One Night With a Rock Star

by Chana Keefer

  Okay, I’d let John live. But the baby pics were still a must.

  Mom and Dad gave me a huge “Castles of Europe” coffee-table book that I delved into with a sigh. Even as a young child I had been fascinated with castles and talked of visiting the real thing in Europe. “Someday, someday, someday,” I promised myself as I drank in sweeping vistas, turrets and moats.

  That evening after the baby centerfolds, we enjoyed all-too-rare lounge time. John pulled out the Monopoly set and, after initial moans and groans, Kelly, Landon and I agreed to play. My brothers always played for blood and soon had a minefield of rental properties.

  “I’m discovering a most unpleasant side of your personality,” Kelly announced as she forked over yet another pile of Monopoly bills into Landon’s eager hand.

  “I tried to warn you but you were so in love you wouldn’t listen,” I teased.

  Kelly and I finally gave up around midnight, leaving John and Landon to duke it out. We found out the next morning as they stumbled bleary-eyed to breakfast that John had finally driven Landon to bankruptcy at about three a.m.

  The next day we drove to Oklahoma for a late Christmas with my mom’s folks who lived in a small farming town complete with a drugstore that served the best cherry-limeades imaginable.

  I have so many warm memories of their little stone house complete with lazy summer holidays and boisterous family gatherings. This visit added another perfect memory when we woke to—snow! John and I pulled Naomi and Charlie around the yard on an ancient sled until we were all exhausted and chilled to the bone. Our little snow queen, Naomi, fell asleep on her sandwich at lunch.

  That afternoon, Grandma Min and Mom took me into the guest bedroom.

  From the back of the closet smelling of mothballs, Grandma brought forth a zippered garment bag she laid on the bed.

  “Go ahead, Sweetie,” she encouraged.

  Inside, I discovered a classic, simple dress of midnight blue velvet. I recognized it from the old photograph on our wall at home. Mom explained that, for her first date with Dad, she begged Grandma Min to “make me look like Audrey Hepburn.”

  “Your dad was pretty possessive that night.” She smiled. “His commanding officer had to ‘order’ him to allow cut-ins when we were dancing.”

  Mom helped me slide into the dress and zipped the back as I turned toward the full-length mirror.

  Grandma smiled at my reflection with smug satisfaction. “I knew when I saw that other velvet number on you we could do better.” I looked at her in surprise. “Your mom sent the news clippings, Sweetie. You were quite the stunner that night weren’t you?” Her blue eyes twinkled. “No more borrowed gowns for our girl.”

  The dress, with its wide “Sabrina” neckline, fit snugly at the waist and hips and flowed to the ankles in a narrow skirt with a subtle slit on one side. Grandma produced a pair of classic pumps with a rhinestone accent and long dress gloves, both matching the deep blue of the dress.

  “Okay, fairy godmother,” I teased as she brought forth a long swath of matching velvet to wear as a wrap, “Ya got a prince tucked in that closet?”

  That night as I shared the guestroom bed with Naomi, I dreamed of entering a ballroom clothed in my new finery and dancing with Sky who couldn’t take his eyes off me. It was pure bliss until one of Naomi’s feet flopped across my face.

  In the morning, before we piled into the car for our trip back to Texas, Grandma Min made me promise to come and stay that summer. It had been six years since I’d had an extended visit so I vowed to scrape the schedule clean for a week of chatting on the porch, making brownies, and reading a good book nestled in the crook of my favorite tree.

  Before I knew it I was back at the apartment and Marti was trying to convince me to tag along with her and her beau, Tom, for a New Year’s Eve party. I’d seen less of Marti lately since she was pretty serious about Tom. When she was at the apartment, he was usually with her. On the weekends, when I had free time, she was on a date. I was glad she was happy but missed our long talks.

  Marti stood before me, sequined, and stunning in her New Year’s finery. “How depressing to stay in on New Year’s. Tom’s friend, Brian, really wants to meet you, ya know.”

  “What’s depressing? I have a cat, a T.V., and brownies. That’s a rip-roarin’ good time.”

  She gave me the smirk and raised eyebrow that said she wasn’t buying it. “Go with us. I’ll help you get ready.”

  “Naw, I don’t feel like a loud party.”

  Marti put her hands on her hips. “You’re so busy these days you don’t have a life. I think it’s on purpose. I think you’re just makin’ sure you don’t get hurt again.”

  “Uh-oh. The doctor is in,” I quipped.

  “No really, I’m worried about you…”

  Thank goodness Tom was at the door or I would have had to endure the long best friend lecture Marti had brewing behind her eyes—not the kind of long talk I had been missing. As it was, I greeted Tom, avoided Marti’s accusing expression, and hurried them on their way.

  It was a relief when the door closed behind them. “Don’t have a life,” I mumbled as I yanked open the fridge and slammed the eggs onto the counter. Oops. I cracked a couple, just the number requested on the brownie box. As I mixed the gooey chocolate, Marti’s words replayed in my head. To drown her out, I tuned the television to one of the New Year’s shows and plunked onto the couch, stirring the batter while kitty Wally attacked the torn hem of my jeans.

  Suddenly, the announcer said, “Now, what we’ve all been waiting for. Let’s join the party in Times Square with Sky!”

  And there he was, smile more dazzling than the flashing lights as he gyrated to his retro-Elvis rockabilly hit, “That’s It Baby.”

  I froze with the gooey spoon halfway to my mouth. When Sky snapped his head toward a gorgeous girl on the front row and pointed in time with the band break in the music, she screamed. When he touched her outstretched fingers among the many he reached for from stage, she cried and screamed some more.

  There were quick glimpses of Jake, Adam and the rest of the band between shots of the jostling crowd and Sky touching upraised hands. When the song ended, Sky shouted, “Happy New Year!” just as the announcer broke in with a commercial break.

  It wasn’t even ten p.m. and my evening was blown.

  I could hear the buzz of the neon “LOSER” sign pointing down at the chick in old sweatshirt and batter-dribbled jeans. If I had been a drinker, this would have been the perfect opportunity to hang it all and get sloshed. As it was, I overdosed on brownie batter until the bowlful wouldn’t have produced more than a crepe, got a stomachache, drank an Alka Seltzer, and retired with kitty Wally purring beside me long before the sirens announced the new year.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Once again I stared at another semester full of classes and agency requirements. I continued editing for the paper and even took on a part-time job as an instructor at a health club for the dual purpose of steady income and free workout facilities, successfully filling every hour of every day with more responsibilities than I could handle.

  I heard of an internship at the top news station and jumped at the chance, even though it would only add to my impossible schedule—If I was lucky enough to be chosen. I wrote the required essays, made a mock news videotape, and sent it all to the proper authorities.

  Throughout the semester, friends and family alike made attempts to set me up, but a busy schedule of working most weekends was a great alibi. On occasion, I saw Devin lifting weights at the health club with some of his football buddies, but he made a point of avoiding me like the plague. It hurt to be given the cold shoulder and I truly missed his company.

  One weekend, my old dorm-mate, Danielle, begged me to attend an event of live music and dancing on a double date with her and the new guy in her life, Don. “Studly Don,” as Marti and I referred to him, was nice enough, but beyond a beautiful face and well-sculpted body, he was, honestly, a trophy date—shall
ow and content to remain so. His roommate, Guy, would often show up to work out at the health club with him. No problem with the women feeling gawked at by those two. They only had eyes for themselves. Anyway, when I realized that week marked the anniversary of Sky’s fateful concert, I agreed to go. I regretted that decision the entire night.

  Guy and Don not only managed to bore me to tears with talk of protein shakes, but the club was smoky and the music was horrible. At one point, I choked on my soda when I noticed Guy watching his biceps dance. As I bolted from the table, giggling and coughing, I saw Devin watching from the bar. I raised a hand in greeting, but he turned to make his way toward the exit on unsteady legs. Was he going to drive in that shape? I raced after him, but someone called my name. There was Shane, Devin’s frat brother. I pointed after Devin and Shane shouted something into my ear I couldn’t hear. After another attempt, I followed him outside where I strained to see Devin in the parking lot, but Shane’s words brought a measure of comfort.

  “Don’t worry, we’re on it.”

  “Who’s ‘we?’”

  “Sigma Tau. We look out for each other. And I took his keys.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Um, listen.” Shane lowered his voice. “I’m not much for prayin’ but say some for Dev, okay?”

  “Sure, what’s—”

  But Shane moved away. “Gotta go. Great to see ya.”

  I stepped back into the noise and crowd with worried thoughts. The fact Shane shared so little only added to my concern.

  However, my threesome pushed thoughts of Devin aside. Danielle was now as tipsy as the guys and, since I was the only one sober, I saw everyone home.

  I got the guys back to their frat house and fought off Guy’s clumsy advances (I’m pretty sure he was seeing two of me, which worked to my advantage). Then I drove Danielle to her sorority apartment and, since it wasn’t far from mine, walked home.

  I ended the night with a lengthy shower to rid myself of the evening’s stench and a personal vow to never be set up again.

  Maybe my personal life was the pits that semester, but things were looking up professionally. I was in a few commercials, sometimes even hopping a plane for a weekend shoot. No, it wasn’t a major motion picture set in a French chateau, but the work was fun and, as always, I enjoyed the new experiences, not to mention the money to finally replace our plastic crates with a real coffee table on which to set my “Castles” book.

  A television series chose me for a small role filmed in Texas during the summer months. The series, “Lone Star,” was wildly popular and I nearly fainted when told I would act opposite movie star Dennis Long, a young guy who, with his surfer good looks, had achieved teenybopper magazine super-status.

  I rode to the set that memorable first morning with Dennis and a couple of the other actors, mortified I had to meet him with a head full of hot rollers and no make-up per my agent’s instructions. I took a picture of the trailer door with a star and “Esther” scribbled across. Sure, it was dry-erase, but for a moment I was somebody—had the picture to prove it.

  Aggressive fans stood behind a barrier at the edge of the property and screamed whenever they saw one of the main actors on the series. I was struck by how ordinary these mega-stars were when the cameras weren’t rolling. They spoke of their spouses, kids, and vacations like an office staff around the water cooler.

  During a break, Dennis visited my trailer to hang out and talk. He was polite, asked questions about my family and life in school while I asked him about life as a busy movie and TV star. A great deal of it, especially the “filming on remote islands part,” sounded amazing. Surprisingly though, he missed time with friends and his life as a “normal” guy. That was a strange discovery since, like most, I assumed the life of a movie star must be consistently dazzling.

  When it was time for my scene, things went well, although I was nervous. After the tenth take of interruptions from trying to orchestrate background performers, the car that needed to drive by on cue, and avoiding the inevitable airplane noise, my nervousness evaporated, replaced by a conscious effort not to be the screw-up factor.

  I loved everything about being on the set clear down to a barbeque lunch with all the trimmings catered out of a huge trailer.

  At the end of the day, it was simply… over. In spite of a quick camaraderie, when the cameras stopped, everyone went back to the real world of families and responsibilities, leaving make-believe behind. For my part, the intense emotions of the day left me longing for a long soak in a tub.

  I appeared in four of the episodes that year, finally having a national TV credit for my resume. Movie offers did not start pouring in and I didn’t drop everything else to pursue a burgeoning career. In fact, life didn’t change at all due to my ten seconds of fame.

  However, other events that summer left a permanent and deep mark on my life.

  Our church planned another mission trip, this time a medical ministry excursion to El Salvador. I looked forward to once more investing myself in something that really mattered. The country had endured a devastating earthquake and thousands were homeless. To add to their miseries, it rained almost every day. At night, as I tried to sleep on the cot at our campsite, the faces of small children who lived in these hopeless conditions haunted me. They were dirty, malnourished, and the eyes that should be full of childish fun were dull and hopeless. The need was so huge and, in comparison, our efforts felt like a drop in the ocean.

  On the fifth day of the trip, I received an emergency call from Mom. I froze in shock at her quiet words. “Sweetie, Grandma Min is… gone.” She went on, telling of complications during Grandma’s routine bypass surgery, but my brain rejected the information. “Wait. What?” She repeated her words. “No.” I shook my head.

  “I thought about waiting until you got home to tell you but…” her words trailed away.

  A wave of anger swept over me. Anger? When my grandmother just died?

  “We’re postponing the funeral a couple days so you can be there,” She added.

  “Um, thanks.” Awkward silence. I wrapped up the call. Told her I would be fine. Told her I would be praying for her. Told her I loved her.

  I stared at the receiver in my hand. Connection cut; sudden and complete.

  That night, when I couldn’t sleep, I went to the nearby little concrete cinder block chapel. It was sparse; just wood benches, wood podium, altar rail and a carving of a crucified Jesus hanging on the wall. I had nothing to say and didn’t even know if I wanted to talk to God anyway. Why was I there? Why did I have to be so lonely and far from home? Why didn’t I get to tell Grandma Min goodbye?

  My concept of God having the “whole world in His hands” was shaken to the core. How could I equate that with reality? Did God hold me more tightly than hungry little children in muddy huts? Why had He not told me to go be with Grandma Min during her “routine” surgery?

  The next day, as we worked our way through the endless lines of suffering people, I was detached and, admittedly, counting the hours until I could be home, clean and in my own bed. A woman was in front of me, her back twisted at an odd angle, pain filling her eyes. The doctor gave her a little bottle of pain reliever. A wash of anger swept me. Where was God? Surely he loved this woman. Surely if he existed he would do something. I reached out a hand and laid it on her back, noticing the hard lump where the spine should have been straight. I muttered a prayer. It was really more of a desperate challenge. I knew the woman didn’t speak English and the doc was too distracted to even notice but I prayed anyway.

  “God, please heal this woman’s back. I know for sure if anything good happens it has to be because of You since there’s nothing left in me.”

  The lump in her back shifted beneath my fingers.

  “Aaaah!” The woman shrieked.

  I pulled my hand away, afraid I had somehow hurt her. But there was joy on her face and she was chattering so quickly in Spanish I couldn’t understand any of it. The doc brought an inte
rpreter over who reported that the woman’s back had stopped hurting. The pain was just gone. She even hopped around to prove it, laughing and crying at the same time.

  When she pointed at me and kept saying the same Spanish phrase over and over, the interpreter told me she was asking, “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. I just prayed.” I was as surprised as she was and joined in the woman’s laughter as she hugged me. Through the interpreter, I found out her name was Alicia and that she had five young children.

  Soon the line moved on and we were once more giving vitamins to children with lifeless eyes. I prayed more but there was nothing miraculous. If anything, the experience left me more confused. Why would God pick and choose? Did I do something right that I usually did wrong?

  A couple days later, I drove with my family to Oklahoma for Grandma Min’s funeral. The image of the laughing, dancing woman whose back was healed stayed with me, but the joy in her eyes bounced off my aching heart. There would be no more long summer visits, no more Christmas celebrations with Grandma Min showing me how to prepare her amazing stuffing and pies.

  All the things I spent so much time and effort on—the rushing to class, cramming for tests, careful make-up for the cameras—seemed pointless. As I wandered Grandma Min’s house, opening closets, cupboards, and medicine cabinets that remained as she had arranged them, it struck me that she was not famous and had never done anything newsworthy, but she had provided a haven for her family. Hers was a deep effect that would live on in the people she loved.

  In the bathroom, I opened the cabinet by the tub and the combined smell of baby powder, Dove soap and her White Shoulders perfume triggered a meltdown.

  It smelled like home.

  After all the little brushes with greatness, this felt real. Grandma Min had poured herself into those she loved and her efforts would live on even though she was gone. This was why her death left a gaping hole in my heart—because her life had mattered. I felt my ambitions shift a bit.