A Mother Would Know (70)

He swings the door open and steps into the hall. The door closes firmly. His footfalls carry him away.

I stare up at the ceiling, willing my body to move for several minutes. Then I hear the floor creak—and a horrifying sound. One I understand instantly, even as I feel sleep pulling me under.

Metal sliding softly against metal.

A hook and eye latch, like the one that used to hang in front of Grace’s door.

Only now it must be hanging in front of mine.





24





The piano played high tinkling notes, a melody I recognized, but for some reason couldn’t place. The music swelled around me, cocooning me in its familiarity, and then I knew what it was. “All I Ask of You” from Phantom of the Opera, the song I’d sung the day I met Darren. I felt the slick ivory beneath my fingertips, the faint buzz of the piano strings as I pressed down on the keys.

Around me the blurriness cleared, the room coming into focus. It was light and airy, the curtains open. I was sitting at an upright piano in front of a large window. Darren’s and my first home—a duplex we rented in Carmichael. He’d snagged the piano at an estate sale. It was horribly out of tune. We didn’t have the money to get it tuned. Yet I played, ignoring the off notes while I sang along.

Darren sat beside me, the piano bench rickety. It shifted beneath our weight, teetering every once in a while, so we’d have to press our feet down to steady it. My fingers flew over the keys, feeling the music. My protruding belly hit the edge of the keys, Hudson moved inside my stomach as if to the beat.

Kendra waddled into the room, her hair in two pigtails on either side of her head. She wore red overalls, a striped shirt. Her feet were bare, pudgy toes grabbing at the carpet as she stumbled toward us.

“Mama, up,” she said, her arms thrusting upward, her little fingers wiggling in the air.

Giggling, I slid my fingers off the keys, scooted my butt back on the bench to make some space, and bent awkwardly to pick her up. After setting her in my lap, I reached around to place my hands on the keys once again. She babbled along with my singing. I felt Hudson’s feet kicking my ribs. Darren leaned over, kissing my cheek.

I smiled, contentment filling me.

“No, here. Why don’t we try this?” A male voice spoke. One that was out of place. One that shouldn’t have been in this room with us. The song changed, notes being played on keys I wasn’t touching.

Startled, I whipped my head to the right. It was no longer Darren beside me but Mac. He had a pencil in one hand, the other hand on the piano. He played a few notes and then jotted something down on a chord sheet propped up on the piano. We were no longer in my old duplex. We were at Mac’s place. It was dim, nighttime. A lamp glowed in the corner.

He was so intent on scribbling down his idea, it was like he didn’t even notice I was here. I loved him like this. Focused. Driven. Similar to me. It was a side of me Darren didn’t appreciate. Mac did. We were the same.

I listened to the notes he played, adding a few of my own. His head swiveled in my direction as if just noticing me again.

Listening, he nodded. “I like that.” Decisively, he jotted the notes down.

We played the parts together, and I added a line from our lyric sheet.

“Hidden in the shadows darkness on our skin where prying eyes can’t see.” I could feel the heat of his stare on my face, but didn’t dare move a muscle. Yet when his hand came to rest on my leg, my name falling from his lips, I turned. Within seconds I was in his lap, our mouths fused.

Every time this happened, I told myself it would be the last.

It never was.



* * *



Barking. Bowie? Where are you, boy?

I struggle to pull myself from the dreamlike memories and into the present. My eyelids flutter, my fingers grasping my comforter. In the distance, I hear the barking again. Bowie must be in the backyard. I try to yell his name, but it’s a losing battle. Then the barking outside is joined by a shriek of laughter, sweet and light, and I realize Bowie must be playing ball with Grace. My vision is swimmy, as if everything in my room is in motion, rocking on the waves of the ocean. My skin is hot, my muscles loose like when I’ve had too much to drink.

I allow the waves to take over, my room vanishing behind my eyelids.



* * *



Clapping and cheering all around me. Lights shone brightly in my eyes. I glanced down at the mic in my hand. Squinted to see past the lights. People. Dozens of them, clapping and screaming. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye—the guys putting down the instruments, exiting the stage. Reluctantly, I slid the mic back into the stand. Show endings were always bittersweet for me. I longed to continue—I could have always sung all night—and yet it also felt good to hear the applause, to listen to the whistles and shouts for an encore, to celebrate, party, and eventually, rest.

But tonight was the last night of the tour, so it was even harder to get off the stage.

Tomorrow we’d head home. To reality. To our families.

After a couple of drinks, I returned to the bus. Mac was there waiting for me. The minute I stepped inside, his hands were on my face, on my skin, in my hair. Pressing me up against the wall, he kissed me hard. When his mouth moved down to my neck, his hands leaving my face and traveling down my chest, I drew away.

“What about the guys?” I asked, gulping in air.