by Lori Carson
“Are you sure?” he asks me.
“Yes, I’m sure.” Go, please just go.
As soon as he leaves, the tears come. Not because I regret my decision. I promise you, Minnow, I do not. But I wish things were different, and that wish is painful.
Thirty-three
Alan sounds guilty or sorry. I can hear it in his voice in the first instant. He’s called to tell me he’s going on tour with Charlotte Winter. Charlotte’s a singer-songwriter whose music is not really like mine, but since we’re both young women who play the guitar, it’s likely the music business would put us in the same category. In the past, Alan and I have talked about Charlotte, the fact that she’s pretty good but not as good as I am. We’ve wondered whether her success was using up my chance or paving the way for it. Now it’s a moot point, because I’m not going anywhere, and Alan needs the gig.
He comes over. He’s got a meatball hero with him in a greasy bag. “Hungry?”
I am. We tear into it.
Minnow, you’re bouncing up and down on a swing suspended in the bedroom doorway. You’ve got the best temperament and are content just to bounce and look around. You reach for the cats as they brush by you.
“She’s been watching Sesame Street, and I swear she’s already learning her numbers and letters,” I tell Alan.
“She’s the cutest,” he says, but he seems distracted.
“You don’t have to feel bad,” I say. “I’ll see you when you get back. I’ll have ten new songs written by then.” Alan’s the kind of person who feels bad when there’s no reason to. He can’t help it. He feels he’s betraying me. Sure, I’m jealous not to be the one going on tour, but I’m glad for him. I’m proud of him. He’s beat out other guitar players to get this gig. These are important years for establishing relationships. You end up working with many of the same people for your entire career. For a sideman like Alan, it’s especially important to make the connections.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” he asks me again.
“Yes! I am one hundred percent okay!”
After he goes, I pick up the guitar and play “Still True.” You sort of sing along and it makes me laugh. I really am okay.
In the original 1983, my heart aches to love someone the way I love you. I try to soothe it with music, but music isn’t enough. I try loving a man with my whole being, but romantic love is so limited. I think it’s only meant to get you to the next phase. I get stuck on it like a record that skips.
Thirty-four
Just when I think I can’t take another minute at the restaurant, another job presents itself. This is how it happens: I’m standing over a famous record producer, coffeepot in hand, when I hear him say that a recording studio on East Thirteenth Street called Silver Sound is looking for a receptionist. He’s holding his cup in the air and doesn’t even look at me as I fill it. But I call the studio as soon as I get home and drop his name.
In my interview, I’m not sure how I do it, but I become the perfect candidate for the job. I’m a good liar, or maybe I’m able to convince myself that yes, I’ve been a receptionist before (I’ve answered the phone, haven’t I?) and no, it shouldn’t be any problem if sometimes I need to be there all night. Harv, the owner of the studio, tells me he’s got a couple more people to interview and he’ll get back to me, but I have a feeling I’ve got the job, and by the time I get home there’s a message on my answering machine asking if I can come in the following day at noon. I haven’t mentioned anything about bringing my baby to work, but when I come in the next day with you and all your things, Harv seems to be okay with it. I set up your portable playpen next to my desk. Every time Harv passes by, I give him a smile and a wave. I tell you, Minnow, pretty girls get away with murder.
Not that I don’t do a good job, because I do. I come in at half-past eleven, get you set up, and make a fresh pot of coffee. It’s a rare session that starts before noon. I answer the phones and order lunch for everybody. It’s fun meeting all the working musicians, the producers and engineers. I learn a lot about recording, too.
The only drag about the job is the studio is as dark as a cave. All the windows are in a hallway that faces an alley. But I make sure you get to feel the sunshine and breathe real air. We get up early. We have our breakfast and go to the playground. By the time we get to Silver Sound, it’s almost time for your nap. You have your lunch and I lay you down with your rabbit and your blanket. You sleep so soundly, nothing disturbs you, not the guys getting drum sounds in room A, not even the wail of electric guitar coming from C.
After your nap, you’re only grumpy for a few minutes before you get happy and want to know what’s going on. You’re unbelievable, talking your made-up language, walking your drunken walk down the hall. You have to say hello to everybody. You’re a miniature Gabriel. Charming everybody is what you do naturally. All you need is a wide-brimmed hat and a pair of maracas.
One day I hear that Corbin won’t be coming in and note a slight feeling of disappointment. This is the beginning of my crush. I haven’t been with a man since before you were born, and I’m certainly not on the lookout for anybody, but it occurs to me it might be nice to have someone to have fun with, to hang out with. Of course, he can’t be just anybody. He’s got to give me that twist in my belly. He has to make me laugh. Corbin does both of those things. He’s tall and thin with bright dark eyes and eyelashes so long they rest on his cheek when he looks down. He wears skinny black Levi’s and washed-out T-shirts with the faded names of rock bands. He’s kind of dorky and cool at the same time. I hear somebody say he’s from Austin, Texas.
When a producer doesn’t bring his own engineer, or a band books time without one, they use Corbin, or Don, who is nowhere near as cute. Both guys work for the studio, like me. They do equipment repairs and talk endlessly about pro audio gear. But Corbin has another side, too. The first thing I ever noticed about him was his beautiful handwriting. He labels the boxes of two-inch tape with a thick black marker in a style that is artistic, yet tidy. I guess it’s weird to find someone’s handwriting so appealing, but I do.
Of course, the eyelashes don’t hurt either.
I think Corbin falls for you first, Minnow. He’s always coming up with nicknames for you. He calls you Speedy, Tumbleweed, Jellybean, Peanut.
The thing between us develops slowly. We become friends first. Corbin is a few years younger than I am. He’s just out of school. He seems like a baby compared to Gabriel, but maybe that’s why he feels safe to me. Even though he’s really smart, I feel I know more about life.
The first time we kiss, it’s two in the morning and you’re fast asleep. It’s just us at the studio. We’re in room A, the big room. I’m playing my songs for him and he’s listening so quietly I look up to make sure he’s still there.
“You’re really good,” he says. His lips are purple from the wine we’re drinking.
It’s pride or gratefulness that makes me lean in to kiss his fuzzy cheek. He pulls me to him, kisses me on the mouth, and I get that delicious first-kiss rush. His lips are soft. His scent, a kind of earthy-sweet-boy smell, fills my nostrils. I notice he has smile lines at the outer edges of his eyes and try to remember if I own even one decent pair of underwear.
Corbin jumps up to set up a microphone in the middle of the room. He grabs a pair of headphones off the wall. “Play it again, just like that,” he says, putting the phones over my head. I watch his skinny back as he bounds into the control room, and then he’s behind the glass, pushing buttons and moving faders on the board. “Sing a little,” he says through the intercom.
We start recording like that, in the middle of the night, whenever somebody else’s session gets canceled or ends early. Sometimes we have a drummer and bass player come down. I learn how to use a microphone, to sing softly into it when I’m up close and pull back when I want to sing out.
If life with Gabriel was swimming in the ocean, then being with Corbin is splashing around in a kids’ pool. We’re silly tog
ether, playful as puppies. We arm-wrestle and tickle each other. We make up funny names for everything. There’s a lightness to it I’ve never known.
One February day the whole city closes down after a big snowstorm, and we three go sledding in Central Park. You’re about fifteen months by then, Minnow. Oh, how you love the snow. We hike into the park, me pulling the sled, and you up on Corbin’s shoulders. All around us children and their parents are doing the same. We find a good hill and pile onto the Flexible Flyer. You laugh your head off going down the slope. Fearless girl. You giggle and squeal. You lean back into me as we gather speed, and as soon as we get to the bottom, you say: “More!”
Corbin teases you, playfully, and you laugh. You hide behind my leg and jump out to surprise him. You shout, “No, Bin,” which is what you call him.
“Bin is so silly,” I say, smiling at the two of you.
We climb back up the hill and go down again and again. After what must be a dozen times or more, I stagger over to a stand of trees and lie flat on my back.
“Mama!” you shout. You scamper down next to me and I take you in my arms. We play the game where I try to kiss your face and you pretend you want me to stop. Above us, the tall trees look dramatic and magical. Every dark branch is covered with ten inches of undisturbed snow. Beyond them, I can see the rooflines of all the majestic buildings on Central Park West.
You climb on top of me like a little monkey. You pull my hair and tug at my face.
“Minnow, stop.” I laugh, which only makes you do it more.
How many days like this before I began to take one for granted? The way people with a constant view of purple mountains come to scarcely notice them. I know what it is to walk alone past the screams and laughter of children and their families playing in the snow. The thought brings tears of gratitude to my eyes.
“Anybody interested in a hot chocolate?” Corbin’s silhouette stands between us and the afternoon sun.
“Sure,” I say. I stand and pull you to your feet, brush the snow from your back. Corbin hoists you over his head and onto his shoulders. I trail behind, pulling the sled, wiping my wet eyes with a soggy mitten.
“Ooh, stinky,” I hear him say. “I think somebody needs a diaper change.”
Thirty-five
Now that you’re more mobile, Minnow, sometimes we take the bus. It’s not that I mind the subway—it’s the fastest and cheapest way to get around town—but sometimes I don’t feel like going underground. On the bus, you’re riding above the traffic, past pedestrians and the mad activity of the city. It takes a while to get where you’re going. A kind of intimacy develops between all the passengers.
One day, I find I’m looking at everyone on the bus and imagining each person as a baby. All these freaky people, stressed out and anxious, pale, frowning, and buried in layers of old coats and scratchy-looking wool hats. Every one of them was once someone’s baby.
There I am, with you on my lap. Still, what I think about is: Why does the world need so many babies, so many people? Clearly, everyone feels the need to reproduce, but does that mean everybody should?
I start to get really worked up thinking about how selfish it is. How many people have children just because they don’t know what else to do with their lives, or because they think they’re supposed to, or because they’re terrified to be alone? We’re a species with a population problem!
Just then, I notice your shoe is missing. It’s fallen off somewhere. Your pink sock is about to slip off, too. I give it a tug and get up to look around. Perhaps the shoe has come off on the bus.
One of the former babies, an old man in a brown overcoat, finds it in the aisle. He’s a little bent with scoliosis and holds on to the seat backs as he makes his way to us. He smiles warmly as he hands the shoe to me. I thank him, and he says, “My pleasure, young lady.”
I notice a lot of the other passengers are looking and smiling, too. I feel sorry then, for wishing them never born. There is kindness radiating from their faces.
There may be no greater human quality than kindness, Minnow. This is a revelation I come to as an older woman, and there’s no way I would have known it that day on the bus. But I need to fill the girl I was with lessons learned by the woman I became. I need to give her perspective, to ground her, so when she gets off that bus with you in her arms and turns to wave at her fellow passengers, who are waving back through the dark windows, she can be uplifted by the exchange. I need her to be healed by such things so that she can be a good mother to you and make the most of this second chance for both of us.
Thirty-six
Corbin moves into the apartment on West Seventy-first Street. He builds himself a rustic cupboard to hold his things. The place is small for the three of us, but he turns the yard into his workshop. He makes shelves and benches, and even a little chair for you. He labels boxes of baby things with their contents, cleans out the medicine chest and the refrigerator. He paints the kitchen wall with chalkboard paint so we can write notes to one another. Little by little, he brings a Corbin kind of order to our lives.
He’s a natural with you, too, Minnow, maybe because he’s really a kid himself. He tells you silly jokes and never tires of coming up with games for you to play. He hangs a swing for you in the yard, and I have to tell him not to push you so high.
When I see you’re getting attached to him, it warms my heart, but it also worries me, because although I don’t want to be thinking about Gabriel, I see him in your face every day. A part of me is still waiting for him. I know it isn’t rational, but hope lives in me like a stubborn amnesiac. It causes me to pull back from Corbin sometimes. I never say a word about Gabriel, but he can feel me slip away. He tells me my eyes have gone cold. “Where’d ya go?” he asks suspiciously.
Sometimes we argue, and he storms off and doesn’t come back until the next day. When he gets home I say, “We can’t do that in front of her, Corbin. I mean it. I won’t have her growing up around people screaming and slamming doors.”
“Well, maybe you need to figure out what you want,” he growls petulantly.
He holds the music over my head when he’s angry. He has control of my recordings. We’ve added cello and trumpet. A percussionist has laid down some hand drums and tambourine. Layers of electric guitars, keyboards, piano, and background vocals add momentum to the choruses. The closer the songs get to being completed, the larger his threat. He could take the tapes. He could destroy them.
Still, when things are going well between us, I allow myself to imagine a future with Corbin. I can picture us sitting around the long table with a house full of kids. We could grow our own brood. I could play music and he could make furniture. Maybe we could be happy.
Corbin is jealous of Alan at first, too. But it doesn’t take long before they become friends. They share a love of electronics, musical instruments, and techie stuff. They can talk for hours about some latest guitar pedal or gadget.
Alan gets in the habit of coming by on Sunday afternoons when he’s in town. There’s usually a game on TV that nobody watches. They talk and Alan keeps an eye on whatever’s in the oven while I play with you on the floor.
You have little interest in your toy piano, or the dolls that I once loved. You only want to put puzzles together or play with LEGO’s Fabuland. There are hundreds of plastic pieces around us in primary-colored piles.
“Aren’t you afraid she going to choke on that?” Alan asks.
“She loves to build. I can’t stop her. Watch.”
I take a red LEGO piece from your hand, and you scrunch up your eyes and open your mouth to wail: “Mama!”
“See?”
“Leave the kid alone,” Corbin says.
I hand it back to you and instantly you resume building.
“Is that a firehouse, Minnow?”
“Fi-ouse,” you say.
When I try to help you, you push my hand away. So I build my own structures beside you. You watch me out of the corner of your eye, and think nothing of taking
a desirable piece from my hand to add to your own construction. Together we build a LEGO town of buildings and bridges. When you get tired of the game, you stand up carefully on chubby legs and knock it all down.
“Nice work, Minnow,” I say, laughing.
“No, Mama,” you say sternly. These are your two favorite words.
I set the table and we sit down to eat, you in your high chair.
“How’s Charlotte’s new record doing?” I ask, sailing the spoon through the air like a plane. You make me work for each mouthful. Soon you’ll begin terrible twos.
“She’s getting great press,” Alan says. “It’s just a matter of time before she really hits.”
I understand Corbin’s jealousy then, because I feel sick with it myself.
“Who else is in the band?” Corbin asks.
Alan goes through the names and I can hear his pride and affection for everyone. He’s as loyal as a dog, I think. But how can I resent it, when I know his greatest loyalty is to me?
After dinner, I put you to bed and we sit in the garden and play music. It takes him a minute to remember how my songs go. “How’s your recording coming along?” he asks.
“We’re almost done,” Corbin says. “You should come down and add some finishing touches.”
“Love to,” Alan says, and I know he means it. But he’s about to leave again, to go on the road with Charlotte. They’ll be in Europe for the next month and a half, and we’ll probably be finished before he gets back.
Thirty-seven
Minnow is very smart,” Maria says. We’re on the way to my parents’ house, the three of us, taking the train out to Long Island for your birthday party. Corbin has to work. You’re turning two this week, and my mother has invited everyone to celebrate.
“Her teacher says she is smarter than the other children,” Maria continues. “She’s good at language and math.” Twice a week, in the mornings, you go to a preschool in the neighborhood. Maria picks you up on those days.
