Smoke and Lyrics

by Holly Hall

  “Well, why not? I’ve got plenty to cook from the garden, and it’s senseless for it to go to waste.” Darla removes the lid from a large pot, waving away steam to peer inside. She’s the kind of woman who wears her age proudly, with hardly a stitch of makeup concealing her lined face. “I know it’s not fully winter, but I had a craving for stew. Hope you’re hungry.”

  “You didn’t put celery in it, did you?” Jenson asks, nudging me in the side and tilting his head subtly.

  “That was one time, Jenson. One time I forgot you hated celery. I’ll never make that mistake again, you’ve never forgotten it,” she says with a huff, and Jenson presses his fist against his mouth to quiet his laughter. When Darla looks over at him, she breaks into an automatic grin. “You’re poking fun at me again.”

  “It’s a trash vegetable, Mom. I needed to remind you.”

  She brandishes an oven mitt at him. “I doubled up on the carrots, and you better eat every last one.”

  “Deal.”

  I observe their antics with amusement and fascination. There are relationships of all kinds, but fewer and fewer as easy as this one. Conversations with my parents are always accompanied by a layer of tension. Sometimes it’s quiet and sometimes it’s loud, but it’s always there—the suppressed questions about each other’s well-being, my dad’s resoluteness toward building a new life, my mom’s dismissiveness toward her disease. My own boiling resentment. They try to hide those things from me, but I feel them all the same.

  This, being among Jenson and his mom for no more than five minutes, is like a lungful of fresh air. Jenson’s moment in the car makes a little more sense now, his unwillingness to bring the stress I saw earlier into this home. It was an oddly considerate gesture.

  “All right, bowls are here, cornbread’s here, drinks are in the fridge. Anything else, Jens?” Darla asks.

  “Nope. Looks great.”

  We sit down with our food at a round, pine table in the breakfast nook, and any nerves I still harbored dissolve almost instantly. Darla handles making me feel at home like it’s her God-given duty, inquiring about my photography and the trials I’ve experienced since moving from Denver. I find out she works at a charming little diner in the center of town, though knowing who her son is, and looking around at her small yet well-decorated home, I don’t think the income is a necessity. She seems to love the work, though, animatedly recanting some of her latest encounters with customers. She doesn’t discriminate—from truck driver to housewife, they all get her undivided attention. When the conversation turns to her garden, my attention piques.

  “Your garden looks incredible,” I tell her. “I’m sure even more so in the daylight.”

  “You’re welcome to come see it anytime. I make an epic spiked lemonade that’s best enjoyed outdoors.” She winks at me, and my heart swells in my chest.

  Living somewhere you don’t have family, or many friends, it’s easy to feel a bit alone and lost, no matter how adventurous of a soul you are. Her kindness raises a wave of homesickness.

  “Do you like gardening?” she asks.

  “Maybe. I’m not sure. I live in an apartment.”

  “I think she prefers more of the dead variety,” Jenson offers, and I toss him a dirty look.

  “I adore pressed flowers. They can be so pretty. But I can give you some ideas later for something low maintenance that does well indoors.”

  Her attention returns to Jenson, and she reaches across the table and grips his hand, love evident in just that minute gesture. “I’m so glad you’re here. It’s been too long since we’ve done this.” Her lips are pursed, eyes wet with emotion, then she’s standing and clearing the table, as if busying herself with the chore will detract from her emotion.

  Sensing the moment, the obvious relief of her son’s presence, I rise to help her so she can make the most of her time with him.

  Jenson

  I’m helping collect the dirty dishes from the stove when Mom turns to me from the sink. “How about we take our dessert out to the garden? It’s a good night for it, and the patio set you got me doesn’t ever get enough use.”

  I’m about to make an excuse, say we need to get back or insist we eat quickly, but Lindsey beats me to it. “Actually, I’m a little full from dinner. Why don’t I finish cleaning up and you and Jenson go ahead?”

  Anyone else would be quick to hand off the dirty work, but Darla King is too humble for that. “Oh no, I can’t let you do that. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  I expect that to be it but, relentless as she is, Lindsey gently takes the rag from her hand and gives her a smile that would be tough for anyone to argue with. “You probably don’t see Jenson very often, and I’m sure you both have a lot to catch up on. Go. You’ve really done enough for me tonight.”

  I stand by, helpless, expecting to witness a standoff of epic proportions, but my mom holds up her hands, officially relinquishing the duties she’s always taken pride in. “This is not the way I usually do things, but I’d love to chat with my son. I appreciate it.”

  Lindsey just nods and switches the faucet on, occupying the space in front of the sink in a way that makes it clear she’s got it covered. My mom sets to work unwrapping the cake she’s made—whiskey cake, my favorite—and serves a few thick slices, tucking one inside a plastic container. “For later,” she tells Lindsey before grabbing the two plates. I open the back door for her, sending a grateful glance in Lindsey’s direction, but she’s already up to her elbows in soap and fully focused on the dishes.

  The back porch is small, the all-weather furniture set taking up most of the space, but it’s breezy and open and always smells of flowers. It’s the scent I’ve always associated with home. Even when we didn’t have much, Mom did all she could to keep the yard nice. Rarely was anything done around the house without love. It has, and will always be, that way.

  Mom sets the cake plates in our places and pats the seat next to her, and I drop into it. Rehearsals took a lot out of me. I’m finally singing songs I believe in again, but there’s something looming that doesn’t feel right. It’s weighed on my shoulders all day. I’ve begun to make amends and look for the light, but I can’t help but watch for the storm clouds over my shoulder.

  “Share your burden, Jenson,” Mom says softly. Some moms have certain catchphrases, things to send along with you when they can’t be around to give you reminders. That’s one of hers.

  “I don’t know that I have anything to share.”

  She takes a bite of her cake, working it around her mouth thoughtfully. “Your thoughts have always been heavy, but you never had a problem telling me things before. What is it that’s tripping you up?”

  I rest my elbows on the table, fist my hands in my hair. Yeah, I had less of an issue telling her things when they were less important. But that was when my decisions didn’t carry as much weight. Today’s rehearsal wasn’t just a rehearsal, it was the beginning of something. I just haven’t decided what that something is, and having the power to determine it solely in my hands is both a blessing and a curse. Some people would revel in that, but it’s not the kind of thing I take lightly.

  “I thought everything would fall into place when I started writing again. That once I got through that block, everything else would align. It was stupid.”

  “Life isn’t very good at falling in line, is it? What did you expect to happen? What paths are you torn between?”

  I spin my ring distractedly. I always thought giving a voice to my fears would make them more powerful. But even after keeping them in silence, they’ve still wreaked havoc on my life. What do I have to lose? “I want answers. I want to know whether I’m supposed to pick back up where I left off, in the middle of my tour, or just let it all go. If I do that, what’s left for me? Where do I belong?” God, I’ve become a motherfucking cliché. I guess the quarter-life crisis I dodged has caught up to me and is hitting me extra hard for evading it.

  “Do I keep performing—keep the fans happy a
nd my band employed? Or do I say we had a good run and call it quits?”

  The lights strung between posts on the porch shine in her watery eyes. She blinks, looking upward to chase away tears. “You’ve been very blessed, Jenson. I know that, looking into the past, it sometimes doesn’t seem like it. And I know looking back is especially painful for you, but it’s also necessary. Don’t ever forget what you’ve done to get yourself here. You weren’t handed anything. Remember that.” She offers me a weak smile.

  “You’ve always been a musician. Down to your soul, since the day you were born, that’s what you’ve been. But you’ve never quite been a performer. Anyone who watches and adores you can see that when you go up there, the connection is between you and the music. That’s what it’s always been about, and that’s what it should always be about. You and the music. But I’m afraid this industry is killing that. I’m afraid it’s slowly killing you.” Her voice breaks, and when she looks down at her lap and squeezes her eyes shut, emotion gathers in my throat. This woman beside me is the strongest person I know. To see her so torn up will always put a spear through my heart.

  I wrap an arm around her and pull her to my chest. It’s not often I get to be the one offering her strength, and I’m angry at myself for not having much left to give. But I try. God, do I try. And although I want to reassure her, to say her worries are misguided, I can’t. Because this industry is killing me. Not the music, or reliving the emotions necessary to write an impactful song, but the business. It’s my fault I picked up the bottle, but it’s the ugliness and my inability to deal with it that drove me there.

  “I’ll pull through this, Mom. You don’t have anything to worry about.” I’m lying through my teeth. The music, the alcohol, it’s all the same in this situation. I’m not dealing with either. Both can destroy me, but only one will give me the power to redeem myself. If only I could control my impulses, find what it is worth redeeming myself for.

  She straightens, dabs her tears demurely on her sleeve. “Don’t I? I thought everything that happened with Raven was your big trial, the thing you needed to overcome to grow and move on to the next phase of your life. But I think it’s this. This is your ultimate trial. It’s usually the thing we love most that we lose ourselves to. I don’t want to lose you.”

  “You won’t,” I tell her, and when she looks at me, searching for answers, I say it with more conviction. “You won’t lose me. I promise.”

  “Okay. I’m trusting you’ll let me know if you need help.”

  I nod, forcing myself to take a bite of my favorite cake, and somehow manage to swallow around the lump in my throat.

  “Now, when are you going to tell me about that girl in there, huh?” When she musses my hair, I know I’ve got the old Darla back. The one with less worries.

  I think about Lindsey and I want to smile. There’s uncertainty there, but also relief. The sense that I’m no longer alone, though she has no allegiance to me. “There’s nothing much to say, but I could talk about her for hours. Does that make sense?”

  She bites back a smile and nods. “Yeah, it does.”

  I grasp for the words to describe her and fail. People tell me I have a way with words, but that doesn’t seem to be the case when it comes to Lindsey. “There’s nothing going on with us. Her focus is on her career. She’s working hard to make big things happen for herself, and that’s basically it.”

  “She’s young,” Mom says, nodding to herself like it makes sense.

  “And wholly unimpressed by me.”

  She bites back a smile. “That’s good.”

  “In what way is that good?”

  “She won’t be won over by the usual grand gestures. She’ll be impressed by what really matters.”

  “I don’t think you understand who it is I’m dealing with. I don’t know if she can be won over at all,” I say, licking sticky glaze off my fork. “But we connect in a way Raven and I didn’t. Artist to artist. She understands that manic need to create.”

  “That’s important,” she says, then points her fork at me. “And I also think you underestimate her feelings. She cares a great deal about you. I can tell. A woman wouldn’t voluntarily come to your mother’s house if she didn’t.”

  I release a slow breath. I can’t allow myself to think like that, placing hopes in things that are unpredictable. And Lindsey? She’s about as unpredictable and relentless as a summer storm.

  Mom stands, patting me on the back before gathering our plates. “Tread carefully, baby, but don’t be afraid to let yourself feel again. How else do we find the things that move our souls if we leave our hearts hard?”

  “I think you’ve spent too much time talking to Miss May,” I say, though I know there’s truth to her words. Miss May, an elderly widow who frequents the diner, makes it her job to mend the emotional wounds of everyone she meets. She had a field day with Mom, but she had her work cut out for her with me. I wasn’t yet at the point where her words could root themselves in my mind, though, I was too busy blocking everything. And probably drunk.

  “She’s pretty wacky, but every now and then she makes a good point,” my mom says with a bemused laugh, and Lindsey looks up as we reenter the kitchen. When she reaches for the cake plates, my mom shoos her away. “My work with my son is done, I think. And you’ve done a wonderful job in here.”

  Lindsey’s cheeks stain crimson, and she looks down at the toes of her battered Chucks. “I’m glad I could help.”

  I stretch my arms over my head, feeling the day catch up to me. “I think we’ll probably head out,” I announce. “Thanks for dinner, Ma.”

  Mom packs a few plastic containers of stew in a bag she hands to me, before walking us to the front door. “I divided it up in case Lindsey wants some,” she tells me, pretending to be stern.

  “No need, Mrs. King, I was already planning on taking it all,” Lindsey teases, giving her a hug. “Thank you for having me.”

  I watch my mom embrace her with the familiar fondness she uses with all my childhood friends and can’t help the grin I’m now wearing. They like each other, and that makes me feel enormously pleased. I don’t know if bringing Lindsey here was “right,” or the best idea, but it’s nice. It can get strangely lonely keeping my two worlds separate, like I’m caught somewhere in the middle and don’t quite belong here or there.

  “No Missus, just Darla.” Mom gives her a kiss on the cheek, then reaches for me. She stands on the porch while we pull away, waving until we can’t see her anymore.

  Much of the drive is spent in silence, aside from the music, until the lights of Nashville come into view and Lindsey breaks it.

  “Your mom is really great,” she says. “Thank you for taking me along.” She’s speaking toward the window, but I can discern the appreciation behind her words. Like she didn’t expect to be as welcomed or comfortable as she was.

  “Of course. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “It’s a shame people don’t see that—the other side of musicians. I think I understand you better.”

  “I’m not much of a mystery,” I deadpan.

  “That’s what I assumed at first, but I misjudged you. You’re much more than the face you put on when you perform. I’m glad I got to see it.”

  I shift in my seat, pretend to drum my fingers to the music, although I’m completely off beat. All I wanted to be was more than Jenson the Performer, but now that Lindsey sees past that, it makes me uncomfortable. Whatever we have going on has been easy so far because there are no expectations, no strings. I haven’t yet had to worry about her finding the parts of me she’ll hate.

  But I can feel her beneath my skin. Delving deeper. It was never supposed to get this far. Lindsey, all adventurous and daring and just a bit naïve, doesn’t need someone who’ll weigh her down when she decides to take a leap. Maybe I satisfy some part of her for now, but she’s a wanderer, and her curiosity tells me she’s set on discovering all my dark corners.

  And she will.

 
And when she does, she’ll hate them.

  Chapter 15

  Lindsey

  I begin the week with purpose, determined to spend all my breaks and free time getting caught up with edits and emails and all the busywork associated with self-promotion. I’ve gotten more interest from my music photos, but no follow-through. I should be well on my way to forming professional relationships with venues, music execs, and fellow photographers. Thanks to my ongoing issue with Craig, I’ve shied away from that last one.

  After a good week of staying focused, turning down Anika’s invitations to go out and the rest of my roommates’ requests to join their stupid games when they’re down a player, I’m caught up with most of my work and have plenty to show Jenson. It’s been radio silence with him since our dinner with his mom, and I can’t help but gather all the dangling, loose threads of information in my mind.

  His despondence after rehearsals.

  The bits and pieces of emotional conversation that floated in from the porch as I scrubbed the dishes.

  The traces of mascara beneath Darla’s eyes when they came inside.

  His introspective demeanor on the drive home.

  It’s all coming back together for Jenson, and still, he’s walking around looking like he’s planning his own funeral. I’m perceptive enough, but there’s something I’m missing. A great big something he can’t seem to get past.

  I tell myself to keep my distance, that it’s not my place to meddle in a situation when I’m not fully aware of the history behind it. But he’s growing on me. Not in a purposeful manner; almost like the innate way ivy grows up a wall. He hasn’t asked me for anything, he’s not pressured me for more than I have to give, but still I feel his tendrils making their way through the cracks in my façade, expanding them slowly, nudging their way in. I think it’s only natural to wonder about the man who seems to give and give, yet takes nothing in return.