Chapter 1: Bleedin'

Leigh

All I see is red.

Once upon a time I wanted a fairytale. I wanted love you could talk about with a glow in your eyes from a kiss on your lips lingering long after given. I thought I had that love. I thought I had that life.

I was wrong.

Keith and I bought this house in '94. I told him that I wanted something old, something that had seen a lot and survived to tell the tale, and we found it here. Three families came before us, and from what I heard, they were all happy. I thought we would be too. I never expected this.

"Get up Leigh. You're bleedin' all over the carpet."

I wish I could. But nothing moves except my eyes. Our den has French windows and I'm not that far from them. I can see the lawn. We need to cut the grass.

"Get up!" Keith's eyes flash like lightening in a California rain storm. Who was it that sang it never rains in Southern California? They should hang 'round my neighborhood for a while—or least 'round my husband.

"Get up!"

"I heard you the first time." I say, my voice so muffled that it sounds like, "I 'eard ooo uh firs' ime." My left side is buried in carpet. Blood flows from somewhere on it. I used to love that Keith was strong, that his muscles bulged like marbles in a drawstring bag. Now I'm afraid of that strength, afraid of marble muscles 'cause they steamroll me.

"I don't have time for this." He mutters, stepping back and turning around with his arms folded. It's like I'm a child that he's lost patience with. I feel bad for myself, but mostly for this carpet. We got such a good deal on it.

"Don't leave me." I murmur, but he doesn't notice and I am not surprised. I might as well be wrapped in foam down here, for all the reception I get. I watch him walk away. He's wearing the oxfords I got him last Christmas.

How did we get here?

Wait.

Scratch that.

It's just me now.

So how did I get here?

I left home in '80. I remember the day I did it because it was the day Mike won his first Grammy. We were both unhappy.

"One Grammy," He muttered, over and over to himself, "One Grammy." He was so offended by the oversight that he'd stayed home, preferring to watch the ceremony on television. I was at a loss for words of comfort, so I left that to our sisters, who sat on either side of him, curled up like kittens.

"It doesn't matter." Toya chirped, grazing his hand with her freshly painted nails, "You know how good it is." Fourteen-year-old Janet, more attuned to his ambition, whispered, "You'll show them. You'll blow them away next time."

He clung to that, "Yeah. Next time. They can't ignore me then. They won't be able to. I'll show them."

"That's right," She kissed his cheek, "That's right."

Far off in my corner seat, I shot him a sympathetic smile. He didn't seem to notice it as he stared straight ahead, presumably into the future, into that next time where no one could trump him. I wasn't offended. I felt I understood his frustration with the unfair world, at least partially. After all, our father had just given me an ultimatum: either I enter the industry, which I'd successfully avoided up till now, or I get out of his house. And though I had no money and nowhere else to go, there was no way he was getting me in a studio and everybody knew it, which meant that I had to start packing.

No one could avoid a stage like me. When I was fourteen and our variety show aired, I got out of singing solo by pushing Rebbie forward, and after it was over, Joseph went back to focusing on the boys and ignoring me, so everything was cool. Unfortunately (for him), they finally let him go; so he did a one-eighty and started bugging his daughters. Of course, I could understand why he wanted Janet; she'd been out there since age seven, so by '80 she was a pro. People thought of her as 'Penny,' their little sister, or 'Charlene,' the cute girl next door. She was relatable, marketable, and had a real shot. And even Toy, though she started at twenty, had a one-up on me: she'd modeled in New York, performed on American Bandstand, and put out a few records. Why our father couldn't just stick with them was anybody's guess, but it didn't matter—eventually I decided I didn't need to find out.

I was eighteen. That was old enough to do my own thing. If Joseph wanted to kick me out, I could do him one better. I'd leave.

So I did.

Michael said they looked for me.

"Everywhere," He said, "Janet and I, we looked everywhere. She was crying, Toy was crying, and I wanted to." He said that Mother called everyone we knew, asking if I'd come to them or said where I was going, and that she almost lost her head. I felt bad about that, honest, but I did leave a note, and I told them I'd be fine. They could've taken me seriously, just that once.

But you know what? No one ever takes me seriously. Joseph didn't when I said I wanted out of the business. Keith didn't in our marriage. Our children, grown up and sweet as can be, didn't, and still don't take me seriously as their mother. When they at home, I'd tell them to clean their rooms, eat their vegetables, wake up for school, and they'd just laugh. Even now, if I give them advice, they ignore it. Only Keith can get them to do anything. But that's okay. I've always been, as Joseph says, a little soft, and I can take a whole lot, even from people I love.

Lord knows if I get bothered enough, I'll get myself away.

"Run off with me? That's what you want?" Keith asked on the day that I left home, and I said 'yes.' He'd talked about us running away together before, like lots of teenagers do, but never really meant it. He actually had his heart set on the army, and jumping from girl to girl like a respectable playboy. In that moment, I knew I was taking that from him.

It felt wonderful.

"You know, I never thought you'd come," He said, actin' all fake-excited just like a boyfriend should, "We'll have fun Lee, I promise. We'll make a couple of babies, travel the world, and meet all kinds of people."

Sounded like show business to me, but I told him, "I'd like that." I believed it when I said it.

Now I know I lied.

We did the military thing until Keith was honorably discharged in '93. I'd had our two babies in the early eighties—Kendra in '82, and Maxwell in '84—and they were tired of moving around, so we looked for a house and found this one, this one right here. We made it a home, you know? Made it the kind of home I always wanted, where you saw everybody every day, and no one had to jet off to do this or that. It's what I wished for as child but never got it. Oh well. The point is, we were happy for a while. A good while. We did love each other, Keith and I; it just went sour one day like the milk does when you leave it too long.

I think it started a few years back. Little by little, I lost Keith to work, to dreams, and even to our children.

Don't get me wrong, I love my babies with all my heart and I don't blame them for anything, but they don't belong to me. They were always their Daddy's, and he was always theirs. So I lost him to them like I lost him to everything else. Once they were gone, he just got tired of me. And you know, when somebody gets tired of you, you can't do nothin' right.

The way you breathe ain't right. The way you talk ain't right. The way you walk ain't right. You ain't right. And if that's not enough, the world ain't right.

So that's how I got here. With my grass not cut and my fancy French windows.

Bleedin' on the carpet.

Janet

"Leigh-bop!" I sing to the answering machine, using the goofy nickname I gave my sis as a kid, "Why aren't you pickin' up, boo?" I've called her I-don't-know-how-many times, but she's still not answering and that's just not like her. Usually she's always home, always by the phone, and always doing nothing—or so she says, but I know better. She's like me. She downplays whatever she's got going on 'cause she's too embarrassed to focus on herself, and I get that. I really do.

I just think she does it too much.

Lately I've been worried about my sister. We talk but she sounds far away. I ask her how she's doing and she changes the subject. I bring up Keith and she gets all tense. But hey, that could be the problem right there. Keith.

I can't stand him.

Keith Hunter is one of those slick, closet-morons that pretend they give a f—wait, let me start over, I told myself I'd cut back on the swearing—that pretend they love you when they only love themselves. Still though, Leigh married him—and let him drag her all over the freaking globe 'till he was discharged. Then she convinced him that they should live in California, although he doesn't like our family and hates being close by.

Too bad for him, though.

He couldn't keep her from us forever.

I've tried calling Leigh again, and while I wait for her to pick up, I glance around my home. I almost feel like a stranger here since I've been away so long (and since I'm by myself). But that's what touring does. It makes home a little foreign and 'away' a bit like home, which is kind of good and kind of bad depending on how you look it. Of course, I could say that about a lot of things in my life. All for You, for example,had a great run, and it was fun to do—but these past few years have been crazy. For one thing, I had to cancel about 30 dates 'cause of 9-11, and I had to deal with my whiny ex-husband.

But you know what? Now I sound whiny. So let me back up, take a breath, and redo this: I know I'm not perfect, I know I've made my share of mistakes, and I know that I can be difficult. But I swear, I swear that I don't deserve what René is doing to me now. I don't deserve to have my name trashed, to be demonized as manipulative and image-obsessed, especially not by someone I loved with all my heart. It just . . . hurts. I mean, I was hoping that we could end on good terms, but oh well. It's done now. I'm a firm believer in leaving the past in the past and moving on with my life. So I'll forget about it, put on some Jill Scott, turn up the heat so I can get comfortable, and talk to someone I love.

Like Leigh.

I won't lie; I had a hard time when she first left. Besides that, she didn't call for a good six months, and when she finally did get around to it, it was from a payphone in Nebraska. My first thought was: "I'm so glad she's okay." My second: "Why on earth is she in Nebraska?" I remember begging her to come home, to be with me, Mike, Randy, Toy, and Mother. I didn't know that Joseph had threatened to kick her out.

Still, though, it's not like she had to leave.

One of our brothers would've taken her in, or Rebbie, and when I got old enough I would've helped; but I can see why she didn't ask. I know it's not easy to be in this family, and sometimes you have to get away, have to run to keep from getting trapped. I understand 'cause that's what I tried to do with James. But here's the thing: when what you're runnin' to is worse than what you're runnin' from, you need a new direction.

Michael

I hate it when Janet cries. I mean, I hate it when any girl cries, but there's something about my little sister crying that really gets me, really hurts my heart. I keep asking her to calm down and speak slowly, but it's no use. All I can pick out is 'Leigh.' But what about Leigh?

"Is she hurt?"

She's still sobbing and the words are incomprehensible, but I'm pretty sure that's a 'yes.'

"Where are you guys?"

Just barely, I make out "St. John's." That's a hospital.

Without thinking, I blurt, "Wait, Leigh's in the hospital? Why?"

And abruptly, Dunk stops crying and lets out a snarl.

"Keith, Michael," She says to me, "Keith."

Okay. So maybe this is wrong. But I don't like my brother-in-law.

"I see," I'm biting my lip now, trying to fight the anger, "Don't you worry, okay? I'm coming."