Singsation

by Jacquelin Thomas

  He handed her a teacup. “I listened for you all night, but I guess you slept pretty soundly. I answered your phone because I didn’t want it to wake you.” He took a sip from his cup. “Did your dad ask what I was doing here?”

  She shook her head. “He heard about Phoebe on the news and wanted to know how I was doing.” Deborah leaned back into Triage’s arms and rested her head on his chest. “When I first woke up this morning, I thought I had dreamed this whole thing.”

  “You’ll probably feel like that for a few days.”

  She nodded. After a few silent moments, she said, “You know, when Phoebe first asked me to pray with her, she said something that I just can’t get out of my mind. She said that she had disappointed God.” Deborah paused. “What a horrible thing to feel when . . .” She didn’t finish her sentence. After a while, she asked, “Have you ever felt like that, Triage? Like you’ve disappointed God?”

  He was thoughtful. “Yeah,” he said simply. “Even though I’ve known God since I was a kid, I’ve just been doing what I want to do as an adult, living life the way I want to live it—all the time knowing better. I blamed a lot of it on this industry, and I was just doing what I had to do, but I knew God wasn’t pleased.”

  “How did you deal with it?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I just pushed it aside and tried not to think about it. That’s why I didn’t go to church and why I stopped praying. It was easier if God wasn’t in my face all the time.” He paused. “But I don’t feel like I’m disappointing Him anymore. I think He knows I’m trying. I’m not where I want to be, but I’m better than I was.”

  She nodded silently.

  He continued: “You know, one of the things that’s bringing me closer to God is this whole celibacy thing that you have me going through.”

  She looked up at him. “I’m not trying to make you go through anything.”

  He pulled her back into his arms. “I know. What I mean is, I’ve learned so much about myself over these last few months. When you first told me that you were a virgin and planned to stay that way, I was shocked into agreeing with you. But to be honest, I began to think about who I could call when . . . you know . . .”

  She didn’t know how she should respond, but when his arms tightened around her, she sat still and silent.

  “But I’ve surprised myself. This is different, but I really feel like I’m getting to know you on a level that I’ve never known a woman before. And the best part is that I’m getting to know some things about myself too.”

  They sat silently watching the picture on the television screen. Finally, Deborah said, “I wonder if I’m disappointing God.”

  Triage shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He chuckled. “You’re doing all the things He wants you to do.”

  “You’re talking about going to church and reading my Bible and praying, but I’m talking about something else.”

  Triage frowned.

  “What if I’m not using my voice the way God wants me to? What if I’m not doing the right thing?”

  “I don’t think God has a problem with what you’re doing. You’re not like a lot of these other singers—dressing like they don’t have any sense, talking like they’ve lost their minds. Anyone who spends five minutes around you knows how spiritual you are.”

  But that’s not enough, Deborah thought, though she remained silent. Triage doesn’t understand. He thinks I’m talking about what others think. But I care about what God thinks.

  He got up to refill her cup and then turned up the volume on the television as a news report came on about Phoebe. Tears instantly filled her eyes. It was surreal, the way the reporter stood with the microphone in her hand talking about someone that Deborah knew.

  As the woman told what had happened, the camera cut away to shots of Phoebe’s apartment and then cuts of Phoebe onstage. The final shot was of Phoebe at the Grammys just a few months earlier.

  “Eyewitness News has learned that Thomas Davis, an acquaintance of Phoebe Garland, has been indicted for murder in the slaying. What makes this more tragic,” the reporter continued, “is that a restraining order against her killer had been granted to Ms. Garland just two days before the tragic—”

  Triage clicked off the television, then ran his hand over his face.

  “I think you should go home and get some rest,” Deborah said as she stood and hugged him.

  “I am tired, but I don’t want to leave you alone—”

  “I’m fine now. I really should do some things. I need to call Lavelle; he and Phoebe were so close. And then Vianca and Emerald—”

  The ringing phone made them smile. “I think they’re going to beat you to it,” Triage said, and kissed her forehead.

  Deborah picked up the phone. “Hi, Lavelle.”

  Triage kissed her again. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” he mouthed, and closed the door as Deborah sank into the couch and began to share her grief with Lavelle.

  She was crying by the time she hung up. Lavelle was stricken with sorrow, and Deborah had been able to console him only after she told him that she and Triage would come by.

  She left a message for Triage at his house, then went into her bedroom. She reached for her Bible, but instead picked up the journal that she kept on her night table.

  The words came quickly, and she wrote furiously:

  Oh, Lord, I don’t understand . . .

  Is this the way . . . is this Your plan?

  Why is there so much pain and heartache along the way?

  If I remain prayerful, will there be a brighter day?

  Oh, Lord, is there any peace for me?

  I need to hide away in You, can’t You see?

  I’m seeking refuge on behalf of my family . . .

  Right now, we need You so desperately.

  This is my prayer . . .

  This is my prayer . . .

  I submit myself unto You.

  Here are my burdens,

  I rest them here with You

  ’Cause I know this is

  The only way we’ll make it through . . .

  She leaned back, closed her eyes, and prayed for Phoebe and all those left behind who loved her so.

  CHAPTER 44

  THE CROWD IN FRONT OF TRINITY CHURCH could have been gathered for a music industry event. Singers, producers, writers, and agents slowly filed into the large sanctuary. Sadness filled the air, reminding everyone that this was the final farewell to Phoebe Garland.

  Deborah and Triage were escorted to the second-row pew where Lavelle and Vianca were already sitting. She refused to look at the altar where the white coffin sat. Instead, Deborah glanced around to see if she could find Emerald among the mourners. There was no sign of her, and Deborah sighed. Emerald was going to have to find help, or soon, Deborah feared, they’d be returning to this setting for her.

  Soft whispers mixed with the organ music, and Deborah knew that she would have to garner every bit of strength to make it through the service dry-eyed.

  A young woman was escorted past them, and Deborah was momentarily startled by her resemblance to Phoebe. When the woman sat next to Phoebe’s mother, Deborah knew that she must be Phyllis, Phoebe’s sister.

  As the minister took his place and began the service, Deborah felt tears come into her eyes. She held Triage’s hand tighter as a choir sang “Blessed Assurance.”

  After the eulogy was read, it was time for Deborah to speak. Triage stood and walked with her to the altar, then took a seat in the front pew, waiting until she finished.

  Deborah had carefully kept her eyes away from where Phoebe’s body lay. She straightened her papers on the podium, took a deep breath, then looked into the sea of solemn black, white, and brown faces.

  Oh, God, she thought, help me get through this.

  “Phoebe was a wonderful friend to me. I met her months after arriving in LA, when I first went on tour. She befriended me and taught me many valuable lessons.” She took a breath. “I wanted to pay tribute t
o Phoebe in a special way, and so I wrote this for her.” Deborah lifted the paper and took a deep breath. “This is titled ‘My Friend.’

  “Such a beautiful lady,

  Never knew she was loved, till too late.

  She was my friend and I miss her,

  So cold and unkind is fate.

  “Talented, warm and loving,

  She wore her heart on her sleeve,

  Only to be taken for granted.

  I never thought she’d leave.

  “I hope she’s smiling down on me.

  I’m thinking about my friend Phoebe.

  I never thought this day would be

  Without her here . . . only memories.

  “I can feel her smiling down on me.

  I know she’s happy finally,

  Cradled in God’s arms just like a baby,

  Yet I’m missing my friend Phoebe.”

  Phoebe’s family thanked her as she stepped down, and she held each of them close before Triage took her hand and led her back to her seat. He put his arm around her and whispered, “Are you okay?”

  She nodded, but finally released the tears that she had been holding back.

  It had been a long day. After the service, they followed the long line of more than sixty cars to Rose Hills Cemetery. It surprised Deborah that Phoebe’s mother had chosen to bury Phoebe in Los Angeles rather than Detroit. But Lavelle explained that Phoebe had made her own arrangements a few months earlier. That revelation made Deborah shudder. Had Phoebe seen this coming, or was she just trying to be responsible and prepared?

  After a short graveside ceremony, they went to Lavelle’s house. The anguish in the air choked Deborah, and in less than an hour she returned to her apartment with Triage.

  As she lay back on the couch, Triage took off her shoes and massaged her feet.

  “You did good at church today,” he said.

  Deborah closed her eyes. “I wanted to be strong for Phoebe. But I’m so tired.”

  He placed her feet on the floor. “I think I’m going to go home and let you get some rest,” he said, kissing her. “I have to be up really early tomorrow for a shoot. I’ll call you.”

  When Triage closed the door behind him, Deborah was surprised at how grateful she felt for the time alone. It had been three emotion-packed days, and she wanted some time to come back.

  Lavelle had canceled rehearsals for the rest of the week, and Deborah wasn’t sure if he would be able to make it next week. Lavelle was engulfed with grief, and Deborah knew it would take some time for him to recover.

  After her shower, she felt restless, so she sat at her piano and hit the keys, playing a few melodies.

  “I didn’t do right by God.”

  Phoebe’s words had played over in her mind for days, and Deborah didn’t know why.

  As her fingers moved across the keys, Deborah began to sing. “‘Jesus loves me, this I know. For the Bible tells me so. . . .’” As the words flowed from her into the room, she felt the same comfort that she always did when she sang this song.

  Her eyes became wet with tears, but she kept singing, louder and with more strength, until she was exhausted.

  Finally, she turned off the lights and climbed into bed. But she didn’t close her eyes until she thanked God for bringing her through this tragedy.

  CHAPTER 45

  IT TOOK LAVELLE WEEKS TO GET BACK ON SCHEDULE. Deborah used the time to jump into the meetings, planning, and rehearsals for her own album.

  Capricorn had brought in writers to work with Deborah, and now, as she sat with William, she went over the list of songs that had been decided on.

  “I think this one is going to be hot,” William said. “‘I Wanna Love You Down.’”

  Deborah glanced through the list: “Freaky, Deaky,” “Let’s Go All the Way,” “You Taught Me How to Cheat.” And these were the best of the bunch.

  “Deborah,” William began as he came around the desk and stood leaning toward her, “Capricorn is so excited about this project. The promotion they have planned will have you in every household in America. Your words and your voice will be heard all over the country.”

  She looked at the paper in front of her. This was what people would be hearing from her: “Sexy Revenge.”

  “Deborah?”

  Her eyes focused on William, who stared down at her as if something were wrong.

  “Deborah, are you all right?”

  She nodded.

  What can I say? she thought. This is what I’ve wanted. This is my dream—to be singing under contract with a national label. To be on the verge of making millions. She looked at the list again: “So Hot, So Fast.”

  She stood and picked up her purse. “William, I just remembered something I have to do. I’ll give you a call later.”

  He didn’t have a chance to say anything before she was out the door, running to her car and locking the doors as if someone were chasing her.

  She held her face in her hands. “God, what am I doing?”

  The list of twelve songs ran through her head again. “But this is my dream, and I’m using what God has given to me. What am I supposed to do?”

  She started the car and drove aimlessly for forty minutes, then headed toward her church.

  She tried the front doors, but they were locked, so she went around to the side of the building. She rang the bell, and moments later, Clara, the pastor’s assistant, answered the door.

  “Hey, Deborah.”

  “Clara, I needed to know if I could just sit in the sanctuary for a few minutes.”

  Clara frowned. “Sure. Are you all right? Do you need me to find Pastor Clarke?”

  Deborah shook her head. “No, I’m fine. I just need to spend some time here.”

  Clara nodded knowingly. “I’m going back to my office. Just call me if you need anything.”

  The sanctuary was empty, as it would be on a Thursday afternoon. Deborah sat in the front row and looked at the altar, surrounded by luscious green plants and flowers. Pastor Clarke’s and Deacon Jones’s two large chairs flanked the oak podium. Deborah’s eyes held the large gold cross that hung on the wall behind the altar. For the first time in hours, she felt a bit calm, though a war of emotions raged inside.

  “Lord, I don’t know what’s going on,” she whispered. “But something is wrong.” She paused, trying to find the words. “Lord, I never want to feel that I’m not doing right by You. But that’s what I feel, Lord. I’m lost. You’ve blessed me with this career; I know it came from You. But now . . . am I just supposed to walk away from what You gave to me?”

  She felt hot tears stinging behind her eyelids as she continued. “So, Lord, if You want me to leave this, if I’m supposed to be doing something else, speak to my heart and let me know. I surrender to You. I want to do right by You. I want to hear You say, ‘Well done, My good and faithful servant.’ Please, God, help me through this.”

  Deborah sat in the sanctuary until she could feel the shifting light of the sun though the stained-glass windows. Then she walked out into the parking lot, got in her car, and drove home.

  CHAPTER 46

  TONIGHT’S PERFORMANCE WAS THEIR FIRST SINCE Phoebe’s death, and it would also be their first performance without Emerald, who was taking a two-month leave of absence at the Betty Ford Clinic.

  There wasn’t going to be a replacement for Emerald, because she had made her announcement only two days earlier, at the beginning of rehearsals.

  “I’m not going to be singing with you guys,” Emerald said.

  Lavelle dropped the Danish he’d been eating. “Emerald, you’ve missed enough rehearsals.” He sighed. “I’m not going to be able to put up with this much longer. The only reason I’ve stuck in this long is because we go way back.”

  Emerald sauntered over to Lavelle and stood so close that they were almost touching. Deborah and Vianca were standing at their microphones, and Deborah took a quick glance at Vianca, who was standing with her arms folded across her chest.
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  “It’s probably because we go so far back that I have this problem now,” Emerald said accusingly.

  Lavelle held up his hands and backed away from her. “Don’t blame that on me. You drink because of you, but you’re always wanting to blame someone else.”

  It was a moment before she spoke. “You’re right, Lavelle. I’m in trouble because of me, and I’m finally going to do something about it.” She turned to face Deborah and Vianca. “I’m checking into Betty Ford. I’ll be away for about two months.”

  They stood silently for several moments before Deborah walked toward Emerald and hugged her.

  “I am so happy for you. I’ve been praying that you would get well.”

  “Thank you, Deborah.” Emerald glanced over her shoulder at Lavelle and Vianca, who had stayed where they were. When she saw that they weren’t going to move, Emerald’s eyes turned back to Deborah. “I guess no one else cares,” she said, dropping her head.

  “That’s not true, Emerald. We all care. This is just a shock.”

  Suddenly, from behind them, Lavelle said, “So, do you plan on coming back?”

  The arrogance she had shown earlier had disappeared. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, we’re going to have to hold auditions—”

  “I understand—”

  “And I can’t promise that there’ll be anything here for you when you get out.”

  Emerald’s eyes were moist as she looked up at Lavelle. “Lavelle, there is nothing here for me now,” she said softly, then turned and walked away.

  It took Lavelle only a few moments to say, “Okay, Charles, let’s get another girl in here.”

  They hadn’t had a chance to audition anyone in time for this show, so Deborah and Vianca would be going out alone—as they had many times in the last few months.

  And tonight, at the Anaheim Pond, Deborah would be singing the two duets with Lavelle.

  She fanned herself with a magazine as Kim sprayed her hair.

  “Stop that,” Kim protested, as she pulled back the can.