A new mix of songs wove itself in and out of my dreams, one that could get the attention of Georgia.
- 27 -
Ray
Seeing the look on Dizzy’s face when I told her about Georgia was like a kick in the gut.
Tossed and turned all night thinking about it. Barely slept. Went through the motions of opening the store, but as soon as Jeremy showed up for his shift in the afternoon, I grabbed my sax and beelined for the subway station. I needed to play.
The grime of the underground never bothered me: the train exhaust that coated the ceiling black, the grit and litter on the tracks. Even the smell disappeared when I started to play. I set my case down as a train rumbled past. I shut my eyes for a second, letting the momentum blow past me. The platform wasn’t too crowded; there’d be room for the notes to fill the air. I clicked the buckle open on my case and pulled out my sax. “Betsy” I named her a long ways back. Not sure why it was Betsy, the name just popped into my head. It’s a good name, though, round and welcoming, the kind of girl you want to hold and squeeze in the back seat of a car.
I licked my lips and ran my tongue over the reed, wetting it. The metal was cold from the walk to the station, but I put one hand around the body and hugged it close to me. The notes down here echoed off the tile walls, filling the station with one big noise. I’d been coming to this spot since I don’t know how long. The cops knew me, they knew I didn’t have a permit to be busking, but they left me alone. Usually, my case wasn’t open. I just wanted to play. Just wanted to feel people walking by, the notes touching them like a long painter’s brush. Colouring them. Maybe they didn’t even realize it, but for the rest of the day, they’d be humming, the forgotten notes lingering in their heads like smoke.
The first note came out; I dropped the bell, letting it swirl so the song began sweet, not abrasive. Betsy knew how to do it. She sauntered; no need to ask for attention. It came her way just by her being her. Girl walked by, all dressed up for work. Her eyes glanced my way, but she was shy. Didn’t want to stop and watch. Not like Dizzy. She’d stare, curious, eyes glued to my hands, checking to see how they moved.
All my troubles poured out of Betsy. I didn’t need to hold them inside; they were spilling out into the air.
I’d play down here for a couple of hours, till my fingers were sore and my lips numb. And then, I’d pack up, head up the stairs to the dusky light of evening and back to the store. Betsy’s notes would stay down here, in the tunnel, mixed with the grit on the ceiling. A little bright spot in all the grey.
Met Barney for a drink after I was done playing in the subway, and by the time I got to the store, it was already closed. Dizzy was at the DJ booth. I watched her through the store window. She was concentrating hard, throwing records down and watching them spin on the turntables.
Slid my key in the lock, kind of nervous. Didn’t want to hear Georgia’s voice coming through the speakers. If Dizzy had defied me, well, I’d have to do something. Didn’t know exactly what, but something.
She was lost in the music and didn’t hear me come in. I stood in the entrance, hanging up my jacket, waiting for her to notice. Hours of playing in the subway left me music-drunk; the notes I’d played collided with what she was spinning, like a shot of rum after a few cold beers. She started a bit when she saw me, wasn’t expecting anyone to show up. She slid the headphones down to her neck. “Where were you?”
I raised the sax case, showing it to her. “Went to play with the guys.”
She tucked a record under the pile in front of her, and right away, I knew it was one of Georgia’s. Didn’t listen to a goddamn word I said. “Want to play me what you’re working on?”
She gave me a look of disgust, the kind only a teenage girl can give. “Not really.”
“We never finished our conversation last night,” I started, not sure what I was going to say.
“Not much to say,” she said without looking up.
“Dizzy,” I said, firmly, waiting until she met my eyes. “I thought it was for the best.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Cuz it’s true.” What choice did I have? Georgia didn’t want us. She hadn’t come back hoping to patch things up. Watching her sit with the kids on the couch ten years ago, I’d thought maybe I could let my hurt go. Maybe, if she really wanted back in our lives, I could make it work. But she’d only come back because of her guilty conscience. I wanted to tell Dizzy all of that. Be easy to put the same hurt and anger in her that I had in me. Get me off the hook, too.
Lou had figured out I wasn’t the bad guy. But not Dizzy. She wanted to believe the best about Georgia. What kind of a dad would I be if I told her the ugly truth about what kind of a person her mother really was? She didn’t need to carry around pain like that. Rejection. There’s enough hate in the world. No point in letting more of it seep into my family.
She screwed up her mouth but didn’t say anything. I wanted to explain to her how I never thought my five-year-old would grow up, start wondering, maybe have an opinion. Now wasn’t the time, it’d be like pouring gasoline on a fire that was already smouldering.
“I want to meet her,” Dizzy said, glaring at me with determination, ready for an argument. “Not just because I want to know her. It’s because I want to know me, too.”
Wasn’t quite following her, but I set my sax case down, figuring she’d explain.
“It’s like —”she took a deep breath “— you’re half of me, but I want to know the other half.”
“You are who you are. Meeting her won’t change that.”
“I know.” Her chin trembled a little. “You and Lou are making me feel like I’m doing something wrong. I want to know her. I want to know who she is. Not the famous person, the real one.”
“Aw, Dizz.” I reached out for her, but she took a step back. Let my hands drop at my side. “I wish things were different, but you know, she traded us in for something else.”
“So I should just give up and pretend that Georgia is nobody to me?”
“Yeah. That’d be best.”
She flicked off the switches on her board, yanked the sheet from under the table, and quickly covered her equipment. “Dizz —” I wanted to smooth things over, but she was mad, shaking her head and glowering at me.
“It’s fine,” she said and stormed upstairs. Course, it wasn’t. Even I knew that when a girl said it was fine, then stomped away, it wasn’t.
I sighed and picked up my sax case, wishing everyone could be as simple as Betsy. Had to face the choice that I’d made all those years ago and figure out a way forward. Just like always, it was me picking up the pieces Georgia left in her wake.
- 28 -
Lou
I spread the brochure from Waverley University out on my bed. I had a small room, smaller than Dizzy’s. It only had enough space for a single bed. Dad figured a guy didn’t need a big room, so he’d stuck me in here when we first moved into the building. But as I’d grown, the room hadn’t. It was a mess, too. Dishes, glasses with dried orange juice on the bottom, clothes and books on the floor and spilling out of drawers. My front window faced the street, and neon signs from the building across the street lit up the walls with pink and yellow.
I studied the brochure. The photos showed kids laughing as they walked to class, talking to a professor, and sitting at desks, laptops in front of them. The logo under the title read “Inspired Learning.” I’d looked up the school online. Student accommodation was reasonable; with a student loan, I could swing it. But, the first step was getting in.
Besides my high school transcript, I had to write five hundred words about who I was.
God. Who was I? I almost started laughing. I don’t know, a kid? Well, I wasn’t technically a kid anymore. I was eighteen. So, not a kid. But an adult? Not sure about that either. I lived at home and worked at my dad’s store. I’d never done anything an adult would do, except drink. Hadn’t voted yet. What did I have going for me that would set me apart fr
om every other kid applying?
Olivia had her ambition. Not everyone wanted to be a doctor. She told me that she’d wanted to be a doctor since she was five years old and set up a hospital for her dolls. Her mom had told her she was playing nurse, but Olivia said she knew then that she didn’t want to be a nurse. Not that there was anything wrong with nurses, but she wanted to be a doctor. She could write about how her mom didn’t believe she could do this and the drive that kept her motivated.
I wasn’t going to throw Dad under the bus. He’d never told me I couldn’t do anything. I think he figured we’d find our way on our own, which I guess I was. He’d never closed any doors, but he hadn’t opened them either. So, what was it that made me, me?
There was one thing. Something that set me apart, that made me memorable. It had shaped who I was in an invisible way. I took a deep breath and shook my head at the irony.
Dear Admissions Director,
I’ve never told anyone this before. Not a living soul. It’s not a lie, and I’m not trying to get unfair treatment, but it is the truth and it is who I am, so that’s why I’ve chosen to write about it. My mother is Georgia Hay. You probably don’t know who that is. But if I told you she changed her name to Georgia Waters after I was born, I’ll bet you do.
At first, I didn’t know what to write for this essay. I live with my dad and my sister. We own a record store called The Vinyl Trap and we live above it. I’ve been surrounded by music my whole life. And I’ve always known who my mother is, even though she chooses to ignore us. Not just ignore us. Ignore means at some point she’d have acknowledged us and can now ignore us. But she never has acknowledged us. My sister and I live in this weird limbo of knowing who our mom is and not knowing her at all. I guess that’s the crux of this whole thing: I’ve spent this much of my life trying to figure out why that is the way it is.
My dad is older than her. He spent his life on the road, never even graduated from high school. They met when she was young and just starting out. Things got rough for them, so she split and didn’t surface in our lives until ten years ago when she came to visit. She promised she’d be back, but then her career took off and she never returned. I guess it was too late to admit she had kids, so we’ve stayed a secret. My sister and I became a hidden piece of her past.
I don’t want you to think I’m some messed up kid, because I’m really not. Sometimes I’m grateful that she let us have a normal life. No paparazzi following us around like other people’s kids, and there was no messy divorce to deal with, but no mom, either. I’ve spent my life wondering why we weren’t good enough.
It’s only been recently that I realized it wasn’t us. It’s her. She’s not brave enough to admit that we all have a past. She’s trapped in a cage that she created, worried that people, her fans, won’t love her if they find out she lied to them. She cares more about people she’s never met than the ones who she gave birth to. It’s taught me one thing: which people matter. I’m lucky to have my dad and my sister. We look out for each other in a way other people wouldn’t understand.
It’s how you go forward from your past that makes you who you are. So, I’m not going to let who my mom is, or the fact that she doesn’t know me from a hole in the wall, determine what I do with my life. I’ve spent a long time waiting for her to return and I’m done waiting.
I guess the best way to prove to Georgia Waters that I matter is to make something of myself. I want to go to Waverley to get an education, to give myself an identity that I can be proud of and that has nothing to do with who my parents are.
Sincerely,
Lou Doucette
I stared at the computer screen. It was the truest thing I’d ever written.
I opened up my email and typed in Olivia’s address. For a second, I felt a flash of guilt. I was sharing my secret with a girl I’d only known a short time. I’d known Jeremy for years and I’d never told him. But it was Olivia I wanted to tell. I wanted her to know all the parts of me, not just the ones I let other people see. I wanted her to be able to dig deep inside me and muck around, to know everything about me. I didn’t want to hide from her. That feeling of being vulnerable wasn’t as scary as I’d thought it would be. It was kind of freeing, actually.
I typed “Please Read” as my subject line. “Hey Liv,” I wrote, “can you read this and let me know what you think? I’ll be awake for a while. — L.” And I attached the letter.
My stomach did a flip, but I sent it anyway. And then, I waited.
- 29 -
Dizzy
I wasn’t in a talking mood as Maya and I walked home after school. “You okay?” Maya asked.
“Just thinking,” I said. Every lamppost and wallboard had been papered with posters for Georgia’s concert. I couldn’t escape her.
“About Georgia?” Maya guessed.
I nodded. “My dad made it impossible for me to ever know her.”
Maya frowned, commiserating with me. “Did you think about the concert? Do you want to go? If anyone should be at that show, it’s you. We could find a way,” Maya said, determined.
“She wouldn’t even know I was in the audience.”
“Unless you got backstage,” Maya suggested.
“Yeah, but that’s not going to happen. Her security must be super tight.”
“Did you check to see how much tickets are going for online?”
I scoffed. “A lot. Double the face value.”
Maya gave a frustrated sigh. “It is so not fair. Maybe she’ll come and see you. She did the last time.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe.” But even if she did, what if Dad turned her away? And if she didn’t come, and the date of the concert arrived, and we hadn’t heard from her, what then? I needed to come up with a Plan B.
When we got close to the store, I noticed a familiar car parked in front of it. Lovingly restored, it was a classic with fins that stuck out on the sides like a shark, and it was painted a deep emerald green. “Donnie’s over,” I said, which despite my bad mood, raised my spirits.
We moved out of the way as two people left, a brown bag under the guy’s arm. The sounds of live music spilled out of the store. “You want to come in?” I asked Maya.
She shook her head. “Grounded. I have to go straight home.” It was like Maya’s usual spunk had been zapped out of her. Even her Muppet coat hung limply on her shoulders.
“Call me later?” I said. “We can do our English homework together.”
She gave a glum nod and turned toward her townhouse as if it were the last walk she’d ever take. When I went into the store, Donnie had his guitar resting on his knees. His eyes were shut so he could feel the music as he played. Long cords stretched on the floor to the speakers behind him. Dad had the sax on his lap and kept licking his lips ready to play.
Jeremy gave me a nod and shuffled over so there was room for me behind the cash desk. A few other customers had stopped browsing to listen to Donnie play. Like Dad, he could play anything he picked up. I dumped my backpack and watched. Dad put the sax to his lips. The notes came out low and mournful at first, wavering. They didn’t even need to look at each other when they played. It was like their instruments talked for them.
When the song ended, everyone clapped. A few people whistled. Donnie and Dad laughed, and Donnie stamped his foot on the ground. Every time they played, it was like a celebration. “Hey there, Dizz!” he called. Donnie and Dad put their instruments back into the cases and unplugged the amp.
“How long have they been playing?” I asked Jeremy.
“Couple hours.” Jeremy looked at me. “There were about thirty people listening for a while. No one wanted to leave. Rudy was here, too.”
Dad and his friends didn’t usually jam in the middle of a weekday, but then I thought about the time of year and the fact that Donnie had his car out, unusual for a slushy day, and I knew why they’d come over. Every year, on the day after the anniversary of his daughter’s death, the guys got together. Donnie said he wa
nted to start another year without his little girl with music. It was his way of remembering her. Yesterday must have been hard for him and his wife. He’d have slogged his way through work, but today, he was surrounded by his best friends, laughing and playing music.
The guitar case clicked shut and Donnie stood up, stretching. Five or six people had crowded around, but after accepting their arm slaps and laughter, Donnie moved away from them. He wasn’t comfortable with all that attention, not like Dad. He opened his arms for a hug as he walked over to me. “How are you, beautiful?”
“Okay,” I mumbled into his shirt.
“Just okay?” he asked, holding me at arm’s length.
I tried to brighten my face. “You know” — I steeled myself for the lie — “school and stuff.” I wondered if Dad had already told him about Georgia. But he frowned, his eyebrows scrunching together.
“It better not be a boyfriend,” he warned. His eyes flickered to Jeremy.
“No,” I half-rolled my eyes at him. The real reason was on the tip of my tongue. Donnie knew about Georgia; I didn’t have to hide anything from him. I nodded at the poster display. “It’s that.”
His eyes widened with understanding. “Come on,” he said, taking my arm. “We can talk outside.” He looked back at Dad, who was still chatting with customers.
Donnie shut the door tightly after us and leaned against the building. “No word from her?”
“No.”
“And you’re real upset, huh?”
Upset, frustrated, pissed off, disappointed; thinking about Georgia brought on a roller coaster of emotions.
Donnie put a hand on my arm and turned me so I could see Dad through the store window. He was talking to two young guys, holding up his sax to show them something. He must have felt my eyes on him because, after a moment, he looked up and met my gaze. “Your dad loves you more than anything. Don’t worry about the one person you don’t have; look at all the people you do have in your life. Him.” He pointed at Dad. “And Lou. And me.” He squeezed me around the shoulders.
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