“My wig,” she cries. “Has anyone seen my wig?”
Both Dexter and I cast our eyes around their bedroom, across all of the drop cloths and decorating equipment. “I’ll tidy up.” I start transferring my tools into my box and wrap my brush and roller ready to wash.
“Beau, sweetheart?”
I glance up. Aunt Zinnea seems to have lost her panic and is now looking at me in that way she does. With concern.
“Why don’t you come to my show this evening?”
I don’t answer, just look at her in the way I do, and continue with my task of clearing their bedroom. A dark cavern of a club downtown on a Saturday night that’s packed to the rafters with excited, loud fans is my worst kind of hell. She knows it. And yet each time she asks, I see new hope in her eyes.
“You look lovely,” Dexter says, moving in for a swift change of subject, anything to get Aunt Zinnea off my back.
“Why, thank you.” She reaches for her hair to twiddle at a lock coyly. Her smile drops. “My wig.” And she’s off around the bedroom like a whirlwind again, pulling sheets off furniture as she goes.
“You’ll get paint on your dress.” Dexter sighs. “Go wait in the kitchen. I’ll find it.” He claims Zinnea and leads her from the room, and I start to collect up all of the sheets and fold them away. “She’s not okay,” Zinnea mutters, not for the first time this week.
“I’m sure she’s fine.”
“I can hear you, you know,” I call tiredly, and they both stop at the door, looking back. “Uncle Lawrence is much quieter than Aunt Zinnea. If you’re going to talk about me, do it when you’re Lawrence.”
Dexter chuckles lightly, and Zinnea shrugs off his hold with an air of indignance, throwing him a dirty look before returning her attention to me. “Let’s meditate,” she suggests, breezing across the room to me, holding up her dress.
I look to Dexter for help. He shrugs. “I don’t need to meditate.”
“You do. You haven’t been yourself all week.”
“Surely that’s a good thing,” I say over a laugh, getting my very own filthy look from Zinnea.
“I mean your fake self.”
I get my amusement under control quickly, looking away from her probing eyes. She’s right. I’ve been so wrapped up in controlling my wandering mind and stopping it from steering in a direction I know is totally the wrong way, I’ve neglected to remember to force my smiles. To make sure everyone thinks I’m okay. I even missed my therapy session. Distracted.
I let Zinnea take my hand and pull me out onto the bohemian-inspired balcony. A gigantic daybed is nestled under the canopy, the sheets adorned in elephants of every color of the rainbow, a few dozen cushions in clashing patterns scattered across it. Wind chimes ding, dreamcatchers sway, candles flicker. It really is a sweet sanctuary, but I’d enjoy it far more if I wasn’t always here under duress. “You mustn’t be late for your show,” I say, knowing I’m fighting a losing battle.
She positions me on the end of a vivid striped woven rug. “Sit.”
I do as I’m bid and rest my bum on my heels, and Zinnea mirrors me, though with more difficulty in her velvet gown. “Now,” she says, her eyes like questioning probes on me. “What’s on your mind?”
James Kelly.
“Nothing.” Damn me, I look away, breaking the ultimate rule. I hear Zinnea hum, as my mind once again tortures me with a re-run of my encounter with him on Monday. So many words dance on my lips, waiting for me to speak them, to get Zinnea’s thoughts. There’s no question, she’s liberal enough to take it. She won’t gasp in horror or judge. So why don’t I tell her? Why don’t I share?
I finally admit to myself that my reluctance is more to do with what she’ll conclude about me rather than a man she doesn’t know. Why can’t I get him off my mind? What is this curiosity? Why am I thinking about him all the damn time? He was artic cold. Unfriendly.
Spellbinding.
Darkness entices darkness.
Zinnea must see my mind reeling, because she turns her hands so her palms are facing the sky. She closes her eyes. I follow. She breathes in. So do I. She starts to talk softly, words I’ve heard time and again, words meant to soothe me, to settle me, to chase away the demons.
Is James Kelly a demon?
My eyes squeeze tighter, and Paradise Circus invades my hearing, along with grunts and moans, all mixing and blending, a montage of bodies slipping against each other, limbs entwining, hands drifting. I feel my shoulders drop. My heart slows. My breathing becomes shallow. I mustn’t think about him. I mustn’t see him again.
And then sirens screech, and I snap my eyes open, blinking into the darkness.
Fire.
Darkness.
Sirens.
Heat.
My hands start grappling at the floor beside me, searching for an anchor, anything to hold on to, anything to pull me up.
It’s too hot.
I can’t touch a thing.
It’s all too hot.
Mom!
“Oh no,” Zinnea breathes. “Dexter!”
I start to choke, the smoke overwhelming me. “I can’t breathe,” I wheeze, my mind now an abyss of unbearable memories, my throat feeling like it’s clogged with smoke.
Screams.
Cries.
Panic.
Fear.
Pain of unbearable levels.
“Beau, sweetheart, take it. Breathe into it.” I feel the crumpling of paper around my mouth, and I inhale deeply, drinking in the clean air. Clean. So clean. No smoke.
I gasp, my hand clenching the bag like the lifeline it is. My mind empties. My heart settles.
I’m alive.
But Mom is not.
I blink, finding Zinnea and Dexter before me, their faces a picture of worry. I can’t bear it. I shake my head mildly, my way of telling them not to worry, that I’m fine. They won’t buy it. I know that. “It’s been awhile,” Zinnea says, her body relaxing a smidge. “Are you still going to tell me you’re fine?”
“Lawrence,” Dexter warns gently, and this time Aunt Zinnea doesn’t fly into a hissy fit. She simply sighs, defeated.
I give Dexter an appreciative smile. “You still keep these?” I say, handing him back the paper bag once I know I’ve got a handle on my attack.
“I still pick up one or two when I’m at Trader Joes.” He shrugs. “Habit.”
Habit. I’ve heard somewhere—I can’t remember where—that you have to do something for an average of sixty-six days for it to become a habit. Dexter was collecting paper bags from Trader Joes for a lot longer than sixty-six days. And I used them all.
I look down at the decking, noticing I’ve pushed myself into a corner. I mustn’t see him again. I blow out my cheeks and get to my feet, while Zinnea and Dexter remain on the floor, looking up at me. The cop and the drag queen. The most wonderful pair.
“I’m going to Walmart,” I declare.
“How?” Zinnea asks. “Dolly’s in the repair shop.”
“I’ll walk.” Slowly.
“But it’s so late,” Dexter says, looking at his Apple Watch.
“All the better,” I reply, moving past them, wincing for speaking my thoughts. It’ll only fuel their concern. To them, my nighttime trips to Walmart are a positive step toward freedom. To me, it’s one of the only places I find comfort. The blinding lights. The calm of the few people doing late-night shopping in such a colossal space. The low buzz of noise that blankets the mild sound of people’s voices.