Songs Unfinished

by Holly Stratimore

  Devin gave Jaymi’s hand a squeeze. “I hear you, Jaymi.”

  “And to make matters worse, I’ve had the worst writer’s block this winter. I haven’t been able to write a damn thing.”

  “I know how frustrating that is. Would you like to come over for dinner tomorrow tonight? Maybe getting your mind off things for a little while will help.”

  “I’d love to. I’ve got a gig, so I’d have to leave by seven thirty. You sure Sara won’t mind?”

  “You kidding? She’d love it. And you’re safe, since it’s my turn to cook.” They both chuckled at Sara’s reputation for not quite mastering the cooking thing.

  “Well, in that case, what time?”

  “How’s five?”

  “Perfect.”

  Devin stood up and cleared the table. “I have to get back to work. Would you like a coffee to go?”

  “Sure. I’ll take it here, though. I got out of work early today, so I thought I’d hang out for a while.”

  “You got it.”

  She thanked Devin and took out the notebook she always carried with her to jot down ideas for lyrics. She opened it and stared at a blank page. She was still working on the tribute song for her mother. She sipped her coffee and gazed across the café. She was surrounded by people and felt completely alone. Life was going on without her. Something had to give.

  She looked at the page again. A year ago, it would have poured out of her effortlessly. This used to be my best outlet and I can’t write a friggin’ thing! She slammed the notebook shut and drained her cup. That’s it. Screw writing. I need to focus on something else for a while.

  She sought out Devin on the sales floor and had her recommend a few new lesbian romances. It had been far too long since she had indulged in a quiet night of reading. She bid her friend good-bye, pleased with the purchase of four new books, and then headed to the craft store down the street. She needed a new scrapbook. She had a stack of photos and clippings of the group that had been collecting dust for months. Perhaps delving into the old hobby was another tool she could use to return to some sense of normalcy. She made one last stop at the video rental for two romantic comedies and eagerly made her way home.

  Dinner at Devin and Sara’s the next night was a welcome reprieve as well. She avoided the subject of her mother, knowing the inevitable waterworks that would follow. Not that she didn’t feel safe enough with them to let her guard down. Quite the opposite, actually. It wouldn’t have been the first time she lost it in their company. Still, her survival instincts reminded her that she needed to conserve her emotional energy for Passion Play’s gig.

  There was one aspect of the visit that was tough to take, and that was being in the company of two people so in love that there were times it seemed they had forgotten Jaymi was even there. What’s it feel like to be so at home with someone you love, that you can always be yourself? I’ve never had that with anyone. Jaymi watched in envy and wondered if she’d ever have that kind of love with someone. Shit. Don’t start longing for a lover, you idiot. You’ve got too many other things you need to focus on right now—namely, your career.

  She left feeling grateful that she would be spending the rest of the evening onstage, losing herself in the music.

  Chapter Two

  “Aunt Betty! Hello? Aunt Betty, it’s me, Shawn!” Shawn pressed the doorbell again. Strange. Her car’s in the garage. Where could she be? She leaned over the porch railing and peered through the picture window, shielding her eyes from the bright afternoon sun. It was impossible to see inside with the reflections of the snowy front yard and nearly cloudless winter sky bouncing off the glass. She stepped off the porch and was just tall enough on tiptoe to cup her hands around her eyes and press her face to the window. Aunt Betty always had at least one plant hanging in that window, and plenty scattered about the living room. She said it added life to her modest surroundings. But Shawn couldn’t see a single plant anywhere.

  I should have called first. What would she have told her? That her life was in the toilet? That she hadn’t called or written for nearly six months because she was too ashamed of the immoral methods of survival she had resorted to? That she had been homeless and having one-night stands with strangers just so she could sleep in a real bed? That she had hit rock bottom and agreed to have sex with a record executive in exchange for a promised record deal?

  “Hey!” The shout of the neighbor prompted Shawn to jump back from the house. The lanky senior stepped closer to the wooden fence dividing the small lots and jabbed his cane in the air in Shawn’s direction. “What’re you doin’ pokin’ around over there? I’ll call the police—”

  “No! Please don’t. I know the person who lives here—she’s my aunt.”

  The old man frowned and narrowed his eyes. “That so? A relative, you say? Obviously ain’t a very close one.”

  “Do you know when she might be home?” Shawn asked, ignoring the comment.

  The man shook his head and his look turned sympathetic. “Listen, kid. I don’t know what you’re up to, but the lady that lived in that house died last month.” The look on Shawn’s face must have convinced him she was telling the truth, for his eyes immediately softened. “Too bad, too. Nice lady. Always smiled an’ waved hello to me. Never had to call about noise like I do with those damn college kids across the street over there.” He gestured with his cane, muttering something about Massachusetts going down the drain.

  The man’s weathered tan parka became a blur, and his voice faded into insignificant ramble. Shawn mechanically walked to the car and collapsed into the driver’s seat.

  *

  Shawn pulled into the long driveway and stopped as soon as the car was off the road. Only pure desperation would have brought her to this place. This is a mistake. She shut off her headlights and was grateful for the tiny sliver of a moon. The car wouldn’t be seen from the house at this distance. There weren’t any lights on, and she knew he’d probably be in bed at this hour.

  Her anger had been difficult to subdue as she sped away from Aunt Betty’s house. It was easier to feed off the anger than to let herself feel the grief and despair that had tempted her to park her car on the tracks in front of the oncoming southbound Downeaster half an hour ago. She knew it was her own fault she hadn’t been notified of Aunt Betty’s death, because there had been no way to contact her since she ran away to California. She had kept in touch with no one except Aunt Betty. Shawn hadn’t had a permanent address for nearly a year, so even if someone had found evidence of their correspondence and tried to track her down, they would have reached a dead end.

  Now she ignored the pounding of her heart, rehearsing what she would say when, or if, he opened the door. She switched on her parking lights and pressed the accelerator. The car started to creep closer to the house, and the closer she got, the harder her pulse pounded. She cut the engine as soon as she could and took a deep breath. She got out and gave the door a gentle nudge with her hip to close it without a slam.

  An automatic porch light came on as she approached, momentarily stopping her in her tracks, but she bravely forged on. She climbed three agonizing stairs to the front door, pried open the storm door, and knocked. She inhaled a frigid breath of New Hampshire’s February night air. She nervously shifted her weight back and forth from one foot to the other. She knocked again, slightly louder this time. The door flung open, revealing her father. She hadn’t seen him since that awful scene at her mother’s funeral, and she was shocked at the sight of the man standing before her now. He looked heavier and older than she remembered. His matted hair had grayed and his tattered white T-shirt stretched over his gut. The hems of his pajama pants were dirty and worn from dragging on the floor. His sagging jowls were unshaven and his bushy eyebrows hung heavy over his blazing dark eyes. Gone was the solid physique of the proud, accomplished auto mechanic who longed for his only child to succeed in a more prestigious career than his own.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  Shawn s
wallowed hard and stared at her feet. “I need a place to stay. Just for a few days, I promise—”

  “I told you never to come back here.”

  Shawn choked down threatening tears. “Please, Dad. I have no place else to go.” She raised her head and looked him in the eye. “How long are you gonna go on blaming me for Mom’s death? Huh?”

  He winced and averted his eyes, clenching his jaw in an apparent effort to squelch his words.

  “You think this is what Mom would want? It’s been seven years, Dad. Seven years! For God’s sake, I’m your only child.” Her vision blurred as tears surfaced. “Please…I need you.”

  He met her gaze, his expression unchanged. In one swift motion, he stepped back and slammed the door.

  The porch light shut off and she made her way back to the car, enveloped by the blackness of the night.

  Shawn wiped away the tears as she drove back out into the night. Her father’s reception hadn’t surprised her but she was stubborn about giving up that last shred of hope for acceptance by a parent. She was haunted by that little voice inside that says parents are supposed to love their children unconditionally. Eternally. Without fail.

  It was a love she had experienced from her mother, until that summer day when Shawn told her she was a lesbian. Shawn had been prepared for the typical reactions—guilt, disappointment, and so on. She had expected the usual comments: You just haven’t met the right guy! Don’t give up so easily! or But you’re such a pretty girl! or What did I do wrong? or Don’t go telling this to everybody…it’s just a phase. You’ll outgrow it.

  Shawn knew her mother loved her, and the last thing she expected was rejection. But her mother had been furious. Insulted. Shocked. Humiliated. Her mother had focused on possible repercussions on her own life and disregarded the magnitude of feelings Shawn was dealing with. She’d been more concerned about what people would think and the state of Shawn’s soul than the actuality of her well-being.

  Shawn had been devastated. And though her mother didn’t ban her from her life, Shawn was forbidden from ever again mentioning the subject in her mother’s house or presence. “I will pray for you,” she had said, “and I suggest you pray for yourself, too.” Instead, Shawn prayed for her mother’s understanding and acceptance and agonized over how the hell she was ever going to change her mother’s mind. She figured that maybe it was one of those things in life that just took time. She clung to the hope that it wasn’t possible for a mother to shut off the love for her kid completely. Months passed and nothing changed. Eventually, Shawn learned to harden her heart on the subject. She buried herself deeper in her music and grew more isolated by the day. And here I am, years later, still alone, still struggling to find my way. Without my parents to guide me.

  Shawn checked her gas gauge. Almost empty again. She hadn’t been in this town for years, but she still knew it like the back of her hand. She drove to a station downtown that was open twenty-four hours and filled up. She pulled away from the pumps and onto the far side of the lot. Where the hell do I go now? She was low on funds and hated to waste any more money on motel rooms. And it was way too cold to sleep in the car.

  It had taken almost a month to get across the country. She had made it to Flagstaff before she had run out of money. She had scoped out the town until she found a street with heavy foot traffic. After charming a coffee-shop manager into letting her play music for nothing, she collected enough donations to afford a tank of gas and a cheap meal. That night she parked next to the trees along the perimeter of a strip-mall parking lot and slept.

  After a week at the coffee shop, she headed east again until she was too low on money to go any farther. She repeated the routine along the entire route, staying longer if the money was good, and hitting the road if it wasn’t. Her only scare occurred when a grumpy storeowner threatened to call the police and have her picked up for vagrancy.

  She cringed at the memory. If she hadn’t been so afraid, she might have let him do it—just so she could sleep inside for a night. She propped her head in her hands and fought off another wave of tears. She jumped when the hard rap of knuckles sounded on her window. Oh shit! A cop! Okay, stay calm. Act composed. She slowly rolled down her window.

  “Evenin’, young lady. Everything all right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where you headed?” he asked.

  “Uh, home, sir.”

  “California plates. Kinda late to be starting such a long trip, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, I mean home here. I’m originally from New Hampshire. Visiting family.”

  “I see. May I see your license and registration, please?”

  “Sure, uh, right here, I’ve got them right here.” Shawn retrieved them both and tried desperately to hide the shaking of her hands, as well as the nervousness in her voice. The officer retreated to his cruiser.

  She watched the officer in her rearview. What’s taking so long? Please, God, please. No complications.

  The officer finally returned with her documentation. He pulled out his ticket pad and began writing. “Are you aware that your passenger-side taillight is out?”

  “No, sir. No,” she answered, shaking her head.

  “This is just a warning,” he said, tearing off a page and handing it to her. “You’ll need to have that replaced within ten days, okay?”

  “Okay.” Shawn tried to conceal her relief. “I will. First thing tomorrow.”

  “You take care now. Enjoy your visit.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The cruiser pulled away and Shawn headed back out on the road, unsure of where to go. She cracked her window, welcoming the fresh, cold New Hampshire air, hoping it would keep her awake. She hadn’t realized how homesick she had been. She found herself cruising through old familiar neighborhoods, noticing the crops of new businesses, new sets of traffic lights, new houses. It still felt like home, regardless of the bad memories mixed with the good ones.

  She tuned in her old favorite radio station, paying little attention to it until a familiar voice began to sing. My God, that’s Jaymi’s voice! They’re on the radio! She pumped her fist and turned up the volume. “Passion Play’s on the fucking radio!” she yelled. “Shit, they come back here and start making it while I go nowhere in friggin’ LA? Are you kidding me?”

  She pulled off the road into a shopping plaza, realizing that maybe there was someone in the area she could turn to after all. She had first met Jaymi Del Harmon and her band, Passion Play, at an open mike in Long Beach. They’d continued to run into each other after that, since they often played the same venues.

  Jaymi had approached after Shawn had performed one night, greeting her with praise. As they got to know one another and learned they were from the same area in New Hampshire, a friendship began to develop. Jaymi sweetly and tactfully offered bits of constructive criticism, and Shawn’s usual defensive response was stifled by respect and admiration she hadn’t known before. Jaymi unknowingly became a mentor to her.

  Jaymi had advised Shawn to adjust her guitar strap so her right hand would fall naturally in a better position on the strings. And when Shawn had admitted that she struggled at times to coordinate her vocals and accompaniment, Jaymi suggested that she rehearse the two separately and repeatedly so when she put the two together, each would flow more effortlessly and expertly, and she could focus on her emotional delivery of the song rather than its technical accuracy. As all these improvements culminated, people began showing up specifically for her, and she, in turn, fed off the audience’s energy.

  They’d run into each other less frequently when Passion Play began moving up the musical world’s food chain. Shawn’s increasingly nomadic existence hadn’t helped. Then Passion Play suddenly disappeared. Shawn had learned through the grapevine that Jaymi’s mother had fallen ill and the band had moved back East.

  Shawn looked at her watch. It was after eleven. She had no place to go. She was almost broke. She was cold and hungry. But she recognized the name of the c
lub the radio DJ said Jaymi’s band was playing. Finally, something might be going her way.

  Chapter Three

  After they finished loading up their gear and said their good nights, Passion Play’s members dispersed to their vehicles and left the lot one by one. Jaymi climbed into her pickup and turned the key. A sluggish whirr, whirr, whirr ground itself out of the engine.

  “Damn it! Not again.” She waited thirty seconds and tried again. Same result. She looked around. There was one car left in the lot, a tired-looking compact with faded blue paint and California plates. It slowly approached. She tensed up, hoping she wasn’t in danger. It pulled up next to her and she cautiously peered into the vehicle. A young woman poked her head out the driver’s side window.

  “Jaymi?”

  Jaymi looked closer. “Do I know you?”

  The girl brushed her hair off her eyes and away from her face. “Shawn Davies. We met in Long Beach, remember? Open mikes?”

  Jaymi nodded. “Oh my God! Shawn! Of course I remember you. But what are you doing here?”

  “It’s a long story. You need some help?”

  “Yeah. It won’t start. I think my battery’s dying. Can you give me a jump?”

  “Sure, no problem.” Shawn climbed out as Jaymi popped her hood and retrieved jumper cables from behind the seat. Shawn took the cables from her and had everything hooked up and the truck running in a matter of minutes.

  “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver. Did you catch our show tonight?”

  “Uh, no. I, uh…didn’t have money for cover. I was hoping I’d catch you before you left.”

  “You must be freezing. How long have you been out here waiting?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe an hour. What time is it?”

  “Almost one. You poor thing.” Jaymi glanced at Shawn’s backseat, which was packed to the gills.

  “Listen, Jaymi, I have a huge favor to ask.”