Page 149 of Toxic Wishes

It’s been forty-five minutes, and Cliff and I still couldn’t agree on a tempo to Toxic Wishes, trying to match the beats with which the lyrics would fit perfectly.

“Blake would have wanted the songs as close to the original as possible. And before we present it to those big-time Hollywood assholes that will slice and dice the shit out of my son’s album, I want to make sure it's so perfectly presentable they would take a shot in their foot before even considering that.”

I blinked at him. He always got so defensive, like I didn’t know how important this was. I’m the one who came to him asking for help but didn’t know anything about making beats, so I let his little outbursts slide for the most part.

I told Cliff the big news tonight, so I think he’s even more on edge than I am about making this album perfect. Mel’s dad knew a lot of producers and big-time recording studios, so she agreed to help me get this in the hands of the right people when we were finished.

“I still think the falsetto beat fits with the chorus since it’s more of an uplifted one. This was a song about being high, and the choice of words Blake used, I know he would have wanted an upbeat, not a dark depressing one.” I tell Cliff as he continues to mess with the tunes on the Digital Audio Workstation. I couldn’t believe he bought a whole software system on top of the mixing table to create all these beats, mixing and mastering the tempos, but he said it helped him stay sober and single, occupying his time since he worked on it day and night. Once we recorded my voice singing the lyrics, all I had to do was trust Cliff to get a song done, and so far, he hasn’t disappointed me in this journey one bit.

My stomach growled, and I was thankful Cliff couldn't hear it with all the noise going on, but as if he was in sync with my stomach, someone knocked at the bedroom door simultaneously.

“Oh, perfect,” Cliff gets up and struts over to open the door.

“Good evening. Ti Amo’s delivery.”

“Ah, thank you. Here you go.” Ciff says, handing him some cash.

The guy looks down at it and sees his tip. “Nice, thanks, man.” He waves goodbye with the cash in his hand.

“No problem.” Cliff kicks the door behind him and places the food on the small kitchen table in the left-hand corner of the room. The food smelled delicious. Which only made my stomach growl more. But I’ve gotten used to ignoring it. It's the scariest part of having an eating disorder or any addiction. It’s incredible how it’s so easy to relapse or go back to those toxic habits you once had or never truly left.

“Mmm,” he says, holding up the container that looks full of grease and unhealthy oils.

“Here,” he says, grabbing another one out of the bag. “I got you something, too.”

“Thank you, but I’m fine.”

“Eat it. You look like you lost five pounds just sitting here. And It’s not bad. I got you the grilled chicken with broccoli and fettuccine alfredo. So it’s very portion-controlled.”

Cliff said stuff like that after we discovered the song Blake wrote about pretty girls, this society, and how eating disorders were like margaritas. It tasted sweet while it went down your throat, but the result was never good over time.”

As he put the container in front of me, I naturally took it and looked down at it before opening it. I could eat the whole thing and throw it up afterward. I don't want to disappoint him, but at the same time, I don’t want to eat this, and if I take a couple of bites, it will only draw more attention to myself.

I decided to take the easy route and tell him I would eat it later.

“I’ll eat it when I get home.”

“At least eat the chicken or broccoli. Humor me, won’t ya.”

I sighed deeply before placing the container on my lap and opening the plastic silverware that went along with it. I could play this game I’ve perfected and pretend I was eating a bunch by chewing for a long time while continuing a conversation I didn’t want to continue.

“So that’s how you two met, isn’t it?” Cliff asks with a mouthful.

“Excuse me?”

“The hospital. You were in there about to die from lack of eating, and he was in there and almost killed himself from his addiction to drugs.”

I slowly peeled the container open. Cliff was not lying about his lack of empathy regarding sensitive topics and his need to learn how to communicate gently.

“Precisely, yes.”

“Do you think we could have done anything?” His question came out fast and cold, like a bullet. I wasn’t expecting it. I stare up at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Like, did we do everything we could to help him?”

His question hits home to me straight through the gut. If my parents, or should I say parent, ever cared enough to ask that, I may shit my pants and think I’d died and gone to heaven.

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