by Gaby Triana
“Yeah, I know. I’m trying not to. But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna kill myself, guys. I mean—”
“We didn’t know that,” Liam finally interrupts.
Becca pauses. Liam, who she’s loved like a brother since the fourth grade, is saying it, so it must be true. If Desert says anything, it’s a pile of crap. But hey, at least she’s listening.
He goes on. “You’ve got problems, but you’re not the only one. I’ve got ’em, Desert’s got ’em…. You gotta lean on us more, Beck.”
“Well, she tried,” I say, remembering my wonderful attitude Halloween night. I look at her eyes, sad and green. “But I guess I just didn’t realize you’ve been in so much pain. Or I didn’t want to see it, or something. I dunno. I’m sorry, Beck. I’m sorry I was such an ass.”
Becca sighs and sits down. Her head falls into her lap. When she comes up for air, she’s got tears everywhere. “What’s gonna happen now? What if she dies? What do I do? Where do I go?”
“She’s not gonna die.” I sit and put my arm around her. “She’s gonna come out okay, you’ll see.” I hope to God I’m right. Because if anything does happen to Edie, Becca will have to find someone to watch her, someone to care for her. At least I’ve never had to worry about that. I’ve always had someone. Lots of some-ones. Always.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mangrove Cemetery. So that’s what this place is called. I couldn’t see the sign when I came here that night with Liam. I like Moonlit Park better.
I need to be alone for a while before this interview today. Just me and my notebook. This thing with Becca this week freaked me out. How I thought I’d lost her. It’s funny how just imagining life without someone you care about can make you appreciate things more. I can’t imagine what I’d do if I lost either one of my parents. Even Max, Phil, or J. C., for that matter.
Look at all these graves. There are people buried under here. Well, the remains of people anyway. I wonder if any of them took their own lives. I wonder if any of them felt invisible, like they could disappear for a few days and no one would notice.
Isn’t it weird how we come into this life, and everybody goes gaga over us, showering us with attention, taking endless photos, video, and all that? Then some years go by, and well, you’re just not as cute or interesting anymore, and people just stop paying attention? Why bother recording? It was only funny when she did it the first time. Weird, right, how some people can just stop caring like that?
That’s how Becca feels sometimes, like nobody cares about her. I have to remind her every day if necessary. That I do care. That she’s my best friend. Not some leech.
What a beautiful day, after having dismal rain all week long. The ground’s still wet, brown leaves plastered into mush everywhere. The smell of rotting foliage, dampness in the air. From this bench the cemetery grounds look a bit like the countries on a globe, green and brown patches. Well, if you blur your vision really, really hard, it does. I guess if you blur your eyesight hard enough, you can see anything you want.
Flesh, lead singer of Crossfire, is a god? Okay, if you say so. Jessie loved you? Sure, why not? Marie was a trusted friend? Of course she was. That’s what we all wanted to believe, so it became real. We think whatever we want to think, to stay happy and calm. I guess reality’s really nothing but our own version of the truth, right?
And what is the truth? My truth, anyway? Adriana’s going to ask what it’s been like in my situation. What should I say, that my life sucks? That having two parents who love me is really the crappiest thing that could happen to someone? How horrible it’s been having a name like Desert that sets me apart from all the Billys and Amys out there? That my life’s been hell, when other people, like Becca, dream of nothing but the life I have? Sometimes I forget what I’m fighting for. What am I fighting for?
I don’t know if I can do this anymore.
Blur my eyes and faces change
Loving smiles to frightening grins
Squint hard enough and grasses turn
From palest lime to greens that burn
I blur my eyes and people seem
However dark or bright I deem
I am a victim, I am a muse
I am whatever role I choose.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Click.
“Could you please state your name?”
“Desert.” Like the sandy place with the camels.
“Last name?”
“McGraw.”
The tape recorder winds, its little spokes rotating slowly.
“Desert, thank you for joining me today. I know this isn’t your territory, so I appreciate it.”
She sounds so formal. No mamitas today.
“Thanks for having me.”
“We at Tropical Home Life aim to preserve what we consider to be the most fundamental institution, critical to human moral development, and that is the basic family unit. You’ve been raised in the most unusual of situations. Can you please tell us a little bit about it?”
Sigh.
“Let’s see, what do you want to know? I was born in New York, raised on various planes, in buses, hotel rooms, parks, cities, rest stops. My father is Richard McGraw, Flesh, lead singer of the rock band Crossfire. My mother is Matti Thomas McGraw, the band’s manager for the past seventeen years. My parents are wonderful people, but they make their mistakes like anybody else,” I say, looking Adriana straight in the eye.
“Of course,” she says, “of course. We’ll get to their roles as parents in a moment. Tell me, what has it been like for you? You’re seventeen?”
“Sixteen. I turn seventeen next month.”
“Sixteen, I’m sorry. What has it been like for you, a young woman in the formative years of her life, growing up without a central location, a nucleus if you will, a place to call home, a school or community to grow up in? That must be very difficult.”
Here we go. This is where I should dis my parents, the part where five days ago, I would’ve felt like it was my God-given right to whine for a more normal existence. But I can’t do it. I just can’t. “It’s been great, actually.”
Adriana stares at me, unblinking. Then she looks down at her clipboard, the list of questions. Nope, “It’s been great,” is not in the script.
“Great?” she repeats, like she misheard.
Now she’ll really think I’m a freak. But you know what? I don’t care anymore. I could care less what she thinks. This is how it is, how I see it now.
“Yes. I know my life’s not typical. I didn’t take naps in a nursery when I was a baby. I never had a playground or playmates to visit every day. I didn’t take Mommy and Me classes at the Y. But I did sleep in a baby sling against my mom’s chest while she worked. I went to parks, gardens, museums, landmarks, every place you can think of. It’s kinda like having the world for a playground or classroom. And I never needed Sesame Street. Who needs Big Bird when you have three goofs like my dad’s band-mates, friends, trying to make me laugh all the time?”
I remember Max years ago, jumping on Phil’s back, riding horsy through the halls, then coming around to pick me up. Bubbling and giggling, I’d bounce around on Max’s back while he squished Phil to death. And Dad taking pictures of the whole thing.
I’m giggling aloud, but Adriana doesn’t think it’s all that funny. “Is that right? So your parents’ idea of fun for their child was to expose her to rock musicians and the lives they lead, including, quite possibly, alcohol and drug use?”
“Nobody ever used drugs in my presence.”
“In sixteen years nobody modeled self-destructive behavior in front of you?”
“Everybody has a drink now and then, but I wouldn’t call that self-destructive. I’m sure you do too, when you’re not working, right?”
“I’ll ask the questions.”
“A few people drink heavily, but not everyone does. Not my dad, anyway. Not my mom. And to answer your question, if anyone used drugs, I was never aware of it. They never di
d it in front of me. They’re musicians, Adriana, not idiots. Many of them are responsible.”
“Responsible?” she asks, with a sarcastic laugh. “I’d be more than happy to show you a list of names of rock ’n’ roll casualties, men and women both, who’ve lost their lives to excess in the music business, starting with Don Hynd.”
What? I can’t believe her. I haven’t heard that name in years. How dare she bring it up?
“Your father’s former drummer was found in his hotel suite, dead from a drug overdose, is this not correct?” she asks.
I shift in my seat. “Yeah, but—”
“And you were only a year old at the time, taking a nap just down the hall, is this right?”
“I think so…but—”
“So would you say you were brought up in an environment conducive to stability, health, and all that is necessary for a child your age?”
“Listen,” I say, stopping her from starting a bloodbath. “That was a long time ago. They were young. And it was Don’s mistake, not anybody else’s. All my parents could do was make sure to hire someone better next time around, someone who’d be willing to work hard, not someone with a chemical dependency. Which they did. Max.”
Max is the best!
“Okay, but the fact remains that you were raised at the core of the music business, surrounded by lots of other people with the same problem.”
“You’re right. I’m sure there are lots of people with the same problem. But there’s also lots of people not in the music business who’ve died from drug abuse. It’s not just rock stars who are self-destructing.”
“But isn’t self-destruction an integral part of the rock star’s image?”
“Why would you say that? Rebellion is what rock ’n’ roll’s all about, not irresponsibility.” She knows nothing about musicians. And I thought she did her homework.
“But being irresponsible goes hand in hand with rebellion.” She laughs, like she got me there, but she’s wrong.
She’s wrong.
“Like you said, there’s the rock image, and I’m sure many bands indulge in it to the hilt. But what if they don’t follow that image? What if they work together because they care about each other, not to mention they love the music? What if they don’t indulge in excess, and that’s why they’ve been around so long? Wouldn’t that be the real rebellion right there? Going against what’s expected of them?”
“So you mean to tell me your father’s band, of all the rock bands ever known to the music world, is the only band to ever behave responsibly for the sake of the child in tow?”
“What I’m saying,” you annoying bitch, “is if they acted irresponsibly, they never did it in front of me. Those guys are my family, okay? They have families too. They’re fathers and husbands, good, loving people. I don’t know where you get this negative idea that they’re dimwits incapable of raising children.”
“I never said that. I know you’re too young to understand where I’m coming from. But your mother, for example—”
“My mother,” I interrupt, because if she even tries, tries to disrespect my mother, I will personally slap her right here, right now, and get it all on tape, “is my hero, okay?”
Did I just say that? I feel a big-ass smile creeping up, but I hold it back, or she won’t believe a word of this. I hardly believe I’m saying it myself. But it’s true. My mom could’ve left too, after what Dad did to her, but she didn’t. She stayed. To try and work things out.
“She was a working woman before I was born and a working woman afterward. Why should she have to change that because I came into the picture? Yeah, so she got pregnant before she wanted to. But she had a tough decision to make. Should she stay home and take care of me while my dad went on tour, but then I’d never see my dad? Or should she take me along, so I’d have them both and maybe learn about the world firsthand instead of by reading textbooks at home?”
“Desert.” She sighs. “You’re still young. I know you can’t see the implications yet.”
“No, you’re wrong! I do understand! I’m sixteen—not six! I understand that you’re incapable of seeing this any other way. A loving home environment for your kids can be made anywhere…anywhere! I don’t mean to sound all sixties and whatever, but all a baby needs to be happy is love. I mean, hello?” Is this not obvious? Duh!
Adriana keeps listening, her silence prompting me to go on.
“My parents love me,” I add. “Does it matter if I saw that love at Orly Airport in Paris, or in a playpen backstage at Madison Square Garden? So what? As long as we’re together as a family, isn’t that a basic unit right there? Why can’t you just understand that?”
She doesn’t even have to agree, just respect that my mom chose to do things differently from her. And I’m glad she did now. I’m glad.
Adriana reaches over her notes to the tape recorder on the table. She clicks it off. She could go on. She could ask more questions, backing off at nothing, until she gets what she wants. But she doesn’t.
“This isn’t necessary, Desert. You’ve made your point, sweetie. You can go.” Then a smile.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Why? What about the rest of the interview?” I ask.
“Mamita, do you care for Liam?”
Liam? This is about Liam?
“Well, yeah! What’s not to care for?” I say. He’s my friend, he’s helped me see things about myself, he’s a super-incredible guy. I mean, please!
“Then we won’t do this. He didn’t want it anyway. Go home, mama.”
“But—”
“Before I turn this back on,” she says, reaching for her tape recorder.
I grab my bag and bolt for the door. But on my way out, I realize something else. Adriana’s all right. Maybe her perspective was a little off, that’s all.
“Thanks,” I tell her, and she responds with a nod and a slow blink.
Outside the door, I let loose my big-ass smile.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“What was that for?” Mom asks, bewildered by my impromptu bear hug. She’s at her desk, a huge paper mess everywhere. Pen over her ear. Frazzled, working, solving Mom. Beautiful. Just beautiful.
“Nothing,” I say, but my heart feels full.
Everything. You’re the best.
Outside the office Faith is coming down the stairs, tight pants, platform shoes, hair carefully misplaced, makeup on, all but the big red nose. Behind her, some dude carrying her bags. Packed and out of here.
“Shut up, okay?” she says, slipping on her sunglasses.
How classy. “I wasn’t saying anything.”
“Right. Desert without any comments. Uh-huh.”
Whatever. I swear, the only thing missing from this picture is the little poodle on a gold leash. The baggage dude opens the front door with his pinky, Faith mumbles something that sounds like, “Good luck without me, geezers,” and the whole clown show exits.
Party!
With Faith gone now, Dad’s going to be even busier than before. He’ll start writing new songs soon, new lyrics. It’ll be sort of like starting all over again. J. C., Max, and Phil are coming over later tonight. That’s a good sign. I don’t know why, but I’m really excited about this. Excited to have them over, having the family around all over again, to work with Dad, keeping him busy, doing what they do. It’s like the old days, the pre-Faith days.
Sunday night. Sigh. I haven’t stopped thinking about my family, Liam, Becca, Adriana, everything. It’s been wild. Weird, wild, wacky stuff. I have to turn in a book report to Ms. Smigla by tomorrow, and I haven’t even finished half of it. It’s not like nobody knows how Romeo and Juliet ends or anything. How it ends, geez. That could’ve been Becca.
I open my notebook. All my work is in careful order, from the very first day. All my homework assignments graded and returned. A. A. A. A+. A++. A+++. Smig is so dramatic. Especially with the poems. I guess Dad has a point. I don’t really have any hobbies,
and while I do appreciate music intensely, and can even play some, writing is my thing.
Writing is my thing. I just realized that right now. Who would’ve guessed?
I make fun of Dad, and don’t get me wrong, I’ll make fun of him till the day I die, because he’s my dad, and dads are perfect targets, even if they happen to be Flesh. But as much as I might make fun of him for the way he bares his soul to the world, I know a truth, and he knows it too. A truth we don’t talk about much. One that I’ve only started to realize, but don’t even want to admit sometimes.
That I’m him. I’m basically him, about twenty-three years younger. We may be very different in loads of ways, but writing connects us. These poems, this one about the water, and this one, the park, and this one. I leaf through my pages. Now I know how Dad felt. And to think I actually accused him once of being overly dramatic, writing all kinds of sappy stuff just for a reaction, just for the listener’s approval. But I know it wasn’t like that. I know it, now. He did it because he had to, because it was a need to get it out of his head, or else he’d lose it.
A need.
Water is pure, day is clear
Thoughts purge, release all fear
Fog lifts off a cluttered mind
Clouds break slow, I can see
Many roads ahead of me
Take this and use it as I wish
Fog has lifted, the cluttered mind
Rain is gone, storms unkind
Soon I will be gone again
Soon I will be gone
Dad’s alone. As usual. Working, thinking, aching. I know he’s aching because he’s writing. His pencil scurries across the page, scratching at the paper. I know he’s deep in thought because he doesn’t hear me when I walk into the studio. Writing is painful, and risky. And he does it, still he does it, for everyone to see and hear.
“Dad.” A whisper.
His face lifts from his pensive pose, turns to see me. He smiles. He always smiles when he sees me. I love that about him. “Girly.”
