Sing Me to Sleep

by Angela Morrison

  I could find a blind high school to volunteer at and make a play for love now. Or maybe I’ll just go home, slam a sandwich, and hit the road so I’m not late for practice.

  I drive myself these days. Mom always hated the drive—had to leave work early every Tuesday. The whole thing was doable when Bliss practiced once a week, but last fall, Terri, our director, decided she wanted to try to get us into the Choral Olympics this year and bumped up the practices to twice a week. Mom decided my driving skills were excellent and bought me an old Ford so I could drive myself. At least the orange isn’t off-the-lot bright. Looks like a dying pumpkin. Perfect to join my ugly stepsister gig. I named her Jeannette, nice and lovely so her feelings don’t get hurt. Misery does love company. Look at Scott and me.

  Slushy sleet chases me all the way through Detroit. I’m way late. I hate March weather. Spring around here is dark, cold, and nasty. Gray rotting snowbanks that hang on as long as they can. Sleet and ice instead of pure-white winter snow.

  Traffic is a mess tonight, and poor old Jeannette is gutless. Everybody cuts us off. I don’t ever dare try that. This is Detroit. I may be ugly, but I still want to live to sing another song.

  I finally shake free of metro traffic and zoom into sleepy Ann Arbor, upscale university town, dozing on the banks of a quiet creek. The stone church we sing in is as old as the town. I slip into the sanctuary halfway through their warm-up.

  No problem. I’m already hot. I played our practice playlist the whole drive down. Sang through the drills. All the songs. I downloaded all the parts, not just my alto. I love the soprano solo in this gospel piece we used for our Choral Olympics audition—“Take Me Home.” I cranked Jeannette’s dying CD player until the speakers were popping and sang the solo. I was a total star in the car.

  I love it when we get to sing gospel stuff. None of us in Bliss are purist enough to prefer the classical religious pieces. We all beg Terri for more Broadway. That’s the best stuff to sing. Most of the girls get pumped over the stupid pop pieces Terri throws in to keep the audiences happy. I admit I have my favorite contemporary divas packed in my iPod—who doesn’t? But when I’m performing, I want more than that. I want the music to have heart and soul, desolation and joy—some meaning, for gosh sake. It’s so hard to find anything that means anything.

  Terri’s kind of delusional with the whole Choral Olympics thing. There’s no way we’re going to get an invitation. We nailed the classical test-piece when we recorded it for our audition recording, but “Take Me Home” is challenging. Even the alto is incredible to sing—all that great stuff about the sweet, sweet River Jordan. There’s this huge climax with everyone singing something else in kind of a round. Celebration and heartbreak all at the same time. Awesome. But Meadow, our soprano soloist, choked. She’s had lessons her whole life, makes the most of her breathy, pop voice. But “Take Me Home” needs power. And emotion. Terri kept trying to get Meadow to go there, take after take, until we were all angry and exhausted. Meadow was in tears and then she just disappeared. Terri had to splice something together to send to the committee.

  The Choral Olympics are in Lausanne, Switzerland, this July. Terri keeps putting pictures of the Alps and lakes and castles and Swiss houses overflowing with red geraniums and flags up on the Web site. It’s going to be such a downer when we get the news. We should hear back any day now. We also applied to this festival out near Vancouver, Canada. Got into that easy. Better than nothing.

  But not Switzerland.

  I grab a spot at the end of the row of standing altos and fall into the rhythm of oohing and aahing, rolling higher and higher. Good. I missed the zings.

  “That’s great, girls. Keep singing. Ah-ah-ah-ah-ahhhh.” The piano hits the chord for the next note up. “Everyone turn to the right. Shoulder rub the girl in front of you.”

  I pivot and start massaging Sarah, the girl beside me. She has for-real, not dyed, blonde hair that hangs down her back. Silky straight. Never a hint of a wave. Hair I’d kill for. No one is behind me.

  Terri steps up and rubs my neck and shoulders. “I’m glad you made it. I was getting worried about you.”

  “Kind of nasty out.”

  “You be careful, Beth.”

  “In a few more weeks, it’ll be just rain.”

  “And you can drive through anything.”

  “Almost.” Mom wouldn’t let me come a couple of times last month. Bad storms. Tonight is nothing.

  “It may ice up later.” I know I can stay at her place. She offers it all the time. I’ve never been brave enough to take her up on it. “Eees, girls. And I don’t want to hear any witches.” The choir keeps moving up the scale.

  “I’ve got new tires. The interstate should be fine.”

  Terri squeezes my shoulders one last time and bellows, “Now everybody—left.” She runs around the room to massage the girl on the other end of the line.

  We sing through a couple of numbers. The first is one of those old pop song fillers. Boring. There’s this one girls’ choir in Europe that sings crazy rock songs. Sounds dumb, but they are a huge hit. I’d like to try one of those pieces.

  The second song is our third competition piece. It features the altos, and we’re all over it—carry the whole performance.

  “Excellent.” Terri beams over at my section. “That was gorgeous, altos. Good work.” She puts her hand up to her forehead. “Sopranos. You’re not getting the harmony right.”

  “I don’t know why we have to sing harmony.” Meet Meadow. Beautiful. Dainty. Skin so perfect you want to touch it to see if it’s frosted on. Big dark eyes, long black lashes, perfectly plucked brows, pink lips—always glossy. Long, perfectly layered, and highlighted blonde hair. Never even a hint of black roots. A bustline her mom paid for. Size-one designer jeans. Heels all the time. Diva attitude. “First sopranos are supposed to sing the melody.”

  Terri is way too patient with her. “The altos carry the melody through that section. It’s only eight bars. Let’s go over it again.” Meadow’s parents are loaded. They keep Bliss afloat. Terri has to be patient.

  “I’m sick of this song.” Meadow flips through the sheet music in her open binder.

  Terri bites her lower lip. “Would you like to practice ‘Take Me Home’?”

  An approving murmur runs through the girls. We all get off on that song, and we haven’t sung it since our disaster recording session. It gets the blood flowing. We stomp and clap. Some of us get rhythm instruments and drums. One girl even gets to shout, “Hallelujah.” It’s as wild as a competitive all-girls choir gets.

  Meadow shakes her head, retreats as fast as she can. “That’s okay. We should get this right first.”

  I have to agree with Meadow. Singing “Take Me Home” now would be torture. We won’t get into the Choral Olympics, and Meadow can’t sing the song. It’s weird Terri brought it up.

  Terri pushes her hair off her high forehead. What I would give for her cheekbones. “If that’s what you want. When we perform this at the Choral Olympics, your part must be perfect.” She smiles to encourage Meadow. “The altos are doing a fantastic job. The sopranos need to catch up.”

  “Okay, girls.” Terri enlarges her smile to include the remaining sopranos. “Let’s run that part.”

  It’s an easy descant. I can sing it in my sleep. They finally get it. Fall apart when we put it together. Sopranos can be so annoying. We sing that part twenty times. Just those eight boring bars. Now they can do it in their sleep.

  “Excellent work.” Terri gets the sopranos high-fiving each other.

  I can’t figure out why Terri keeps Meadow as soloist. Who cares if Meadow’s mom promised a check for new costumes if we make it to the Choral Olympics? Our old ponchos are still serviceable. Mine’s kind of short, but I stand in the back—way in the back. I glance around at the other girls. I guess Meadow is the best we have.

  “Take a minute, girls.” Terri glances at Meadow. “We’re going to practice ‘Take Me Home’ next.” She sounds
kind of defeated. She knows how bad Meadow sings this song. She knows the Choral Olympics is a fantasy, but she can’t let the girls see. I see. I’m wearing mega-thick glasses. I see everything.

  I grab my water bottle, drain it halfway, stretch, and sink on the hardwood pew behind me. We practice standing in the church pews. There are eighty of us, so we don’t fit in their choir seats on the stand. The sanctuary is full of warm old wood. Great acoustics. Perfect for “Take Me Home.” Especially when we all get rocking—until Meadow gets lost, and we have to go back to the top.

  Terri squats in front of Meadow, giving her a pep talk. Then she’s on her feet again. “Leah, pass out the instruments.” Leah’s the choir president. Nice girl. Her straight long hair is dark brown, almost black. Matches her eyelashes and ballerina face.

  Buzzing confusion. The jingle of the triangle. Someone hits her drum. Sarah shoves the croaking shaker that I play into my hand.

  Terri glares us into silence, raises her hands, and cues the pianist. The notes climb through the air, engulfing us all in the mournful sound. Eighty pairs of eyes glue to Terri’s every move.

  Now it’s Meadow’s solo opening. Terri dips her hand to bring her in and—

  Nothing.

  Meadow runs across the front of the room and out the side door.

  “Leah, go after her.”

  Terri folds her arms, studies the music, tapping her foot.

  I stand frozen with the rest of the choir. No one even rattles a shaker.

  Leah returns with her doll-like face in a frazzle. “She’s throwing up.”

  Groans and confusion. Everyone is disappointed. Terri seems really upset.

  My hand creeps into the air. I’m not quite sure what it’s doing up there. I’ve never raised my hand in choir before.

  “Beth?”

  I swallow hard and look around at my altos for strength. I can do this. I can. “I know the solo.” My mumble is lost in the shuffle of the girls around me.

  “Quiet, girls. What was that?”

  Now everyone is listening, staring, questioning. I force myself to stand up straight, pull my shoulders back for courage, and take a deep breath. “I can sing it if you want. Meadow’s part. So we can practice.”

  “You’re an alto.”

  “I know the solo.”

  “You can hit those notes?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Sure.” A smile breaks free from the churning pit of cowardice in my stomach.

  Terri looks at me for a beat, smiles back. “Okay, then. Thank you, Beth.”

  Sarah takes my instrument. Her eyes are big—scared for me.

  I close mine. Breathe deep. In and out. I’m in the car. Alone. That’s not our pianist delicately caressing the opening from the black and whites. It’s just the practice CD. I’ve done this a hundred times.

  It’s my cue, and I’m there, singing—I take me down to the river,

  The sweet, sweet river Jordan,

  Stare across the muddy water

  And long for the other side.

  My voice flows pure and strong through the andante opening solo verse. I get a chorus all to myself, slow and mournful—lots of great runs.

  Take me home, sweet, sweet Jesus.

  And wrap me in your bosom,

  Where my master cannot find me.

  Lord, I long for the other side.

  Then the choir comes in singing, Take me home, take me home, take me home. My voice soars high above them.

  Verse two. No solo in this section. I open my eyes and sing with the altos.

  I lay me down by the river,

  The sweet, sweet river Jordan,

  My fingers touch the muddy water.

  There’s rich grass on the other side.

  The tempo ramps up on the chorus. Things start to get wild. We’re all singing full power, top of our voices, shaking the windowpanes.

  Oh, the glory of that bright day

  When I cross the river Jordan.

  The angels playing banjo

  And the good Lord on the fiddle.

  Terri’s smiling all over herself—having the time of her life. She’s jumping up and down, getting everybody into it. Oh, crap, it’s me again. High and fluid over the harmonic jumble of the rest of the choir.

  There’s me pappy and me mammy—

  Singing like they’ve never sung before—

  I keep my eyes open this time. The choir sings back to me. I let loose, throw in another run at the end of the line.

  The dark boy who said he loved me

  And fills my dreams at night.

  The place is rocking, building to the climax. All of us, full-throated, sing, Take me home, take me home, take me home, like we never have before. Electric sound magic. Music flying everywhere. The key changes, and we’re into the bridge.

  But my babe, Lord, my sweet child, who wears my master’s eyes,

  Wraps his sweet, sweet fingers so tight around my heart—

  Each section wanders down its own tangled pathway until we wind back together into a perfect sustained chord: HE AIN’T READY FOR JORDAN!

  We’re one with that tragic girl so far away in time and place. A bunch of white girls finding their souls.

  Terri hushes us into reverence for the next line. A mother breathes because she must.

  Like my mom who kept going when my dad bolted. For me. She kept breathing, kept working—too wounded to ever love again. And I stare at her with his eyes, his height, his face, his zits. Every day, I’m there to remind her. The Beast incarnate.

  The girls around me chant, Pulls me back, pulls me back, pulls me back.

  My voice finds its way out of the harmony. Alone. One small slave girl looking for salvation.

  I bid farewell to the river,

  The sweet, sweet river Jordan,

  Turn my back on the muddy water,

  Close my eyes to that other side.

  I don’t know how I keep singing the final chorus. I’m so full of her agony. My voice breaks when I sing, Where my master cannot find me. I get control, and the choir joins me in a harmonious, heart-throbbing, Lord, I long for the other side.

  I’m weeping on that last note. So is Terri. So are Sarah and the girl in front of me. All the girls are wiping their eyes. The final piano chord dies away. Terri drops her hands.

  Pandemonium.

  Everybody crowds around me. Hugging me. Pulling on my arms. Patting my back. They’re all cheering. For me. Massively unprecedented emotion surges heat into my face.

  Terri plows through the choir and hurls her tiny self at my giant frame. “Why didn’t you tell me you can sing like that?”

  I sniff and wipe my eyes. “I’m an alto.”

  That’s when I see her. Meadow. Standing in the doorway. Her face matches the pale-green walls behind her in the hall. “What’s going on?”

  chapter 3

  TAKE TWO

  What Terri says next bounces in my brain but doesn’t get through to me.

  She clears her throat and says it again, “Meadow, I’m giving Beth the solo in ‘Take Me Home.’”

  Me? The soloist? For real? My legs go jelly. I sink onto the pew behind me.

  “But it’s mine.” Meadow clutches the wood doorframe. “You can’t give it to that—”

  Hideous beast. She doesn’t need to say it. Everyone knows what she means.

  “You can’t dash out to the bathroom when we’re onstage in Lausanne.”

  “It’s not like I do it on purpose.”

  “We need a soloist for this piece, hon. You’ve tried and tried. I know that. Beth can do it. You heard her, didn’t you?”

  Meadow stamps her foot. “Give it up, Terri. We’re not going to be on the stage in Lausanne.”

  Her cold words blanket the room, silence the glow of the music we welded in the midst of the night. We all remember the pathetic recording we submitted.

  I can’t believe Terri is finally getting real with Meadow. I’m sick of all the babying, but Meadow is right. It’
s way too late. It doesn’t matter now. I guess we’ll need this piece in Vancouver. Singing is singing. I’ll be the soloist there. Maybe that trip won’t be up to Meadow’s standards, and she’ll skip the whole thing.

  Meadow glares at me. “I say we dump that stupid piece. I hate it.”

  “Unfortunately, Meadow, I think we’ll still need it.” Terri stands up on a pew so all the girls can hear her. “You’re not going to believe this, ladies.”

  “Quiet, everybody.” Leah hops on the bench and waves her hands around. “Listen. Shush.”

  “I heard from the Choral Olympics yesterday.”

  Dead silence.

  Please let it be yes. Please let it be yes. Please let it be yes.

  “The MP3 file I sent them with our audition performance was corrupted. They need a new copy. I was going to resend the recording we made back in January, but I got busy today. Put it off.”

  Somebody squeals. And then another girl. It’s getting noisy. Terri has to yell to be heard. “How about we get together on Saturday and record this again—with Beth.”

  “Hold on.” It’s Meadow. She looks even worse than before. “Who is going to tell my mother?”

  I float home. Float into the house. Float up to Mom’s room, totally amped that I can give her this. A fragment of “Take Me Home” runs through my head when I knock on her door. A mother breathes because she must. That’s my mom. For sure. She breathes for me.

  I tell her, and she flips out. “You’re going to be the soloist?”

  “Yeah. Me. And Terri’s pretty sure that with me singing, we’ll get in. You should have heard me tonight.” I drop onto her bed and curl up on my side next to her, still trying to believe it’s true.