I put them back where I found them, gloating with pride. Mama held a secret from Dad.
With my suitcase in one hand and my purse hanging across my middle, I floated down the stairs, moving as softly as a butterfly. I lingered on each step as if it was a flower. Our old house groaned whenever we walked her halls.
With equal caution I tiptoed into the kitchen, then slinked toward the back door. Ever so carefully I put my suitcase down, removed the chain, and turned the knob. You could have heard cotton growing in the silence with how quietly I shut the door behind me.
I calculated my route. If it took eight minutes by car, I figured thirty to forty-five on foot. If I traveled down the back streets of Midtown Memphis, the only busy one I’d have to cross was Peabody.
The moon was my friend, carving a lighted path. I was not afraid. Inside my wallet was forty-eight dollars and twenty-three cents. It was all the money I had in the world, save my final paycheck from Goldsmith’s.
Instead of focusing on the long walk, I dreamed of the future. Discovering the true Suzannah was so near I could taste it. The how, the what, and the where of it all looked daunting—practically impossible—but I would not let that stop me. Where I’d live and what I’d do to support myself was anyone’s guess, but it would work out somehow. For now, I would focus on my freedom.
Maybe I’d go back to Union, and maybe I wouldn’t. One thing was certain. I’d bring music back into my life. I’d sing and dance every chance I got. It would fill up the gorge inside my heart and make me whole.
Eyeing the Foster mansion in the distance, I jogged the rest of the way. By the time I reached the front door, I was out of breath. My suitcase felt like a safe after the long haul. With a steady finger, I pressed the bell.
Several minutes passed before Livy’s parents peeked through the sidelight and opened the door. I didn’t apologize for waking them. I was too numb for apologies. All I said was “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Foster.”
Livy’s mom wrapped an arm around me with an understanding smile, guiding me inside their home. The lingering scent of stale cigarettes filled the air. It had been three years since I’d been there, but it felt like three weeks. That warm-apple-pie sensation I used to have rushed back, and I knew I was safe. I knew I could trust them.
I caught them staring at my swollen eyes, but they didn’t ask why I’d been crying. Mr. Foster simply picked up my suitcase, and the three of us hiked up the grand center staircase. Mrs. Foster held a finger to her lips when we passed Kim’s room.
Not wanting to frighten his daughter, Mr. Foster tapped on Livy’s bedroom door. “Livy. Livy, honey,” he said softly. “Look who’s here.”
My best friend sat up in bed, squinting her eyes. The full moon shone brightly through the sheers on her bedroom window, illuminating my face. “Are you okay?” she asked in a groggy voice.
“I’m great.” My voice sounded clear and steady. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m going with you to Woodstock.”
Fifty Years Later
Woodstock 50th Anniversary Celebration
Bethel, New York
Sunday Afternoon, August 18, 2019
“I feel so bad for you, Grammy.” Adelaide turns over on her side, props up on her elbow.
“Thank you, lovey. I know you do.”
“At least you did something about it.”
“I stood up for myself. And for whatIbelieved. I had to discover my own truth.”
We are at the motel, resting on our beds after a big day at the festival site. Rain delayed our tour of the grounds the day we arrived—which would have made the tour more nostalgic, in my opinion—but we had fun today. Adelaide didn’t want to leave until she’d walked the Bindy Bazaar trails and turned circles in the butterfly meadow. Neither did I.
While we were at the museum, we’d met the Ercolines, the couple who’d been huddled together under a blanket on the Woodstock album cover and now serve as docents. They met a few weeks before the festival and married two years later. Woodstock must have sealed their love.
It made me think of Leon. And young love. And how much I thought I knew about it at the ripe old age of twenty.
Adelaide had peppered the Ercolines with questions and arranged for us all to pose for pictures. She couldn’t wait to post them on my social media accounts. And hers.
I’m exhausted. But John Fogerty’s playing tonight. Wild horses couldn’t keep me from his concert.
“Being here this weekend has been so cool,” she says, “but it seems like it’s dredging up hard feelings for you.”
“I suppose it is,” I say with a sigh. The quilt at the end of the bed is calling my name. I reach down, wrap it around me. “Life has a way of doing that. We have to take the good with the bad. Can’t let the trials define us.”
She pulls at the tail of her new Woodstock T-shirt, releases a heavy sigh. “Livy was right. Your dad was scary.”
