We also looked at dresses online, but mom insisted I buy one in person. The only way to get it right would be that way. So she planned to visit me in Denver the next week, and we’d find a dress together. I couldn’t have done any of it without mom.
I was already hating it all, and I don’t think there would have been any way I would have enjoyed it. And Ethan sensed that.
That night, back in our apartment, Ethan curled up next to me after we’d made love. “You act like you’re hating this. Are you getting cold feet?”
“No. This is just so complicated. Why can’t we just get married and be done with it?”
He grinned and pulled me close. “Let’s do it.”
I considered it for a moment. “No. My mom would kill me, especially after everything she’s done already.”
“She’s your mom. She’ll forgive you.”
But I could tell that just that tiny conversation put Ethan’s heart at ease, and as summer approached, I found that my love fully blossomed for the man. He was staying sober, and he was treating me well. Some days were harder than others, and more than once he complained that sobriety ruined his creativity. But he did it, and I could see the love in him.
The wedding arrived quickly. My dress was a beautiful traditional white, and it fit like a glove. The church was full of people I hadn’t seen in years, and some were people I’d never met, people from Ethan’s side of the family. And as we darted through the flying birdseed our loved ones were showering on us, I was pretty certain I’d spotted Ethan’s dad in the crowd. I hugged one person after another and planned to talk to him afterwards, but he disappeared before I had the chance. He looked sick, but I found it heartening to see him there. If he and Ethan could bond, I knew the relationship would do so much for my new husband. But he’d never have the chance.
Obviously, Ethan and I didn’t have enough money to get our own place, but my room in our apartment became our room. We didn’t have much of a honeymoon either, but my mom and dad did spring for a two-day stay at the Broadmoor in Colorado Springs. They shouldn’t have blown all that money because we hardly left the room.
It wasn’t long, though, before we fell back into a routine. And about a month later, Brad said we needed to get our asses recording. He’d heard from Jet, and things were promising for our band, but we needed to send a CD for Clay to pimp around to the people who mattered. It was expensive, even finding a cheaper place to do the recording, but we wanted high quality. Brad was almost ready to sacrifice quality for something, anything, but we managed to scrape together enough money.
I was unfamiliar with the process, and maybe the guys were too. I don’t know. But Nick was first. He had to lay down all the drum tracks upon which we’d build the songs. We chose fourteen songs—our best and favorites, the ones that showed off our skills, and we picked ones that highlighted our range. Because we couldn’t afford a ton of time in the studio, Brad insisted we practice, practice, practice. Yes, we were good simply because we’d been playing live for a long time, but he wanted us to be tight. And we weren’t used to doing things alone, but we’d have to do it that way when recording…one person at a time, doing his (or her) thing. And it all started with Nick laying down the drums.
I started practicing a lot. I had to sound good—I had to sound more metal than ever. I even called Jet, because he was the one who’d originally encouraged me to refine my sound. And he gave me rations of shit, asking why a married woman would be calling an ex-lover, but once he was done giving me grief, we had a great conversation about how to sound on different parts of different songs. I took notes.
I wanted to ask him why he hadn’t come to my wedding, but I knew why. Aside from the fact that we were ex-lovers, I knew he hated Ethan, and he wasn’t happy that I was marrying him. It wasn’t because of our previous relationship. He’d always thought Ethan didn’t deserve me, and that might have been true a long time ago, but not anymore. Ethan had gotten his shit together, and we were at the beginning of a beautiful journey together.
So I thanked him for his advice and asked him how things were going. They were, in his words, “fucking fantastic!” He then said we needed to hurry up with the demo, because he wouldn’t be able to keep his contacts interested forever.
We had four gigs in a row that week—Wednesday through Saturday nights—and it was Saturday morning that I first started noticing problems. I was sounding hoarse by the end of the show that night, but I just thought maybe I was coming down with a cold or maybe I’d stressed my voice out too much.
But I only practiced for about an hour the next afternoon and noticed the same problem. And every day my voice would wear out sooner and sooner, so I did my warm tea with lemon and honey trick, but it wasn’t working anymore. So I decided to rest my voice and save it for shows, but it wasn’t getting any better. I could get forty-five minutes out of my voice at the max before it started croaking.
I was starting to worry, but I didn’t say anything to the guys…not yet, although I’m sure they were starting to worry about it too. After all, they heard me singing too. The hoarseness worked okay short term for a song or two, but when I had to carry a melody, it just didn’t cut it. But I kept resting my voice and quit practicing altogether. I saved my voice for concerts only.
The time came when all the music was recorded, and I had to start singing. I started with “Metal Forever,” and after an hour of recording and re-recording, I broke down in tears. Well, crying didn’t help either. Brad and Ethan were there, and I finally had to tell them what was going on.
“It sounds okay, Val,” Brad said.
“Yeah…works for the song.”
“Maybe so,” I said, my voice scratchy, “but it’ll never work for ‘Just Another Stupid Love Song.’ My voice has to be clear for that.” Brad frowned. I could tell he agreed. But I could see Ethan, trying to be the loving, supportive husband, trying to be encouraging. He started to talk, but I interrupted him, even though I shouldn’t have said a word. “No, Ethan, you know it and I know it. I can’t sound like I took a fucking emery board to my vocal cords for that one. I have to sound sweet and soft and sexy, or it doesn’t work when I scream at the end.” I started crying again. “Goddammit.”
That’s when they knew how upset I was. Brad said, “So you take it easy tonight. You drink extra tea and don’t say shit. Nothing. If your voice is still fucked up, you go to the doctor.”
“I—we can’t afford the doctor.”
“Bullshit. You’re goin’.” I started protesting when he said, “You’re going, Val. Don’t piss me off.” He looked at Ethan. “Talk some sense into your wife, please.”
“Yeah, because I’m really good at persuading her.” Ethan rolled his eyes, but then he looked at me. “Val, he’s right. If your voice is still sucky tomorrow, you should go.”
“And then what? You know how much money it’ll cost just to be seen? And then what? What if—”
“Stop it. We cross that bridge when we come to it. For now,” Brad said, “you go home and rest.”
But we hadn’t anticipated the worst. First of all, I wasn’t able to get into the doctor the very next day, and when I did get there, it wasn’t pretty. Not only was I suffering from some pretty serious damage which the doctor blamed on crappy vocal techniques (and he asked why I hadn’t ever sought out any vocal training), but I had some pretty nasty scar tissue to boot. I could have surgery—laser or otherwise—but it would cost. And, on top of surgery, I’d probably also need vocal therapy.
We didn’t have the money.
Worse, though, we didn’t have the time. We knew time was of the essence. If we didn’t get this CD off to Clay, we could kiss our chances at the big time goodbye.
So we had a huge band meeting, and I tried to put on the bravest face I could. All I wanted to do was bury my head in my pillow and cry forever. I wanted to scream, but I didn’t even have the voice for it. I know I couldn’t keep the tears from wetting my eyes, but I was at least able to keep them fro
m falling down my cheeks. We all agreed that Brad should take over. He knew the songs, had been singing most of the backup with me ever since I’d joined, and he had a better voice than he’d ever admitted.
They all wanted to keep my rendition of “Metal Forever,” raspy or not, and that’s when I lost it. I couldn’t stop crying. So I went to my bedroom and lay on the bed, just letting the tears flow again and again.
That night, Ethan made love to me and tried to make me feel loved, but I needed time. Just when we had our shot, the universe decided to flip me the bird, and I wasn’t happy about it. I needed time to adjust. Add to that I was still working a shitty waitressing job, and I was miserable.
They finished the recording, and it sounded fantastic. I tried not to cry, hearing Brad’s voice singing when it should have been mine. But he sounded great. I remembered that first time I’d met him in his garage all those years ago, how he’d talked like he had the worst voice in the world, but he’d always had a great voice. And it was metal. God, I just knew…as soon as the people who made the decisions heard the CD, they’d sign Fully Automatic.
Brad shipped it off to Clay who’d promised great things. Clay said he was sorry to hear about me. I’d been one of the selling points, he said, but I called him later and begged him to still give it a fair shot. I told him what was going on with me. He said, “Yeah, I know Brad’s a good singer, but…”
“Just fucking do it, Clay.”
“I promised you, Val. You know I will.”
I thanked him before I lost my voice again.
* * *
Before we heard about the powers that be and what they thought of the CD, Ethan learned that Burt Richards had died. He’d had some kind of cancer and Ethan said, “Like that’s a big surprise. Motherfucker deserved it.”
But I saw his face. I saw his pain. I could sense his guilt. He didn’t really mean it, and I suspected Ethan was now wishing he’d forgiven his father and developed a relationship with him.
Three nights in a row, he didn’t sleep well. He was up late, then up early again, and when he did sleep, he woke me up continually with his constant motion in the bed and talking in his sleep. I told Ethan he needed to forgive himself, and he just looked at me.
And the next night he was drinking. For the first time since we’d rushed him to the ER, he was drinking. And I knew Ethan—I knew that was just the beginning.
I decided I couldn’t just stand back and let him destroy himself—destroy us—again. I had to talk to him before it got bad. He was sitting at the kitchen table when I came home from work one night. My voice was scratchy from talking all night, but I was going to push it a little longer. I needed to get through to him. I sat at the table and set my purse on the floor. He looked tired. His eyes were droopy, and he hadn’t shaved around his goatee in days. He was even wearing the same clothes today that he had the day before. I touched his hand that wasn’t holding the glass and said, “Ethan, I know you don’t want to, but we need to talk. This guilt you’re feeling is—”
“Talk? The last thing I want to do is talk, Val.” He took another drink.
“It’s not healthy to keep this shit all bottled up.”
He snarled. “I suppose walking around the apartment crying all the time is so much healthier.”
I just stared at him and withdrew my hand. I swallowed. “I know you’re hurting, Ethan, but you don’t need to be an asshole.”
He just kept looking at me with contempt. “Stop pretending to know what I feel, Val. You don’t know.”
That hurt. That he couldn’t support my feelings but then just withdrew into a cave and started the old stupid habit of drowning in liquor…that didn’t feel like love to me. “You know what, Ethan? I might not know what it was like for you growing up and how you feel…felt about your dad, but I know what it’s like to feel guilty. I know what it’s like to be disappointed and hurt. And it’s killing me to watch you do this to yourself.” I stood up and went to our bedroom.
And he stopped drinking again a few days later when I threatened to leave.
Shortly thereafter, Fully Automatic got a recording contract.
And when their first CD was released to the world, it shot up the charts with a bullet.
And the rest, as they say, is history. But there’s still more left to my story if you can spare me the time.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Present
I’D BEEN FEELING down. I couldn’t focus on even the most mundane housework…which I’d never been that thrilled about anyway, but it had just seemed harder lately. What was the purpose? Sure, I liked having a clean house, and I certainly didn’t want my child getting dirty just walking through the house, but I couldn’t find the motivation to do everything that needed to be done.
Ethan moped around the house, never showering, never picking up after himself. He wouldn’t talk to Chris or even look at him. He hardly ate anymore but when he did, he ate way too much. Still, he was losing weight. When he bothered to speak, he’d curse at me or the world. He was drinking, smoking, and God knows what else. When he bothered to leave the house, I suspected he was sleeping around on me, and—unbathed or not, in poor shape or not—he was a rock star. There would be some girl somewhere happy to fuck him. I knew that much. If I even so much as tried to get him to talk to me, he’d just tell me to leave him alone.
And then I noticed he’d stopped wearing his wedding band.
All I could think of for days was how marriage was supposed to last forever…till death do us part. And I knew it was bullshit, but I just couldn’t get up the courage to decide to end it for good. I wanted my child to have his father, to know him and love him.
But it was a joke. Even when Ethan was there in body, he wasn’t present in mind. He was no more a father to Chris than I was.
I’d finally had enough. I couldn’t take it anymore. Ethan was still in bed, and it was past two in the afternoon. I’d just laid Chris down for a nap and so I went into the bedroom.
I sat on the edge of the bed. “Ethan, wake up.” No answer. “Wake up, Ethan.” I kept my voice low and calm, because that was the kind of discussion I wanted—rational and calm. “I can make some coffee if you want.”
He stirred but kept his eyes closed. His voice was thick when he said, “Just leave me the fuck alone.”
“Ethan, it’s two o’clock. You should get up.”
“What for? Just leave me alone, mom.”
God, I hated when he called me that. It was a blow off. But I’d promised myself I’d stay calm. “We need to talk, Ethan. Please. Please just get up for a while.”
“If I have to tell you one more time…” He fell back asleep. I wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily.
“What, Ethan? You’ll what?”
“Just get the fuck out of here. I’m tired. You and that little brat were so goddamned noisy this morning…”
Oh…that did it. “Brat? You’re calling your son a brat? That precious child who wants nothing more than his father’s love? Did you know he’s talking now, Ethan? He says real words, communicates. But I suppose you think that’s just noise.” I inhaled, trying to calm down again.
“Goddammit, Val. Just get the fuck out of here.”
I took a deep breath. I had to try a different tactic. My voice was low. “Can we talk about your depression, Ethan?”
He muttered into the pillow. “Who says I’m depressed?”
“What would you call it, Ethan?”
“You’re bothering me. You’re always bothering me. That’s what my problem is.”
I shouldn’t have let that comment get to me. But it did. Still, I tried to maintain. “How am I always bothering you?”
“The kid constantly screaming. You constantly harping on my about shit. I just want to be left alone.”
To this day, I’m not sure how I managed to keep my cool. It was as if the angrier I felt, the more I buried it. “A little solitude is good for a person, Ethan, but you’re taking it to
the extreme and you know it. Fine. You can treat me like shit. You always have. But you need to spend time with your son.”
His voice was almost a growl, but he still didn’t open his eyes. “Goddammit. Just leave me the fuck alone, Val. How many different ways do I have to tell you I don’t want you around?”
My voice was cool. “Fine. I’ll leave.” I got up and started to walk toward the door. He understood the tone of finality in my voice, because he bolted out of bed and grabbed me by my upper arm, swinging me around. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
His fingers were digging into my flesh. I could tell I was going to have bruises without even looking. “Let go of me, Ethan. That hurts.”
“Not until you answer my question.”
“I’m getting away from you. That’s what you wanted, remember? How many times did you tell me to just leave you alone?”
He glared, but he let go. I could see the anger rising inside of him, and I think I preferred it to the lethargic depressive state he’d been in. At least it was something. I turned to leave, but he grabbed me again. He pushed me against the wall, his face in mine. “You still love me, don’t you, Val?” But it wasn’t a question. I tried getting away from him, but he grabbed my arm again. “Val?”
I could feel my nostrils flaring. I didn’t like how he’d cornered me. “Let me go, Ethan. You wanted me to leave you alone, so I am.”
His eyes searched mine. There was something there that I’d never seen before, something base, something feral, something I would never be able to reason with. I knew that looking at him. It scared me. He pressed his hand against my neck, and at first I thought it was just to scare me more, because he’d seen the look of fear in my eyes.
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