(Disclaimer: I do not own any recognizable characters, places, things, or songs mentioned in this story unless otherwise noted. Please excuse any inaccuracies regarding surfing or mental health facilities of the 1970s.)
"Betty said she prayed today, for the sky to blow away;
Or maybe stay; she wasn't sure.
For when she thought of summer rain,
Calling for her mind again,
She lost the pain… and stayed for more.
Going to see the river man;
Going to tell him all I can,
About the ban, on feeling free.
If he tells me all he knows,
About the way his river flows;
I don't suppose, it's meant for me."
-River Man, Nick Drake
Chapter 9: Comfortably Numb
Another month had elapsed since the girls' competition. They were deep into August, and Jezebel was working at the shop more often, trying to pay Skip back for a new surfboard she'd 'borrowed', then dashed in the boneyard whilst attempting to carve a massive wave one morning. He'd lent her an old one for practice, not a brand-new one from the shop, until she paid off the one she'd broken. The board she'd gotten for her birthday was reserved for competition surfing. Skip had been attempting to better-connect with his daughter over the past month, making sure she ate regularly and took care of herself.
Her eating habits really hadn't changed, but she got increasingly better at hiding her vices. And since she didn't live at home, it was impossible for him to be around consistently. Bret tried to keep an eye on her as well, but whenever he mentioned eating, she became quiet and sullen, resisting his attempts at adult conversation about the matter. He did, however, make sure to supervise as she ate at least a small breakfast every day, to avoid any mishaps like the one that happened in Long Beach. What he didn't realize was as soon as she left his sight, she no longer ate much of anything the rest of the day. Jez contentedly worked alongside Nathan, who was genuinely trying to help improve the place; he did mostly cleaning, and she often took on counter-duty, though she did occasionally apprentice board-shape with one of the shop guys. The skateboards, well, those were more or less pouring a combination of resins into a mold and then waiting nowadays, which definitely didn't interest her.
The boys on the skate team were starting to explode in popularity. Everywhere they went, they were recognized and treated like minor celebrities, some more – and in bigger ways – than others. Jezebel never skated in team competitions. Sure, she had a t-shirt, but that meant nothing, as she also had a Surf Competition shirt, too. Besides, Jez wouldn't be allowed to compete with the boys, since competitions were separated by gender like surfing. She knew Peggy skated in the womens' events, but they didn't interest her as much as the mens' competitions where there were many more competitors. She didn't push the subject; skating was more a fun pastime for her rather than an actual sport in which she wished to compete. Surfing was her gig, for better or worse.
The boys began to subtly pull in different respective directions; they weren't yet separating out into the world or getting snapped up by commercial companies, but things were definitely changing. It must have been something in the air. Tony was up to his usual antics, and local newscasters were always popping stories into the news pertaining to his escapades and hot-headed run-ins with other skaters on the scene. Stacy was beginning to commercialize, becoming interested in designing boards and taking up filming. He was constantly following them around with an amateur video camera. Jay continued being his usual self, rarely taking things seriously when it came to money.
He wasn't in the game for all that extraneous stuff. His gimmick lately was performing – when he did actually perform – shirtless, barefoot, wearing a trilby hat he'd stolen from some old man a long time ago. And he had a reputation (which preceded him) for stalking off mid-run when he'd flubbed a move, bailing completely. It was becoming increasingly hard to find him in the areas he usually inhabited.
Somewhere between July and mid-August, Jezebel attended two team competitions and was included in group promotional events. She competed in another women's surf competition, with a small group of her boys and Peggy cheering her on, but nowhere near the group she'd had along for the ride at Long Beach. It just wasn't possible anymore with everyone scattering to the four winds. She'd placed low in her category, in slot five, for which did not receive a trophy or prize. After all, you couldn't win them all. The state of her body was to the point she would no longer be seen without a wet-suit; a body-bearing swimsuit didn't exactly provide great coverage for her current eating habits, but then again, neither did the wet-suit. It provided only a minimal benefit to that problem, but at least it kept her warmer. Mostly, she just tried not to think about it. She was continually complimented on her slight frame at these competitions, which only served to fuel the dysmorphic fire slowly overtaking her.
This morning, another bright-and-sunny California Saturday, she was prepared to compete in the 14-to-17 category for this particular competition. Bret was working, so he didn't accompany her to this event. She awoke bright and early, sorted out her clothing situation, and skateboarded over to Zephyr, where Stecyk picked her up alongside Stacy who had taken the day off from promoting Gordon & Smith to attend and keep her company. Skip was working at the shop that weekend, trying to make some extra money. She was relatively nervous to compete this time around, since it would be the first competition she attended sans Tony, who usually served as her personal cheerleader and somewhat-coach but was too busy currently to bother concerning himself with a junior surf competition.
Stecyk's primary plan for the day was to capture some promotional shots of Jezebel using one of Skip's newest surf designs. Once they arrived and settled in, the competition began like any other. Jezebel waited for the little girls to finish their heat, where girls from ten to thirteen would compete in the Wahine Surf competition. She smiled thinking back on herself at ten or eleven, less than five years ago, and shook her head at the thought of being out there at that age. She would've been terrified to compete then. She tended to have low confidence when she was younger, which mostly stemmed from Skip's being frequently AWOL. But these girls looked like they thoroughly enjoyed themselves. To them, it wasn't a job; it was something they truly enjoyed doing for the sake of doing it. The trophies or prize money were nice perks, if they happened to win. While Jez did love it, she couldn't help but think the only reason she continued to surf in any more capacity than for her own enjoyment was to keep Jeff and Skip's business afloat and Skip's reputation circulating, as he could be less-than-friendly and chase people away.
While they waited, Craig walked them down the beach a short way from the competition to snap some promotional shots of Jezebel as she prepared to follow the little kids alongside the median age group who were slated to perform next. "Stand there with your board – okay good, yeah… now put your board in the sand, one hand on it, niiice… now lean away, yeah, you don't care, cool-like… half-smile, aaaand… got it!" Stecyk directed, and she listened to his directions and complied. This routine felt sickly-commercial as her stomach loudly growled.
Thoughts ran through her head like lightning at 10,000 miles per hour as she stood next to Stacy in the sand, warming up with her wet-suit sleeves tied around her. Her tank top shifted as she pulled some stretches and fidgeted around, trying to release as much built-up pressure energy as she could before she had to channel it into a diamond-tipped, focused beam of concentration in the ocean. The waves here at Dana Point were beginning to get a little choppy, she observed as she stilled for a moment to listen for the announcement that her group should come to the front to prepare for their run. She fiddled with the piece of paper pinned to her suit; it read '39'. One moment, she was playing with the edges of the number, and the next, she was on the ground, unconscious. Stacy felt as if he was living in the twilight zone when he looked over expecting to see her there, but found no one all over again. Why did it always have to be him?
"Shit, not again… what is it with this girl…" he nudged Craig to alert him to the new problem.
"Goddamnit, she's gonna give Skipper a heart attack one day…" he replied. "Well, you get her to the truck, and I'll inform the staff that she, uh, won't be competing today. Take my camera; I got the board. I'll come up with some excuse about… I dunno, lady problems or some shit. Meet you at the truck in 10," Stecyk replied, propping the girl up under her arms and hoisting her into Stacy's arms.
Her eyes fluttered open as Stacy struggled back to the car laden down with his own skateboard, the older man's camera, the keys to the truck, and Jezebel. "What happened?" She whispered barely audibly enough for Stacy to hear over the crashing waves, bringing her arms around his neck so he didn't have to do all the work.
"You collapsed, again. C'mon, we're taking you home and Skip can get you to the hospital," he answered with a sigh, lowering her onto the bench seat of the rusty old truck.
"Shit, I'm fine – I swear… do not tell Skip about this. I will murder," she answered with a dark look from underneath her hair, which she was just letting down out of its ponytail.
"Jezebel. You need help. And we're going to get you help. This isn't healthy; you're an athlete. Athletes have to eat, every day, normal amounts of food each time, at least three times a day if not more. Our metabolisms are higher than normal; we need more calories, not less," Stacy explained matter-of-factly as he observed Stecyk amble over and drop her board into the bed of the truck before climbing into the driver's seat. "I feel like we've talked about this before."
"Stacy. I am not a child, and you are not my doctor. Or my parent. I do not need you looking out for me or giving me a lecture on the importance of nutrition. I am fine. I will be fine. And I am not going to any hospital," she answered, her voice laced with icy determination.
"Well as your most esteemed honorary older brother, I regret to inform you that you really don't have a choice, and that's final." Stacy crossed his arms across his chest and glared out the window, not willing to continue the argument. Stecyk glanced over at Stacy with a sigh, luckily without being detected by either party.
About half-way home, Craig pulled off the highway, stopped the truck, and popped into a convenience store. He reemerged relatively quickly, giving some excuse about having needed to use the 'facilities'; after that, he picked up the drive again. Once they rounded near their old neighborhood on the 405, however, they flew by the exit like nothing. She watched as the street signs flew by, headed the wrong direction.
"Uh, Uncle C, ya passed it…" Jezebel pointed out uneasily as the scenery whipped past them. "'S going on?" she added suspiciously, glancing back and forth between him and Stacy. Then, her eyes widened in cold realization. "Oh fuck no, you are not!" She shouted, leaning hard to the right against Stacy in a feeble and crazed attempt to jiggle open the passenger door whilst the vehicle continued moving.
"Shit! What are you doing, girl?" Stacy smacked her hand gently away as she reached across his lap; he was practically shouting now. "This is happening, whether you want it or not!"
"I hate this. I will not forgive you for this," she intoned sullenly, staring down at her bony knees through her wet-suit.
"You say that now. And I'm sure you probably think so, too. But I'm hoping one day, you'll realize you should thank me, not hold a grudge," Stacy retorted half-heartedly, attempting to place a reassuring hand on her arm, but she wrenched herself away in the most bratty way she could muster. She crossed her arms tightly across her body and brooded.
"You let 'im do WHAT?" Jay practically screamed at Stacy, grabbing his older friend and attempting to shake him by the elbows but failing miserably due to the fact that he was about half a foot shorter.
"Jay, we had to – she's got to get better, she's killing herself," Stacy answered exasperatedly, grasping Jay's upper arms and holding onto them to steady him and keep him from doing something stupid – or worse, running away from the situation. "Calm down, JB. 'Sides, how long've you known about this and not said anything? What if she died, huh? Do you ever think things through, or do you just do and say the very first thing that comes into your brain?"
"There's nothing wrong with her!" He snarled, continuing. "And I done a lot of great things doing 'n saying the 'first thing that comes to my mind', Stacy," he mocked. "Bel's a big girl, she doesn't need you to take care-a her! It didn't seem that bad – I mean, I skip breakfast all the time. But they're gonna kill her in there, she doesn't belong with those crazies," Jay continued his retort whilst attempting to wriggle out of his friend's unrelenting grasp.
"God, everyone keeps saying that! She's a 15-year-old girl, shit's sake, ever think maybe it's okay to accept help when you need it? You just don't get it. Look, you're young. I seen mental illness; my uncle had problems with depression for years. There's nothing wrong with asking for help. And the people in there are not murderers," Stacy paused to consider his next words. "Both of you will see someday, this is the best possible outcome. For now, go blow off some steam. She'll be fine. It's not prison, it's a hospital, they'll help her heal. And don't call people 'crazies'. It's. Not. Nice!" Stacy lectured, punctuating his last words slowly before releasing Jay as he turned to walk away.
The teen grabbed some pebbles from the street and began flinging them at the back of Stacy's head one-by-one, missing miserably as he retreated. Stacy ignored him as best he could, until he heard the telltale noise of Jay's wheels rolling aggressively in the opposite direction. Stacy shook his head at Jay's childish retaliation as he wandered home on-foot. He'd just planned on telling him as a courtesy, so he didn't have to find out through the rumor mill. Once school rolled around for him again, he'd surely hear from the other kids when they figured out Jezebel was missing. At that gas station half-way back from the competition, Stecyk had called Skip and explained what was happening. In reality, it was Skip who asked Craig to take care of Jezebel, as he couldn't stand to be the one to take her to the hospital himself. She'd been admitted to the hospital and given IV fluids for a while, until she was considered back to a stable weight, then she'd be transferred to an inpatient psychiatric ward if deemed necessary for further therapy or placed in an outreach facility.
Jay let out a frustrated scream as he skated hard and fast toward the beach. Feeling himself overheat, he screeched to a halt, ripping off his navy competition shirt which felt suddenly like it was strangling him and tossing it onto the ground in the middle of the street, before skating off again. Though he couldn't exactly afford to be losing his shirts all over the place, at that moment, he didn't care. His feet hit the sand of the beach, and he hopped along to the edge of the water comically whilst struggling to pull off his shoes; then, he ran straight out into the waters of the Cove, pants and all, leaving his shoes, socks, and board forgotten on the sand a safe distance from the water. He dove head-first into the waves, blowing an intense amount of water out through his nose as his head popped out of the choppy surf; the Cove was deserted this time of night. It wasn't yet dark, and the waves weren't all that high anymore; just rough and fast. He dove under again, gliding through the water a few more moments before paddling himself to shore, feeling refreshed but still angrier than a lobster in a restaurant tank. Anyone else would've been beaten to pieces by the rough, unrelenting waters by this point, but not him. He thrived in this environment. This was his true home.
He climbed out of the surf and settled on the sand for a moment, getting yellowy-tan flecks of crushed shell and rock everywhere on his jeans. Reaching down to roll up his pantlegs, he grabbed his shoes and tied the laces together, tossing them over his shoulder as he rose, and left his socks abandoned on the beach. He walked to the asphalt parking lot and dropped his board, skating around the lot a bit, pulling off various tricks as he went. He bent low to the ground, turning with his face mere inches from the pavement, before righting himself and heading for home. He supposed he should tell his mother about Jezebel, whom she had always told him to take care of, and how she was going to be in treatment. He stopped before he entered in a feeble attempt to get the sand off, but it clung to his wet clothes still.
"Oh baby, I'm so sorry. I thought she looked thinner. But she's sick, y'know, and maybe this's what she needs," Philaine soothed, pulling him into a tight, mama-bear hug, oblivious to the freezing-cold water dripping from his hair and pants. "You can't take care of her all the time; sometimes, we gotta let the profess-i-o-nales do their jobs. I know what I said when you were little, but sometimes we just aren't enough. C'mere, I made Italian for dinner."
In the background, a record played quietly on his mother's beloved, old turntable. It was 'Day is Done', a melancholy Nick Drake tune with a lilting melody. His mother loved the guy, and Jay had grown used to listening to this particular record over the past few years.
"When the day is done;
Down to earth then sinks the sun,
Along with everything that was lost and won,
When the day is done.
When the day is done,
Hope so much your race will be all run.
Then you find you jumped the gun,
Have to go back where you begun,
When the day is done."
"I know ma, I just can't take it. Stacy said something to me earlier, he said, 'how long've you known about this, Jay', like it was my fault, like I pushed 'er or didn't do enough or somethin', I dunno," he replied earnestly, following his mother into the kitchen.
"When the night is cold,
Some get by, but some get old;
Just to show life's not made of gold,
When the night is cold.
When the bird has flown,
Got no-one to call your own;
No place to call your home,
Now the bird has flown."
"Jayboy, none of this's your fault. Stacy's just worried. Bella's just as much Stacy's little sister as yours. He wants what's best for her, they're good people." His mother ruffled his hair and handed him some ravioli on a plate. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and went to sit in the living room, but didn't really feel like eating. Philaine shook her head as she watched him chug down the alcoholic beverage and wondered if she should really let him get away with so much. Then again, it wasn't like she'd be able to control him anyway. She never could. She watched as he pushed some food uncharacteristically around the plate with his fork, barely eating any. He chugged another beer, then a third. How was he going to get by for months without his best friend and little sister?
"When the game's been fought,
Newspaper blown across the court,
Lost much sooner than you would have thought,
Now the game's been fought.
When the party's through,
Seems so very sad for you;
Didn't do the things you meant to do,
Now there's no time to start anew,
Now the party's through."
Philaine gazed toward the dingy apartment window mournfully, crushed she couldn't do more to help these two kids of hers – shield them from the world and shelter them from all its crushing intricacies. She hadn't had the easiest life herself, and that was most definitely not something she imagined for her son. She felt somehow she was already losing the battle to protect him, but he couldn't be allowed to see it.
"When the day is done,
Down to earth then sinks the sun;
Along with everything that was lost and won,
When the day is done."
Skip paced back and forth in the house, corded phone in-hand as he tried to contact Bret. On the fifth try, the young man answered the phone, having just dashed in from work. "'Lo?" he asked breathlessly, practically wheezing into the receiver.
"Yeah, uh, where the hell you been, man? Yer girl's being admitted to the hospital, she collapsed at her surf meet – on land, thank Jesus – and I told 'em to keep and treat 'er. Thought you should know, cuz well, ya know I like ya, man. Ya usually take good care-a my girl, well 'cept in this particular situation…" Skip's tone seemed more 'concerned' than usual, and that was how Bret knew this was serious.
"Oh God, I'm sorry Skip, I been at work all day! Shit… been trying to get her to eat enough, but she don't like to listen, y'know. Man, I feel like shit knowing I did nothing…" Bret trailed, anxiety rising in his voice.
"Listen li'l bro, sorry. Sorry. I'm not blaming you, our girl's gonna be alriiight; she's gotta be alright. She's just going through a rough patch, we gotta be there to support 'er. I'll figure out visiting hours, we can see 'er together. Hang in there, man," Skip's concern shifted from that of his daughter to her boyfriend, not having considered how he sounded until Bret seemed so stressed about the whole thing.
"Okay, I'll talk to you tomorrow man. I'll call after I get off work." Bret sat on the couch dumbstruck, dropping his head into his hands and rubbing deeply over his eye sockets to help himself think. He hadn't even had a chance to take off his boots. He trudged into the bedroom to find a different shirt, and randomly picked a black-and-white rugby-striped tee. He sighed, glancing around the room at all the traces Jezebel lived there with him. Memories of the recent past clouded his head, and he physically shoved them away, stomping out of the bedroom.
Sighing, an idea populated in his head, and he stood to pick up the phone once more. Dialing Tony's number, he waited as the phone rang three, four, five, six times, then again a couple more times, and a small voice finally piped up on the other end, the tinny, far-away sound enhanced by the loud music blaring from elsewhere in the house. "Hello, Alva residence? Hullo?"
It definitely wasn't Tony, and it didn't sound like his sister Kathy, either.
"Hey! Hey, I'm shouting… I mean, I'm looking for Tony?" He yelled into the line, hoping he could be heard above the din.
"Uh yeaaah, for once actually… hold on… lemme find him."
The phone beeped a couple times as he was put on hold. A few moments later, the music was back. "Hey yeah, s'Tony, what gives?"
"Tony! Hey man, you having a party or something?" Bret asked.
"Yeah! It's bitchin' as always, you should come down!" Tony said loudly, his voice obviously affected by heavy alcohol consumption.
"Uh, yeah, I just might…" he replied.
"Right on, I'll see ya in a bit then Bret-bro! No need to bring anything, plenty-a beer here!" Tony answered, dropping the receiver out of his hand on accident. Someone else picked it up and Bret heard a loud 'oh, shit' before someone else put the phone back in the cradle.
"Wait!" He shouted just a few seconds late, trying to catch the second person's attention before the phone was replaced, "I got something to… to tell you…" he trailed to no-one, putting his phone back down on the cradle too. He slumped back onto the couch he'd shared with Jezebel just the night before, laughing and watching television. "Shit. I can't do this, I'm going. Fuck," he said aloud to himself and the empty room, standing to shake everything off.
Checking himself in the bathroom mirror, he splashed some water on his face, added more pomade and a haze of hairspray to his Mohawk, and grabbed his leather jacket from the coat rack, which toppled to the ground when he grabbed it. He heard it clatter to the floor, but ignored it as he put some cat food down, checked Xochitl's water, and stormed out with a final, frame-rattling slam of the front door with his skateboard in one hand. He thundered down the outside steps, his free hand jammed into his jacket pocket.