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For the first time in ages, I fall into that place where the world makes sense, where it's only me and melody.
Then the itch sets in. The desire to drink. Because the warm chemical numb makes it easier to access places that hurt.
How the fuck am I supposed to stay sober and write music?
It's impossible.
Thankfully, my sister interrupts before I can examine it too closely.
She knocks on my door and asks, "Are you decent?"
If it was Cassie, I'd tease when have I ever been decent? But with my sister, that's weird. "Yeah. Come in."
Daphne opens the door, steps inside, surveys the room. "Just like old times." When she smiles, I see the younger version of her. The teenager with long light hair and stick-figure legs and hope in her eyes. The kid sister who still believed in me.
It feels good. Like old times. Daphne, looking for the best in me. Daphne and Cassie hanging in the living room without a care while I perfect my art.
"Do you think Dad did this?" Daphne motions to the guitar in my lap. Then to the bookshelf of Star Wars extended universe novels. For some reason, he keeps the books here instead of donating them to a used bookstore. Something about how they brought him and Mom together.
Do I think Dad did this? Depends on the this.
Did he sit in his room and play guitar? Probably.
Did he stare out the window, wondering what it would feel like to sink in the Pacific and never come up for air?
That too.
Did he pace around the room, crawling out of his skin, desperate to numb the ugly thoughts in his head?
Absolutely.
Did he drown that feeling in whatever warm chemical high he could find?
Obviously.
I don't have the, uh, softness for Dad that Daphne does. She was younger when he relapsed the first time. She didn't see it. She didn't realize it almost killed Mom.
She saw the recovery. The second time too. She learned people can grow and change and improve.
I learned no matter how hard you try, you fuck up.
But, hey, I'm not drowning in a bottle. I'm here. I'm trying. And I'm fucking glad she believes I can do better. At least one of us does.
She sees this with a more even view. She tells me a lot is genetic. The predisposition to depression and alcoholism. There are a lot of morose addicts on Dad's side of the family.
On Mom's side, it's different. Medical professionals from here to Hippocrates. People who work out their shit via work. People like Daphne.
Once upon a time, I was jealous she knew how to cope. Now, I'm glad she's okay. Now, I realize she didn't have a choice. She had to learn to hold herself together. Because between me and Dad, there was no space for her to fuck up.
I've been drinking too much since she was a teenager. I ruined her sixteenth birthday party. Her graduation. Her twenty-first.
The indirect effects were worse. The romantic relationships that didn't work out. The choice to attend UCLA instead of an Ivy (or even UC Berkeley). The hours she spent tossing and turning, wondering if she'd get a call from the ER. Or the morgue.
I did that to her.
I hate that I did that to her. I look at her, and I see the pain on her face, and I know I hurt her in ways she shouldn't have to forgive.
It's easier to talk to Cassie. There's no room to disappoint someone who expects you to fuck up.
"Damon? Are you there?" Daphne asks.
Right. We're talking. I'm supposed to communicate with her. "I'm here."
"You and Cassie seem pretty friendly," she says.
"How much did she tell you?"
"Enough," Daphne asks. "Are you sure it's a good idea?"
Of course not, but who's sure of anything? "Which part?" I ask.
"The project is probably good for you. And Cassie doesn't drink much. But…" She looks me in the eyes, all sisterly concern. "Are you two really going to pretend you're a couple?"
"Is it that implausible?"
"That the two of you are dating? No. Of course not. You're handsome. She's talented. You both look like you'll kill anyone who touches your headphones."
"I thought that was just Cassie."
"It's more obvious on her, but I see it in your eyes too."
My chest warms. My sister sees my love of music. It's the weirdest place to find peace. Or maybe the most normal. I don't know anymore.
"You could work well together, but…"
But a million things. She'll kill me if I hurt her friend. Cassie needs someone kinder than me. I'm not ready to face the metaphorical or literal music.
She picks one I don't expect. "She doesn't know about your sobriety." She doesn't add you should tell your friends. We both know her stance there.
I'm glad she doesn't get it. I'm glad she inherited Mom's tendency to bury her pain in work rather than Dad's tendency to pump heroin into a vein.
