go in on Tischer Court. The super’s got the back open for us.” Then to me, “The party’s over for the papis.”
“Thank you, Mom.”
Frank is there—he comes out the door as we pull up. He looks huge, like a guard coming out of a guard house. He must be six four. I imagine him carrying me upstairs.
There’s an elevator waiting at the end of the long gray hall near the security office. In the office I see all the screens, all the images from the security cameras on every floor, and I wonder if Frank knows who the stalker is. But I don’t want to ask him. I don’t want to say anything because there will just be more hell over it with Mom. If Mom knew he’d been in the apartment, there would be no peace.
We arrive at our floor.
“Thanks, Frank,” Mom says, and I hear in her voice the certain tone that she reserves for men she likes, a sort of smoothness with a whisper of bedtime in it. But he’s at least ten years younger than she is.
As we enter the foyer, I see an arrangement on the big table, a beautiful spray of flowers.
“Hi there, Mel. Hi, Hilda.”
A man comes strolling out of the living room, and at first I think it’s some new beau who has been given the run of the apartment without even a mention to me, but then I am introduced.
“Melody, this is Dr. Singer.”
Somehow, she has managed to call a shrink and get him over here.
I head straight for the door.
“Mel!”
“No, Mom, I’m not staying. If you want me to see a doctor, ask me. Don’t ambush me.”
“You’re a minor.”
“I’m a human being, and I have human rights!”
“You’re a child, and you’re in trouble, and you need help.”
She turns away, strides toward the wall of windows. “Oh, God,” she murmurs, “help me.”
I realize that she is absolutely terrified for me.
I look toward the front door and want so badly to just walk through it and keep going forever, just like in my song.
Except, except, except , I do want my career. It’s not the fame that matters—it’s the kind of musical inspiration that happened today.
“Okay,” I say to Dr. Singer. “What are we doing?”
“I’m here because your mother is concerned.”
I look at her. She looks right back. The defiance there makes me mad. The terror makes me sad. She says, “Honey, please.”
So I go into the den and drop down on the couch. “Is this how you want me?”
“Melody, I want you to be comfortable. I just want us to get to know each other today. We’ll keep talking. But I want to put something right on the table now. Do you know what a suicide intervention is?”
Ohmygod. This guy must be from a suicide watch.
I say nothing.
“So tell me, did you do what your mom says you did? What you told her?”
I just had the best day of my whole life, and the worst day of my whole life.
“I don’t know what I said.”
He takes out a pocket recorder. He presses a button and I hear me : “Do you know that I went up on the roof last night, and I almost went over?”
He stops it. “That is you?”
My throat closes. I want to talk, but I can’t. I want to shake my head no no no , but I can’t.
“And you spent the whole day recording songs that can’t be used. Suicide songs?”
“This is totally insane. Because this was the best day I’ve ever had. I mean, songs I didn’t even know I had in me came out, and my arranger—who is the one who actually knows, not Mom—she says they’re brilliant.”
“She’s a paid employee. Of course she’s enthusiastic. But this material needs to disappear.”
Could Mom actually have my songs erased ? Would she?
“Where is my music?”
“Excuse me?”
“You know what I said, you bastard. WHERE IS MY MUSIC?” I jump up. “MOM! MOM!”
She’s in the living room, smoking and drinking vodka.
I approach her. “Did you erase my day?”
“Darling, you can’t go out there with that stuff. It’s horrible. Horrible !”
And then I am on her. I am hitting her, slamming her, kicking
“Thank you, Mom.”
Frank is there—he comes out the door as we pull up. He looks huge, like a guard coming out of a guard house. He must be six four. I imagine him carrying me upstairs.
There’s an elevator waiting at the end of the long gray hall near the security office. In the office I see all the screens, all the images from the security cameras on every floor, and I wonder if Frank knows who the stalker is. But I don’t want to ask him. I don’t want to say anything because there will just be more hell over it with Mom. If Mom knew he’d been in the apartment, there would be no peace.
We arrive at our floor.
“Thanks, Frank,” Mom says, and I hear in her voice the certain tone that she reserves for men she likes, a sort of smoothness with a whisper of bedtime in it. But he’s at least ten years younger than she is.
As we enter the foyer, I see an arrangement on the big table, a beautiful spray of flowers.
“Hi there, Mel. Hi, Hilda.”
A man comes strolling out of the living room, and at first I think it’s some new beau who has been given the run of the apartment without even a mention to me, but then I am introduced.
“Melody, this is Dr. Singer.”
Somehow, she has managed to call a shrink and get him over here.
I head straight for the door.
“Mel!”
“No, Mom, I’m not staying. If you want me to see a doctor, ask me. Don’t ambush me.”
“You’re a minor.”
“I’m a human being, and I have human rights!”
“You’re a child, and you’re in trouble, and you need help.”
She turns away, strides toward the wall of windows. “Oh, God,” she murmurs, “help me.”
I realize that she is absolutely terrified for me.
I look toward the front door and want so badly to just walk through it and keep going forever, just like in my song.
Except, except, except , I do want my career. It’s not the fame that matters—it’s the kind of musical inspiration that happened today.
“Okay,” I say to Dr. Singer. “What are we doing?”
“I’m here because your mother is concerned.”
I look at her. She looks right back. The defiance there makes me mad. The terror makes me sad. She says, “Honey, please.”
So I go into the den and drop down on the couch. “Is this how you want me?”
“Melody, I want you to be comfortable. I just want us to get to know each other today. We’ll keep talking. But I want to put something right on the table now. Do you know what a suicide intervention is?”
Ohmygod. This guy must be from a suicide watch.
I say nothing.
“So tell me, did you do what your mom says you did? What you told her?”
I just had the best day of my whole life, and the worst day of my whole life.
“I don’t know what I said.”
He takes out a pocket recorder. He presses a button and I hear me : “Do you know that I went up on the roof last night, and I almost went over?”
He stops it. “That is you?”
My throat closes. I want to talk, but I can’t. I want to shake my head no no no , but I can’t.
“And you spent the whole day recording songs that can’t be used. Suicide songs?”
“This is totally insane. Because this was the best day I’ve ever had. I mean, songs I didn’t even know I had in me came out, and my arranger—who is the one who actually knows, not Mom—she says they’re brilliant.”
“She’s a paid employee. Of course she’s enthusiastic. But this material needs to disappear.”
Could Mom actually have my songs erased ? Would she?
“Where is my music?”
“Excuse me?”
“You know what I said, you bastard. WHERE IS MY MUSIC?” I jump up. “MOM! MOM!”
She’s in the living room, smoking and drinking vodka.
I approach her. “Did you erase my day?”
“Darling, you can’t go out there with that stuff. It’s horrible. Horrible !”
And then I am on her. I am hitting her, slamming her, kicking
Similar Books
