CONCLUSION
Wednesday. 8:22am. Over.
Well, that's it. The tour's all over. We wrapped our final show last night. The last two weeks have been brutal. Tensions ran high. Just when I thought I couldn't take any more of the presence I was in, there was another show. Another interview. Another promotion.
It's also been two weeks since I last heard from HER. She never did return any of my messages or calls. We've been back in the US for a week. I blew up her phone, her voicemail, her texts, her email. Still nothing. Forever nothing.
These past two weeks have been the worst in my life.
I watch my brothers and my father enter the terminal for the flight to Tulsa. I feel a pang of guilt in my stomach, but only for a moment. The emotion is gone as fast as it came.
However, I can't help but give one last parting look as I head toward my terminal.
________________________________________
Wednesday. 2:30pm. Texas.
I didn't go home straight away. I will go home, but I have business to take care of first. My tour isn't quite over yet.
I walk in the door and virtually ignore my surroundings. I'm on a mission. I walk straight to the counter in the middle of the store, where a woman has her back turned, adjusting a flower arrangement. After a moment, she turns around to greet me and I'm then momentarily taken aback. The woman looks exactly like her, but older. This is obviously her mother.
I clear my throat nervously and ask if SHE is working. She is. My heart begins to pound and my palms get sweaty in anticipation for the first time today. Her mother takes a second and smiles at me before she walks away from the counter. Does she recognize me? I'm not sure.
________________________________________
Wednesday. 2:35pm. Meeting.
What's merely minutes feels like an eternity. Instinctively, I run my hand through my hair and straighten my shirt when I hear the door to the back room open. I see her mother first and then I see HER following behind.
I can't describe the look on her face when she sees me. It's definitely surprise. I smile in hopes that the surprise is good. Then it becomes more like shock. Was this a bad idea? I'm beginning to think that maybe it was. Actually, no, it's not. Desperate times call for desperate measures. If she's not gonna return my messages then I have to do something that she can't avoid. I have to look her in the eye.
Finally she's able to form words. "Uh, Taylor. Wh-what are you doing here?"
I try to keep smiling. "I had to see you."
"How did you find me?"
I look around, though I'm not really sure at what. "Well, it wasn't too difficult..."
"Well, uh, had I known--"
"Layla." The way her name rolls off my tongue is like silk. "I've been trying to reach you for two weeks."
She furrows her brow at me. "Taylor--I don't think you should be here."
"Come on," I smile nervously. "What happened to just Tay? We're friends, remember? Right? I came all this way--"
"You did. But--"
"You know what? You're right. This was a bad idea. I should have taken the hint the first day. I just--I guess I thought maybe you had a little more class than to end things by just falling off the face of the planet."
"That's not fair--"
"You should know."
I can't handle this anymore. Who knew rejection could still be this difficult, even at thirty years old? And being rejected by someone you never even had a future with? Ten times worse.
I'm on my way out the door when I hear my name call out in her voice. I shouldn't respond, but something stops me in my tracks anyway. I turn around to see her walking toward me. "Hey, look. I just went on my break. I think we should talk."
I look at her in thought for a moment. "Um, okay," I agree.
________________________________________________
Wednesday. 2:42pm. Black.
She leads me to the back room of her mother's flower shop. There isn't much going on back here. It's dim. There are supplies, a sink, and a counter. There isn't anywhere to sit and she doesn't look for seating, either.
To start with, she looks up at me for a moment in silence before she speaks. "I owe you an apology."
I don't respond. I don't want to ruin the moment.
"You, uh, you needed me. And I failed you. And I'm sorry. I'm a horrible friend. I, uh, I'm not that great with people--"
I scoff at her statement. I can't help it. It's ridiculous.
"I mean it. I'm not. And--I'm equally horrible with friendships and emotions and--well, when things get heavy, I shut down."
"And...that's supposed to make me feel better?"
"I don't expect it to," she says, dropping her eyes in shame.
My heart is melting fast. Faster than I want it to. "I needed you," I say to her. "I still need you. Layla, they know."
"I know."
"You know? Did one of them contact you?"
"No...you told me the story numerous times, over voicemail, text, email..."
"Oh. Yeah. I don't know what to do. I think I've...Layla, I think I may have inadvertently disbanded the band."
"Tay, no..."
"I needed you to talk me through it. I needed you, you were the only other person I could talk to about any of it. You're the only one who knows."
"I know. I am so sorry--"
"What happened? Where were you?"
"I've been...adjusting to a change in my life."
My heart races and I become short of breath. Why? I have no idea. "What kind of change can make you disappear for two weeks? Without a trace?"
She looks up at me and swallows hard. Why do I feel faint all of a sudden? "Um, I'm pregnant."
At her words, I lose my grip on the counter I'm leaning on. I trip over myself as the room begins to spin. As I catch myself from falling, my head begins to pound. One of the familiar headaches from before. The one that takes the mystery pill to get rid of it. Am I in this much disbelief to make me react this way?
"Are you okay?" she asks.
"You're--you're pregnant? As in, like, you're having a baby?"
"Yes."
"Is it--is it mine?"
Silently she shakes her head.
"It's not mine. It's his. The surgeon's."
She nods. "Yes," she answers quietly.
After that, I see only two colors. Red is the color of the blood in her hair that I see before the room goes black.
_______________________________________________
Saturday. 10:00am. Location, location, location.
"Mrs. Hanson, I'm afraid his situation has taken an unexpected turn."
The woman gasps. "Is he okay?"
"Physically, he's fine. The rest--well, we're having to readjust his treatments."
"Readjust his treatments? Doctor, that room--it has padded walls!"
"Mrs. Hanson, he tried to put a psychologist's head through a wall. I'm sure you could respect how a padded room would be necessary."
The woman's voice begins to crack. "He came to this facility for drug rehabilitation. I feel sorry for the poor woman he assaulted, but he didn't kill anyone! And she's still his psychologist. She hasn't given up on him, even after what he did! And I don't think you should, either. My son is not crazy. I want to know exactly what justifies turning a simple drug rehabilitation into putting him in a padded cell!"
"We prefer not to use the word crazy here--"
"I don't care what you prefer, it's obviously what you people think of him."
I can hear them out there talking about me. That woman is here constantly, it seems. I hate when they talk about me. I hate when they talk so loud. They think they know so much about me, but they don't. All they do is tell each other lies about me. The least they could do is leave me alone. Leave me alone with my social media. With my fantasy. Where is she, anyway?
The talking begins again. "During his drug rehabilitation, after the initial detox, Taylor was given a journal to write his recovery processes and experiences in. He was to write once per day, at least. Somewhere along the way, which we are still investigating, he seemed to trade one addiction for another. While normal patients went through maybe one or two journals per program, your son was churning out two or three journals per WEEK. We never read them because we try to give our patients some form of privacy. But after the episode with the psychologist that day, we decided his case needed further investigation beyond basic drug use, and what we've discovered is quite astonishing and a bit disturbing."
"Will he ever be normal again?"
"There's a slim chance and it would be a long process. Mrs. Hanson, tell me about your son's marriage."
The woman sighs. "He was married to a lovely woman. They had children, beautiful children. And then he went and had an affair, his wife left him, they divorced, and then he turned to drugs."
"And his mistress?"
"He never told anyone about her. His wife knew, but she never would talk about it."
"How about his professional life?"
"He wanted so badly to be a musician. But the poor guy just never had it in him. He became a photographer, specializing in music. His pictures were in the biggest magazines. He was good at his work. A success in his field."
"But he wasn't satisfied with it."
"No, I don't believe so."
"Mrs. Hanson, what your son has done is create a sort of fantasy world in these journals. We believe he fantasizes about the career he didn't have, mixed in with elements of truth pertaining to his marriage and infidelities. Small elements. However, he has twisted everything together into a world he truly believes he's living in. His notebooks are his lifeline. He can't seem to function without them in his possession and he is at his worst when he finds himself without access to them. When he is alone, he has been observed talking to the walls, pacing the floors, acting out his writings. The kicker is, the writings are actually coherent and entertaining."
I feel my blood begin to boil and my heart begins to pound. I hear them talking about my books. They're going to take them. They're planning for it now, I just know it. They're plotting against me. They've always been against me. Always.
"Did the episode with the psychologist have anything to do with this?"
"Unfortunately, it's how we discovered it. It seems he's been in this state for quite some time. In his stories, he seems to have formed a cast of characters based on people he sees on a daily basis. His psychologist is his mistress and we believe that he believes he is in love with her. She is the only person in this facility he will willingly and completely open up to. He believes that his doctor, Dr. Isaacs, and one of the orderlies, Zac, are his brothers. He believes they play in a band together and that they're currently on tour. He also talks to an imaginary figure. We believe the imaginary figure is his father."
The woman begins to weep. "Taylor never met his father. He passed just before he was born. It was always just Tay and I, against the world."
"Siblings?"
"Tay is an only child."
"Mrs. Hanson, we are still in the very early stages of treating your son. It's a long process, but we believe we may be able to help him. It'll take a lot of time, patience, and energy."
"I'll do anything. His children miss him so much, and so do I."
"Come, now. We'll discuss his program of treatment."
The doctor finally takes the woman away, and not nearly fast enough. Their chattering grated on my nerves. It's the same stories, every time she comes. Can't they talk about anything else?
I smile as Ike and Zac approach. I've since forgiven them for the way they treated me in Canada and we've made amends. I'm glad because it's important to have family in your life who will support you.
They're wearing that white shit again. Ike in that white coat and Zac in what looks like white scrubs. I've told them I'm not fond of this new white kick they're on and that I'm not doing it and the band isn't having any of it. Yet they continue to wear it themselves. Daily, it seems.
Ike smiles. "Hey, Taylor. How are you today?"
"Better now that it's peaceful again."
"Peaceful? That's a step in the right direction."
"You're damn right it is. I couldn't wait for that doctor guy to take that yammering woman away. All they ever do is talk about me and it's not very positive. Very discouraging, if you ask me."
Ike and Zac glance at each other. "Taylor, Dr. Isaacs is the only doctor on duty today," Zac says.
"Well that's where you're wrong, because the other doctor stood right outside my door talking to that woman."
Ike pulls up a chair and sits across from me. "What woman, Taylor?"
"I have no idea. They call her my mother, but I've never seen her before in my life."
Ike and Zac look at each other again. Seriously, I hate when they do that shit. "Hey. Look at me. I'm right here," I tell them.
"Taylor, your mother passed away a year ago. She took sick--"
The room begins to spin. My heart pounds and I start to sweat profusely. My head starts to throb and it's unbearable. I start to lose my balance in the chair I'm sitting in.
"I hate telling the poor guy this so many damn times," Ike says. "You know what to do."
Much to my dismay, and to my salvation, Zac is shoving a pill down my throat. He holds me up in my chair until it takes affect and everything is back to normal again.
I smile at my brothers until Zac says, "Dr. Isaacs, it's time for his therapy session."
The two leave and within minutes, SHE walks in the room. I smile. This day just keeps getting better and better.
Wednesday. 8:22am. Over.
Well, that's it. The tour's all over. We wrapped our final show last night. The last two weeks have been brutal. Tensions ran high. Just when I thought I couldn't take any more of the presence I was in, there was another show. Another interview. Another promotion.
It's also been two weeks since I last heard from HER. She never did return any of my messages or calls. We've been back in the US for a week. I blew up her phone, her voicemail, her texts, her email. Still nothing. Forever nothing.
These past two weeks have been the worst in my life.
I watch my brothers and my father enter the terminal for the flight to Tulsa. I feel a pang of guilt in my stomach, but only for a moment. The emotion is gone as fast as it came.
However, I can't help but give one last parting look as I head toward my terminal.
________________________________________
Wednesday. 2:30pm. Texas.
I didn't go home straight away. I will go home, but I have business to take care of first. My tour isn't quite over yet.
I walk in the door and virtually ignore my surroundings. I'm on a mission. I walk straight to the counter in the middle of the store, where a woman has her back turned, adjusting a flower arrangement. After a moment, she turns around to greet me and I'm then momentarily taken aback. The woman looks exactly like her, but older. This is obviously her mother.
I clear my throat nervously and ask if SHE is working. She is. My heart begins to pound and my palms get sweaty in anticipation for the first time today. Her mother takes a second and smiles at me before she walks away from the counter. Does she recognize me? I'm not sure.
________________________________________
Wednesday. 2:35pm. Meeting.
What's merely minutes feels like an eternity. Instinctively, I run my hand through my hair and straighten my shirt when I hear the door to the back room open. I see her mother first and then I see HER following behind.
I can't describe the look on her face when she sees me. It's definitely surprise. I smile in hopes that the surprise is good. Then it becomes more like shock. Was this a bad idea? I'm beginning to think that maybe it was. Actually, no, it's not. Desperate times call for desperate measures. If she's not gonna return my messages then I have to do something that she can't avoid. I have to look her in the eye.
Finally she's able to form words. "Uh, Taylor. Wh-what are you doing here?"
I try to keep smiling. "I had to see you."
"How did you find me?"
I look around, though I'm not really sure at what. "Well, it wasn't too difficult..."
"Well, uh, had I known--"
"Layla." The way her name rolls off my tongue is like silk. "I've been trying to reach you for two weeks."
She furrows her brow at me. "Taylor--I don't think you should be here."
"Come on," I smile nervously. "What happened to just Tay? We're friends, remember? Right? I came all this way--"
"You did. But--"
"You know what? You're right. This was a bad idea. I should have taken the hint the first day. I just--I guess I thought maybe you had a little more class than to end things by just falling off the face of the planet."
"That's not fair--"
"You should know."
I can't handle this anymore. Who knew rejection could still be this difficult, even at thirty years old? And being rejected by someone you never even had a future with? Ten times worse.
I'm on my way out the door when I hear my name call out in her voice. I shouldn't respond, but something stops me in my tracks anyway. I turn around to see her walking toward me. "Hey, look. I just went on my break. I think we should talk."
I look at her in thought for a moment. "Um, okay," I agree.
________________________________________________
Wednesday. 2:42pm. Black.
She leads me to the back room of her mother's flower shop. There isn't much going on back here. It's dim. There are supplies, a sink, and a counter. There isn't anywhere to sit and she doesn't look for seating, either.
To start with, she looks up at me for a moment in silence before she speaks. "I owe you an apology."
I don't respond. I don't want to ruin the moment.
"You, uh, you needed me. And I failed you. And I'm sorry. I'm a horrible friend. I, uh, I'm not that great with people--"
I scoff at her statement. I can't help it. It's ridiculous.
"I mean it. I'm not. And--I'm equally horrible with friendships and emotions and--well, when things get heavy, I shut down."
"And...that's supposed to make me feel better?"
"I don't expect it to," she says, dropping her eyes in shame.
My heart is melting fast. Faster than I want it to. "I needed you," I say to her. "I still need you. Layla, they know."
"I know."
"You know? Did one of them contact you?"
"No...you told me the story numerous times, over voicemail, text, email..."
"Oh. Yeah. I don't know what to do. I think I've...Layla, I think I may have inadvertently disbanded the band."
"Tay, no..."
"I needed you to talk me through it. I needed you, you were the only other person I could talk to about any of it. You're the only one who knows."
"I know. I am so sorry--"
"What happened? Where were you?"
"I've been...adjusting to a change in my life."
My heart races and I become short of breath. Why? I have no idea. "What kind of change can make you disappear for two weeks? Without a trace?"
She looks up at me and swallows hard. Why do I feel faint all of a sudden? "Um, I'm pregnant."
At her words, I lose my grip on the counter I'm leaning on. I trip over myself as the room begins to spin. As I catch myself from falling, my head begins to pound. One of the familiar headaches from before. The one that takes the mystery pill to get rid of it. Am I in this much disbelief to make me react this way?
"Are you okay?" she asks.
"You're--you're pregnant? As in, like, you're having a baby?"
"Yes."
"Is it--is it mine?"
Silently she shakes her head.
"It's not mine. It's his. The surgeon's."
She nods. "Yes," she answers quietly.
After that, I see only two colors. Red is the color of the blood in her hair that I see before the room goes black.
_______________________________________________
Saturday. 10:00am. Location, location, location.
"Mrs. Hanson, I'm afraid his situation has taken an unexpected turn."
The woman gasps. "Is he okay?"
"Physically, he's fine. The rest--well, we're having to readjust his treatments."
"Readjust his treatments? Doctor, that room--it has padded walls!"
"Mrs. Hanson, he tried to put a psychologist's head through a wall. I'm sure you could respect how a padded room would be necessary."
The woman's voice begins to crack. "He came to this facility for drug rehabilitation. I feel sorry for the poor woman he assaulted, but he didn't kill anyone! And she's still his psychologist. She hasn't given up on him, even after what he did! And I don't think you should, either. My son is not crazy. I want to know exactly what justifies turning a simple drug rehabilitation into putting him in a padded cell!"
"We prefer not to use the word crazy here--"
"I don't care what you prefer, it's obviously what you people think of him."
I can hear them out there talking about me. That woman is here constantly, it seems. I hate when they talk about me. I hate when they talk so loud. They think they know so much about me, but they don't. All they do is tell each other lies about me. The least they could do is leave me alone. Leave me alone with my social media. With my fantasy. Where is she, anyway?
The talking begins again. "During his drug rehabilitation, after the initial detox, Taylor was given a journal to write his recovery processes and experiences in. He was to write once per day, at least. Somewhere along the way, which we are still investigating, he seemed to trade one addiction for another. While normal patients went through maybe one or two journals per program, your son was churning out two or three journals per WEEK. We never read them because we try to give our patients some form of privacy. But after the episode with the psychologist that day, we decided his case needed further investigation beyond basic drug use, and what we've discovered is quite astonishing and a bit disturbing."
"Will he ever be normal again?"
"There's a slim chance and it would be a long process. Mrs. Hanson, tell me about your son's marriage."
The woman sighs. "He was married to a lovely woman. They had children, beautiful children. And then he went and had an affair, his wife left him, they divorced, and then he turned to drugs."
"And his mistress?"
"He never told anyone about her. His wife knew, but she never would talk about it."
"How about his professional life?"
"He wanted so badly to be a musician. But the poor guy just never had it in him. He became a photographer, specializing in music. His pictures were in the biggest magazines. He was good at his work. A success in his field."
"But he wasn't satisfied with it."
"No, I don't believe so."
"Mrs. Hanson, what your son has done is create a sort of fantasy world in these journals. We believe he fantasizes about the career he didn't have, mixed in with elements of truth pertaining to his marriage and infidelities. Small elements. However, he has twisted everything together into a world he truly believes he's living in. His notebooks are his lifeline. He can't seem to function without them in his possession and he is at his worst when he finds himself without access to them. When he is alone, he has been observed talking to the walls, pacing the floors, acting out his writings. The kicker is, the writings are actually coherent and entertaining."
I feel my blood begin to boil and my heart begins to pound. I hear them talking about my books. They're going to take them. They're planning for it now, I just know it. They're plotting against me. They've always been against me. Always.
"Did the episode with the psychologist have anything to do with this?"
"Unfortunately, it's how we discovered it. It seems he's been in this state for quite some time. In his stories, he seems to have formed a cast of characters based on people he sees on a daily basis. His psychologist is his mistress and we believe that he believes he is in love with her. She is the only person in this facility he will willingly and completely open up to. He believes that his doctor, Dr. Isaacs, and one of the orderlies, Zac, are his brothers. He believes they play in a band together and that they're currently on tour. He also talks to an imaginary figure. We believe the imaginary figure is his father."
The woman begins to weep. "Taylor never met his father. He passed just before he was born. It was always just Tay and I, against the world."
"Siblings?"
"Tay is an only child."
"Mrs. Hanson, we are still in the very early stages of treating your son. It's a long process, but we believe we may be able to help him. It'll take a lot of time, patience, and energy."
"I'll do anything. His children miss him so much, and so do I."
"Come, now. We'll discuss his program of treatment."
The doctor finally takes the woman away, and not nearly fast enough. Their chattering grated on my nerves. It's the same stories, every time she comes. Can't they talk about anything else?
I smile as Ike and Zac approach. I've since forgiven them for the way they treated me in Canada and we've made amends. I'm glad because it's important to have family in your life who will support you.
They're wearing that white shit again. Ike in that white coat and Zac in what looks like white scrubs. I've told them I'm not fond of this new white kick they're on and that I'm not doing it and the band isn't having any of it. Yet they continue to wear it themselves. Daily, it seems.
Ike smiles. "Hey, Taylor. How are you today?"
"Better now that it's peaceful again."
"Peaceful? That's a step in the right direction."
"You're damn right it is. I couldn't wait for that doctor guy to take that yammering woman away. All they ever do is talk about me and it's not very positive. Very discouraging, if you ask me."
Ike and Zac glance at each other. "Taylor, Dr. Isaacs is the only doctor on duty today," Zac says.
"Well that's where you're wrong, because the other doctor stood right outside my door talking to that woman."
Ike pulls up a chair and sits across from me. "What woman, Taylor?"
"I have no idea. They call her my mother, but I've never seen her before in my life."
Ike and Zac look at each other again. Seriously, I hate when they do that shit. "Hey. Look at me. I'm right here," I tell them.
"Taylor, your mother passed away a year ago. She took sick--"
The room begins to spin. My heart pounds and I start to sweat profusely. My head starts to throb and it's unbearable. I start to lose my balance in the chair I'm sitting in.
"I hate telling the poor guy this so many damn times," Ike says. "You know what to do."
Much to my dismay, and to my salvation, Zac is shoving a pill down my throat. He holds me up in my chair until it takes affect and everything is back to normal again.
I smile at my brothers until Zac says, "Dr. Isaacs, it's time for his therapy session."
The two leave and within minutes, SHE walks in the room. I smile. This day just keeps getting better and better.