And I will not remember that I even felt the pain
And we shall walk and talk in gardens all misty and wet with rain
And I will never, never, never grow so old again
Oh sweet thing, sweet thing oh, my, my, my, my, sweet thing
I felt the climbing, pulsing ache. With my other hand I grabbed at my breast, clenching my nipple between my fingers. Will’s voice was peaking and falling so beautifully and I felt the intense moment between my ears and down my spine and between my legs. I arched my back and pressed deeply into myself with steady pressure. As I came, I opened my mouth wide, trying desperately to stifle the breathy “Ahh” that spilled out. I felt my body curved slightly above the water. I sank back down, opened my eyes, and glanced over to Will, who had stopped singing. He continued strumming the guitar as he gaped at me, his lips slightly parted. And then with curiosity in his eyes, his mouth curled into the most sincere, small smile. It was like his expression said I don’t judge you, I want you to feel good, and then he whispered, “Hey, beautiful.”
“Hey,” I said, voice raspy. It was a moment where I thought I should feel embarrassed, but I didn’t. What Will had witnessed should have made me feel like the going-to-school-in-your-pajamas dream does. You know, when you’re a teenager and it feels like all eyes are on you; you’re the center of the universe. Then you grow up and realize it would have been awesome to go to school in your pajamas and the only reason why you had those dreams in the first place was because you went to school with a couple of assholes who would make it their goal in life to ruin you over wearing your Hello Kitty nightgown to biology class? That is what I realized in that moment. I wasn’t embarrassed that Will had witnessed such a private moment, because he didn’t make me feel embarrassed about it. Will was secure enough with himself to respect a moment that was so raw and personal.
Anyway, maybe I wanted Will to see, or maybe the wine and Vicodin wasn’t such a good idea.
“Are you ready to get out?”
“Yes.” When he walked toward me, I reached my hand out and let him pull me to my feet. He only let me stand there exposed for a second before wrapping a towel around me. After he lifted me out, I hopped on my good foot to lean against the counter.
“Do you want me to grab you some clothes?”
I looked around and spotted one of Will’s white V-neck T-shirts lying over the towel rack. “Can you hand me that shirt?”
He looked back, confused, but he grabbed it anyway and smelled it. Shrugging his shoulders, he said, “Smells fine, I guess.” I pulled the T-shirt over my head and then shimmied the towel out from underneath. The shirt fit like a dress and smelled like Will. I inhaled deeply.
“Ready?” he said. I nodded. He grabbed me around the waist and hitched me up a little on my good side to help me hop to my bedroom.
It was a warm evening; the windows in the apartment were open, letting in a light breeze. The warmth and the street noise reminded me of the summers with my father. I lay back on my bed, propping my head and foot up on pillows while Will perused a stack of CDs sitting on my dresser. He held up the self-titled CD from the band Shine, a post-progressive rock group from Detroit. My friend who worked in a music store in Ann Arbor had recommended the CD years ago. It had become one of those albums that I kept close by. I would forget about it for months and then pick it up and fall in love all over again.
“I worked on this,” he said.
I stared at him in disbelief. “What do you mean?”
“I used to know these guys. Years ago, they asked me to sing on two songs for this album. It’s just the obscure backup vocal on…” He looked at the back of the CD. “…track three, ‘Lie, Paula,’ and track five, ‘Mission.’”
I couldn’t speak. “Lie, Paula” and “Mission” were my two favorite songs on the album simply because I loved the ethereal backup vocals. I spent many nights daydreaming to those two songs, wondering what kind of angelic being could produce that sound. I was gawking and completely bewildered.
He smiled. “Mia, you’re high as kite, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I didn’t explain why I was so shocked. For all Will knew, I was looped from the pain pills.
He put the CD in the player and lay back next to me, stretching his legs out and propping his hands behind his head. And then out of nowhere he said, “Did you name Jackson after Jackson Pollock?”
“No. It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time.”
“Okay, when I was ten, my mom and stepdad got me the cutest little black lab puppy for Christmas. Being an only child, they figured I could use the company. I decided to name him after my hero, Johnny Cash.” Will shot me a surprised look. “I know, weird hero for ten-year-old, but I loved the songwriting okay? Anyway, the little puppy was quite the escape artist—he tried to jump over the gate and dig under the fence almost every day while I was at school. One day while I was doing my homework at the kitchen table, my mom ran in crying and ran to the phone, dialed my stepfather at work and whispered, Johnny Cash hung himself. I didn’t know if she was talking about the person or the dog. It didn’t matter either way, I fell apart.”
He reached down and grabbed my hand and kissed it; I contemplated pulling away, but I didn’t. I realized we were friends and Will was just being sensitive to my dead-puppy story, so I continued with my hand in his. “Anyway, my mom took the lifeless Johnny Cash to the vet, but it was too late. They basically told us it was our fault because we left the collar on too loose and that’s how the poor little guy hung himself. It took us all awhile to get over it. A few years later, my stepdad brought home little Jackson. I asked if I could name him Johnny Cash, but they told me it wasn’t a good idea, so I named him Jackson after the song that Johnny and June Carter Cash sang.” I looked over at Will, who was smiling sympathetically.
“How old is Jackson?”
“He’s thirteen. He’s been having more episodes; I’m really worried about him.”
“I know, me too.” We both looked over at Jackson, who was lying on his doggy pillow near the door. He wagged his tail at us and a brief thought ran through my mind. I wondered if it made Jackson happy to see Will and me like that. Like the wish I might have had for my mother and father to be together. It was an obscure thought that was gone as soon as it arrived, but it made me think about Will and my life and the possibilities.
“Hopes and dreams Will?” I said, arching my eyebrows.
“What are my hopes and dreams?” he asked, clarifying. I nodded. “Well, my hope and maybe also my dream is that you’ll need another bath soon,” he said with a mischievous grin. I elbowed him. “There is actually this one dream I keep having where I’m sitting at a table in a fancy restaurant. Across from me at the table are Jack Black and Jack White. Jack Black is dressed in head-to-toe white, top hat and all, and Jack White is dressed the same, but in head-to-toe black. I sit there motionless, staring at the Jacks, totally confused. They don’t move, they just stare right back at me. It’s fucking weird,” he says, laughing.
I shook my head at him and giggled and then thought it was impossible for Will to be serious. He sat up, still looking straight ahead, and put his hand on my leg. He rubbed my thigh up and down, all the way up to where the bottom of the T-shirt rested. Then he turned and looked at me solemnly and said, “I have them, Mia. That’s all you need to know,” and then he bent over and gave me a swift kiss on the lips. “Night, pretty baby.” He didn’t linger for one second; he got up and headed to his room. In the hallway, he called back, “Let me know if you need anything and stay off that foot.”
“Night, Will,” I whispered, but he didn’t hear me.
Will’s kiss and the way he touched my leg was so intimate and sweet. Not sexy, just intimate, the way you kiss or touch your best friend, with kindness and love and without judgment.
Every opportunity I had over the next several weeks to tell Will that I had broken up with Robert passed me by. The questions kept coming about where Robe
rt was and I continued being evasive. I wanted to tell Will, but I felt like it would change things with us and we were getting along so well.
My pseudo family helped me out a lot during my broken-foot era. By mid-August I was off the crutches and out of the cast. Jenny was busy planning her wedding every second of the day. With Tyler’s support, I talked her out of having it on Halloween. They decided on an outdoor wedding in September.
I was starting to settle into my life even though at times I still felt like I was an observer, looking from the outside in. I saw people around me really living; Will was working a lot and still playing his secret shows, which he wouldn’t tell a soul about until after the fact. The only time I felt present and alive was when I played music. Will and I worked on a bunch of piano tracks for his songs. He was never short on praise when we played together, which gave me the confidence to really explore music. He started bringing home other instruments; I dug out my father’s guitar and banjo and Will and I would spend hours goofing around in our little makeshift studio. I really enjoyed those sessions and I know he did too. One night after a little tequila and a lot jamming, Will told me he thought we shared a mystical alchemy when we played; I couldn’t agree more. He never shared any details about record labels courting him, but I knew there was hype over Will because there were countless calls and meetings. I didn’t want our sessions to ever come to an end, but I knew Will would eventually move on.
Track 9: Mystical Alchemy
“Your mom and dad made those,” Martha said as she washed dishes in the big sink in the back of the café.
I was dusting off some hand-thrown pottery mugs that I had found hiding deep in a cabinet. Each one was beautiful and different with a unique pattern. I paused and wondered how that was possible and then I shouted over the clanking dishes and faucet noise, “When? Those five days back when my mom was nineteen?”
Martha looked at me but didn’t say a word. I think she realized her slip and so did I.
One of the mugs went crashing to the ground when I absentmindedly set it on the edge of the counter. “Dammit!”
Martha came over to help me pick up the pieces. When I picked up the bottom part of the mug, I saw a heart inscription between my parents’ initials. I set the piece down and jumped up. “I’ll be right back.” I ran out the door and bolted to my apartment. I ran past Will, who was standing at the kitchen counter. I went straight to the closet and yanked the big box of my father’s pictures and documents down. Kneeling on my bedroom floor, I hastily sifted through the contents of the box until I came across a manila envelope. I pinched the metal prongs, opened the flap, and turned it upside down. Two tiny boxes fell out, along with a file of documents and a stack of letters and pictures. I don’t know how, but I realized right away that I was holding proof of some kind of history that had been kept from me.
I went to the pictures first. There were three black-and-white photos. The first picture was an artsy closeup photo of my father lying on his side, shirtless, and looking down. My mother is peeking up from behind him, staring right into the camera lens with a seductive look. They were both very young and it could have easily been taken during the notorious five days. I imagined my father’s version of Andy Warhol’s Factory. My mother looked so different, so vibrant and uninhibited. Her hair was long and straight and contrasted beautifully with her fair skin; she was clearly the muse. The second photo was of my mom lying in a bed, shirtless and nursing her baby. My eyes welled up when I realized the picture was taken in the very room I was sitting in. That photograph with my mother, the peaceful look on her face was a gift in itself, but it was a gift that was hard to appreciate because at that moment I was still very torn and confused. The third picture was of the three of us lying on the same bed. I must have been six months old, lying in between my mother and father, both of them looking serenely at me.
By the time I got to the fourth photograph, I was a blubbering mess. It was my mother and father standing in front of the courthouse. My father was dressed uncharacteristically in a suit and my mother was in a white, knee-length, A-line dress. I knew immediately it was their wedding photo. The photos were images of events I had wished were real my whole life and now they were.
I started sifting frantically through the file of documents. I saw their marriage license and the divorce decree. They were married six months before I was born and it lasted one year, almost to the day. The boxes held two gold wedding bands and a beautiful pair of diamond earrings.
I looked up through blurry eyes to see Will standing quietly in the doorway. “Go away, Will,” I said, sniffling. His expression was pure compassion, but I raised my eyebrows at him like what are you waiting for. He turned slowly and walked out as I continued sobbing. There were two letters, one addressed to my father and one addressed to me. I opened the letter addressed to my father and glanced down to the bottom. It was signed Lizzie. It was the name my father had called my mother.
Dearest Alan,
I’ve decided to go back to Ann Arbor; I know you sensed that it would come to this. I don’t fit in here; this life is not for me. I love you, but we want different things and you said yourself that we create our own destiny. You’ve been so good to me and it breaks my heart to hurt you this way. I know you will be a wonderful father to Mia. I promise that I will make you a big part of her life. Please understand. I’m so sorry.
Love you always,
Lizzie
I cursed my mother, then opened the letter addressed to me.
Luv,
I knew one day you would start asking questions, so I am writing this letter from my heart. Your mother and I never wanted you to feel that our marriage failed because of you, so we chose to wait to share this information. We shared a deep love for each other, but we realized that we wanted different things in life. We hope you’ll understand our choices. We love you more than anything, Mia, and we love each other and always will because of what we share in you. These rings and earrings belong to you as a memento of your parents’ love.
All my love,
Pops
When I finished the letter my head was pounding and shirt was drenched with tears. I felt Martha’s warm embrace around me. I hadn’t noticed her walk in but she knew I was hurting. She held me silently for a long time. I realized it was my mother who made the choice, not her parents. It wasn’t because my father couldn’t be faithful, it was because they were too different and my mother didn’t want this life.
“How will I ever forgive her?” I whispered.
“You don’t have to forgive her, you’re not Jesus. Your mom was still figuring out who she was when she met your dad. She didn’t do anything wrong except try to protect you. Your parents loved you so much, but your mom wasn’t happy here,” she said gently.
“I’m just like her, that’s why I can’t be happy. I’m just like my mom and here I am in my father’s life,” I said between sobs.
“Yes, you’re like her, but not just like her. Do you follow me?” I thought I understood what she was saying, but I was getting more than one-liners from Martha that day, so I shook my head and waited to hear the explanation. “You are your mother and your father. You are your experiences and your fears and the love you let yourself feel. You are your degree and your talent and your passion. You are your pain, your joy, and your fantasies. You are me and Sheil and Jenny and Will and every person that touches your soul… but most of all you are you, whoever you dream that to be.” She looked at me, eyebrows arched.
“Yes,” I whispered. “I guess I’m still trying to figure out the dream.”
“Just remember what I told you about listening to your soul. What I see in you is very different than what I saw in your mother twenty-five years ago. You belong here, Mia.”
I hugged Martha for what seemed like an hour. When she finally left, I knocked on Will’s door. He opened it and leaned in the doorway, his eyes sympathetic. He was wearing black jeans and a yellow T-shirt that said Everything is Rad. I wished I fel
t that way.
“Hey,” he whispered. I wanted to dive into his arms, but I held strong.
“I’m sorry for snapping at you. I just learned something about my parents and… it was tough.”
He uncrossed his arms and took a step toward me, but I stepped backward away from him. He paused at my reaction and looked down for a long second. He looked back up into my eyes and then gestured with his head toward the front door. “Come with me?”
“I have to go back to Kell’s.”
“Jenny will cover for you. I’m playing at the string festival Sheil put together. Come on, you could use some musical therapy,” he said, his expression hopeful.
Nothing in the world sounded better than seeing and hearing Will play. My decision was easy. “Okay, but we should stop by the café on the way.”
He grabbed his two guitars and a dulcimer while I put my shoes on. When we got to the front room, Will stood in front of my dad’s banjo. “Let’s bring this for you.”
“No way, Will!” I said abruptly. “I’m not playing anything, I’m just going to watch.”
“You mean listen?”
“Whatever.”
“You can play any Bob Dylan song you want,” he said with a cute smile. On the banjo I only knew the handful of songs my father had taught me and they were all Dylan songs.
“Okay, fine,” I said with mock irritation. I was actually excited.
We lugged the instruments over to Kell’s so I could ask Jenny if she would cover for me. She told me if I didn’t go with Will she would never speak to me again.
We took a cab to Prospect Park in Brooklyn. When I saw all the cars and the huge stage I freaked out. Sheil had told me about the festival she puts on every year, but I had no idea it was that big. “Oh my god, Will, this is a huge deal!”
Sweet Thing Page 11
