June 18
Andi’s prediction came true, at least partly.
Peter was there in the morning, smiling down at her as he had every morning since she had returned home. Normally his smile shone its way into her heart, making even the grayest days seem brighter, but now she found herself gritting her teeth in unreasonable annoyance.
“How are you feeling?” he asked in the hushed voice that he felt was required, lest Andi break into pieces.
“Fine,” she muttered, restlessly tossing her covers aside. Peter reached out to help her up, and Andi reluctantly allowed him to grasp her arms and pull her upright.
It had been a week since her homecoming, and although the pain was still there, accompanying her every move and breath, she could slowly feel her strength returning.
Once she was on her feet she gently shook him away. “Okay, I’m up. I can handle it now.”
Peter backed away, quietly complying. “Breakfast is ready if you want to eat.”
Andi waved her hand. “Yeah, sure. I’ll be in in a minute.”
Once Peter was gone she sighed heavily and leaned against the wall, a steady throb building behind her eyes. She knew only too well that by the afternoon it would be a full-blown headache.
“Another day,” she muttered.
She dressed as quickly as the circumstances would allow and left the bedroom. The others were already gathered around the table, eating and joking noisily. As she stared at them a quote from Tobias Wolff suddenly drifted across her consciousness: “ . . . that sense, hardly unique to me, of being outside the circle of light, a feeling so pernicious that even when you are where you want to be you shy away from the joy of it and begin to fear banishment and loss.”
That is not what is happening to me. I’m fine.
As if he could hear her thoughts, Mike turned around. “Hey, Andi!” he said with slightly forced enthusiasm.
She limped over to the table, carefully schooling her features to neutrality. She knew she’d been snappy with them over the past week, but even so, she couldn’t help it. Their smiles and sympathy grated on her nerves.
“Good morning, luv!” Davy said, standing up and bowing to her. He gallantly held out a chair into which Andi sat, grudgingly allowing him to push it in for her.
“What would madam like for breakfast?” Peter asked.
Andi sighed. “I’m not hungry.”
“C’mon, Andi. You have to eat.”
“Fine. Whatever you have is all right.” As Peter whisked some eggs out of the fridge and popped some bread into the toaster, Andi became aware of the six eyes staring at her.
“What? Stop staring at me!” she snapped. Their gazes were making her skin crawl. Micky and Davy immediately looked elsewhere, but Mike kept his brown eyes locked on her.
“WHAT is it, Mike? Haven’t you stared at me enough lately? I’m still the same person, you know!” She was only dimly aware that she was shouting.
“Are you?” he asked quietly. The words, though spoken softly, had the same effect as if they had been blasted over a massive sound system. Peter froze, the egg he had been about to break open hanging over the skillet, clenched tightly in his ice-cold fingers. Micky and Davy sat motionless, dreading the explosion that was surely to come.
Andi’s face tightened with fury, her upper lip actually curling into the beginnings of a snarl. “And just what is that supposed to mean?” she growled.
“You haven’t been yourself lately. You’ve been snappin’ and hollerin’ at us and I’d kind of like to know why,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm and even.
She snorted. “Boy, if you’re dumb enough not to know there’s no way I could explain it to you.”
Mike’s anger finally sprang forth, but as his gaze moved to her side he choked back his bitter words. He rose silently from the table and stalked outside, slamming the door behind him.
Andi looked at Peter, who was still frozen in place. “Are you going to crack that egg or what?” The words set Peter in motion, and he resumed his task.
Andi turned her attention on Micky and Davy, who were just sitting, stunned. “Look, guys, just . . . ” She tried to assume a normal, annoyance-free tone. “Just go away. I know you want to help, but I don’t need any help. This is something I’ve got to sort out on my own, so the less you’re around me, the better, okay?”
Micky looked at Davy, who shrugged. “Sure, Andi. We’ll leave you alone.”
“Thank you.” Though she tried to make it sound like she was grateful, the words came out exasperated, insincere, and much more harshly than she intended.
Peter placed the eggs and toast in front of Andi, who ate without much enthusiasm. Peter knew better than to try to start a conversation--these days Andi was rarely in a talking mood. He didn’t know what was wrong with her or why she was in so much turmoil, but every time he looked at her he couldn’t help but wish that his big sister would come back from wherever she had gone.
When she finished she rose wordlessly and stalked around the pad, her halting steps pounding out a disjointed rhythm on the hardwood floor. Her gaze occasionally drifted toward the windows and the beach beyond. Each time she would flinch or shudder and look sharply elsewhere. Peter had tried--once--to coax her outside so she could benefit from some sun and fresh air, but her reaction had been so violent that any further attempts were quickly abandoned. Mike had explained to Peter that because Andi had been attacked on the beach, going out there would bring up that most unpleasant of memories. Peter had understood, of course, but Andi’s behavior still confused and scared him.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe we just need to leave her alone.
Andi paused by the bandstand, running her fingers gently over the tuning pegs of her new electric guitar--a dark green Gretsch six-string, the same model guitar George Harrison had played on the Ed Sullivan show. She had purchased it two weeks before the attack, and seemed to prize it almost as much as her sword.
Since her homecoming she hadn’t touched it.
She picked it up, wincing slightly at the pain the movement caused. She sat gingerly on a nearby stool, looking rather odd with one leg sticking straight out. She reached over and switched on the amp, then spent nearly ten minutes tuning. The wound in her side required her to sit at an odd angle, her guitar resting unnaturally on her left leg instead of her right.
When she finally began to play, her fingers refused to move the way she wanted them to. At first she chalked it up to lack of practice, but after several failed attempts she bared her teeth in frustration. Reaching over, she turned the amplifier up as far as it would go and began slashing mercilessly at the strings.
The sound that emerged was indescribable. A tearing, grating, tortured roar reverberated through the house, causing Peter to clap his hands firmly over his ears. Andi didn’t bother with chords, and even when one of the strings broke with a metallic twang, she barely even paused. She smashed away at the five remaining strings with every bit of her anger. Her pick was her sword, the strings the enemy, and the painful, agonized sound that emerged from the strained electronic innards of the amp her reward, a justification for the pain she felt, and the pain she caused.
It didn’t take long for Mike to come running back into the house, obviously wondering what was making the unholy noise. Micky and Davy were nowhere to be seen; they had fled as soon as the noise began. Peter was still rooted in the same spot, his ears covered.
Suddenly Andi stopped, the last of the sound still echoing, and raised the guitar above her head, preparing to throw it.
“Andi, no! Stop!” Mike ran over to her and grabbed her by the arms, halting her intended destruction. She sagged in his grasp, allowing him to gently remove the assaulted instrument from her clutches. As soon as it was safely resting on its stand he took her by the shoulders, half-leading, half-carrying her to the couch. She collapsed into it gratefully, her tired eyes closing tight. Mike tucked a blanket around her, brushing away the sweaty strands of hair from her forehead.
He sank down into one of the kitchen chairs with a weary sigh, rubbing a pair of eyes that seemed to burn more intensely with each day that passed.
Peter finally removed his hands from his ears, his breathing shallow. “Mike, I’m scared. Why is she acting like this?”
“Man, I wish I knew. She’s been through a lot, and . . . it’s normal to be outta sorts after . . . ” He trailed off, knowing he didn’t have to elaborate. “Maybe after this things’ll get better. Last thing she needs is people pickin’ at her.”
Peter bit his lip thoughtfully. Every time Andi’s agitation was mentioned, Mike seemed to skirt the issue or make excuses. Peter wanted to talk about it; he wanted to know why she was acting the way she was and how the problem could be solved . . . but he couldn’t when no one would talk to him.
“Maybe you’re right,” he whispered, his eyes still focused on Andi.
~*~
Later that afternoon Mike drove Andi to the doctor.
“She’s doing very well,” Davidson said. He and Mike stood in the corridor, looking through a large window into the physical therapy room where Andi was grudgingly going through her exercises.
“She’s healing far faster than I expected her to--physically, at any rate.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Davidson crossed his arms. “Well, she was very reluctant to allow me to examine the wound, and when I removed the bandages she closed her eyes and refused to open them until I replaced them.”
Mike scowled. “That doesn’t sound so strange to me.”
“Mike, I’ve been her doctor for a long time. That,” he said, pointing at Andi, “is not the same person I used to know. This trauma is having a severe psychological effect on her, but when I brought it up, her reaction was one of extreme . . . agitation.”
“What do you mean?”
“She told me to--and I quote--’keep your dumbass opinions to yourself’.”
Mike let out a short chuckle that he quickly stifled. “She said that to you?”
“Yes, she most certainly did. It shocked me to hear her say it.”
Mike turned his gaze back to the window. Andi stood between two waist-high parallel bars, taking very small steps towards the far wall. Though her statement to Davidson was certainly in line with her quick temper, for her to say it to those she respected was unheard of.
“Mike, I need to know what her behavior has been like. I’m trying to help her.”
Mike sighed. With no small measure of reluctance he told Davidson of her snappy, unnaturally short tempered behavior and her callous, sharp remarks. When he mentioned the guitar incident, however, he downplayed some of the more dramatic aspects.
“And that’s all?”
“Yeah. Not enough to put her in the looney bin, is it?”
Davidson’s eyes flashed with uncharacteristic anger. “Mike, no one is trying to put her in a looney bin. Dammit, I’m trying to help her, don’t you understand that? That girl is hurt, confused, and angry, and there’s no telling what might happen if she doesn’t get some help. She might even turn that anger on you. Is that something you’re ready to face?”
Mike returned the doctor’s angry gaze with one of equal determination. “Yeah, I am,” he said tightly before returning his attention to Andi.
Davidson shook his head. “For your sake, Mike, I hope you are.”
On to Chapter Seven
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