Joan has a bit of a rough time with Mom. She finally gets together with Fred. Tensions are stretched to the limit as Dr. Raspberry expresses her disapproval with Joan’s behavior.

Chapter 17

Go Your Own Way

I had a bit of a hard time getting to sleep on Sunday night. The ladies were up till the wee hours; drinking, smoking, and making far too much noise for me to rest peacefully. I doubted that Mom would make it to work this morning. I dragged my ass off the floor around seven and hit the shower. So many things I’d left undone on the weekend. The situation with the Whitcombs sent my brain into shut-down mode regarding scheduling new jobs for the week. I decided that I’d go and talk to Mr. Hospin when I was finished with work.

By eight o’clock I was ready to hit the road. I’d been dreading having to do this but, I knew I’d have to attempt to wake up Mom. There was simply no way to rouse her. I laughed to myself and was filled with even more dread as I contemplated my next task. I was going to have to call my mother out "sick." Could I do this? I tentatively dialed her work contact number. Thank God, an automated service picked up asking for the name and the nature of the absence.

I laid it on as best I could. "This is Joan Johnson, my mother Clara Johnson will not be in to work today. She was up all night with fever and vomiting. She only fell asleep about an hour ago. I’m sure that she’ll be in on Tuesday, thank you." I wrote down the contents of my message and left two copies; one on top of mom’s phone and the other taped to the coffee machine. I was pretty sure it would be fine. Mom had never pulled a stunt like this before. I gathered up my lunch and made my way to work.

I’d figured out something about manual labor. I could keep my mind occupied with other things and the time seemed to pass with ease. Every time I came across Paul he seemed to be grinning at me stupidly. When he started acting like that, I’d tune him out as best I could. I already had more problems than I could handle. Sometimes the way people stared at me, well, it made me feel like a piece of meat; not a good way to feel at all. I almost got confrontational with him, but in the end, I turned on the power sander and simply ignored him.

Finally, the work day ended. I really wanted to go to the paint store but figured I’d better stop home first and make sure everything was all right. I hoped that Mom’s behavior wasn’t something that would recur with any frequency. I simply couldn’t handle that. I walked into a silent house. Mom’s car was in the garage. Could they still be sleeping? It was almost three o’clock in the afternoon!

My worry grew exponentially as I ascended the stairs. The bedroom doors were closed. I knocked gently on my mother’s door and walked in. "Mom?" I said gently as I shook her awake. "Are you OK?" For the briefest of moments, I thought she was dead. I had no idea it was possible to encounter so many thoughts simultaneously. At last she stirred and my tears began to flow.

"Go Away!" She commanded.

"Mom, it’s three o’clock on a Monday afternoon. You have to get up!" I shouldn’t be having to deal with situations like these. What if my father ever found out? A picture of myself wearing a military uniform and saying, "Sir, yes Sir!" flashed before my eyes. I left her room, went down stairs, and put a fresh pot of coffee on. My fear had turned to anger. I carried the tray into her room, raised her shades and started screaming at her to get the hell up!

Was this part of the price to pay to have Aunt Melissa around? If it was, she could go back to Australia. I’d take her to the airport on my bicycle if necessary. I kept talking loudly and stomped around the room. Slowly, ever so slowly, she shook herself awake. "What time is it? What day is it?" She asked helplessly. I told her. I also filled her in on having called her out sick. It was time for me to repeat the routine with Aunt Mel. She actually laughed at me as she came to. I swore if they ever tried something like this again that I’d raise the roof before it could get off the ground.

With the ladies finally stirring, I finally got on my bike and pedaled down to the paint store. After what I’d just been through, this should be a piece of cake. I took a moment to compose myself before entering. "Good afternoon Mr. Hospin," I said as cheerily as I could.

"Joan!" He exclaimed as he came running over to me.

"I wanted to talk to you about Mrs. Whitcomb," I began. He let me tell my story from start to finish without interrupting. He actually smiled at me when I finished. He put his arm around my shoulder, told me not to worry about it, and said finally that he should have warned me about her. Apparently, in his estimation, the woman was nuts. I laughed with him in total agreement. Maybe the situation wasn’t as bad as I’d thought?

He talked to me for a bit, gave me some more names to call, and told me that I was doing a fine job. Once again he told me not to worry about it. I left there feeling a helluva lot better about the whole situation. It was time to go home and deal with the two elderly miscreants. Mom and Aunt Melissa were both seated at the kitchen table when I arrived. In their housecoats they looked like they’d awakened too early rather than in the late afternoon. I shook my head in disgust at the both of them and began putting the house back together. It was after six by the time I decided to call it a day.

If the ladies wanted dinner, they’d have to make it for themselves. I cleaned myself up and headed for the boardwalk. My mouth began watering as I thought about pizza. In fact, I broke out in a stupid grin and a bit of drool began rolling down my chin. I must have looked quite the idiot. A new job for me? Village Idiot wanted, experience preferred but will train the right candidate. Such thoughts kept me laughing insanely as I made my way to Fratelli’s.

As much as I hated to, I went back home when I was finished. I needed to make some calls and set up some appointments. Wednesday was out; band practice with Fred. Thursday was out; therapy with Aunt Viv. I was going to have to start doing my painting on the weekends exclusively.

It turned out that Mr. Hospin was right, and he was wrong. A few potential customers called me some ugly names before hanging up on me. My eyes filled with tears and my voice cracked, but I was determined to continue. By the time I had finished, I actually lined up four jobs for the week: two on Friday and two on Saturday. Sam had an away game and besides, I wasn’t so sure I was going to attend those anymore anyway.

Hell, I went to cheer him on and he ditches me when the game’s over? I wasn’t that desperate for anyone’s attention. OK, so maybe I was over-reacting a bit. He had a right to his own friends, blah blah blah! With my appointments made, I decided that I couldn’t ignore the rest of the house forever. It was after eight o’clock when I walked into the kitchen. Mom and Aunt Melissa were still seated at the kitchen table and still wearing their housecoats. Remnants of breakfast were everywhere. They even managed to polish off the cheesecake.

I attempted to speak to them a few times, but found I was still too angry to carry on a conversation with either of them. I went up to my room and spent some time on my computer. I checked out a few more transgendered web sites and wrote a few emails. There was one very disturbing email from Doreen. I almost fell off my chair as I continued reading it.

It seemed Dad and Doreen were coming up for Melissa’s wedding. Who the hell invited them? "Aunt Melissa!" I screamed as I ran down the stairs. "Who invited my father and his girlfriend to my cousin’s wedding?" This couldn’t be happening, could it?

"Relax Joan. Your mother and I talked it over and decided that it would be for the best." The best for whom? Why would Mom want him there? This made no sense to me at all. I sputtered onward with my objections but they just pooh-poohed them all. Could I attend the wedding wearing my pink dress with my father and Doreen there? Yes, I wanted to see my sister when she was born, but I still had a fair amount of anger pent-up from the whole situation.

As ten P.M. neared, I bade them goodnight. I also informed my mother that I’d never again call her out sick. Incredulously, they both laughed at me. Did they think it was all a joke? I wasn’t ready to be my mother’s mother. I started to think that Mom could probably use a few sessions with Aunt Vivian herself. No, I wasn’t being vindictive. I was genuinely worried for her. Obviously Aunt Melissa and Aunt Alice weren’t being any help at all.

Tuesday passed in a blur. Thankfully, all seemed to return to normal. Aunt Mel told me not to worry about dinner that she had it all under control. Sam came over for a bit and we went for a walk on the boards. I just knew in my heart that there was nowhere else on the planet that I’d rather live. That thought struck me as funny. A lot of kids can’t wait to grow up and get away. Well, I didn’t mean I wanted to live with Mom for the rest of my life. I shuddered involuntarily at the thought.

I arrived home from work on Wednesday and Aunt Melissa was busily performing my chores. She smiled at me and told me that she’d do everything except the laundry for the length of her stay. I told her if she needed any help starting the lawn mower to just let me know. She laughed at that.

My stomach began to churn with excitement at dinner’s end. Soon I would be at Fred’s. I began to have doubts regarding my own motivations. Was I simply interested in the music or, did he hold some other fascination for me? Thinking of that possibility filled me with worry. For some reason I brought my ring up to my lips and kissed it. It was one of the strangest things I’d ever done. I put my guitar in its case, and told Mom where I was heading. I didn’t even bother to ask for permission. Still, I did leave her Fred’s name and number if she needed to contact me. Besides, I had my cell phone with me as well.

I still wasn’t sure what I expected from this meeting. I’d never played (music) with anyone before. Five minutes later I was knocking on his front door. "Joan! You came!" He said upon answering. For some reason I found myself smiling at him. He invited me in and we made our way to his basement. "Would you like something to drink?" He asked me as he opened a beer for himself. How old is this guy, I began to wonder?

"How come I’ve never seen you around school?" I asked him.

"Oh, do you go to Ocean High? I just graduated myself!" Holy Jesus, I had no idea he was that old. He didn’t appear to be any older than I was. Where the hell did Darla know this guy from? Darla: I was going to call her on Monday. I began thinking that I needed to slow my life down a bit.

He began showing me his equipment. The kid had everything, and I do mean everything. A complete P.A. system, plenty of amplifiers, guitars lined the walls, keyboards, and even a drum kit! "Is all of this stuff yours?" I asked him. He laughed at my question and simply told me that music was his life. "Nice life," I thought to myself. I decided that before we went any further that I’d have to clear the air.

"Fred, I’m only fourteen. In fact, I just turned fourteen a few weeks ago." He eyed me curiously and remained silent. I waited expectantly for him to say something.

"Does that mean you don’t want to be in my band?" he asked. I laughed and told him I figured it would be the other way around. "Joan, all I care about is your talent. Your age is of no importance at this point in time." I couldn’t help myself; I found myself smiling at him. "You needn’t have brought your guitar," he said as he removed a Martin D1 with Fischman electronics from its case. "Here, try this out," he said handing me the guitar.

I’d never played any instrument but my own to that point. I took the guitar from him gingerly. It was simply beautiful. The action on the neck was unbelievable. I’d heard that electric guitars were easier to play, but this was ridiculous. I had no idea that an acoustic guitar could be this perfect. I began strumming a few chords and began playing a basic blues progression in the key of E. He plugged the guitar in, turned on the amp and smiled at me as I continued to wail away.

Fred selected a bass for himself and joined in. I couldn’t believe that we were perfectly in tune. His simple bass pattern meshed perfectly with my chords. He began singing into the microphone. I was able to follow his lead and we continued on. I had no idea that anything could be this much fun. We wrapped up the tune and I found myself asking him just how much a guitar like the one I was playing would cost.

"Brand new with the pickup and the case it would probably run close to a grand, retail," He said matter of factly. "But, if you really like this one, I could let you have it for $500.00." I held the guitar possessively and seriously considered this extravagant purchase. Should I simply take him at his word as to its value? Was he simply offering me the deal of the century? I sat on a bar stool and began running my hand up and down the neck. It almost seemed to play itself.

"Could I take it home to show my Mom?" I asked.

"Wellllll, I don’t know? Hell, I don’t even know where you live. Still, if you’re a friend of Darla’s, you must be OK. She thinks the world of you, by the way." He began telling me of his ideas for a band. He told me he was really impressed with my playing and singing. He went on to say that most females in bands didn’t play their own instruments. We fooled around for awhile and we worked on a few songs.

I found myself getting nervous whenever he got too close to me. It was closing in on nine thirty when I told him I had to be headed home. He looked at me like I was nuts. I was half tempted to ask him for a ride home, but didn’t want to seem like a baby. I packed his guitar in my soft case; there was no way to carry the hard shell case safely on my bike. Just before leaving, he handed me a Fleetwood Mac album. He then made a list of the songs he wanted me to learn: "Go Your Own Way" topped the list.

We said goodnight. I could tell that he wanted to kiss me. It freaked me out just a bit. Not only was he a guy, he was an older guy. I left him in the basement playing one of his many guitars and slowly pedaled back home. I was half-way there when my cell phone started ringing. I figured it was Mom calling me and didn’t stop to answer it. Minutes later, I pulled in the driveway.

"Mom, I’m home!" I yelled as I came in the front door.

"Just where the hell have you been, young lady?" What the hell was she talking about? I told her where I was going. "Your Aunt Vivian called and started telling me all about this Fred fellow." Oh hell, now what? I cut her off before she could continue.

"Mom, I don’t know what she told you, but I do know that Fred’s a really nice guy. He’s asked me to join his band! And look!" I said and carefully removed the guitar from the case. "He’s giving me a great deal on this fine instrument."

"You already have a guitar. Where’s yours?" I sighed. This wasn’t going well at all. I sat down at the kitchen table and began playing it for her. The richness and depth of tone slowly began to win her over. She slowly melted as I continued my soulful finger picking. "And just how much does this Fred want for that thing?" She asked. I smiled at her. I could tell she was warming to the idea.

"Mom, do you have any idea how much a fine instrument like this costs?" I asked setting her up for the kill. She sat there silently, waiting for me to continue. "Mom, a new guitar of this caliber goes for over a thousand dollars brand new," I finished.

"A thousand dollars! Have you lost your mind?" Aunt Melissa stood off on the sidelines and smiled devilishly at the brewing storm.

"Mom, it’s a professional guitar. And, it’s electric! If I’m going to join a band, I can’t do it with my old guitar. But, that’s not the best part. Fred told me he’d sell me this one, with the hard shell case, for only five hundred dollars." I waited patiently for her to say something. I knew if push came to shove that I could simply pay for it on my own. The fit and finish on the instrument were perfect. I doubted that Fred had ever even played it.

"I’ll pay for half of it," she said finally. Aunt Melissa clapped her hands together gleefully. For two hundred and fifty dollars, I wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass me by. I placed the guitar back in the case and gave Mom the biggest hug possible. I asked Aunt Mel if I could use the computer in my room for a bit. She said of course, that it was my room after all. Minutes later I found myself searching for similar guitars on ebay. Fred hadn’t been lying. I found two of them exactly like "mine" WITHOUT the pickup and the owners wanted seven hundred dollars for them. Even more amazing, a few people had bid on them.

It was after ten, but I was so excited that I gave Fred a call and told him that I’d take the guitar. We made arrangements to get together on Sunday. I took the guitar stand from my bedroom and brought it downstairs with me to the sewing room. If I didn’t think I’d damage it, I’d have slept with the damned thing. This was as close to a feeling of love that one could have for an inanimate object. I carefully wiped down the neck. There was no way that I’d be playing this thing while sitting on the beach. I fell asleep staring at my new baby.

Thursday morning arrived and I greeted the new day with a smile. I found myself actually looking forward to this evening’s meeting with Aunt Vivian. Maybe she could tell me a bit more about Fred? I ate my breakfast, made my lunch and headed off to work. Once again, the day passed quickly. Mr. Ferris showed me how to properly apply the varnish to my stained work. The feelings of accomplishment that it provided filled me with joy. I spent an hour at day’s end finishing up Aunt Vivian’s jewelry box

I walked in my front door just as the clock struck four. There’d be no deposit made at the bank this week, I thought sadly. I found myself thinking of ways to spend even more money. Perhaps Fred had a small amplifier that he’d like to sell too? I told myself to slow down with such thoughts. If/when the time came, I’d worry about it.

Something delicious was cooking on the stove. Well, it smelled delicious anyway. I tapped Aunt Melissa on the shoulder as she busied herself with preparations and hugged her tight when she turned around. "Thank you," was all I said.

"What are you thanking me for? You haven’t even tasted it yet." We shared a secret smile and I asked her if there was anything I could do to help. I made the salad while she finished cooking the main meal. Mom arrived home and we ate dinner. It tasted as good as it smelled.

Mom dropped me off in front of Aunt Viv’s and told me she’d be back in an hour. I was somewhat nervous as I rang the front doorbell. Darla answered and seemed a bit annoyed. "Mom, your seven-thirty’s here." She announced to no one. I guessed that I’d been a "bad" friend.

"Darla, what’s the matter?" I asked her.

"Nothing" She replied and turned sulkily away. I tried calling after her but she just kept on walking. I stood in the foyer alone: waiting and feeling somewhat the fool. After awhile Aunt Vivian came and collected me. She invited me into the kitchen and poured me a cup of coffee without asking. The sight of the black liquid made me realize that I hadn’t had a cigarette all day. I sheepishly removed one from my purse and lighted it.

"So, Aunt Viv," I began. "What can you tell me about Fred?"

"Nothing, I’m afraid. I never discuss my patients with anyone." That comment knocked me for a loop. Fred had been (or was) her patient? So that’s how Darla knew him? "If there was any need to worry, I’d have told your mother," she said perfunctorily. Had I pissed her off too, somehow? This wasn’t the warm, loving, understanding person that I’d come to know and love.

"Aunt Vivian, what’s wrong?" I asked as tears began forming in my eyes.

"I’m sorry Joan. Sometimes it’s hard for me to separate my personal from my professional life. You’ve really hurt Darla and she refuses to discuss it."

"Maybe I could go talk to her before we begin my session?" I begged.

"I think maybe you ought to find yourself a new therapist. There are many who are qualified to handle a case such as your own." I was crushed. I crumbled onto the table. My cup fell to the floor and shattered. She simply sat there and stared at me stonily. I just had to get out of there. I ran for the front door and made my exit. She didn’t try and stop me.

I cried all the way home. I went into the sewing room and closed the door behind me. I thought about ringing Mom and telling her there would be no need to pick me up. I was devastated. The guitar called to me like a friend. I picked it up and began playing a soulful tune. The music eased my sorrow. Had what just happened, really happened? Was I hallucinating? How could she… My thoughts drifted off.

Somewhere around ten o’clock Mom came home. "Joan, come here sweetheart," she called to me from the kitchen. I wiped down my guitar and slowly made my way into her inner sanctum. "I had a long talk with your Aunt Vivian," she informed me.

"She’s no Aunt of mine," I replied in anger. The tears began flowing yet again.

"Joan, she’s beyond sorry for what she did. She wanted to run after you as you were leaving, but found herself unable to move. She hopes that you can find it in your heart to forgive her." Just then, the phone rang. Grateful for the distraction, I picked it up.

"Joan, I’m so sorry," Aunt Vivian cried sadly into the phone. "Nothing like that has ever happened to me before. Can you please just give me another chance? I promise you it’ll never happen again." Before I could say anything she went on "It’s just that you had Darla so upset and then hooking up with Fred, it was all just more than I could handle. Please forgive me?" She begged.

I sat there holding the phone, knowing in my heart that my countenance couldn’t be distinguished from any on Mt. Rushmore. Finally, I began weeping openly. "Aunt Vivian, I’m not sure just what I’ve done, but whatever it is, I’m so sorry."

"No sweetheart, it’s all my fault. It’s just that I love you as if you were my own. I’ll do my best to make it up to you, if only you’ll give me another chance," she wailed. We both sat there crying into to the phone for what seemed like eternity. I promised that I’d call her soon and softly put the phone back in its cradle. I learned a valuable lesson that evening. Aunt Vivian may indeed be a licensed psychotherapist, but she was first and foremost Darla’s mother…