I played my tingly keyboard and watched him move around the stage with such energy. You could feel the energy coming off of him. He grabbed the microphone and kind of screeched into it, his voice rising with the guitars, and the counterpoint was my keyboard. I watched him, trying not to feel any fear. He was fine. It was a show, and you had to be up and energetic for a show.
Afterward, in the backroom, he guzzled beers. The rest of the band did, too, and I had a glass of red wine. I didn't want to be like a mother hen but I didn't know if Craig should be drinking so much, what with his meds and all. I saw him taking the meds, he took them every night, he took a few in the morning, but they didn't seem to be working. I felt the vibrations of fear, like someone walking on loose boards. It felt like it did in grade 11, the palpable energy and the talking, talking, talking. I sipped my wine, watched the others sip their beers, could see everyone starting to relax. Everyone except Craig. He was as energetic as ever.
In the hotel that we shared I listened as best I could to his stream of ideas, and watched him hop from one seat to the next. He sat at the little table near the window, his legs bouncing up and down, his fingertips tapping the surface of the table. Then he stood up, paced, sat on the edge of the bed, went over to the mirror and fixed his hair, went into the bathroom, still talking, talking. I couldn't hear him through the closed bathroom door and with the water running but it didn't matter. I wasn't following him anyway.
"Craig," I said when he came out of the bathroom and gazed at his reflection again. He kept talking.
"Craig," I said again, getting tired just watching him.
"Craig!"
"What?" He whirled around, just like he did that time in Simpson's study period, and I blinked back tears. Something was so wrong. And we were in Europe, very far from the comforting parental know how of my mom and Joey. We were on our own.
"Have you been taking your meds?" I hated to ask him this because I knew it bugged him, and I'd seen him take them. But I didn't know what else to say or do. He was manic as hell.
"Yeah," he said, sounding wounded, looking at me like a little boy in trouble, "you've seen me,"
"I know, okay, I have seen you. But something's wrong, Craig. You're, you're not acting right,"
"I'm fine, Ashley, okay! Just, just get off my back! I don't know what you want from me! I kicked cocaine, I went to fucking rehab, that hellhole. It was a locked rehab, it was like prison! But I went and I did it and I've been on my meds for months! Every single day I take them exactly when I'm supposed to so why are you bugging me about this!"
He was scary. There was this jagged aura around him, and as I sat on the edge of the bed I watched him pick up a glass and shatter it against the wall. I jumped, and watched him warily. I remembered all too well when he beat up Joey, so out of control and crying and not meaning to. What if he did the same thing with me? After all, I confronted him this time with his behavior like Joey had back then. I backed up on the bed, watching him, hoping he wouldn't turn all this manic rage against me.
He turned toward me and I saw the anger in his eyes, the out of control manic behavior. Behind him I saw the dent in the wall from the glass, the broken glass glittering in the carpet. My eyes were wide with fear, and all these crazy thoughts were going through my head. I thought of Terry and Rick, I thought of Craig with his father, cowering in the basement darkroom as his father came at him. If he chose to come at me what chance did I have? He was bigger and stronger, and he was manic. His meds weren't working. I thought of how violence was such a part of us, always controlled, always just under the surface. There were plenty of times when I'd just wanted to punch someone, to kick them, hurt them. But I didn't because I was in control. Craig wasn't.
He came toward me and shoved me, and I felt myself slam into the wall. I closed my eyes, bracing myself for whatever else he might do, but he didn't do anything. I heard the hotel door slam and when I opened my eyes he was gone.
Shaking, trying not to cry, I dialed Joey's number from memory, not even thinking about what time it was there. Three hours earlier or later, or maybe six hours. All I knew was that it was late here, and getting later.
"Hello?" Joey's cheerful voice after the third ring. He sounded awake enough, it must be a decent hour there.
"Joey, it's Ashley," I said, and even over all the miles of ocean, the sea creatures swimming lazily between us, and without words I could feel his brow start to bend in worry.
"Ashley, how's Craig?"
"Uh, that's why I'm calling. Not good. He's manic, he's acting like he's off his meds but I've seen him take them every time he's supposed to. But Joey, it's just like it was back in grade 11. He's out of control,"
There was a pause while Joey gathered his thoughts, and I listened to the silence and the crackles between us, and I bit my lip and wondered where Craig was.
"Okay. Sometimes the meds, they lose their effectiveness. Maybe he's tolerating that dose, and it isn't helping anymore. He'll need to get the meds adjusted. I'll call his psychiatrist and see what she can do, and maybe she can contact a psychiatrist out there. Don't worry, Ashley. We'll get it taken care of. I'll call you back when I get it all worked out. Is he there? Can I talk to him?"
I took a deep shuddery breath, rubbed my sore arm and shoulder from being slammed into the wall, and felt a tear slip down my cheek.
"He took off. He's gone. I don't know where he is,"
And I couldn't help it, I guess. I started crying for real, right there in a European hotel room at two in the morning, and I could see Joey's concerned and confused expression clear as day in my mind's eye.