The house my father bought with the money he made from his music. The house where he died. The house I loved and my mother hated. The house where Georgia got high. The house where I planned to raise the baby I lost. The house I knew I would live in for the rest of my life.
Iknewit, but like so much of what I knew, it wasn’t the truth.
Or more accurately, it isn’t the truth anymore.
In her sober diary, Georgia wrote,My sponsor wants to know why I haven’t told Amelia Blue I’m sober. Why I haven’t told my mom. She says I can’t stay sober without support. She says I can’t stay sober if I lie about my sobriety as much as I did about my using.
Georgia never wrote her sponsor’s name. I would’ve gone through the contacts on her old phone for a clue, but Naomi told the center not to bother sending it back with the rest of Georgia’s things. They wiped it clean and donated it to charity.
She doesn’t understand that I can’t tell them(the wordcan’tunderlined twice),not until I’m sure I can keep it up.
She says sobriety is a promise we make to ourselves, not to other people.
I told her it doesn’t matter. They wouldn’t believe I’m sober anyhow.
“They say I have to leave here tomorrow,” I tell my grandmother.
“I’m sorry.” Naomi sounds very tired. “I didn’t want to add to your troubles.”
My grandmother lied to protect me.
With her final lie, Georgia was trying to protect me, too.
47Florence
It’s time to get the fuck out of Dodge. Where the hell did that expression come from, anyway? What does it mean? My kid would know, smart like that.
I haven’t told Andrew my plan. It’s a surprise. My kid hates my surprises, my husband, my mom. But my fanslooovethem. Drop an unexpected single, play a secret show, make an unscheduled appearance. That’s the kind of thing that keeps fans on their toes, expecting you to give them more, more, more.
I always gave them more.
Until I gave them everything and they stopped asking. Like that book my mom gave my kid,The Giving Tree. She said it was a bedtime story, but it gave me fucking nightmares. I hid it away where my kid couldn’t find it.
Tonight, I pretend to go to bed early, then get dressed in the dark: my fur coat over a baby-doll white nightgown with a black bra and underwear, almost exactly what I wore the first time I went onstage. My hair is greasy and unwashed, so I pull it into a tight bun on top of my head, dark roots glaring against the platinum tips. I sling my guitar over my shoulder like I’m a one-woman traveling band.
It’s so easy to sneak out that I think maybe they want me to leave.
It’s fucking cold. Smells like snow, a scent I remember from my childhood in Yonkers, a scent my kid, California born, wouldn’t recognize. I should’ve worn tights. A hat, a scarf. If only I’d had my phone to look up the weather forecast before I left. Not that you need a phone to know it’s cold in January, but fuck them for taking my phone anyway. At least I have my coat.
I hum a few bars of my new song as I hold out my thumb, hitchhiking like it’s 1967. There aren’t many cars on the road, but luckily it’s dark. It’s easy to spot the headlights that tell me someone’s coming.
The floor of the Shelter Shack is sticky with spilled beer and sawdust. The lights are turned down low, a single spotlight on a tiny stage in the corner. It’s dingier than Andrew made it sound. The crowd isn’t big, and mostly old. Everyone’s wearing some variation of the same outfit: jeans and work boots, plaid flannel shirt. Mine is the only dress in the place. I don’t see anyone drinking anything other than beer.
Whatever. Beggars can’t be choosers. No, I’m not a beggar; I’m a beginner. This summer, I’ll go on tour in a van, just like in the old days—no tricked-out tour bus and private plane. My kid’ll come with me; she’s old enough now, she can help with my gear. It’ll just be the two of us, a road trip across America with extra guitars in the back seat. I’m not too big for my britches. Anyhow, I’d rather start over on my own terms than work with my ungrateful bandmates ever again.
The locals’ll go nuts when I take the stage. They’ll record me and release the video, drowning out Callie’s terrible statement. This will be so much louder.
They’ll remember me, won’t they?
Even if they don’t, the song is good enough to catch their attention.
Someone’s onstage already. The lighting’s so shitty I can’t see their face. A deep voice says, “This is something new I’ve been working on.”
Whoever’s up there is hardly an opening act, but I’ll let them sing one song—just one—and then I’ll take the stage. I tune everything out to make a mental setlist: “Never Settle” first, to give them a taste of what they know and love. Get them good and warmed up before I shift to the new material. The chorus of dead musicians in my head will cheer me on for once.
Imposter all my life
Never belonged anywhere
