The Song of David(65)

She stretched her hand, her pinky finger clinging to the bottom string and the chord changed subtly, another layer, a slightly different sound, like the chord wasn’t quite yet resolved. “And that’s David.”

I sat down behind her on the floor and grabbed her folded thighs, pulling her back into me so that I cradled her the way she cradled the guitar. She leaned back against my chest, tucked her head to one side of my chin, and continued fingering the chords she’d named after me.

“Let me hear your song, Millie.”

“You mean my chord?”

“Nah. Your song. You’re a woman. Women don’t have just one chord.”

She laughed softly and bopped me in the head with the neck of the guitar. “I’m glad you know that, but I’m kind of wishing you didn’t know quite so much about women. Makes me wonder how you gained all that knowledge. And I get a little jealous.”

“I grew up with three sisters and one very opinionated, feisty mother. I learned early.”

“Good answer, big guy.”

“It’s the truth, sweetheart. So play it. Play your song.”

“I haven’t written it yet.”

“Will you put my chord in your song?”

“Why does that sound so suggestive?” She was smiling, but there was something wistful in her voice.

“Because I’m a sexy man.”

“I’ll put your chord in my song. Both of them, Tag and David. And I’ll put Henry’s in it too.”

“What about your mom? Did she have a chord?”

Millie moved her hand immediately and played something warm and soft, something happy yet plaintive. “That’s my mom, that chord there. Do you recognize it?”

I thought for a minute. “Is it part of her song?”

“It’s part of an old country song. It’s the very first chord of ‘Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.’”

I sang a couple bars of the song. I knew it well.

“That’s it. I love that song. My mom had blue eyes, just like me and Henry. And she didn’t spend a lot of time crying, thank goodness. She spent a lot of time loving. But there was longing in her too. She wanted to protect us. She wanted to save us from hurt. She wanted to give us back the things that had been taken from us or denied us. She longed for it. And she couldn’t do it. No matter how much she loved us, she couldn’t do it.”

“I guess none of us can.”

“No. None of us can. She told me something before she died, and I think about it sometimes when I’m having a hard time. She said that all her life she just wanted to save us from suffering. That was her job as a mom—save us from suffering, but we suffered anyway.” Millie paused as if she were remembering the conversation, and I wanted to kiss her mouth, kiss that lower lip that trembled just a bit with the emotional memory. I pressed my lips to the curve of her cheek instead, afraid that if I kissed her mouth I’d never hear the end of her story.

“And then she said, ‘I wanted to save you and Henry from suffering, but I’ve come to realize that your suffering has made you better people.’ She was dying, and she was watching us come to terms with the fact that we were going to lose her.”

“And what do you think? Does suffering make us better people?” I asked.

“It all depends on the person, I suppose,” she mused.

“Maybe it depends on the amount of suffering too,” I added, stroking a hand over her hair.

“And whether you have people holding your hand along the way, sharing the burdens, shouldering some of the pain.” She leaned into my hand.

“Did you have that, Millie?” I asked quietly.

“I did. My mom may not have been able to keep me from suffering, and I certainly couldn’t keep her from suffering, or Henry, for that matter. But we loved each other, and that made the suffering bearable.”

“I want to be that for you, Millie. I want to carry you. I want you to give it all to me,” I said, and then sang a little Rolling Stones in her ear, changing the lyrics just a bit.

“Let me be your beast of burden, my back is broad to ease your hurtin,’” I sang, kissing her earlobe. I would love her and keep her safe, and I swore to myself then that I would do the impossible. There would be no more suffering for Amelie Anderson. I would be the one shouldering all the shit.

She let me nuzzle her neck for a minute, humming happily.