Angela Morrison - Sing Me to Sleep

I don’t let go of Derek. “I should come with you.”

“No.” He squeezes my hand and lets it go. “Stay here in case she shows up.”

He flags a passing taxi and is gone.

I sit down on the steps, resign myself to worry. Stupid Sarah. Stupid Beth. Stupid, stupid me. Poor Derek. He has to save everyone tonight.

Half an hour later a taxi pulls up to the Mermaid. Derek gets out. I jump up. “You found her?”

“She’s in rough shape. I need some help.” He opens the door. Sarah was leaning heavy against it. I catch her before she kisses the pavement. Derek helps me lift the rest of her out and stand her up.

I look at him over Sarah’s head. “Thank you.”

“Blake’s a good guy most of the time. Not when he drinks, though.”

“I don’t mean this.”

He gets what I’m saying. “Don’t mention it.”

“Where’s Blake?” Sarah puts her face into Derek’s. “You’re not Blake.” She stumbles from Derek to me. “I promised Blake tonight.”

Derek lets go of her. “Blake was even more soused than she is. He was trying to unlock the door with his car keys. At least they didn’t do it in the hall. Can you girls manage her from here?”

“Yeah. You better get back. Kick Blake in the shins for us, okay?”

“He threw up and passed out in it on the washroom floor.”

“Gross for you.”

“Maybe waking up with his face glued to the floor by crusted vomit will make an impression.”

Sarah wobbles and groans. Crap. We better hurry. I turn away from Derek, and Leah helps me get Sarah into the elevator Meadow has waiting.

“Bye, Beth,” Derek calls after me.

Stupid Sarah. She ruined our see you later s.

The elevator doors close. Crap. Derek said, “Bye.”

Sarah puts her hand over her mouth.

Meadow says, “Hang on. Not here. Or we’ll all be banned from every future trip.”

Sarah sways.

Leah steadies her. “And Blake was drunker?”

I take Sarah’s head and arms. Leah and Meadow each take a leg, and we carry her down the creaky old hall to our room.

She makes it to the bathroom—barfs in the bidet.

We clean her up and get her undressed, and she barfs again. This time in the sink.

I’m brushing my teeth in the shower stall tomorrow.

It’s after one by the time we get settled. Our bus leaves at five. I’m pumped full of every hormone my body can create. It seems useless to try to sleep. I lie down anyway and try to relax. Stupid Blake. Stupid Sarah. I didn’t get to say good-bye to Derek. But it’s not good-bye. It’s just . . .

Later, babe—

Don’t say good-bye, love,

So I can dream of

The day you’ ll hold me close again.

Close my eyes,

And you will be there.

I swallow my fear

That you will fly too far from me.

I can hold on now

To your promises.

Forget all my questions—

Just believe. . . .

chapter 16

SEE YOU LATER

Next thing I know, there’s a choir mom outside the door, pounding hard. “We load in fifteen minutes.”

I roll off my bed and into our travel clothes—pink track pants and a white T-shirt with my comfy old choir hoodie if it gets cold on the plane. I dash for my turn in the bathroom. The place still reeks of puke. “Gross, Sarah! ”

I do what I need to and brush my teeth, using the shower faucet, then hand the place over to Leah. I stand over my bed, grab an elastic, and harness my hair. I stuff my nightshirt and toiletries into my suitcase. My makeup is in my purse. I can put my face on later. Who cares? We’re eating breakfast on the bus. I zip up my bag, and I’m good to go.

Sarah is a disaster. I get her bag packed while Leah dresses her. Meadow hogs up the bathroom.

Terri pounds on our door. “Let’s go girls. The plane won’t wait.”

A curse on 8:00 a.m. flights to Paris forever.

I grab my suitcase—give up on the elevator—haul the bag, bumpety bump, down the three flights of stairs. I dump it by the bus, turn to go back for Sarah.

And he’s there. Derek. Looking paler in the brisk morning breeze, huddling in his Amabile hockey jersey, trying to suppress that cough of his. It sounds worse. He’s holding a pink rose. He looks at my track pants. “I figured you like pink.”

I pull a face. “Meadow likes pink.”

He frowns. “Sorry.”

I take the rose and breathe it in. “But I love this.”

“I wanted to—”

“Thanks.”

“Last night—”

“Yeah.”

We move together, kiss for the last time in wonderland.

He whispers, “See you later.”

I drink him in. Our bodies wind together, and our lips move in harmony. I don’t let him go until the bus honks. “Later.”

The girls are whoo-whooing at me when I board. Crap. They all watched that exquisitely private moment. I realize how awful I must look. Derek didn’t even flinch. I make one of the younger girls move so I can have a seat by the window on his side. I press my face up to it and search for him.

He waves. Coughs. Waves some more.

Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.

I hope he’s not getting sick.

I eat a nasty packaged croissant with plastic chocolate in the center as the bus rolls down the Swiss autoroute. It winds along the lake and passes by vineyards. The girls start counting how many castle-like places we go by.

I hang over my music binder, tuck the rose into the rings and scribble. I keep scribbling at the Geneva airport while we wait for our flight, scribble all the way to Paris. My heart’s yours

And yours is mine.

You are what I crave—

I won’t live until I’m kissing you.

With your love,

I can change my fate.

I circle the date,

When my new dreams will spring to life.

You’ ll drop from the stars.

Happy evermore

Like old stories say.

You can believe.

We land at Charles de Gaulle with plenty of time to make it to our flight, but the place is so confusing. We get off their stupid bus at the wrong place, stand forever in a big passport-control line that isn’t going to our gate. Terri’s almost crying by the time all eighty of us are running down the concourse to our gate. This French woman behind the desk screams at Terri because we were supposed to be here early. And then the plane is delayed for some mechanical thing, but everyone acts like it’s because of us. We miss our connection in New York and get rerouted to Detroit through Chicago. We get stuck at O’Hare all day. When we arrive in Detroit, I have no idea what time it is—what day it is. I just know it’s dark out. Humid.

I see Mom.

Her hazel eyes water. Her graying brown hair sticks to the sides of her face.

Crap. I can’t do this now.

I fall into her arms, and she starts to sob.

“Stop it, Mom.” I pat her back, fight to keep myself from dissolving like she is. “My life is great.” I’ve got a huge lump in my throat that makes me croak the words. I sniff and give her a little shake by the shoulders. “I mean it.”

“Oh, honey, you need to face this.”

No. No. No. I’ve figured out how to escape it. Derek.

I got him online in Chicago. We’ve worked out a plan. Every morning, 8:00 a.m. to 9:00 a.m. Swiss time, is mine. That’s two in the morning for me. I glance at my watch. I don’t have a clue when I last reset it. “What time is it, Mom?”

“Half past midnight.”

“Great—we’re going to make it.”

“Make what?”

All the way home she gets the gushy Derek dish—as much as I dare tell her. None of the private stuff, or my suspicions about his drug habit. She’d go ballistic. “You’re going to love him. I can’t wait for you to meet.”