In dedication to Inner Demon. Without you, this book wouldn’t exist.
INTRODUCTION
Who made the rule that every book should start with a quote? Some go so far as to place them indulgently before each chapter. If I wanted that, I’d read a book of quotes. Therefore, I’m refusing to be clever and inspired. You’re welcome. —Me
It’s over now. I’m all better. I’m sure of it, but I still haven’t gotten my period. It’s been five years. The absence is confusing be- cause I let it all go.
I eat a normal meal today—pretty much the same as everyone else at my table. It’s Christmas, which means I prepare the annual breakfast of scratch-made pancakes and French toast for my kids and ex-husband, who joins our gift-opening, game-playing, eating extravaganza. (We’re clearly enlightened in our conscious uncoupling.) I do it, though. I eat right along with them. Well, I skip the pancakes, and my French toast isn’t the same as what I serve my little nuggets (and their not-so-little or nuggety father). I use two pieces of my own “special” 35-calorie bread, and I don’t soak it in the egg, cinnamon, and almond-milk mixture I use to drench theirs. I melt fresh blueberries for my syrup. The rest of the table prefers the thick, sugary maple goo that I’ve ensured is organic and sustainably sourced.
I’m probably at about 150 calories in total, unless I measured the blueberries wrong. I don’t use every morsel in the measuring cup, so it should be OK. Maybe some of the calories even melt away when it turns to sauce. That has to be the case, and I sigh in relief seeing all ofthe sticky purple residue in the bowl. Maybe it’s only 125 calories, unless the bread calculation is off. It does feel a bit on the thick side.
How are calories measured? Machine? Human? Surely every batch can’t be the same. Some slices are thicker than others. What if the person deciding the calorie count of my bread hates their job and would rather be playing Dungeons & Dragons? Isn’t it possible their distraction could lead to a grossmiscalculation? I haven’t really thought about it before, but it hits me now that calorie counts on packages are estimates not to be trusted.
I’ll bump my count back up to 150. Actually, I’d better make it 200, just in case.
I’m calm. Unusually calm. I clear my head of thoughts about the bread sitting in my gut or how much sweetness lies within those blueberries as I sit with my family. At least it’s natural sugar.
I play games with my son after the gluttonous meal. I focus on him. That’s what matters. That’s what I want to think about, not fucking blueberries. So, yeah. I think it’s over. I’m better.
How did I get so lost? Will it help me if I can pinpoint the mo- ment? If I backtrack through all of the steps that brought me here, will I discover the exact second I switched from someone who be- longs in the world to someone who no longer belongs anywhere?
CHAPTER 1
MY SISTER IS MORE INTERESTING THAN YOURS
I guess I’ll start by giving you a bit of my history. It’s logical and something that a person whose brain is working properly does. Mine functions better now. I’m sure of it. I have nutrients cours- ing through my bodythese days, so yeah, I’m thinking clearly now. I’ll prove it.
I was born and raised in St. Paul, Minnesota. We were stretched financially, but I had everything I needed and wanted. My sole sibling, Heather, is four years older than me, and I idolized her even if I didn’t want to be her. I liked being my own person and felt the pull of anything that quietly made me unique. I’ve always been painfully shy with a strong aversion to any kind of discord, continuously straddling my need to behave perfectly—to keep everyone around me happy—and my inescapable desire for the unusual.
Perhaps that’s how it started, when the push and pull of my dueling self led me not only to stand apart but to begin the process of standing alone. Everything is a series of choices, right? What choices brought me to a place of such extreme contradiction that held me captive for far too long? I became completely controlled and disciplined, but because of that I ultimately had zero control of the chaos spinning maniacally throughout my brain and body. I was trapped in a bleeding chamber of my own manifestation, powerless to stop controlling every minor detail of my life, which proves I really had no control.
Growing up, Heather was almost magical to me. I envied her naturally tiny stature and itty-bitty features set off by enormous brown eyes. To this day, she possesses a kind of Jedi/voodoo power that allows her to manifest exactly what she wants to hap- pen, regardless of circumstances. She’s quick witted, charismatic, and intelligent, with an undeniable ability to draw people in, putting even the most difficult personalities under her spell. Her advantageous abilities took her on some very interesting adven- tures, often resulting in exhilarated 2:00 a.m. phone calls.
“Ray,” she’d say, using the name both she and Dad call me, “I’m on Alice Cooper’s tour bus,” or, “Ray,are you up? I’m coming home shortly and I really need to talk.”
“Guess who called and asked me out tonight?” she said once, giving me the name of a guitarist who may or may not have been part of an iconic band known for rocking and rolling all night. “I don’t think he’s very cute, though.”
I was seventeen and tired, but I never wanted to be the wet noodle suffocating her girlish excitement.Heather’s voice crackled with energy while I attempted to wrap my head around what she was saying in order to provide the level-headed advice she always sought but likely wouldn’t heed. Never mind my lack of experi- ence with life in general, let alone how to navigate situations with legendary, aging music makers and their backstage habits. Still, I wanted to help. I was happy to jump into this enticing otherworld until it became an almost nightly adventure, and I began to prefer sleep over celebrity tales. By that point, shecould’ve detailed an evening with John Lennon reincarnated, and I wouldn’t have wanted to hear about it until the next day.
Awakened by the gentle pressure of petite hands shaking my
arm one morning around 4:00 a.m., I opened my eyes with reluc- tance. She was highly charged.
“Ray! You’ll never guess who I was with!” She gave me the name of a rocker who may or may not be one half of a famously dueling brother combo. By now, I was used to it, but her next words weren’t the usual details of her night. “We got into a car accident!”
“Are you OK?” I bolted upright, fear deleting any remaining hints of grogginess.
“Yes, I’m fine, but he left his handprints in the dust on my dash- board. He got out and yelled at the guy that hit my car. He’s so hot!”
“Why was he in your car? Did he get hurt?”
She knelt down next to me, breathless. “No, he’s fine. I was driving him back to his hotel when we got hit.He’s so hot. It’s kind of an odd shape, though.” She crinkled her dainty nose.
“What’s an odd shape . . . ?” My voice trailed off as understanding began to take hold. I saw she was wearing my favorite black dress, and there was a full Monica Lewinsky situation clearly visible. “Is that my dress? And is that . . . ?” My voice rose in panic.
“I’m sorry. I borrowed it. I’ll wash it.” She beamed.
“Are you serious?!” I whisper-shouted to avoid waking our par- ents. She grinned from ear to ear with wild eyes.
“Good Lord. Keep it.” I laid back down onto my futon (I was in a phase during which I felt imprisoned by such conventions as bed frames), and rolled over.
My basic understanding of how Heather became part of the entertainment world is as follows:
• Get job at Suncoast Video store (much cooler than Blockbuster).
• Be delightful and charming.
• Get job at local college radio station with no experience due to said charm.
• Deploy magic powers to snag interviews with musicians who don’t usually do interviews.
• Get job for well-known record label that includes entertaining talent when they come Minneapolis.
• Continue to be magnetic.
• Loosely date a variety of rock stars who are so well known she really needs to write her own book.
I might be missing a few steps here, but that’s how I saw it. At times, she brought me deeper into her shimmering world.
“Ray, I have to work a Hootie & the Blowfish and Toad the Wet Sprocket show at First Ave tonight and it might be boring, but I think I can get you in. Want to come?” Of course, I jumped at the chance. Even though I was much more of an R.E.M., Bjork, and Nine Inch Nails kind of girl, the experience of observing back- stage life was worth it. In the end, we had fun, but she was right— kind of boring.
