One hour with my blues
You’d fade so fast into gray
Never bursting into every shade
A rainbow that will never fade
Like me.
My first album was filled with lyrics about living life in Technicolor, Dorothy after she landed in Oz, leaving the black and white behind. Back then, I thought my life would never be dull again. I certainly never thought I’d bleed into the background.
This morning I notice that Evelyn’s wide-set eyes are bloodshot, the whites run through with pink and red. Maybe her divorce kept her up crying all night.
“Define productive,” I say finally.
Evelyn looks pleased that I’m responding, like this isprogress.
We’re sitting on the (white) couches by the fireplace. Evelyn’s back is to the kitchen, where Andrew stands, preparing lunch. I can already see that it’s some kind of salad, food you’resupposedto eat, every vitamin from A to Z. The ingredients are probably alllocalandorganic, those catchphrasey words I was supposed to care about as soon as I started making enough money to afford it. Though how produce could be local in this climate this time of year, I don’t know. I’m tempted to ask, just to catch Evelyn in a lie, but I don’t want her to think I’m the kind of person who cares, because I’m not. Andrew catches my eye and pulls a Snickers bar from his pocket, winking as if to say,Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered.
I bite my lip to keep from smiling.
“Productiveis something we can define together. What would you like to get out of your time here?”
I gaze at my guitar, propped in the corner where I left it last night. I didn’t write after Andrew disappeared. It was like the song got snagged and stuck, unable to keep moving.
“Lady, we both know I’m just here to ride out the storm,” I answer.
“What does ‘riding out the storm’ mean to you?” She makes my words sound like a punchline.
“It means I’m here till things settle down at home.”
“What would home look like if things ‘settled down’?”
Joni Jewell would be stricken from the radio, banished to the world of washed-up pop stars. My kid and my mom would stop conspiring against me, two peas in a pod leaving me out in the cold. My husband would show up on my doorstep after all these years, a smile so big plastered on his face like he couldn’t remember whatever it was that made him leave.
“If what you want is to live a more settled life,” Evelyn continues, “I can help with that.”
“Can you?” I ask archly.
“Another word forsettledisstability. And you’re not exactly known for being stable, are you?”
“I thought you weren’t interested in what anyone else said about me. Isn’t that what you said the other day? You wanted to hear my version of events, threatened to drug me for suggesting you read my bio online.”
I expect Evelyn to look humbled—I caught her lying—but she merely smiles. “It would be dishonest to pretend I don’t know anything about your life, and I don’t think dishonesty would help us build a strong connection.”
I feel my gaze wither when Evelyn suggests that she wants toconnectwith me, like she isn’t here because she’s paid to be, like she actually cares about me, wants to know me. “I don’t think there’s much chance of us building any kind of connection.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re not the kind of person I have any interest in connecting with. Besides, there’s all kinds of instability.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Like, financial instability. Whatever else has happened, I’ve been paying my own way since I was a teenager. Never missed a mortgage payment or a phone bill. Not once.” I pay someone to keep track of all that for me—dates and deadlines aren’t exactly my strong suit—but it still counts.
“And you know, my marriage ended, but we never gotdivorced.” I emphasize it like it’s a dirty word.
Outsiders never understood our relationship. Journalists said I made him miserable, snapping pictures of us that made it look like we were fighting on the street when we were really making fun of each other. Not to say we never fought. Of course we did. But the rest of the world had no idea what it looked like when we made up in private.
