by Julie Cannon
“Since you’re here and I’m here, we can—”
The doors opened and we were on the ground floor. People were milling about waiting to get in the car we’d just vacated, and more than a few heads turned when they recognized Tobin. I saw my mother get off the elevator directly across from us.
“Kiersten, darling, good morning.” She pulled me down so she could buss my cheek. I was at least seven inches taller than my mother, but she could still manhandle me like I was three years old.
“Good morning, Mother,” I replied automatically. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Tobin still standing beside me. When I saw my mother glance at Tobin, then back at me, I knew this was going to be awkward.
“Kiersten, where are your manners?” My mother was scolding me.
“Mother, this is Tobin Parks. Tobin, my mother, Joanne Fellows.”
“You look so familiar,” my mother said, looking at Tobin hard. “Have we met?”
“No, ma’am, we haven’t. I guess I just have one of those faces,” Tobin answered graciously. I had expected her to introduce herself and wait for my mother to fawn all over her. Little did she know my mother didn’t fawn over anything, including her own grandchildren.
“I’m sure I know you from somewhere,” my mother said, frowning. She hated to lose at anything, and if she thought she knew Tobin she wouldn’t rest until she figured it out. I decided to end her quest.
“Mother, Tobin is a singer and musician. I’m sure you’ve seen her on TV or a magazine cover somewhere.” I’m positive she hadn’t seen her on the cover of Curve magazine, stark naked and draped over her guitar. That issue was one of my favorites.
She thought for a moment, and then recognition filled her face. Then something else not quite so nice appeared. “Ah, yes, that’s where it is. Nice to meet you, Ms. Parks.” She turned to me. “Kiersten, are you ready?” she said, effectively dismissing Tobin.
“Yes, of course,” I replied quickly. Once a dutiful daughter, always a dutiful daughter. I turned to Tobin.
“It was good to see you again, Tobin. Enjoy your day.” I followed my mother into the restaurant.
*
“Kiersten, how do you know that girl?”
I have to admit my mother has the term rich snob perfected. She asked her question with as much distaste in her mouth as if she’d just bit into a mealy apple. This morning she was wearing an impeccably tailored Donna Karan yellow dress, and her shoes and bag were equally coordinated. My mother was never anything other than perfectly put together, and I couldn’t remember if I’d ever seen her with a hair out of place, a chip on a nail, or, God forbid, a run in her hose. Her hair had just enough very expensive attention that she didn’t look a day over fifty, even though she passed that big-o birthday more than a decade ago. Her plastic surgeon had magic skills, and her personal trainer was demanding.
The waiter had come and gone, and we were sipping our coffee. “I’ve only met her once or twice, Mother. She wants to be a spokesman for JOLT.”
My mother dropped her spoon, and it clattered loudly on her saucer. I felt a dozen pairs of eyes look our way.
“Now, Kiersten, I don’t ever tell you how to run your little company, but do you think that’s wise?” she said, quickly gathering her composure.
First of all, my mother has never given a rat’s ass about my little company other than to wonder why I ventured out on my own in the first place. Second, she has absolutely no clue what is best or not, and third, my little company had sales last year of eighty-eight million dollars, ten times the revenue of my father’s firm. I was still angry for the way she’d dismissed Tobin.
“Why do you say that, Mother?”
“Why?” she asked, obviously confused.
“Yes. Why would I not want to consider Tobin?”
“Well, she’s a lesbian.”
I almost laughed but held it in. That would not be good. “Mother, I’m a lesbian,” I reminded her.
“Yes, but not like that.” She waved her hand in the direction we’d come.
“Like what?”
“She’s so…out there.”
“And?”
“And you read the same papers I do.”
I didn’t but wasn’t getting into that conversation this morning.
“You know what she does, how she lives. I’ve heard she has a different woman in her life every week. Probably more often than that.”
Lucky girl, I thought.
“Her image is not…oh, I don’t know…wholesome.” She tossed her hand as if ridding it of something slimy.
This time I couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Wholesome?”
She frowned at me. “You know what I mean. She has a reputation, and you don’t want to get mixed up with that.” She looked at me squarely in the eyes. I’d seen that face. It was the you-better-listen-to-me one. “Do not get mixed up with that.”
“Don’t worry, Mother. I’m not interested in Tobin Parks in any way.”
As we waited for our meal I wondered why I had phrased my response like that. It sounded like there was more than one avenue of interest I could travel on the Tobin Parks highway. But I wasn’t headed in that direction either.
I spent the next thirty minutes listening to my mother fill me in on the latest in her life and old friends. I nibbled on my eggs and moved the rest of my brunch around my plate, making it look like I was eating. I didn’t have much appetite this morning, which was fine, because I watched my weight very closely.
My mother finally called for the check, and relief flooded me that I was almost paroled from this meal. Her American Express card contrasted sharply against the white of the bill just before she closed the dark, conservative leather folder it came in.
“Are you sure you can’t stay another few days?” she asked hopefully. “Meredith, Harrison, and Marcus would love to spend more time with you.”
“Mother, we talked last night.” And our conversation was not something I cared to repeat. At least not right away. I doubted they wanted to hang out with me.
“Did you all get a chance to catch up?” My mother had certain expectations of how her family should interact with each other, which included knowing what was going on in each other’s lives. She wanted it to be that way because it was expected, not because it would make us closer.
“Yes, we did.” I regurgitated a few of the snippets of conversation I’d overheard, and she seemed satisfied because she didn’t ask anything else about that.
“Are you taking care of yourself? Are you still jogging?”
My mother tried to sound genuinely interested, but I know she thought any form of exercise that wasn’t performed under the watchful eye of a trainer or yoga instructor wasn’t appropriate. The fact that she called it jogging was almost insulting. I don’t jog. I run a six-minute mile and had finished six triathlons in the past eight months.
“Are you seeing anyone?” she asked, biting into her slice of dry toast and not giving me a chance to answer her first question.
I held in a sigh. We were going down this path, again. “No one special,” I lied, preparing myself for the requisite rebuke of the emptiness of my life.
“You need to settle down, Kiersten. You’re not getting any younger, you know.”
“I’m happy with my life, Mother. I have a company that I love, good friends, and I’m happy.” All four things were true.
“But you’re alone.”
“And that doesn’t make me unhappy,” I replied, trying not to become too defensive, which was difficult. This line of questioning was old—very, very old.
“But you need someone in your life. Someone to take care of you.”
There it was. My mother never failed to deliver. Just because my mother, sister, and obviously Brittney were not complete without someone to take care of them did not mean that I needed a guardian as well.
A commotion to my right caught my attention. My heart jumped and the blood in my veins grew suddenly very warm. A group of people sur
rounded Tobin and were thrusting papers, pens, and even napkins at her. She calmly signed every one and said a few words to people as they approached. Finally she was free of them and continued through the dining room. I heard my mother tsk, tsk the entire scene. I followed Tobin with my eyes until she walked out the side door onto the patio and took a couple of deep breaths to calm myself before returning my attention to my mother.
“Mother, I can take care of myself. I am taking care of myself.”
“I know, but…”
“But nothing. I’m thirty-six years old and doing exactly what I want to do. Can’t you just be pleased for me?” That was the crux of my relationship with my mother. Her idea of happiness was radically different from mine. She was a very smart woman, but she just couldn’t grasp my life. We finished our breakfast, my eyes drifting to the patio doors more than once.
Chapter Twelve
If I wondered what Kiersten would look like in another thirty years, all I’d have to do was look at her mother. The resemblance was remarkable. I’d known this was her mother before Kiersten even introduced us. They had the same bone structure, facial features, and crystal-blue eyes. But there were subtle differences between the two. Kiersten’s smile showed in her eyes, her mother’s not even close. Kiersten carried herself relaxed, but her mother had a stick up her butt. Kiersten’s voice was warm and inviting, her mother’s cold, almost shrill. At least those were the impressions I had from the two minutes we were together.
Mrs. Fellows eyed me with a look I recognized. It had been a staple of my childhood every time I went to the store or to school or any place outside of my trailer park. That look said you are the child of trash, and since the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, it’s only a matter of time before you’re rotten as well. I hadn’t seen that look in years, but I hadn’t forgotten how much it hurt.
I knew Kiersten and her mother were in the dining room and purposely asked the hostess to seat me in the opposite direction on the patio. I definitely didn’t look their way on my way in. I hadn’t planned to eat in the restaurant, but since I wasn’t in my coach I really didn’t have much choice. I didn’t want room service because it made my room smell, and I couldn’t very well go down the street to the local Denny’s.
I sipped my coffee, thinking about the difference between Kiersten and the two women in my dressing room last night. Talk about complete opposites. They were all giggles, jiggle, and little else. Kiersten was smart and could carry on a conversation. During our dinner she’d talked about current events, politics, and the financial trouble in the European Union. I doubted if those girls knew who the president was, let alone where Europe is.
I couldn’t remember their names. Was it Candy and Brooke? Heather and April? It didn’t really matter because I didn’t need to know their names. Not long after meeting them I simply thought of them as Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. The most disconcerting part of the evening was the fact that I wasn’t the slightest bit interested in having sex with one or both of them. That was a first, especially when they looked like they were the models for a Hooters ad.
They were all over me all night, and I kept sliding away from their wandering hands and persistent mouths. Finally I went through the motions, giving them what they wanted, and told Jake to get rid of them. I left the arena and went to my room shortly thereafter. I didn’t immediately go to bed but sat on the couch with my feet on the table, looking at the stars blinking on the other side of the large window.
My waitress brought me my breakfast and refilled my coffee cup. She asked if I wanted anything else in that tone that said anything meant anything. I politely declined.
“No, thanks. I’m good for now.” She walked away looking disappointed. Too bad.
I knew several people in the restaurant were looking at me; they always did. Usually a few brave souls and a few rude fans ventured over and asked for my autograph. Most were polite, and after I signed their napkin, scrap of paper, or coaster, they left me in peace. Others weren’t quite as considerate. That’s why I usually ate in my room or Jake accompanied me.
Life on the road is not glamorous. It’s hard, exhausting, and lonely. Traveling from place to place in the span of sometimes twenty-four hours didn’t leave much time for socializing or sightseeing.
I was living the dream, the one I had from the moment I lifted that old guitar out of the trash bin. It was almost bigger than I was and was missing two strings, but I’d strummed that thing like I was a rock star and dreamed of being famous.
My dad had laughed at me, saying, “You’ll never amount to nothing,” his words, and told me to “Get that piece of shit out of the house,” again his words. I did as I was told, having learned long before not to disobey him, but I hid it under the trailer where the skirting had torn off in the last storm.
I went to the local library, and since it didn’t cost anything to get a library card, I checked out every book I could on learning how to play the guitar. There were videos, but since we didn’t have any way to play them, I watched them in the privacy of the small desk area in the back corner of the library. I used the library’s yellow pages to look up a music store. I’d go by the store and stand on the sidewalk and look through the window. It took several tries before I finally got up the nerve to walk into the store.
As soon as I entered, it was like the gates of heaven opened. I swear I could hear a harp playing as if beckoning me in. I’m sure I looked like a zombie walking into the store, my mouth hanging open in awe at all the shiny new instruments. I rarely went into a store that sold new things. Goodwill and the church thrift box were our Neiman Marcus, and I was stunned by what I saw.
Drums, cymbals, trumpets, and trombones adorned one side of the room, and guitars and pianos the other. I knew the clerk was watching me so I was very careful not to get too close or touch anything. A gleaming red electric guitar in a stand drew me closer. Six strings ran the length of it, starting at the saddle and wrapping around the tuning heads. I’d never seen a guitar that fancy, and through my voracious readings I knew the name of every part.
“Can I help you, young lady?”
The deep voice behind me made me jump. I took a few steps back, my eyes never leaving the guitar.
“N…n…n…no sir.”
“She’s quite a beauty,” the man said.
“Yes sir, she is,” I replied politely. I think I actually whispered my answer because I was so enthralled at what I was looking at.
“Would you like to try it?”
My head shot around and looked at the man. He was old, like my next-door neighbor Mr. Bruce, but this man had kind eyes. “No sir, I can’t.”
“Why not?’
“It’s too nice. I might break it.” And if I did, there would be hell to pay for sure.
“Here,” he said, lifting it off the stand. He pointed to a bench to my right. “Have a seat.” I couldn’t resist and did as I was told. He handed it to me.
It was heavy and cool against the top of my thigh. The body was thin, the fret board long, stretching out almost as far as my eight-year-old arms could reach. I couldn’t believe I was holding the most beautiful musical instrument I’d ever seen.
“Do you play?” the clerk asked.
Somehow I managed to nod.
“Play me something.”
My eyes shot to his again. “Oh, no sir, I couldn’t,” I said, terrified just holding it on my lap.
“It’s okay,” he said, sitting beside me on the bench. “People do it all the time. How else will they know how it sounds and if they want to buy it?”
“Oh, no sir, I can’t buy it,” I said like it wasn’t already glaringly obvious.
He chuckled. “Someday you will,” he said with the kindest smile. “Go ahead, give it a try.”
It took a few more words of encouragement and permission, and when he handed me a pick, my hands shook. I placed a chord on the strings on the neck with my left hand and dragged the pick over the strings with my right.
The clerk persuaded me to keep playing before he got up to wait on another customer. I played every song I knew and made up a few I didn’t. I stopped when he returned.
“You play pretty good. Do you have one at home?” he asked, pointing to the sleek guitar.
“Yes sir, I do, but not like this,” I answered, still completely in awe of the instrument I was holding.
“How much is a guitar string?” I asked, pointing to a classic wooden guitar with nylon strings.
“It depends,” he said, stepping behind the counter. “Which one do you need?”
“A and D,” I said with confidence.
“Let’s see now,” he said, rummaging around on the shelf behind him. “Normally they’re two dollars and sixty eight cents each.”
My heart fell. I’d never have that much money for one, let alone both of the strings I needed. All the excitement I felt playing the electric guitar leaked out of me like a balloon losing its air. I used extra care and returned it to its display location.
“But,” the old man said quickly, “for some reason we have some loose ones back here that we can’t sell because they’re not part of a set.” He took them out and laid them on the counter. They were wound up tightly, looking like gold snakes ready to strike. “You’re welcome to these if you’d like.”
My eyes shot to his, my danger signals blinking at full speed. Nobody gave me anything and didn’t want something in return. He must have seen the wariness in my eyes. Or the fear.
“No, really, you can have them. No charge,” he added.
“Won’t your boss fire you for giving me something that I should buy? Isn’t that kind of like stealing?” I knew all about stealing, thank you very much, Dad.
