Starry Starry Night

The night sky, dark as midnight oil, covered the world in a blanket of sleep. The moon smiled down, a crystalline ball of the future, silently observing the passage of time. It was a night quite unlike our last, clear as a champagne flute freshly cleaned for New Years. I knew that I’d have my work cut out for me, finding out what it was that had hurt Jullieanne so much. She cowered in fear at my touch and, while she claimed she trusted me, I could see the hesitation in her eyes. They pleaded, “Please don’t abandon me.”

I had known of her for a while, always watching her as she came into the bar I worked at. She had intrigued me from the moment I first laid eyes on her, ordering a drink and leaving immediately before it had time to be served. It was a fateful night not even a week ago that I had chased her fading form into a raging tempest and brought her a small glimpse of salvation. I wanted to know her. I wanted to learn everything about her. I wanted to show her a version of life that wasn’t the cruel torment she seemed to always know.

Now we sat side by side on the edge of a deep gorge, watching the waterfall beside us rush and dance in the starlight, a fluid ballerina performing a bold solo of emotion and grace.
“Are you okay?” I asked her, keeping a small distance between her body and my own.
She smiled, barely a raising of the corner of her lips, and nodded.
“It’s perfect,” she replied, blushing a little. “I don’t deserve to be treated so nicely.”
“Now why do you say that?” I asked her, laughing a little.
“Because it’s true,” she said, kicking her feet against the rocks.

I shifted so that I could face her where we sat. My knee fell softly against hers and she twitched a little, her jade eyes falling to where our bodies touched, but she didn’t move.
“I want to help you,” I explained, trying to meet her eyes with my own. “We’re friends, right?”

She nodded again, still looking into the gorge distantly. Her hair was down. It fell past her shoulders like a shower of dark gold rain, changing as the light hit it, shifting from brown to blonde and back again, thus was its coloring. I had gotten her to stop wearing the over-sized sweatshirt she was so fond of and she adorned a simple tank top, white and vibrant against her tanned skin.

“Life sucks,” she said simply, slightly shrugging her shoulders. “I once believed that things were good and whatnot, that everything had something positive to come out of it but…”

Her voice trailed off and was answered by the call of an owl, the timbre of its hoot soft and hollow. She took a deep breath and sighed, a brief spasm that made her entire body shudder and her soul sink a little deeper.

“We don’t have to talk about that right now,” I told her matter-of-factly. “Not if you don’t want to. We can talk about something else. Are you attending college here?”
“Yeah,” she answered, her intensity softening. “I want to be a journalist.”

I smiled. I imagined she’d be good at the sort of job that required the kind of keen observation required for the news. I could see her sitting there, silently watching everything, and then writing a brilliant article about it later on in the week, possibly exposing a delicious scandal. No one will have even realized she was there until their story was published and questions had to be answered.

“What?” she asked, catching my amusement.
“I think you’d be very good at that,” I answered simply, still smiling, my blue eyes bright.
“Well what are you going to be?” she questioned defensively.
“I’m not laughing at you!” I exclaimed. “I was just saying… Anyway, I’m not really sure. I think I might like to be a psychologist, working with and helping people. I play drum set in my friend’s band, but I don’t know how far that’ll take me, so I’m getting something to back me up.”

She nodded, her eyes showing that she was thinking.
“A psychologist, huh?” she said, a smile lighting her features. “How much am I being charged for this session?”
I looked at her oddly then laughed. She joined me, her giggle soft and quiet, like a tiny wind chime on a rustic front porch.
“This one’s free,” I replied smiling. “Just make sure you refer your friends to me,” I laughed again. “Maybe I should watch what I say around you. I’d hate to be misquoted.”

She gave me a queer sort of sideways glance and smiled quietly, looking back to the ground.
“I want to be a good journalist,” she said simply.
“That’s good. The world needs more good journalists,” I responded. “But why journalism?”
“I love to write,” she answered almost immediately. “The way I see it, it’s a way for me to spend the rest of my life doing something I love. How about you? Why psychology?”

“To piss my dad off,” I said laughing. “Of course, it didn’t necessarily have to be psychology. I’ve always been intrigued by the human mind and how people work, not physically, but mentally. I figured if I was going to get at him I might as well be enjoying it. Between the band and declaring that as my major I guess you could say I’m not on his good list right now.”

“Why so bitter towards your dad?” she asked curiously.
The mood was changing again. I could feel a weight of seriousness fall upon us like a soft mist on a hazy day.

“It’s kind of weird,” I began to explain. “You see, he’s a medical doctor. Works in a hospital and is always on call. My step-mom’s a pharmacist. Handles almost all of his patients through his reference, so they’re raking in the big bucks. Even when he’s not at work, my dad is working. Studying books and charts, filling out paperwork and writing reports. Anything to keep his brain busy and his body locked up in his den. ‘Strong work ethic,” he calls it. I always thought it was stupid. So to make up for not being there he always tried to buy us, my sister and I, off. Big house, big pool, big TV, big rec-center like basement… All those things that a stereotypical rich kid would have. It made my sister happy: To wear name brand clothes; flaunt a couple credit cards paid for by ‘daddy;’ throw wicked pool parties on the weekends. Me, I would have liked to been able to go outside and play catch with my dad or a quick run of two-hand touch football. Maybe a pick-up game of basketball. I can remember many lonely days on the basketball court in front of the garage…”

My voice trailed off and I lost thought for a minute.
“He bought me a Porsche for my sixteenth birthday,” I said with a sardonic laugh. “A few days later I took it to the dealership and got the money back. I went out and bought this older Neon. Used the extra cash to deck it out: revved up the engine, put in a new stereo, added some lighting baubles, new paint job. I thought it was a pretty sweet ride, but when dad came home… He had a few choice words for me, or rather, his belt on my backside did. Man, it hurt to sit for about a week, but that’s how it was in my house. You did something wrong, you got punished for it. He was a firm believer in that whole ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’ theory. He rewarded us because he was never around to be ‘dad,’ but he made sure we learned from our mistakes. Not that I necessarily think buying a more practical car was a mistake... Can’t say I don’t blame him. I guess I turned out okay. I always thought, 'it’s just a car,' but I guess to him it seemed like I was ungrateful and being ungrateful to him meant you were being disrespectful. ‘I put a lot of thought and good money into that gift and it meant so much to you that you had to sell it and replace it.’”

At this I shrugged. I wasn’t really bitter towards him, some days I just thought it might have been nice to have a real dad.
“So I’m nearing the end of my junior year and he asks me what my plans for my future are,” I continued. “I told him I wasn’t really sure. He told me that wasn’t acceptable. He always had this serious and official air about him. Strong and silent. Everything was matter-of-fact and business-like. He laid it down for me: ‘I won’t have any son of mine living a street-rat’s life, giving my grandchildren a bad name. The world’s money is in four areas: Medical practice, pharmaceuticals, law, and politics.’ He basically told me I didn’t have a choice. If I wanted him to back my education I’d have to study to hit one of those fields. On a thought I threw out psychology. It’s almost like a medical practice and there’s some money to be found in it. He told me straight: ‘Son, I’ve always noticed that with you there’s a lack of effort. You do what you have to to get by. You don’t go above and beyond. If you want to make money as a psychologist you have to earn your PhD, and I don’t think you have what it takes follow something that far through. On that point, maybe you should stray away from the medical field. Focus on pharmaceuticals, law, or politics. Something you’ll be able to accomplish and not just leave half finished.’
"I about told him off right then. It meant nothing to him that I had taken prep classes through most of high school and maintained a perfect 4.5 GPA. My endless list of extra-curriculars and volunteerism didn’t even dent him. Maybe I hadn’t worked my absolute hardest, but I had by no means just sat back and let his money take care of me like my sister did. I vowed then and there that psychology was going to be my future, if not that, anything but the four areas that he told me were ‘acceptable.’ The last thing he said to me that night was: ‘It’s time for you to put these drum sticks away, too. Music is for losers. You might think that I don’t love you, but I just want what’s best for you. You’ve got potential. I’m tired of seeing you throw it away.’ I’m glad he left then, because if he would have stayed a second longer I would have gone off completely. So I finished senior year, did excellent on my college entrance exams, got a full-ride and here I am. A psych major playing drum set in my friend’s band. I think my dad disowned me. Our conversations anymore are stiff and professional, as if he were talking to a patient and not his own flesh and blood.”

I looked to Jullieanne for her reaction. She just watched me, her knees pulled up to her chin, her reflective green eyes listening and intuitive, her hair draped about her like a veil. Her face was expressionless, but observant.
“You said your step-mom was a pharmacist,” she stated blandly. “What about your real mom?”

I sighed.
“She had a few runs with some bad boyfriends after her and Dad split,” I explained. “Lives about a state away from us. Kindest soul in the world, just has never hit much good luck. She came from a lower-class family and couldn’t afford higher education. She met my dad while he was in college. Their first handful of years together were good. Then she had my sister and me. They couldn’t have been happier, but dad was going through grad school at that time working for his doctorate and I guess the stress just got to him. Two kids and schoolwork… He cracked, and instead of failing at school, he let their marriage fail. I guess that’d be that ‘work ethic’ he speaks so highly of. They divorced and he met Anna, his soul mate of the world, in terms that they had similar goals and financial interests. They’d be able to support each other and any children they raised. We lived with mom for a while and things were just bad. She worked two jobs and Alyssa, my sister, and I spent more time taking care of her than she did us. Dad came to visit one Christmas after he had become Dr. Jackson Avlist and declared our living conditions unacceptable. He took Mom to court for custody and, naturally, won. Who can fight against a medical doctor’s salary? We were always allowed to visit her, and I took advantage of that more than my sister did. At least when I was around her during my summers and at Christmas I felt like I was wanted and loved. She cared for us so much. She never really forgave herself for not being able to care for us in a way that would have let her keep us. She’s getting better, though. She finally has a good job and a boyfriend that supports her and encourages her to aspire to something. She’ll do okay, I think. But whatever happens, in the future I know that whatever I make I’m giving her half. She’s done so much for me that I’ll do anything to repay the love she’s given me. I don’t know if I’d say she supported me, but she was at least always there when I needed her.”

Jullieanne was quiet. Now she didn’t look at me, but stared at the ground blankly. I could tell she wanted to say something, something perhaps she’d been wanting to talk about for a long time, but was unsure how to begin.

“I wish that my parents had been more like yours,” she said mildly, her voice very faint and controlled, as if she were biting back tears. “They were the exact opposite. So in love with each other that at times the rest of the world didn’t matter. We lived a middle-class life, but it was enough to live comfortably with my older brother and I. They fell in love writing to each other while he was away at war. He came from the big city and she came from a small town. Somewhere safe, good to raise children. Delphos: home of the world’s most narrow-minded bubbleheads. Nothing bad happens in Delphos. Everything is tranquil and unchanging. Delphos is outside of the rest of the world, safely tucked away in its sleeping bag of protection. They were supportive parents. You did well, you were praised for it. You messed up, you were chastised, never punished severely. They always put my brother and me first. So I got good grades in school. They were pleased and always supportive. But when I messed up… They were never angry, just disappointed. I’d take angry parents over disappointed ones any day. That look when you tell them you got an unusually low grade, or you hit a basketball pole backing out of a parking space… No anger, no stern lecture or heated glare. Just that look when they cast their eyes to the ground and shake their heads. You know what they’re thinking: ‘We don’t ask much, but when we do… We thought you had better than that in you.’ They always said, ‘You can tell us anything. Having problems in school? With a friend? With self-esteem? Just tell us. We’ll have a nice talk about it. You’re our baby girl and we want to help you with your problems.’ How do you tell the parents you can tell anything to that you’ve taken a knife to your arm in some twisted form of masochistic punishment?”

She wouldn’t look at me at all now. Her gaze was fixed into the gorge in front of her, calm, but wild all at the same time. Quiet tears streamed down her face like raindrops on a windowpane. Her face was soft and clean, like a porcelain doll. I couldn’t read anything in her blank expression.

“I never had any real physical pain. No terrible disease, no condition that caused some part of my body constant and unending pain. It was just always this soft hurt deep inside my heart. A little voice in my head saying, ‘You’re never good enough. You never do anything right. You only hurt people. You’re worthless. You’re invisible to everyone who matters to you. You’re selfish and uncaring. You’re mean-spirited and vile. People run away from you. You’re not the sight of beauty they’ve always envisioned for themselves. Your hair is too long. Your face is too fat. Your body the same. Your proportions don’t match. Your voice is too nasal. Your singing too shrill. Your attempts aren’t good enough. You’ll never be loved. Who can love a creature as ugly as you?’ Always there, never giving me respite. Whispering in my ear as I take a test. Tapping my shoulder as I sing for an audience. In the applause of the people cheering loudly for my opponent and not me. It’s like having a small judge sitting on my shoulder waiting for me to take a wrong step so that it can rub it in my face.”

It hurt me to hear her speak thus. From what I had learned of her in almost a week she was a kind and caring individual, concerned for all the world, offering to take the pain of others if it were only possible to make that miraculous transfer. I couldn’t believe that she thought herself selfish, and I wanted to strangle whoever had made her believe that. I could feel her hurt throbbing through her soul. It was as if the tears she shed could have been mine. I reached out and took her hand in mine. It was like ice, pale in its bronzed tan.

She looked up and stared into my eyes, her own vacant and deep, as they had been that day in the rain. It was as if she weren’t really there, but somewhere deep in the back of her heart, where the world couldn’t touch her innocence.

“Come back to me,” I said gently, cupping her cheek softly with my hand. It was like I was coaxing a scared puppy out of the corner of a room.
She blinked and I saw a tiny light flicker and her hand tightened in mine. I glanced at my watch. It was nearing midnight.
“You have two choices, Jules,” I explained. “Before your feet there are two gorges. At the bottom of one of them is an escape for sissies and those who are weak. There is no salvation after the descent. But at the bottom of the other is me, waiting to catch you when you’re ready to let yourself fall. Let me save you. You might find I’m surprisingly good for you.”

There was a flash of recognition in her eyes and she smiled a little. Her touch became warm again and the color was returning to her face.
“I don’t deserve something as good as you,” she stated blandly.
“You’re right,” I agreed, smiling. “You deserve better, but we can worry more about that in the future.”

She laughed a little and her eyes began to smile. Without a word she wrapped her arms around my waist in a thankful embrace. I enveloped her figure, placing my arms on her shoulders and feeling her heart beat against my chest in perfect synch with my own. I kissed her forehead chastely. Things would have to come a step at a time.

“We should go,” I said casually. “It’s a long climb back to the top. I can carry you if you’d like.”
She looked in my eyes and smiled, shaking her head with a slight chuckle. Hand in hand we walked the wooded path that led to our college and our dorm rooms. The stars smiled down on us, silently keeping vigil over the secrets that had passed between the two of us that night.