by Emily Asad
Chapter 8: Not So Alone
Statistic: Girls whose parents divorce may grow up without the day-to-day experience of interacting with a man who is attentive, caring, and loving. Without this regular source of nourishment, a girl’s sense of being valued as a female does not seem to thrive.
The charm of our new animals wore off quickly over the next three weeks as the reality of raising them took its toll. Nobody, including me, liked getting up twenty minutes early in order to feed and water the livestock. Even so, I looked forward to going into the barn. It was quiet and peaceful there, and it was a place that Mom rarely went. When I was there, and she was yelling at me to come do the dishes or some other distasteful task, I could either claim I was doing chores, or pretend to not hear her. Of course, I was certain that Mr. Piekarski, even though he lived half a mile away, could hear her, so I used that particular excuse as sparingly as possible.
If only I could get a part in the fall play! It didn’t cost anything to participate, and it would give me an excuse to stay away from the house.
Not that I minded the house. Actually, I adored it. The barn was my personal domain. I sang to my animals, and juggled for them. Miss Bjornson even let me borrow some clubs to take home, once I got enough courage to ask her. It was Mom I was trying to avoid.
You’ve heard of the expression, “She was as moody as a spring day.” Well, forget the spring day. Mom was as moody as Mother Nature herself. As a Minnesotan, from the land of the Frozen Chosen, I was quite conscious of changes in weather, and even more finely attuned to changes in Mom. Some days she could be weepy, like a rain shower. Other days she could be violent and frightening, like an electrical storm. She was often cold and uninviting, like a blizzard. And sometimes – the best but rarest mood of all – she was as warm, happy and affectionate as a fine spring day. On those days, we kids did everything we could to spend time with her. We played Scrabble, our favorite board game, and we watched movies together. We never did talk much; Mom always seemed awkward and never knew what to say. But we wished that those spring days would occur with more frequency. Roger seemed to bring them out of her. We were grateful for his effect.
Peter and Becky adored him. Peter did not remember his real father, and Becky was too young to remember never having a father, so they bonded quickly. On the other hand, Matt and I were almost adults. We had suffered through the worst part of our childhood without a father figure, and we certainly didn’t need one now. Although Matt appreciated Roger’s wrestling knowledge, he resented the fact that Roger constantly tried to impose his authority upon him. Matt only answered to Mom – and lately he had not been doing that – and Roger’s ‘father figure’ ideals really rubbed the wrong way.
As for me, I thought he was a nice guy. He would never be a father to me, of course, but as my mother’s husband, he was decent.
One night he decided to start singing with me. “I hear you’re in choir,” he said as I passed through the living room. He was playing his guitar.
I tried to be subtle about eavesdropping, but he must have known I was listening.
“Oh. Yeah, kind of.”
“Kind of? Your mother said that you’re in the top choir in the entire school.”
“Not exactly.”
He waited for me to explain, but I wasn’t exactly the type to volunteer information. He had to prompt me to continue.
“Well, there’s one level above A Cappella,” I said after he gestured at me. “A Cappella has twenty people – ten guys and ten girls. But Chamber Singers only has eight. You have to audition from A Cappella to get into Chamber Singers.”
“When did you audition?”
“I’m not going to,” I flushed, thinking about Naomi. She was sure to get a position. I didn’t know if I could stand singing so close to her; it was a rather intimate little group that traveled to different places and sang for special events. She surely wouldn’t want me in her group. In her own words, I didn’t belong.
“Really?” He seemed surprised. He surely sensed that there was something else I wasn’t telling him, but he didn’t push.
I didn't answer.
He thrummed some chords on his guitar, and then began to sing. It was a soothing, haunting little melody, one that I had never heard before. He really had an excellent singing voice. When he reached the chorus the second time, he looked at me. “Jump in any time,” he offered.
I looked at the floor. “That’s okay.”
“Well, then Donna must have been wrong. She said you liked singing.”
I was surprised that she knew what I liked, because she never asked and I never told her. We never really talked. “I don’t know the song.”
“Probably not, it’s an old one. Most of the songs in my book are from the early bluegrass period.”
I carefully flipped through the pages. He had obviously collected his songs over several decades. Some of the pages were yellow and brittle; others were white and new. He had a table of contents that was semi-alphabetical, except for the newest songs. I saw “Carolina in the Pines” and “Mountain Climber” and “One Tin Soldier.” I didn’t recognize any of them. But he was being so nice, I didn’t want to offend him by refusing to sing with him.
I saw “Bridge over Troubled Water” and remembered it from eighth-grade choir. “I know this one,” I pointed.
He played an introduction, and then began to sing the words. I hummed for a while, but got up some courage to join him on the chorus. I was too ashamed of my own voice to sing properly, so I ended up squeaking out the notes.
He looked at me. “This must be a bad key for you.” In an easy transition, he changed chords and continued the song.
How tactful, I thought.
Actually, it was a better key for me. I began to relax. He held the melody, since I was too shy to sing very loudly, so I began experimenting with different harmonies. I love to harmonize. There's nothing better in the world than enhancing a song with various overlays.
“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked at the end of the song.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I just hear them in my head. Sometimes I hear three or four, but I can only sing one at a time.”
“That’s impressive.” He smiled at me. “Let’s try another one.”
He sang “Blue Eyes Cryin’ in the Rain,” another old song I had never heard, but I was quick to catch on to the chords. I followed them in a harmony until I knew the song, and then I sang the melody with him.
“I’ve never met anyone who learned songs so quickly,” he said, smiling at me.
I blushed. It was not the humiliating crimson that was too familiar to my cheeks; this blush was a happy one. I was so flattered that I actually confided in him.
“I have to be quick, you see. All the other kids can read music, but I never learned. The only way to stay in A Cappella is to memorize my songs on the first day. The tunes are easy. It’s the words that are a little bit harder.” I leaned forward in my eagerness to explain. “Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I’ll start dreaming the words. That’s when I know I have them memorized. It’s like my head figures them out for me, so I don’t have to work so hard at it.”
“You really like singing, don’t you?”
I sat back. “I thought I did.” My smile disappeared.
He watched me for a moment or two. I could tell that he was trying to decide what to say to me, or whether it was any of his business or not. “Let me guess. Trouble at school?”
My jaw dropped. Literally. I clamped it shut so hard that I knocked my teeth together. I was not used to discussing my problems with anyone, except Matt. And Mom never had time. When she did, she was always distracted. I looked at the carpet, unsure of where to begin.
I really wanted to tell him. Something inside me, however, stopped me. Why bother bonding with him if he wasn’t going to stick around? After the divorce, if it happened, did I really want him knowing what went on in my life? He and Mom had been arguing
a lot more lately. Sometimes the arguments ended in shouting matches. I even heard the words ‘temporary separation’ creep into their conversations – and they had only been married a month or so. No, it was best to keep Roger at arm’s length, at least until I was sure he was really going to stick around.
“What’s ‘Please, Mr. Conductor’?” I asked, changing the topic.
He took the hint. “It’s a story about a little boy who has to get home to his mother, who is dying. He can’t afford the ticket, so the conductor wants to throw him off the train. A nice lady pays his ticket, and he gets to see his mom one last time before she dies.” He strummed the chords and began to sing.
It was a touching song, but I was more relieved that I didn’t have to talk to him. I struggled with my emotions. He seemed like he really cared, but it wouldn’t have been right. My mother was the one who was supposed to care, not this stranger. He may have lived in our house, but he wasn’t entitled to its intimacies. Yet.
My mind wandered off the song. What was Mom’s problem, anyway? Why did she never talk to me? She was the Invisible Parent, the one who provided money and discipline – lots of discipline – but no emotional support. I wondered what I would have done if Mom asked the same question Roger did. I might have told her. But she wouldn’t have asked. Erika said Mom didn’t care, and it was true.
We sang for at least half an hour before going to bed. I started to feel better about myself. I had impressed two adults: Miss Bjornson with my juggling, and Roger with my singing. Somehow, Naomi’s bitter insults seemed lessened by that fact. They still stung, of course, but at least the whole world didn’t share her opinions. I had two people who seemed to like me. And Matt. That was three. I fell asleep feeling not-so-alone. It was a good feeling.
