Bullet(89)

I actually did get to see a few old friends after the show and introduced them to my band buddies, but afterward we headed to my house and visited with my parents before hitting the hay. The next day we started talking wedding plans. Even the guys got in on it, and we settled on a date in July. Brad hadn’t booked any shows yet, so we chose a week and a half where we wouldn’t do any shows.

I watched Brad as we worked through the process. He seemed okay with it. We still weren’t where I would have liked us to be friend-wise, but I supposed that would still take a while. Obviously, our stage act suffered. I was still wearing the skimpy stuff, but Brad and I were no longer flirting. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it, and I think Brad felt the same way.

By the time we left to go back to Denver, I was mentally exhausted. I hadn’t realized there was so much to a wedding. After all that, I considered just standing in front of a Justice of the Peace and calling it done, but another part of me wanted the fairytale wedding, the one with lace and flowers and personal vows. And that was the wedding I was going to get.

Brad had already agreed to be the best man, and Nick and Zane were going to be the groomsmen. I managed to contact Jill through email, and she agreed to be my matron of honor. I hadn’t talked with her in a while, and I discovered she and Chad were expecting their first child. She would already have the baby by the time the wedding rolled around, so she said she wouldn’t want to be fitted until May. My mother was going to contact my closest female cousin (who lived in Grand Junction) to see if she would be a bridesmaid, and I was even able to get a hold of Jennifer Manders, my old college roommate who was finishing up college.

We also looked at dresses online, but mom insisted I buy one in person. The only way to get it right would be that way. So she planned to visit me in Denver the next week, and we’d find a dress together. I couldn’t have done any of it without mom.

I was already hating it all, and I don’t think there would have been any way I would have enjoyed it. And Ethan sensed that.

That night, back in our apartment, Ethan curled up next to me after we’d made love. “You act like you’re hating this. Are you getting cold feet?”

“No. This is just so complicated. Why can’t we just get married and be done with it?”

He grinned and pulled me close. “Let’s do it.”

I considered it for a moment. “No. My mom would kill me, especially after everything she’s done already.”

“She’s your mom. She’ll forgive you.”

But I could tell that just that tiny conversation put Ethan’s heart at ease, and as summer approached, I found that my love fully blossomed for the man. He was staying sober, and he was treating me well. Some days were harder than others, and more than once he complained that sobriety ruined his creativity. But he did it, and I could see the love in him.

The wedding arrived quickly. My dress was a beautiful traditional white, and it fit like a glove. The church was full of people I hadn’t seen in years, and some were people I’d never met, people from Ethan’s side of the family. And as we darted through the flying birdseed our loved ones were showering on us, I was pretty certain I’d spotted Ethan’s dad in the crowd. I hugged one person after another and planned to talk to him afterwards, but he disappeared before I had the chance. He looked sick, but I found it heartening to see him there. If he and Ethan could bond, I knew the relationship would do so much for my new husband. But he’d never have the chance.

Obviously, Ethan and I didn’t have enough money to get our own place, but my room in our apartment became our room. We didn’t have much of a honeymoon either, but my mom and dad did spring for a two-day stay at the Broadmoor in Colorado Springs. They shouldn’t have blown all that money because we hardly left the room.

It wasn’t long, though, before we fell back into a routine. And about a month later, Brad said we needed to get our asses recording. He’d heard from Jet, and things were promising for our band, but we needed to send a CD for Clay to pimp around to the people who mattered. It was expensive, even finding a cheaper place to do the recording, but we wanted high quality. Brad was almost ready to sacrifice quality for something, anything, but we managed to scrape together enough money.

I was unfamiliar with the process, and maybe the guys were too. I don’t know. But Nick was first. He had to lay down all the drum tracks upon which we’d build the songs. We chose fourteen songs—our best and favorites, the ones that showed off our skills, and we picked ones that highlighted our range. Because we couldn’t afford a ton of time in the studio, Brad insisted we practice, practice, practice. Yes, we were good simply because we’d been playing live for a long time, but he wanted us to be tight. And we weren’t used to doing things alone, but we’d have to do it that way when recording…one person at a time, doing his (or her) thing. And it all started with Nick laying down the drums.

I started practicing a lot. I had to sound good—I had to sound more metal than ever. I even called Jet, because he was the one who’d originally encouraged me to refine my sound. And he gave me rations of shit, asking why a married woman would be calling an ex-lover, but once he was done giving me grief, we had a great conversation about how to sound on different parts of different songs. I took notes.

I wanted to ask him why he hadn’t come to my wedding, but I knew why. Aside from the fact that we were ex-lovers, I knew he hated Ethan, and he wasn’t happy that I was marrying him. It wasn’t because of our previous relationship. He’d always thought Ethan didn’t deserve me, and that might have been true a long time ago, but not anymore. Ethan had gotten his shit together, and we were at the beginning of a beautiful journey together.

So I thanked him for his advice and asked him how things were going. They were, in his words, “f*cking fantastic!” He then said we needed to hurry up with the demo, because he wouldn’t be able to keep his contacts interested forever.

We had four gigs in a row that week—Wednesday through Saturday nights—and it was Saturday morning that I first started noticing problems. I was sounding hoarse by the end of the show that night, but I just thought maybe I was coming down with a cold or maybe I’d stressed my voice out too much.

But I only practiced for about an hour the next afternoon and noticed the same problem. And every day my voice would wear out sooner and sooner, so I did my warm tea with lemon and honey trick, but it wasn’t working anymore. So I decided to rest my voice and save it for shows, but it wasn’t getting any better. I could get forty-five minutes out of my voice at the max before it started croaking.

I was starting to worry, but I didn’t say anything to the guys…not yet, although I’m sure they were starting to worry about it too. After all, they heard me singing too. The hoarseness worked okay short term for a song or two, but when I had to carry a melody, it just didn’t cut it. But I kept resting my voice and quit practicing altogether. I saved my voice for concerts only.

The time came when all the music was recorded, and I had to start singing. I started with “Metal Forever,” and after an hour of recording and re-recording, I broke down in tears. Well, crying didn’t help either. Brad and Ethan were there, and I finally had to tell them what was going on.

“It sounds okay, Val,” Brad said.

“Yeah…works for the song.”

“Maybe so,” I said, my voice scratchy, “but it’ll never work for ‘Just Another Stupid Love Song.’ My voice has to be clear for that.” Brad frowned. I could tell he agreed. But I could see Ethan, trying to be the loving, supportive husband, trying to be encouraging. He started to talk, but I interrupted him, even though I shouldn’t have said a word. “No, Ethan, you know it and I know it. I can’t sound like I took a f*cking emery board to my vocal cords for that one. I have to sound sweet and soft and sexy, or it doesn’t work when I scream at the end.” I started crying again. “Goddammit.”

That’s when they knew how upset I was. Brad said, “So you take it easy tonight. You drink extra tea and don’t say shit. Nothing. If your voice is still f*cked up, you go to the doctor.”

“I—we can’t afford the doctor.”

“Bullshit. You’re goin’.” I started protesting when he said, “You’re going, Val. Don’t piss me off.” He looked at Ethan. “Talk some sense into your wife, please.”

“Yeah, because I’m really good at persuading her.” Ethan rolled his eyes, but then he looked at me. “Val, he’s right. If your voice is still sucky tomorrow, you should go.”

“And then what? You know how much money it’ll cost just to be seen? And then what? What if—”

“Stop it. We cross that bridge when we come to it. For now,” Brad said, “you go home and rest.”

But we hadn’t anticipated the worst. First of all, I wasn’t able to get into the doctor the very next day, and when I did get there, it wasn’t pretty. Not only was I suffering from some pretty serious damage which the doctor blamed on crappy vocal techniques (and he asked why I hadn’t ever sought out any vocal training), but I had some pretty nasty scar tissue to boot. I could have surgery—laser or otherwise—but it would cost. And, on top of surgery, I’d probably also need vocal therapy.