by Lori Carson
What’s the big deal? I think. Don’t make such a fuss. I want to shut him up, to tell him that I’m not like most of his patients, desperate to become a mother.
Still, once I leave his office, I find the news has left me numb. I stop for a bottle of red wine on the way home to have with dinner.
I was three weeks in Asia on a promotional tour, walking the streets of Tokyo, Hong Kong, and Singapore, thinking that I didn’t have time to be pregnant. Although it was interesting to feel that I wasn’t alone, my imaginary fetus with me as I visited temples and markets, played odd venues, and returned to my hotel. I wonder if could? I thought. How would I manage it?
On the day I was to leave for Asia, Arthur, my off-and-on-again boyfriend, producer, and drinking buddy, asked me to meet him on Madison Avenue in front of Cartier at nine in the morning. He was going to buy me a ring. It was a grand gesture. We’d get married, he said, but I didn’t believe him; nor was I sure I even wanted to. I couldn’t imagine Arthur as a father. Cartier didn’t open until ten anyway. We waited for fifteen minutes in the rain, then abandoned the whole idea to go get breakfast.
I drink the bottle of wine and leave my dinner’s ingredients to spoil on the kitchen counter. I watch TV, flipping through channels, looking for something of interest, something to push Dr. Marshall’s diagnosis to the back of my mind. There will be no more babies, not to have, or to flush down the drain.
Sixty
In his old age Tiger spends his days asleep in a chair. Goldy, the fish won last summer in a street-fair game, seems to watch from her bowl. Z and Cinnamon, the guinea pigs, play and groom one another. It’s a good thing the animals have each other for company. Because although you love them, they might wither from neglect waiting for you to come home. At fourteen, you have homework, after-school activities, and a busy social life.
My day begins early. I wake you, feed the animals, and make breakfast. The phone is ringing before nine. I’ve got a day of appointments ahead and usually need to go by the office first. The market in New York City is heating up in the fall of 1996. Anyone with an ounce of ambition would be selling co-ops and condos by now, but I’m stuck in rentals. I’m not a natural salesman and still have trouble pretending to be one.
On Tuesday nights, I host an open mic at a coffee shop on Tenth Street called Joe’s. I look forward to it all week and always try to have a new song to play. There’s an unspoken rule at Joe’s that the songs should be fresh—written during the previous week.
The same core people come each week, along with others who arrive early to add their names to a sign-up sheet and wait their turn to play two songs. The cappuccino machine interrupts the mood so frequently that we no longer notice it.
Late in the evening, the regulars stick around to play longer sets. One boy, Jude Blake, has a talent so powerful that he begins to garner a buzz. Joe’s is a tiny place, a storefront with a long counter and a few chairs. Jude fills it to the rafters. This kid plays his chest like a beat box. He sings like Nina Simone or Robert Plant. He’s funny and as beautiful as a girl. A&R guys from all the record companies come to hear him play. Some keep coming even after Jude gets signed. They assume the room itself must be magic.
I’m thirty-eight that year, trying to pass for twenty-nine. My face is beginning to give me away. It’s the first year I’m no longer pretty, in that pretty-girl way.
One night, I take Jude home with me and we’re making out on the bed. You’re at Jill Woo’s, where you spend more and more time. She’s your best friend, a tall, beautiful Chinese American girl.
Jude has his hand down my pants when he tells me he’s in love with another singer. We continue to fool around for a minute, but then I push his hand away.
“What’s wrong?” he wants to know.
“I think I’m just not in the mood for this,” I tell him. After he goes home, it hits me. Young men won’t necessarily fall in love with me anymore, at least not the shiny ones like Jude Blake. I’m thirty-eight and the rules have changed.
At Joe’s, I play my songs after I’ve introduced a lot of other songwriters and they’ve played their songs. I try to treat each person well, to be generous and professional. I’m rewarded with respect and a small following of my own. People request favorite songs, and when I play them, the room goes silent. It’s a beautiful thing to be listened to, to be heard. I play a song written for my sister, called “Another Year.”
Take the memories off the line,
Put them in a pile of yours and mine.
They’ve been bleached out by the sun,
They don’t belong to anyone …
When I sing it, I think of her, three years old, on Christmas morning, wearing an army helmet. She’s living in Connecticut now. She’s got two kids of her own.
I’m working on a new song that’s about the way the past doesn’t always feel like the past. I’m hoping to finish it in time for next week:
Someone says the past no longer exists,
But I don’t think it’s so …
One Tuesday night, I see Alan coming through the door and jump up to greet him. Some of the other songwriters get on his nerves, so he doesn’t come to Joe’s as often as I wish he would, but when he does, he brings his guitar. Having Alan play on my songs is like putting them in a beautiful frame. He makes me look good.
That night, an A&R guy from an independent label called Church Records happens to be in the room. In the 1990s independents aren’t so independent. They’re all financed by the big record companies and have access to real distribution, radio, and marketing. Plus, they have a cachet that the big labels lack.
Harry Garfield is about my age, a music fan. He dresses fashionably and has a good haircut. He’s been in the business a long time already. He started his career at Warner Bros., and then went to Chrysalis, before landing at Church. He hasn’t signed anyone of note lately, but he’s still given a lot of leeway.
He approaches us at the end of the night. I’m breaking down the PA, something I do every week. The guys who work at the coffee shop carry the heavy speakers to the basement. Alan is watching me wind cables, telling me I’m doing it wrong.
Harry Garfield comes over, holds out his hand, and introduces himself.
“I think we’ve met, man,” Alan says, “when I was playing with Charlotte Winter.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Harry says. “What’s Charlotte up to these days?”
I want to kick Alan. Doesn’t he realize Harry Garfield isn’t here to talk about Charlotte? She’s without a record deal herself now.
“She’s writing,” Alan says. “Working on new material.”
“Uh-huh,” Harry says, but he’s looking at me. I’m careful not to stand in the unflattering overhead light. If I’m twenty-nine, there’s still time to have a career. “You’re so good. Why haven’t I heard of you?” he asks, shifting from one foot to the other.
The confused excitement in my chest makes it hard to speak. I’m thinking so many things at once. It’s because I’m not really good enough. Because I’ve got a fourteen-year-old daughter I’m raising by myself. It’s because I haven’t ever really tried.
But what I say is: “I’m here every week. Where have you been?” It comes across as jaunty and charming, and I can tell he’s buying it. He thinks I’m cool and pretty. He likes my songs and the way I sing them.
He takes a business card from his wallet. “Call me,” he says. “Let’s figure out a time for you to come up to the office.”
I let my hair fall over my eyes. I’m playing someone I think I should be, channeling Juliette Binoche, maybe, in The Unbearable Lightness of Being. “I’ll do that,” I say, and take the card from his hand. I put it in the back pocket of my jeans and pretend it doesn’t matter to me that much, one way or the other.
Sixty-one
The apartment is dark when I get home. I turn the key in the lock and push the door open. I’m reaching for the light switch when I hear the sound of frantic rustling coming from my bed.
Oh, no, I think. Minnow, do you have a boy in here?
My panic is quickly replaced by surprise as I flip the lights on and see you and Jill scrambling into your clothes. “Mom,” you say. “Do you mind?”
I’m so stunned; I don’t know what to do. “Sorry,” I mumble, and go into the kitchen to give you your privacy.
The secret lives of teenage girls. I think of the lined pages of my diary at fourteen, filled with the details of my own mother’s worst nightmare. I put on a pot of water for tea, stand in the kitchen, and wait. I hear you saying good-bye to Jill, the sound of the front door opening and closing.
“Do you want a cup of tea?” I ask, facing the scratched sink and worn cabinets. I envision the conversation we will have, sitting at the table, mother and daughter. Unlike my own mother and me, we are open with one another. We can tell each other anything.
But you don’t answer, and when I poke my head into the room, I find it empty. You’ve gone into your own room.
“Minnow?” I tap softly on your door.
“I’m sleeping, Mom,” you say.
“Okay.” I pause. What should I do? Must I wait for you to initiate the conversation? I hope you don’t feel embarrassed or ashamed. “Good night, honey,” I say.
“Good night,” comes your sweet voice through the door.
I carry my tea to the table, turn on the TV with the volume low. There are always wars, and fires, and other catastrophes to provide distraction. Tiger jumps into my lap. I scratch his belly, and he purrs like a motorboat. On the news, a family has been rescued from a fire in Queens. They stand together in front of a house in ruins. A handsome firefighter denies he is a hero. I sip my hot tea, thankful for the roof over our heads, feeling the fatigue of the long day.
I wonder if I’d be so calm if I had caught you with a boy, instead? At least the encounter with Jill Woo can’t leave you pregnant, and girls experiment, I think. It doesn’t mean, necessarily, that you’re gay. Of course, if you are, Minnow, I’m okay with it. You know that, don’t you?
In the morning I wake you and you hop into the shower while I start breakfast and see to the menagerie. I’m hoping there will be a minute or two to talk, but then the phone starts to ring, and it’s getting late. You grab your lunch from the refrigerator. “Bye, Mom.”
“Will you be home after school?” You’re already half out the door.
“Nope,” you say. “I have basketball and then some of us are going to Jill’s.”
“Will Jill’s mother be home?” I ask, and regret it instantly.
“Yes,” you answer, running down the stairs. Is it my imagination or is the one syllable infused with shame?
It’s not until the following Sunday, waiting for your grandparents to arrive for brunch, that the time seems right to broach the subject. By then, our conversation feels forced and awkward.
“Look, Minnow,” I say to you. “This is getting ridiculous. We need to talk about it.”
You’re holding one of the guinea pigs in your arms, stroking her soft black-and-white fur. “There’s nothing to talk about,” you say.
“I think there is,” I tell you gently. “I think you’re feeling embarrassed about my walking in on you the other night.”
You rub your face against Z’s back and don’t say anything.
“Am I right?”
“I don’t know.”
“Isn’t there anything you’d like to say to me about it?”
“Sorry I was in your bed.” Your brown eyes are wet with tears. You’re trying to blink them away.
“It’s okay,” I say, as lightly as I can.
We sit quietly for a few minutes, and then it comes out.
“I like Jill, but she doesn’t like me.” The tears are rolling down your cheeks, and I want to hug you, but force myself to sit where I am and listen. You wipe them away, holding the palm of your hand against one eye, your long hair falling over your face.
“There’s a boy from school she likes—Josh.”
“She seems to like you very much, too,” I say.
You don’t respond to this, but sigh deeply. “Not the way I like her,” you say finally.
The doorbell rings. “Go throw some cold water on your face,” I tell you. The brief conversation has us both feeling a little better, and you give me a brave smile.
I buzz my parents in and watch from the doorway as they ascend the stairs.
“Hi!” my mother calls. “We lucked out and got a parking space right out front.”
“Good for you,” I say, holding the door open, kissing them.
“Where’s my girl?” my mother asks, and you come out of the bathroom, smiling. You kiss them and hug them.
Your grandfather is not as affectionate with you as he was when you were small, but that’s just how he is. Grown-up girls aren’t as easy for him to make sense of. “Hi, Minnow,” he says in his soft alto. His hair is almost entirely gray now. “What’s new?”
“Nothing much.” You shrug.
The television is going with the sound off, and his eyes wander toward it.
“Come sit down,” I say. “I’m making blueberry pancakes.” We all know they’re your favorite.
“Really?!” You do a little hop, despite your mood. The gesture feels bittersweet. How long before you’ve completely outgrown these girlish leaps and jumps?
“Got any coffee?” my dad wants to know.
“Of course.” I squeeze his hand in mine and feel the bones of his long fingers, his smooth olive skin.
The casement windows are halfway open and a fresh-smelling breeze blows in. Even in New York City the scent of spring is sweet. Yesterday, in the Jefferson Market Garden, I noticed a forsythia bush in full bloom; half a dozen sparrows perched on its yellow branches.
I place a pitcher of orange juice on the table, a plate of well-done bacon, the way my father likes it, low-fat milk for my mother, steaming mugs of French roast coffee. In the kitchen, I pour the batter, full of blueberries, into a hot frying pan as my mother watches from the doorway. She tells me she’s been writing a poem every morning, a haiku. We listen to my father ask about your plans for the future and to your responses, so mature and well spoken. You’re thinking about going to medical school, you say, maybe Stanford or Harvard, although you’d also like to travel for a while before college. Hearing you speak of your dreams and plans makes me miss you already, as if I’ve been projected into some future year, when you’ll live in a foreign country, visit at Christmastime, and only call on my birthday.
When we sit down to eat, it’s my turn to answer questions. “How’s the real estate going?” my father asks.
“It’s going okay,” I say.
“You making any money?”
I tell him that I’m doing all right. He knows that much already because I haven’t asked them for any help lately.
In the original 1997, he says to me: “If you were working this hard at almost any other profession, you’d probably be head of the company by now.” But that’s when I was making my living as a musician. Now there is no reason to suspect that I would ever be head of a company.
After brunch, you and your grandmother play a game of Scrabble. Your grandfather turns the volume up on the TV. The Yankees are playing one of the first games of the season. He takes a seat in the secondhand leather armchair that Alan and I recently dragged back from the flea market. It’s the only piece of furniture I’ve ever owned that my father finds comfortable, and as he leans back into it, I feel glad to have pleased him.
I wander outside to the terrace, to see if anything green is sprouting. I’ve planted tulip bulbs along with a few daffodils in the pots along the brick wall. The daffodils are up and have already started to open. It’s still cold enough to see my breath, but I lift my face toward the sun to feel the promise of its warmth.
Sixty-two
Harry Garfield’s office is in a sparkling building near Rockefeller Center. Everything is glass and marble; even the reception area is po
sh. I look through a window at the pretty receptionist with the Brooklyn accent. It’s been fifteen minutes since she told me Mr. Garfield would be right with me. She answers the phone every three or four seconds, puts one call on hold to take another. Church Records shares offices with a group of entertainment lawyers, and the name she recites again and again is a mouthful, but she never slips up.
Another fifteen minutes go by. Between calls, she checks her manicured nails and gives me a smile of apology. She looks as relieved as I do when a door opens and a smartly dressed blond woman says my name.
I follow the click, click of her high heels down a hallway, past a row of desks behind which sit secretaries in tailored jackets or tidy sweaters. Men walk past in suits and ties. She leads me through a maze of hallways that go on and on, past cubicles with ergonomic chairs, filing cabinets, and fluorescent lights, the hum of business getting done. I follow her through another doorway. “Almost there,” she says. There’s no way I’m going to be able to find my way back to the elevators.
In Harry’s office, the walls are covered with framed rock-and-roll posters, gold records, a black-and-white photograph of the Brooklyn Bridge, and others of himself, smiling alongside various music business luminaries. The bookshelves are packed full of CDs, books, cassettes, and LPs. Harry’s desk overflows with paper, in folders and in piles, more CDs, most out of their cases, pens, paper clips and rubber bands, a few pairs of sunglasses, and a jar of jelly beans.
He looks up but stays seated. “Hi, Lisa. You look great. Thanks for coming in. Have a seat.”
I thank him and relax a little. I’ve got a T-shirt on and a jean jacket over it, tight black pants, and a pair of Doc Martens boots. My hair is messy in a good way, and I’m wearing just enough makeup to make it look as if I don’t have any on. I’m going for hip, casual, and pretty.
Harry has asked me to bring any music I’ve got to play for him, so I’ve brought the well-recorded demos made with Corbin years ago at Silver Sound, although some of those songs are not my best. I’ve also got a tape of a few newer, better songs, recorded on a four-track in my apartment, but those kind of sound like I’m singing underwater.