Oona Out of Order, page 6
“Let me go make you some tea.”
Oona buried her head in a pillow, hugged the leather tight, and closed her eyes.
It was easy to ignore the cups of tea and bowls of soup brought to her in the ensuing days. It was easy to turn Kenzie’s and Madeleine’s concerned murmurs into ocean roars and drift away into a dreamless darkness. And when she woke, it was easy to dismiss the iridescent wall before her. All she had to do was shut her eyes.
Maybe I’ll sleep the year away.
In the blackness, a sweet-voiced soundtrack played, urged on the slumber. A candy lullaby sending a little boat off to stormy seas. No matter that her boat had already capsized, that the water had frozen with her beneath it. She preferred submersion.
“Wake up!”
No.
“You must wake up!”
Must I?
Reluctant, her eyelids fluttered open. The room was empty. What was this music? Disjointed, melancholy, a soaring voice filled with longing and regret. Where was it coming from?
Oona’s head felt so heavy, a steel globe, the pillow a magnet. Sleep the tide, quick to seduce and pull her under. Her cherished leather jacket more anchor than life vest.
Yet the music dragged her to shore, pleaded for her to rise. Inertia fought a tug-of-war with melody and the latter prevailed. It coaxed her to a sitting position, released her grip on the jacket, drew aside the blanket, tugged her to her feet. It commanded her to stop drowning.
A lap of the room revealed the source of the music on a glass shelf: a white device slimmer than a pack of cards, a vein of a wire, the sound projected from tiny speakers camouflaged in the corners. Beside the device, a note:
Take a shower, get dressed, come downstairs.—K.
One last glance at the shipwreck of her bed. It was time to find her land legs.
She showered. She got dressed. She went downstairs.
The scent permeating the kitchen wasn’t coffee or tea—it was something more complex: spicy winter treats hidden in the woods.
“Chai. And that’s portable.” Kenzie handed her an aluminum mug with a screw-on lid.
“Are we having an adventure? Because if I’m getting pushed out of a plane today, I’m going back to bed.”
A soft snicker. “We’re just going for a walk. I think Madeleine overestimated your tolerance for adventure. I promise we’ll keep it low-key.”
She took a sip of the warm liquid: surprised delight allayed her suspicion. “Yum.”
“I know, right?” A conspiratorial grin as he held up a plastic bag. “I also got us éclairs. It’s impossible to hate life after a good éclair, and these are the best. Let’s get our coats.”
The sweetness on her tongue turned sour. “Hawaii. Mom planned a whole trip for us.”
“Postponed. Don’t worry about it. And if you’re not ready then, I’ll take your place.” He winked.
“Is she mad?”
“Of course not. She’s gonna meet us for lunch, after Zumba.” At her puzzlement, he added, “It’s a dance aerobics thing. I figured you’d prefer a quiet park to a room full of middle-aged women sweating to loud Latin music. Of course I could be wrong.” There was an impish glimmer in his eyes.
Maybe it was the lingering effects of the music or the serene way he regarded her that said, You can do this. Or maybe it was his sweater that resembled teal cotton candy and begged to be touched. Regardless, Oona set down her mug and gave him a long hug. What a relief—the sweater was as soft as it was bright. An even bigger relief that he hugged her back.
They walked through Prospect Park, following the track down to the lake. A fallen log provided a makeshift picnic bench, where they ate their éclairs, watching ducks and geese float and waddle along.
“So do you hate life a little less now?”
“I think it’s going to take more than French pastry for that, but thanks for trying,” Oona said. “What was that music playing in my room?”
“Ah, ‘The Ninth Wave.’ The second side of Kate Bush’s Hounds of Love album. A concept piece about a girl stranded at sea.”
“I’ve never heard anything like it.”
“Actually you have, but … you know.” The corner of his mouth twitched up. “It’s a friggin’ masterpiece. Came out in 1985. There’s a lot of great music for you to catch up on.”
A stirring within her, a hunger after all the days in bed, but not for food. For something intangible, something momentarily satiated by the music. “Maybe that’s what I’ll do, then. Instead of spending the year sleeping, I’ll spend it listening to music.”
“It doesn’t have to be one thing, you know.”
“I should see a doctor,” she murmured into her travel mug. “I might be sick.”
“You’re not sick. If you want to get a checkup, get some tests done, we can do that, but doctors won’t find anything.”
“I still don’t believe it.”
“The world doesn’t care what you believe.” He raised a finger to placate her. “Sorry if that sounds harsh. I care, of course, and your mom cares, but the world is gonna carry on whether you spend the year moping in bed or exploring it.”
“Don’t I have good reason to mope? What am I besides old and useless?”
“You’re not old or useless. You’re rich and generous. And you have more of your mother’s rebellious streak than you think, regardless of age.”
Oona slapped her thighs and stood, returned to the track with brisk steps. “You know how messed up it is to be told what you’re like by someone who’s a stranger to you?” She picked up the pace, ignoring the twinges in her joints. “Not as messed up as wondering if what’s happening to you is actually happening. Every time I go to sleep, I pray I’ll wake up from this nightmare, a teenager again, with Dale beside me.”
“If that’s what you want, I hope that happens.”
“Oh, come on, don’t be condescending. However much I’ve changed in the last thirty years, I’m sure I still have a low tolerance for bullshit.”
His bewildered laugh curled around them like a ribbon.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“It’s nice to see moments of my old friend. It’s not entirely you and yet it’s still you.”
Her pinched heart sent a sharp volt through her, demanded more room to expand. How gracious for him to persist and sidestep her barbs. “How did we meet, anyway?”
“It’s a long story. We bonded over music. I promised not to tell you more than that.”
“No spoilers”—air quotes and a smirk—“right?”
“That’s right.”
“What about the girl lost at sea?”
“What girl?”
“In that Kate Bush album.” She cast her stinging eyes up to the sky, which was white as paper. “Does she ever get rescued?”
“She does,” came the reply. Earnest, firm. “She definitely does.”
6
It would be a difficult year for Oona, though she’d do what she could to make it better. The money helped, as money often does. The financial cushion was welcome, but it also felt like a lawsuit settlement or insurance payout for whatever accident or act of God resulted in those years lost. At least any struggles awaiting her wouldn’t be monetary. But being able to buy anything put a spotlight on the things that couldn’t be bought (lost friendship, lost love, lost time), human nature being prone to focus on what was lacking.
Hoping to find a medical cause for the missing years, Oona got a full medical work-up. Apart from the extra weight, she was in fine health, and a brain scan revealed no abnormalities. She considered a psychiatrist but heeded the letter’s warning not to reveal her true condition to others. Better to be insane in the comfort of her home than a mental hospital.
And what a home it was—vast but designed for comfort. There was a rec room with classic arcade video games and pinball machines. There was a home theater with red velvet couches and a projection screen across an entire wall. But her favorite was the music room, with its shag carpeting, beanbag chairs, and massive stereo. Custom shelving housed a staggering collection of vinyl, and the opposite wall held guitars that had belonged to Lou Reed, David Gilmour, Prince, David Bowie, and other music legends. At first, reverence kept her from touching them, but after a few days, she grew emboldened and took a turn at each guitar. She strummed chords and picked out melodies the way Dale had shown her on his own guitar, imagined stadiums full of cheering fans and intimate recording sessions. It lifted her up and up and up—until a stab of guilt sent her plummeting down. She returned the guitar to its spot on the wall.
The guitar is Dale’s instrument. Keyboards were mine.
Yet there were no pianos or keyboards in the house, and her fingers thirsted to strum and pluck and pick at guitar strings, anyway.
But what if—
No. It would be disloyal to Dale.
She vowed to keep the instruments as nothing more than a display, a dream out of reach.
In the days that followed, Oona wandered through her house like a marble rolling around an empty box, often retreating to the music room. Despite her extensive record collection, she fixated on that one side of that one Kate Bush album, played over and over. She’d lie on the floor and pretend the carpet was an ocean, close her eyes, and wait for stormy seas to carry her away.
Until one day the music stopped mid-song. When she sat up, Kenzie was standing beside the silenced record player, a laptop under one arm.
“Mind if I sit?” Without waiting for an answer, he dropped onto the carpet beside her and opened up the computer. “I want to show you something.”
“If it’s another cat playing the piano, I’ll pass.”
“No, it’s your music collection.”
“I can see it from here.” She gestured to her record shelves.
“That’s only part of it. There’s more in here.” After a few taps on the keyboard, he turned the screen toward her. “This is your iTunes library. That’s the total number of songs you own.”
“Forty-two thousand? And is this how long it would take me to listen to all of them? A hundred and twenty-four days?” A film of sweat broke out on her forehead.
“Yeah. And look, you can play any song just by clicking on it.” With the push of a button, jangly guitars filled the room, followed by a man’s sultry croon.
Oona’s eyes darted to the corner speakers. “It’s like some kind of magic trick. Hey, is this Roxy Music?”
“Bryan Ferry. He’s released some great solo albums since your time. And not just him.” He spent the next few minutes showing her the basics of digital music.
“I still don’t know where to begin.” A trill of alarm in her voice. “With any of it.”
“All right, step away from the panic attack. Breathe with me.” Once he staved off her hyperventilation, he continued. “Nobody expects you to know all the things. It’s not like there’s gonna be a big test. Start with the bands you already know, or with some of these playlists I made for you. As for the rest of it…” Cautious optimism wrinkled his brow. “Wikipedia’s a good place to start.” He pulled up the website and explained how it worked. “Maybe do a quick overview of each decade first?”
As she clicked around, she bobbed her head slowly. “Seems a little less overwhelming.”
“You got this. Just learn a little something new every day. And let me show you modern conveniences once in a while. Though they can be inconvenient, sometimes—I spent two hours picking out a new pillow the other day.”
“Two hours? How many pillows are there?”
“Too many. The curse of plenty. But we’ll save online shopping for another time. And we’ll need to talk about your money at some point, but I don’t want your head to explode. For now, give iTunes a chance?” He held out the MacBook until she nodded and took it from him. “Holla if you need anything. You’ve got a few hours before your mother comes by for dinner. After we eat, we’ll watch Purple Rain.”
“What?”
“It’s a movie. You’re gonna love it.”
* * *
She did love Purple Rain, as well as Back to the Future, and all the eighties John Hughes movies Kenzie chose (“Next week, we’ll start on the nineties. Two words: Pulp Fiction”). While she got accustomed to cable, DVR, and Netflix, she preferred he take the reins of what they watched so she could focus her exploratory energy on music. After the initial intimidation of her iTunes collection, she rejoiced at catching up on decades of discographies from her favorite musicians, though she still often opted for the lush crackle of a vinyl record. But she also gave the playlists a chance, which enlightened her on some new genres that emerged in recent decades. She warmed to the rhythm and cadence of hip-hop, the raw growl of grunge, the mechanical seduction of electronica.
Heeding Kenzie’s advice, she used Wikipedia to get up to speed on key events of the past decades, following many rabbit holes when a particular person or event sparked her curiosity. She became proficient at online research, though she resisted the urge to look up her old friends again. Instead, she distracted herself with decades of scientific and technological advancement, historical conflict, and popular culture. The loss of time was less painful when it was less personal, though the deaths of musicians she admired saddened her: Freddie Mercury, Joe Strummer, all four original Ramones … Lou Reed’s passing especially stung.
While she took walks with Kenzie in the park every other day, she stayed in the rest of the time, glued to her laptop or tablet, picking a different room of the house each day to settle in. Kenzie joined her when he didn’t have calls or errands, and she picked his brain about the modern world. She brimmed with endless questions like a hyper-curious child, only instead of asking why the sky was blue or where babies came from, she asked why 9/11 happened and where society’s progressive attitude came from, still in awe that a black man was president and gay marriage was legal.
“There’s been a shit-ton of progress, but don’t go thinking we’re in some kind of liberal wonderland,” he said. “There are still parts of America where I’d be scared to flaunt my … fabulosity.”
They were in her study that day, Kenzie at the desk and Oona nestled into the bay window, three floors up, high enough to spy the tops of the park’s snow-covered trees across the way.
“Is it rude or weird if I ask…?” Awkward hand motions.
“How long I’ve known I’m gay? When I came out?” He nodded like he’d been expecting this.
“Yeah.”
“Known as long as I could remember. Didn’t really come out as much as coaxed out by my lesbian mothers when I was ten. There was this popular show on at the time, Blossom, and I practically wallpapered my room with posters of Joey Lawrence, one of the stars. So it was pretty obvious.”
Oona smiled along with him, as if tapping into his memory.
“Did you get picked on at school?”
“Not that much, surprisingly. Sometimes when you’re sure of who you are, it kind of … I don’t know, protects you in some way. And I hung with a more alternative crowd, so that helped. Plus, nobody messed with me because of my moms. They were fierce women.”
“Were?”
“Yeah.” He plucked at his sweater, collected invisible lint. “They both died a while back. Drunk driver. No real extended family, so I’ve been on my own since then.”
“Oh, Kenzie.”
No wonder he’d formed such an attachment to her and her mother. No wonder he was so attuned to her loneliness. His mellow presence was a balm, even when they sat staring into their respective laptops for hours, taking turns picking what music to play.
“My turn for a question.” Kenzie cocked his head. “Why haven’t you asked me about your money? Aren’t you curious about how you made all these millions and how you spend them? Don’t you wanna know what I do day to day when I’m not going out for bagels and explaining stuff like apps and podcasts? Just yesterday you asked a bunch of questions about the Mars rover and reality TV and The Da Vinci Code—nice to see you’re making your way through the 2000s, by the way—and we talk about more serious things, too, like AIDS and climate change. But you’ve never asked about the market crash of ’87 or the subprime mortgage crisis or anything related to economics or your investments. How come?”
“I don’t know.” Her shrug was noncommittal.
“Come on, you went to school for this. Even when you were a kid, didn’t your dad teach you and your Dorothy Hamill hair—”
“Pam,” she snapped. “Her name is Pam and that haircut looked cute on her.”
“Sorry. Pam.” His tone softened. “Didn’t he teach you and Pam about interest rates playing some board game?”
“Pay Day. He got it the summer I was eleven. Pam and I would play for hours, and when we got tired of it, we’d make up our own games pretending to be bankers.” A bitter smile curled her lips. “That was a couple of months before Dad died. I still remember what the box looked liked. The cover said, ‘Where does all the money go?’” She looked at Kenzie with weary eyes. “I used to care where the money went. What does it matter now? Game over.”
“You need to care or you won’t have all this.” He swept an arm around the room. “Didn’t your letter mention the binder?”
“Yeah, but with everything else going on … I couldn’t handle the thought of doing homework.”
“Don’t all of a sudden hide your geek roots and act like you hate doing homework.” His voice dropped to a dramatic hush. “I think you’re ready. Come with me.” Kenzie led her to one of the bookshelves and removed an armful of hardbacks, revealing a small safe built into the wall. “The combination is six left, twenty-eight right, sixty-three left. I keep telling you using Dale’s birthday for all your security needs isn’t the best idea, but whatever.” There was a metallic click and the safe opened. Kenzie pulled out a black three-ring binder.
“What else is in there?” Oona asked.
“Nothing. And to be honest, this thing would be useless to any thieves without a time machine, but you’re allowed your foibles.”
