18 - The Message

“Amber waves of grain, Petra.  What kind of crap did you pull to get three of us backstage?”  Delaney demanded with a nasty glare, using a rag to wipe wet clay from her hands before scratching her nose. 

She wasn’t sure why she bothered.  She’d spent the last two days with it streaked on her face and the oversized flannel shirt she used for a smock.  Even piling all the hair on top of her head didn’t save her from brushing crusty, dried flecks out of it at night, but she considered it worth the sacrifice. 

Pottery and sculpting had been her escape since going under house arrest. 

Beating the life out of and into the cold lump of clay was a good emotional outlet for her multiple sources of recent frustration, but it was only effective in short stretches.  Nothing was going to keep her from needing a convalescence to recuperate from this convalescence, and a therapist would probably be better, since her sister was driving her legitimately insane.

Petra wouldn’t let her leave the apartment.  She sat on the closed toilet while Delaney showered.  She cooked food Delaney didn’t want to eat.   She shoved pain medicine at her when the light coming in the window got too bright.  She made sure Delaney didn’t sleep too long or in the wrong position, and then stared at her pupils to make sure they were roughly the same size. 

In short, Petra was smothering her.  

When their mother left an hour ago, she'd given Delaney a look of sympathy.  Even Fiona Giannopoulos wasn't having any luck getting Petra to back off and go home to her teenage sons.  The headstrong twin staunchly refused, saying they were perfectly capable of fixing a meal and getting themselves to school.  

The self-appointed keeper/caregiver wasn’t going anyplace until after the follow-up appointment with the doctor on Monday. 

Delaney understood that this was her sister’s way of showing love and concern, but Petra needed to come up with a less invasive way.  In the few scarce moments when she wasn’t being an overbearing nursemaid, she incessantly talked about the handful of events that Delaney couldn’t remember. 

Okay, so she supposedly delivered flowers to Jon Bon Jovi, who then came into the shop with his son for more flowers and invited them to soundcheck.  Soundcheck and the concert had turned into a party afterward, where they met his other son and Jon presented her with autographed maracas.  All that sounded cool, but as far as Delaney was concerned, it was just a story about someone else’s life. 

Looking at selfies of them with members of Bon Jovi and the picture where she kissed the freeping maracas on a deserted stage didn’t make it any more concrete.  The autographed ones were on the bedroom bookcase right now, but they may as well have come from eBay for all the sentimental value they held. 

Rather than striking any chords, Petra’s continual recounting of it just made Delaney feel… icky. 

She had no recollection nor the ability to summon one on demand, and each time she came up blank, it disappointed Petra to the very core of her soul.  Delaney loathed being responsible for the sadness that frequently haunted her twin’s eyes.  She’d much rather fight with her.

“Jon invited us to soundcheck in Montreal tomorrow night,” Petra serenely reiterated, without a hint of melancholy as she made herself comfortable in the kitchen chair she’d hauled into the room earlier in the week.  That was as good as inviting the fight. 

“You mean you badgered him into an invitation.”  Throwing the rag aside, she rose from her potter’s wheel with a huff and only a faint sense of dizziness.  It was an improvement from yesterday.  “You can’t do this stuff, Petra!  Stop trying to force my memory and stop annoying celebrities to do it!  I’m not going.”

Stubborn arms folded over Petra’s chest in a formidable underscore to her sharp glare.  Her crossed leg bounced with agitation that Delaney ignored as she set today’s piece onto a shelf.  The spare bedroom turned art studio would become a sparring ring soon, but in the meantime, she'd clean the mud from the wheel. 

“You’re fucking going, Delaney.  This is not up for debate.  Do you realize how I humiliated myself to get you this opportunity?”

“Oh, for the love of macaroni!”  Wet clay flew from the scraper into the trash with a soggy ‘plop’.  “Does everything have to be about you?”

Petra’s mouth drew into the tight pucker that only appeared when she was either livid or got her feelings hurt.  Delaney suspected it might be both, but she was tired of being treated like an idiotic invalid, so Petra was just going to have to be butt-hurt.

“I refuse to engage in this discussion,” the injured party declared haughtily.  “What I find fascinating is that Jon knew this was going to present an issue for you.  I actually have a message from him for this very moment.”

After another soggy ‘plop’ of clay into the trash, she twisted to shoot an ugly scowl at her sister.  This was extreme, even for Petra.  She’d never resorted to fabricating lies to get her way.

“Just stop.”

“No, I will not!”  Petra’s legs uncrossed so that she could stomp her sandal on the floor.  “Jon Bon Jovi knows you well e-fucking-nough that he predicted you would act like a petulant child and sent a message in anticipation of it, Delaney!  Jesus Christ, you think I could make this shit up?  He said if you got belligerent to go drag out the maracas he gave you.” 

Using  a damp cloth to wipe down the wheel, Delaney tossed it into the rag bag with a snort.  “Uh-huh.  And what am I supposed to do with them?  Summon the spirit of complacence?  Or, let me guess… have faith?  You’re so full of it.”

“No, you contrary ass!” Petra leapt from her seat, size-five feet sounding twice that as she stalked from the room, returning only seconds later to launch the maracas at Delaney’s chest.  “Look at the tape around the handles!  He said one piece is newer than the rest.  There’s something under it he wants you ‘to have and to use’.”

Feeling just the tiniest bit lightheaded, Delaney sank onto her potter’s stool and lowered the maracas so that she could take a closer look.  All of the black electrical tape that bound the two shakers together was creased to match the criss-crossed angles, wrapping horizontally around the handles.  There was only one segment that went the other direction. 

On the back side of the instrument and about three-inches long, this piece was different.  It didn’t wrap horizontally but ran vertically along the length of the wooden handle. 

“Well, did you find it?”

“Yes.”  Delaney threw her indignant sister a dirty look and thumbed the tape’s edge until it began rolling away from the rest.  When there was enough to pinch between her fingertips, she began what she thought would be the slow and tedious process of peeling it away.  That was not the case.  Only about half an inch had to be rolled back before huge hunk tape lifted easily and left a matching half-inch attached at the other end. 

Freeing it, she found a slender rectangle of paper stuck in the center.  Its lack of adhesive was responsible for the easy release of tape, and she set the maracas in her lap to read what was scribbled there.

“What is it?”

“It” was a New York phone number.  Delaney could only presume that the owner of that phone number was the same person who’d scratched the initials “JBJ” at the end.

“His phone number.”

“Good.  Call and tell him you’re too stupid to accept his very gracious invitation, because I’m done here.”

More loud footsteps accompanied Petra’s departure, and only seconds later, the front door slammed.  It was too much to hope that her sister was gone for good.  She’d probably only gone back to Starbucks, but Delaney was glad for the quiet as she bit her lip and studied the ten-digits that supposedly belonged to a rock star. 

I have no memories of ever talking to him.  What do I say?  How do I say it?  What the freep have I already said?

This was one area in which Petra had been oddly quiet.  Delaney was clueless about any verbal exchanges with Jon, and her sister only repeated the same catchphrase over and over.  “I don’t know every word he spoke to you, and I can’t recite what I do know.  Suffice it to say he’s one of the nicest men I’ve ever met.”

That’s what Delaney was working with as she deliberated cold-calling one of People Magazine’s sexiest men alive.  

Her conclusion?  She was screwed.  

Delaney Gardener might be screwed, but she wasn’t a fraidy cat and reached into the back pocket of her shorts.  The phone she sought wasn’t there, so she sighed and made a methodical round of her two-bedroom apartment until she found it on the toilet tank.  By that time, she was back to deliberating the wisdom of calling an unknown number and expecting Jon Bon Jovi to answer. 

“Freep it,” she muttered, settling into the chair beside the kitchen window.  The evening sunshine had reached an angle that made her squint, so she closed her eyes and basked in the warmth of it while listening to the phone ring.

“Hello?”

One word couldn’t provide a conclusive identity of the man who’d answered.  There was little or no background noise to provide a clue, and she was left with a choice of speaking or hanging up like a pre-teen girl.

Caller ID made the decision for her.

“Hi.  I had a message to call this number.”

“Yeah?” She would swear there was a smile in the voice.  “Who gave you the message?”

“Petra.”

“Then that means it was actually from me.  Hi, Delaney.  How are ya?”

The more words he used, the more she could convince herself that she recognized the guy on the other end of this call.  Still, she didn’t want to come across like a fool.

“Is this Jon?”

“Yeah.”  There was no mistaking the smile this time.  “It’s Jon.  I guess your sister told you about Montreal?”

“She’s told me what’s convenient for her.  Can’t say that I believe it’s the whole story.”

“How about I tell you the story from my side?”

“Sure.”

Propping one elbow on the table, she used the palm of that hand as a cradle for her chin.  So far, he seemed very non-celebrity-ish.  He was probably that way in the hospital the other day, but there was too much going on to recall specifics. 

“Petra suggested that a Bon Jovi replay might help recover your memory, and we talked very… openly about her motives.  Damn, your sister has a mouth on her.”

Delaney grinned at the sparrow that landed on the windowsill.  It sounded like he’d been treated to a rare public appearance of Petra instead of the Congressman’s Wife, and she was kind of sorry to have a missed it. 

“She’s fluent in F words.”

“Among others,” came his laughed agreement.  “Listen, the details don’t matter.  If I didn’t want you there, nothing she said could’ve made a difference.  So grab her and your friend, come to Montreal and have a little fun.  Alright?”

Petra was right.  She’d be stupid to refuse his invitation, and if the fandom found out about it, they’d probably show up at her doorstep in droves with torches and pitchforks.  Her main reason for refusing in the first place was because of Petra’s interference, and if Jon said it wasn’t interference, then there was really no reason to deny herself a second chance at a first memory. 

Only things were never quite that simple in Delaney’s mind.

“Can I ask you something?”

There were mumbled voices in the periphery before things went quiet again and he returned to extend a reluctant, “I guess.”

“Did Petra go through your wife to get to you on this?”

The kids playing out in front of the building could give Jon a lesson in genuine laughter.  His was anything but before declaring, “Dorothea has nothing to do with it.”

“So you really are the nicest man ever.”

“Delaney,” he sighed, sounding more frustrated than nice.  “I realize you don’t remember it, but this makes the second time you’ve said that to me.  My answer now is the same as it was then –  I’m not as nice as you want to think.”

“What makes you say that?”

This marked the first time Delaney was sincerely remorseful at having lost last week.  What had she missed?  What had she missed with him?  Was she always going to be a step behind when it came to Jon, and why did it matter so much that she was?

Because two minutes into a phone call, you already know you like him.

She was suddenly incapable of sitting still and bounced to her feet.  It wasn’t the brightest idea ever, but she put a hand on the table to steady herself until the dizziness faded and was able to turn on the kettle for a cup of tea while he chuckled more believably than the last time. 

“You’re nothing if not consistent Delaney…  Hey.  What the hell is your last name, anyway?”

“Gardener.”

“Delaney Gardener the florist?  No shit?” 

“That’s what’s on my driver’s license,” she confirmed, keeping it brief as she stood on tiptoe to hook the handle of her favorite mug and drag it from the cabinet.  He didn’t need to know that her profession was a stab at her ex-husband.  “Now what makes you say you’re not nice?”

“Never said I wasn’t nice.  Just not as nice as you wanna think.  So gimme the verdict on Montreal.  Yay or nay?”

He wasn’t very forthcoming, Delaney noticed.  Then again, they weren’t friends – she didn’t think.  From his perspective, she was probably just another fan getting another VIP experience.  The thought made her frown at the tea bag that went into the mug, but it didn’t stop her from accepting.

“Yay, with extra y’s, an exclamation point and a lot of gratitude thrown on top.  I still think you’re nicer than you want to believe.”

The line went still enough for her to hear Jon breathing in the empty seconds before he quietly predicted, “Someday, you’ll think back on this and realize how very wrong you are.  See you tomorrow, Delaney.”