“Oh my God,” I laugh. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t help it.” I snort.
Candice sits up and flings a few pieces of clothing off of her. She blows her hair out of her face and frowns at me. I laugh again, at the sheer ridiculousness of it all—of my entire life. Here I am, on the run from my psychotic parents, and instead of leaving with a single suitcase and minimal items to make things easier, I decided to haul every piece of clothing I own to Montana. Where most of it will never get worn.
Candice starts to laugh too, and soon we’re both cracking up. Tears stream down my cheeks and I have to wipe at them with the back of my hands. Candice flings a scrap of silk at me, and this sends me into peals of laughter once more.
“Winnie, why do you even have this?” she asks through laughter. I look at what she’s holding up, and see that it’s a pink and white corset top that laces up the front, and has a pair of embroidered fairy wings protruding from the back. “Where were you planning on wearing this?”
“I found it online! I wasreallydepressedin Alabama, okay? Shopping was my only source of joy.” I snatch the top from her hands and give it a few pets. “And I would have worn it eventually. It would be really fun for a themed party, or Halloween…”
“Okay, we need to try some of this stuff on.” Candice holds up a black velvet top finished with a bow on the shoulder. “Fashion show. Now.”
“Yesssss,” I squeal.
Together, we dig through the heaps of clothes. I style the fairy top with a denim skirt and pink stilettos, and Candice pairs some thigh high boots with a blazer mini dress. We parade through the house, past a mystified Beau and Nathan in the living room and into the kitchen, where we stuff our faces with the cake Beau baked earlier.
By the time we’re done, my room is a disaster zone, my cheeks hurt from smiling, and I feel a tiny bit lighter.
When I getinto bed later, I’m an anxious wreck once more. I toss and turn, imagining what my parents are going to do now that they know I’m here. They could show up in person. They might continue to have a P.I. tail me.
When I finally do fall asleep, I’m hounded by nightmares that make me sweat.
I’m on stage at a pageant, about to start the talent section. This is always my favorite part, because I love singing so much and I usually do really well in it. I made my dress and I’m proud of it. My mom wanted me to wear a dress from some fancy designer, but I told her that I thought the judges would respect it more if I made my own dress.
I think I look really good. And when I warmed up earlier, I sounded good, too. But when I get up on stage and open my mouth to sing the first bars of “Over the Rainbow,” nothing comes out. I try again, and still nothing. My throat feels dry and scratchy all of a sudden, and I look around for water.
Nothing.
I look out to the audience to see their reaction, and the only person there is my mother. She has her legs crossed, her arms folded, and her lips are pursed. Her blonde hair is styled like it always is, in big waves with bangs, and she’s wearing an expensive shift dress and pearls.
“Try again, Winsome,” she says.
I dutifully open my mouth and try to push the notes out, but nothing.
“Again.”
And so it goes, around and around, again and again. My mother’s voice gets louder and higher until she’s screaming atme totry againand I’m frantically clawing at my throat, hoping that I’ll somehow be able to force the words to come out.
Thankfully, my brain must know that this is too much for me to handle, and I wake up, cold and clammy, on sheets that are soaked through with sweat.
I lay there in silence for a few moments, breathing in and out. And then, just because I need to try, to reassure myself that I still can, I hum a few notes. My heart catches, and I’m overwhelmed with the desire to keep going. To sing for real.
So I crawl out of bed, throw on a jacket over my flannel pjs and stick my feet into shearling boots. I creep down the hallway and out the front door, being careful not to wake Candice, Nathan, or Beau. It’s only about 5:00 a.m. and they have another hour to sleep, which I know they all need.
It’s dark out except for some light from the moon, and I’m completely alone save for a few horses in the paddocks. I make my way towards Rosie’s stall, and find that she’s laying down, but already awake and munching on some hay in her net. She pays me no mind, as usual, but that’s fine. I just want a quiet place to sing, not an audience.
I start singing the song I was humming in bed earlier. Not “Over the Rainbow,” but a Carole King song, “I Feel the Earth Move.” I don’t belt it out the way it really should be, but I add little runs of notes here and there and play around with the music in a way I haven’t in a while. When I finish, I turn to see Rosie poking her head over the stall door.
“You like singing, Rosie girl?” I reach up and give her a scratch in her favorite place, right on the chin. “What about this one?”
I start singing “Over the Rainbow” this time, and Rosie bobs her head a bit as if she’s giving me her approval. I sing it softly, and with care, trying to erase the memory of the nightmare I had. Still, my voice cracks when I get to the last two lines, andI trail off, unable to finish the song. It reminds me too much of myself back in Alabama: searching for another world where I might be free.
I stand up and pat Rosie on the neck. “I’m free now,” I murmur. “And so are you. But I’m still looking for that other world.”
BARN BULLETIN
Someone was singing this morning. I’m damn sure Candice can’t sing like that. Do we have a ghost? -Jenny
Hey! I’m a perfectly fine singer. -Candice
