All Our Pretty Songs

that’s final.”

“You’re supposed to be the adult here! You’re supposed to help her!”

“Listen. I was nineteen when I gave birth to you, and I knew I would have to look my own child in the face someday and tell her I wasn’t strong enough to stay sober while I was pregnant, that I couldn’t tell her who her father was because I didn’t even know. I am doing the best I goddamn can, all right? And I might have made some mistakes with you, and god knows I made some mistakes with Maia, but if you think I am going to let you relearn every basic lesson I already have committed to memory you have got another think coming. You are not going to Los Angeles, you are not going after some musician” —she says musician like it’s a bad word— “and you are not going to follow Aurora into whatever drugged-out hell she’s headed for. You can’t save her, baby. You can’t. It’s not your job.” The muscles in her cheeks twitch. There’s something she’s not telling me. I think of what Maia said when I saw her after Aurora’s party. You tell Cass I said she can go to hell.

“Why did we really leave Maia’s?”

“I just told you.”

“You didn’t tell me the whole story. Why did you leave Aurora there? Why haven’t you ever gone back? Why don’t you and Maia talk?”

Cass actually flinches. “What did Maia tell you?”

“Nothing. She didn’t tell me anything, because no one tells me a fucking thing. You’re both supposed to be adults, and you act like fucking teenagers. You threw Aurora to the wolves and you won’t even tell me why.”

She looks out the window. Fat raindrops spatter against the glass. The sky is a dull, sullen grey. “I almost killed you,” she says quietly. Her eyes have a bright shimmer of unshed tears. “I almost killed you both. It was after Aurora’s dad died. Things were … bad. I was loaded all the time. There were always people around with more drugs. This scary old guy.”

“Minos.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t remember his name. He was always telling us things. We would see a world we didn’t even know existed. We would be rich. We would be famous. He was right. Aurora’s dad did get famous. And then everything went to shit. I can’t explain to you what it was like. We were so sad, and it was impossible to say no to something that felt that good. You and Aurora didn’t always—we didn’t always—” She’s crying for real now. “We didn’t always take care of you. I don’t know how much you remember. There was one day when I wanted to give the two of you a bath. You know how big that bathtub is in Aurora’s room. Maia came in when I was—I was out. Passed out. You were both in the water. Aurora was under—” She makes a low, awful noise and stops, her shoulders heaving. I wait. “She would have drowned if Maia hadn’t found us. Maia said a lot of things to me that I deserved. That no matter how fucked up she got she would never put either of you in danger. That she always made sure someone was around who could take care of you. It was true back then. You had a nanny. Aurora’s dad’s bandmates. There were a few people who were sober most of the time.” She laughs, bitter. “I mean, there was a fucking bodyguard for a while. It was crazy. We were kids. It was so much money. We had no idea what we were doing. Maia told me to get out of her house before I killed her daughter, so I took you and I left. I knew I had to get sober. It took everything I had. By the time I was clean and realized how bad things had gotten over there, it was too late.”

“What do you mean, it was too late? Why didn’t you do something?”

“I told Aurora she could come live with us. She said she didn’t want to.”

“When was this?”

“Five or six years ago.”

“Jesus, Cass! She was twelve. Of course she didn’t want to come stay with us!”

“I don’t always know what to do,” Cass whispers. “I don’t always do the right thing.”

“Yeah,” I say. “No shit.”

“I loved Maia,” she says. “I loved her. You can’t imagine how much I loved her.”

I think of Cass, reading her tarot cards every morning. I’m asking about Maia. It never changes much. Not asking if Maia would ever get better. Asking if Maia would ever forgive her. So like Cass to leave it up to a deck of cards instead of going up to Maia’s house and asking herself.

“You have no idea what it was like,” Cass says. “All of those people. When I got sober, they acted like I had died. They stopped talking to me. Like I’d been erased. Maia was my best friend, and she wouldn’t even let me in her house.”

We’re silent after that. I put the knife down. “Dinner’s ready,” she says finally. “Why don’t you set the table?”

“I don’t think I’m hungry.” Before she can answer, I go into my room and shut the door.

That night I dream about the forest again. The bare trees clack as if a breeze has caught them, but the air is still. I stand in the same place I always stand, the black river inches from my bare feet, its surface sheened with a nacreous glow. I am looking for something, but I don’t know what it is. I try to turn away from the river and run back down the path, but my feet are rooted to the earth. In this dream I can see the far bank.

On the other side of the river, Jack steps out of the trees. I can’t make out the details of his face. His naked body is gaunt. Even from here I can see the stark lines of his ribs. “You came,” he says, and then he repeats it, and this time it’s Aurora’s voice coming out of his mouth. I try to answer, but my mouth will not move. “You came,” he says a third time, and his hair grows longer and turns white, his body changing, softening into Aurora’s, and they are moving toward me, toward the river, and I want to warn them not to cross the water, tell them to stop, to stay there where it’s safe, but I cannot speak. Blood pools beneath my bare feet. Jack takes one more step toward me, puts one foot in the river, and vanishes without a sound.

I wake up in the dark, gasping, touching my face, putting my fingers in my mouth and working my jaw. I whisper their names aloud in the dark, then reach over and turn on the light. Something in the room has changed, but I don’t know what it is. I sit up in my bed, pulling the blanket tight around my shoulders. The curtains stir slightly and then still, as though a breeze has moved across them, but the window’s shut tight. My closet door is open, my clothes hanging tidily. The slanted top of my drafting table is clean and bare. Crate of records, stereo, candles, lamp. Everything is where it should be. And then I see it. Aurora’s and my map has changed.

It’s not possible, but it’s true. I get out of bed and walk over to the wall. There, tiny but perfectly rendered, is a tall clean-lined house at the edge of a river, with a forest at its back. The river is as black as it is in my dreams, and I think I can see the shiver of a current running through it. Aurora and Jack are standing in front of the house, their backs to the water and to me, their hands clasped. I touch the drawing. Nothing happens. The wall is cool and smooth. “Aurora,” I whisper, and I think for one unreal second that I see the penciled lines of her head move, as though she’s tilting one ear to listen. I look for a long time, but the drawing does not change again.

In the morning I dump my textbooks out of my old army backpack and throw in a clean pair of jeans. Socks, underwear. A T-shirt. My toothbrush. My sketchbook. Brushes and ink and pens. My tarot deck. I add my running shoes and then take them out again. Probably won’t be jogging much where I’m going. Too bad. I hear they’re big on fitness in LA. I tuck one of Cass’s crystals in the front pocket of my jeans for luck. Cass is gone, but she’s made coffee and left me a note. I’m sorry. I love you. Mom. I fold it and put it in my other pocket, next to the poster. I take down the biscuit tin from the shelf in the kitchen where she keeps a baggie of dried-out, ancient weed and a stash of emergency cash. I count the bills. Fifty-six dollars in tens and ones. Enough for a bus ticket. I won’t have to hitch. I pick up the phone and dial Raoul, blowing on my coffee to cool it, poking through the refrigerator for something that looks like breakfast. When he answers, his voice is sleepy, and I can hear someone talking in the room behind him.

“Raoul? I need a favor. I was wondering if you could give me a ride to the bus station.” He clears his throat, says something to the person who’s with him. It’s muffled, as though he’s put one hand over the receiver. Then I hear him sigh.

“Where are you?” he asks.

I wait outside for Raoul’s Volvo, smoking cigarettes on the front stoop of my building until he pulls up and I