good a time as any, but the Crow’s Nest wasn’t right for such a painfully serious discussion.
“Why don’t we go to the Loft?” Ethan suggested, sensing my unease. “Since you and I are basically the only non-seniors on the ship, the spot is pretty much always empty.” He raised a conspiratorial brow so I let him take the lead, wanting nothing more than to find a place where we wouldn’t be disturbed. If I was going to tell him the whole sad story, I needed privacy. My heart thundered as we passed a group doing tai chi on the upper deck. Sweat lined my upper lip as the sun beat down on us, and I wondered how I was going to explain my sister’s death in a way that wouldn’t make Ethan see me differently. The way my friends in school had—like I was damaged or broken somehow.
Ethan and I ducked into the Loft, a cool, funky space dedicated to teens, complete with video games, a karaoke machine, and a small library of books and music to choose from. Computer screens lined one wall, and a Ping-Pong table filled the center of the room. I crashed onto an overstuffed chair in front of a window with a view of the open sea.
“So what was she like?” Ethan started.
Grateful for the introduction to what would likely be an excruciating conversation, I let out a sigh. “She was...everything I’m not.” A sad smile took over. “That about sums up my whole life story in a nutshell.” I hugged a throw pillow and tucked my feet under me, letting my flip-flops drop to the floor. “Amanda was smart, funny, pretty, and notoriously popular in school. You know the type. Cheerleader, class president, voted most likely to succeed. She was three years older than me and I was like her shadow. All I ever wanted was to be like her,” I said softly as I stared blankly out at the quiet expanse of water.
“So, what happened?”
My gaze shot to his, the green depths drawing me in as powerfully as the sea. I swallowed hard. Then the words tumbled out. “She started drinking in junior high school. Typical party type stuff. Sneaking booze from the liquor cabinet, hooking up with older guys who could always get their hands on a case of beer. Somehow, she kept up her grades, but I knew she was drinking...and doing other stuff, too. She hid it from everyone...and I helped her do it. Mom was kind of wrapped up in her new relationship with Mitch at the time.” I turned away to escape my guilt and paused to organize my thoughts, unwilling to place all the blame onto my mother. “When Amanda went off to college,” I continued, “I guess the pressure got to be too much for her. She almost flunked out her freshman year. Mom totally freaked about it and tried to force her to come home and go to the community college in town, but Amanda refused. She promised she would do better, try harder...whatever.” By now, my throat ached from dryness and the pain of holding my emotions in check.
Apparently seeing me struggle, Ethan asked, “You want something to drink?” He pointed to a vending machine in the corner.
“A water would be great,” I said, relieved for the break. When he sat back down a minute later, I took a long swig off the cold drink and recounted the story as I’d replayed it in my mind a thousand times. “One night, Amanda went to a party with a couple of friends at a house off campus. They said she was playing some dumb drinking game and then wandered away from the group. Her friends didn’t know it until hours later when they found her behind the house where she had passed out. By the time they got to her, it was too late.... The Medical Examiner’s report said that there were no other drugs in her system, but her blood alcohol was .4...something like twenty times the legal limit.” I raised my head to see Ethan’s eyes filled with concern and sadness—just the response I didn’t want. I turned my gaze out the window again.
“That’s rough...I’m sorry.”
“Not as sorry as I am,” I said, bitterness rising. I looked back, expecting to see hurt in his expression, but instead, there was understanding. “I didn’t mean to be...”
“It’s okay. I get it. Nobody wants to be pitied. I hated how people treated me after my mom died. Everyone walked on eggshells expecting me to fall apart at any minute. There is nothing anyone can say or do to make it better, so it seems it would be easier if they said nothing. All those stupid sayings, they’re in a much better place, or time heals all wounds, are just crap people say to make themselves feel better.”
I nodded agreement since I’d had the exact same thought myself more than once. I took a deep cleansing breath and released it slowly, noticing that it came easier than it had in a while. A lightness spread through me as if a dark cloud had been lifted. Maybe the Medusa Lady was onto something when she’d said that talking might help. But it was more than talking about Amanda. It was sharing her story with someone who understood the pain of grief and loss. Someone who wouldn’t see me as being as broken as I felt. Someone who saw the me no one else knew.