A Song of Life: A Fictional Memoir (Song for You Book 2)

by Megan Rivers

  We followed the music towards the back of the house where the kitchen was ablaze with light. I saw the back of a girl, a few inches taller than me, with curly brown hair tamed by a pony tail, dancing to Everybody (Backstreet’s Back). Her lime green nylon pants were rolled up to her knees to reveal the extremely shaggy, purple slippers on her feet. She was making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and occasionally put the butter knife to her lips as if it was a microphone and made exaggerated (and quite humorous) dance moves.

  Kevin called her name but the music was too loud for her to hear. He punched the power button on the CD player and a few off-key words escaped Meadow’s mouth before she realized she wasn’t alone. I held a hand to my mouth, trying to cover up the fact that I found this situation extremely amusing, because if I was in her shoes (slippers), I would have turned beet red and hid out in my room for a while.

  Before Kevin introduced us, Meadow’s eyes lit up and she scurried over to give me a hug. The bushy curls in her pony tail brushed across my face until she released her tight grasp. “You must be Christie! I’m so happy I get to meet you!” Meadow exclaimed, still brandishing the peanut butter covered knife. She wasn’t embarrassed at all and I liked that.

  “This is my daughter, Meadow,” Kevin introduced. My mom slipped her arm into the crook of his elbow, smiling as she watched.

  “Yeah, yeah, Dad,” Meadow rolled her eyes. She grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the kitchen island. “Come on, do you know Bounce?”

  Seconds later Aaron Carter’s prepubescent voice streamed out of the CD player (much to my distaste) and Meadow encouraged me to “Bounce it out, girl!” as she taught me her dance moves. Before long we were tossing grapes into each others mouths from halfway across the kitchen, competing for the right to devour the triple layer PB&J (topped with chocolate chips) that we created.

  Meadow’s personality, to put it mildly, was overwhelming to some people. But to me, I loved it. She didn’t let anyone contain her enthusiasm for life. She was the exact opposite of Kellyn and it was refreshing. Mom and Kevin disappeared into the background while Meadow taught me to tolerate generic pop music.

  Meadow and I got along like sisters from the start. She listened to what I had to say and went into details when I asked her questions; she made me feel important and instilled me with the fact that I have a right to be heard, not shoved into the shadows or molded to fit in order to be heard.

  After I learned the lyrics to Bounce and a few of the dance moves she made up, I told her I needed a hiatus from the bubblegum pop before my brain melted and oozed out of my ears.

  She pulled me into the backyard where we were sat across from each other on the double glider bench swings in the mild night air. We shared the massive peanut butter & jelly sandwich, and began breaking Oreos into tiny pieces and tried to throw them in each other’s mouths.

  Meadow was one, big, chart-topping pop song in personality. She was always glowing, bubbling over in happiness and excitement. That first night I even told her, “You are a pop song waiting to happen.”

  “Why thank-you, my dear,” she replied, throwing the sliver of an Oreo at me that landed in my hair. “Sometimes you just have to be a teenybopper.”

  “I can’t really tolerate it for too long,” I admitted, breaking an Oreo apart and running my tongue over the cream filling.

  “Why not?” She looked as if I had just told her that I could never walk again.

  I shrugged, thinking about it. “It doesn’t bring anything to the table.”

  “It doesn’t have to,” she replied quickly, throwing a large cookie crumb into the air and catching it in her mouth.

  “Then what’s the point of it?”

  “Well, I should say it doesn’t have to bring anything to the table for you.” She pointed at me and then took a sip of water from a giant purple plastic cup that carried a large intricate crazy straw that I assumed she got at an amusement park.

  I pulled my eyebrows together in thought. “What does it do for you?”

  She smiled and shrugged. “It’s just fun. It may not mean anything deep, but I think music should make people dance and smile. Music makes everything better.” She swallowed part of an Oreo and added, “In case you didn't notice, life is hard. Music makes it better.”

  “I can’t deny that,” I said, throwing an entire Oreo at her mouth.

  She laughed when it bounced off her chin and fell into the grass. “See, sometimes you just have to be a teenybopper.”

  That night began a lifelong friendship between Meadow and me. She was there for me countless times and treated me more like a sister and dear friend, rather than an apprentice.

  II.

  Floating in a Sea of Memories

  “Let the Music Get Down in Your Soul” – Marc Broussard

  It had been weeks since I last heard from Galvin. I used to sit down and begin writing him a letter out of habit, wanting to share a part of my life with him, but would stop when I realized it would go nowhere. The love pang in my chest would rear its stubborn head every time and I would scratch out the sentences and close the notebook.

  I slowly began to accept that I probably would never get to see him again, even though I didn't want it to be true. Once in a while I would day dream about going to one of his concerts in the future and seeing him again, or finding a forwarded letter in my mailbox with his name in the upper left hand corner. I began to look upon those Australian nights as nothing but a string of happy accidental moments that kept me sane; some kind of cosmic glitch in my favor.

  Each day, each moment, I told myself to get on with my life. I was silly to wait around for someone who could easily find someone better than me. I had to start concentrating on what was in front of me (despite the foolishly optimistic surreptitious trips to the mailbox after school).

  Meanwhile, in reality, I was beginning to feel what being part of a family was all about. Mom, Kevin, Meadow, and I were in the car one Saturday afternoon on the way to the pumpkin patch and a night of haunted house tours when I caught myself thinking So this is what it’s like to be part of a family. I’d seen it on TV, read about it, and have seen real life people take a simple car ride with their family for granted.

  Kevin drove the car while holding Mom’s hand. She sat beside him, her hair catching the wind that came through the window while Meadow and I sang along to a Beach Boys song in the backseat, making up silly dance moves. I wished it would never stop.

  As October wore on, Mom and I spent more and more time in Lincoln Park as the days passed. Nearly everyday after school I would take the train to the north side and Meadow would pick me up in her green Toyota Corolla (that I named Ribbit because it croaked as often as a frog).

  Most of the time we would distract each other from doing our homework on the living room floor, or at the kitchen table, by having a contest as to who could fly down the stairs faster on their butt, or we'd choreograph dance moves to a pop song, or play “What If?” in the kitchen (which involved making a snack and one of us asking the other, “What if we added salad dressing to the popcorn?” or some other weird food combination and triple dog dared the other person to eat it).

  Then again, there were times when Meadow picked me up from the train station and her crazy impulsive behavior took us on an adventure. We rolled down hills at the park, had a contest on who could hug the most trees (and who could stay on the merry-go-round at the park the longest), went dumpster diving, and more. The days I got to go to Lincoln Park became a treat that I looked forward to daily.

  Meadow was a fun and carefree soul, but she had a serious, slightly damaged, side too. We had plenty of “car talks” in Ribbit. Meadow would pull off to the side of road, at the park, in a large parking lot, or in front of the house and we would sit for hours talking about the future, if our parents would get married, about crushes, about our childhoods, everything. We shared our school frustrations over burgers and fries, we divulged our nightmares over ice cream sundaes, and our dreams
over a bag of chips and a couple sodas with the windows down and one of Meadow's CDs playing in the background.

  On Thursday, November second, I stepped off the train and saw the Ribbit parked halfway down the street. I grinned seeing the outline of Meadow's curly hair through the driver's side window and rushed towards it. The days were getting much colder and there was a chilling bite in the air. The wind picked up and sent a wave of dry leaves scraping across the pavement.

  I hopped into the passenger seat, kicking aside a Taco Bell paper bag filled with garbage that sat on the floor mat, along with a pair of old gym shoes. “Brr! It's cold out there!” I said as I closed the door and faced Meadow with a smile.

  That smile quickly turned into concern when I noticed Meadow's flushed cheeks and swollen eyes. “What's wrong?” I asked, immediately opening my arms to embrace her.

  Though I had only known her for a month, I felt like I'd known her my entire life and I had never seen her cry or look downtrodden in anyway; she was always so upbeat and charged with vigor. It kind of knocked my world out of whack for a moment.

  “It's so stupid,” she said, starting to sob.

  I rubbed her back, trying my best to console her. “No, no. You're feelings aren't stupid. You have the right to cry, no matter what it is.” That's what my mom would have said to me.

  “It's just that it's November second,” she said, wiping her nose on my shoulder, still holding on to me. I had never consoled a friend like this before, but I trusted my knowledge of this situation on my extensive TV sitcom studies.

  I quickly tried to think about why this day would make her cry, but nothing came to mind. “Do you not like November?” I asked, unsure what was the right thing to say.

  “No. It's just that...” She didn't finish her sentence, but instead pulled away from me and wiped her eyes with the sleeves of her jacket, sniffling. “Well, it's my mom's birthday.”

  She reached across me, into the glove box, and pulled out some Dairy Queen napkins and blew her nose. “She died years ago, but I still miss her so much. Sometimes there's just so much pain, it hurts to breath.”

  Meadow crumpled up the napkin in her hand and leaned back, looking at me through her raw eyes. “Every morning, on my birthday, she would sneak into my room and cover my bed in balloons.” Meadows eyes traveled down to the cup holder that contained an old almost-empty Styrofoam cup with the remains of a cherry slushy.

  “Then she'd cover the hallway in a spider web of crepe paper that I would run through, yelling, to see the giant chocolate cupcake I had for breakfast at the end.” Meadow smirked at the memory.

  “For my dad's birthday she'd spend the week before planning out rhyming clues for a treasure hunt that would take him all over town to find his present.

  “She used to make everything so much more fun. Dad and I would plan what we were going to do for her birthday. One year we covered the dashboard of her car in post-it notes with birthday wishes on them and then filled the car with helium balloons. The next year we bought her a pair of owl earrings she wanted and a photo album and covered it in layers and layers of duct tape. It took her hours to unwrap it!

  “Then, the last year she was with us she was really sick. I remember going into the bedroom and wanting to pull her up and out of bed, but I couldn't. She laid there, her skin almost translucent, her dark blonde curly hair was gone from chemo, and you could see it in her eyes: she was dying.

  “I had spent the day before hanging string from the ceiling all down the hallway. At the end of each string was a picture I drew, or a picture of us, or a balloon, or a story or memory about why I loved her.

  “She wasn't strong enough to get out of bed to see it. I kept it up for days hoping Mom would feel better tomorrow or the next day, or the next day to see it. The balloons started to deflate and the string would fall from the ceiling with dad, the doctors, and me walking through it so often. But I would climb up a chair and tack it back up.”

  Meadow looked up at me with fresh tears in her eyes. “I just wanted her to magically gather up enough strength to walk through her birthday surprise so badly.” Meadow scrunched up her face from the painful memory and looked away, outside the window.

  “Did she ever get to see it?” I asked.

  Meadow looked down at the crumpled napkins in her hand and shook her head. “No. She had gotten worse and the paramedics had to come and take her to the hospital, they tore down everything as they came in and out with her.”

  Fresh tears started pouring from her eyes. “God, Christie, I miss her so much sometimes. That first year we celebrated her birthday without her, my dad woke up early and put up my decorations again. He added some of his favorite memories to the strings too.

  “We spent the day crying, but remembering everything. We talked about our favorite memories and how much she meant to the both of us. I sang the song she sung to me when I was a baby and Dad told me about one of their first dates at Navy Pier. I even forgot how she always skipped the first stair outside the house or how she always drank a full glass of milk before eating dinner until Dad mentioned it. I don't ever want to forget those things.

  “And each year on November second my dad would wake up early and hang everything up. We would spend the evening remembering and adding to our memorial. It was wonderful.

  “Except, this year....” Meadow buried her face in her hands and her shoulders shook with a fresh batch of tears. “This year... I woke up... and... nothing... nothing was there!” She said between sobs. “Dad... forgot... about her... this year.”

  I pulled more napkins from the glove box and put them in Meadow's hands. The sun was beginning to set which gave everything a soft red hue. The cold was beginning to creep into the car and the windows were fogging up. I struggled for the words that would make her feel better. “I'm sure that's not true,” I said, putting one hand on her shoulder.

  “Every birthday for the past eight years my dad has done it―even that one year when he had the flu. Why not this year?” She threw her hands up in frustration and anger.

  “Christie, I love you and your mother, but I don't want to ever forget her. I don't want my dad to ever forget her. I want her here with me, especially on November second.”

  I bit my bottom lip and took a deep breath. There was so much more to Meadow than I gave her credit for. “Oh Meadow, I know this sounds cliché, but she's with you every day. Seriously, I have never met someone like you before. You are so unique and unafraid of what others think about you. You have the most positive outlook on this world and you make every moment an adventure.

  “I never knew your mother and I don't have the authority to say this, but I can see her in you. Just from what you say, and knowing your dad, I can tell that you took all those great traits from your mother and put them in you. The closer you've held onto them, the more you become her legacy. I see that picture of her in the hallway every time I go in and out of your house. There's no way your dad could forget her. He loves you so much and you are a daily reminder of her. I'm sure he didn't do it on purpose.

  “I know my mom will never replace your mom, and she shouldn't. You have the right to those memories and to your feelings. I can't imagine a life without my mom and it pains me to even try to put myself in your shoes to experience an inkling of how you feel. Don't stop remembering her. Don't forget the little things. Don't forget the big things. You shouldn't forget. I can't remember with you, but I'll help you remember her in any way I can.”

  Meadow stopped shaking and filled another napkin with tears and snot. She looked up at me with a look of pain, relief, sadness, and hope, then embraced me. “I know, I know.” She took a deep breath. “It just feels good to know someone is on my side, that I'm not alone, you know?”

  I nodded. I knew exactly how she felt.

  “I'm sorry for going all girl on you,” Meadow said once again wiping her nose on my shoulder.

  “Don't be. I'm sure one day I'll pay you back threefold,” I replied and Meadow let out
a small laugh. “Come on, let me drive you home and you can tell me all about her.” Meadow nodded and handed me her keys.

  After I trekked through the chilly air to the other side of the car, I started the engine and warmed my hands by the heating vent. As I carefully pulled onto the street Meadow asked, “Do you know why she named me Meadow?”

  Of course I had no idea and shook my head. Meadow propped her arm on the door and watched the landmarks as we drove by. “My mom grew up on a farm in Wisconsin. There was a huge field across the road that she used to play in all the time―chasing chickens, catching fireflies, all that country stuff.

  “Anyway when she was about four years old she said she met an imaginary friend in that field named Meadow. She said that her and Meadow did everything together and that Meadow taught her how to do cartwheels and skip stones in the pond. For two whole years my mom played with this imaginary friend named Meadow and they were inseparable. Meadow had a place at the dinner table and slept in a box that my mom made into a bed in her room. She was my mom's best friend.

  “Then, after my mom's first week of school, Meadow met her as she got off the school bus and they walked down this long dirt road together. It had been raining all day and they were jumping in mud puddles. When they reached the house this rainbow appeared in the sky. My mom said it was the first rainbow she ever saw and was really excited. Then Meadow turned to her and said, 'I gotta go, that's my ride.' and pointed to the rainbow.

  “My mom shrugged like it was no big deal and watched her walk across the field, towards the rainbow. Crazy, right?”

  I glanced at Meadow and nodded, wiping the fog from the windshield, trying to see the street in front of me. “So when my mom was pregnant with me, her and my dad couldn't agree on a name. My mom liked Breeza Story and my dad liked Natalie Greene, neither one would give in.