I lose myself in my mother's letters to me. Some are funny, some sad, one is hilarious—she went to a gig and was so sick, she ran off stage into the crowd, vomited in a trash can behind the bar, and then went on like nothing had happened.
After my drink has grown cold and my legs stiff, I get to the page that my father bookmarked for me.
Peanut,
It’s me, Mom. Even though I can feel you squirming around in there, this is still all a little surreal, but these letters are making it real. Normal even. I made a big decision today, and since we are a family, I thought we should discuss it. I’m hanging up my microphone. These past few months, and if I’m being honest, even before I found out I was pregnant, I haven’t felt the same about my music career as I used to. I still love to sing, but I don’t always love doing it for drunk assholes. Oof. Gotta work on the swearing. I love the music, hate the career part of it. On my last album, my two favorite songs were left off because the studio producing it didn’t feel they were the right tone. Now they’ll never see the light of day.
And the tour… Before I signed with anyone, I could sing places I knew, to people I loved. But a booked tour is totally different. The road is hard. And before I was pregnant, I drank too much to try to make it easier. To relax, or because I deserved it, or because I was bonding with the other musicians. I don’t want to go back to that. I didn’t always make the best decisions on those hazy nights.
And then there’s you—my not-so-little-anymore squirming bun in the oven. I don’t want to drag you along with me from town to town, bar to bar, and I don’t want to be away from you. I want to be there with you as you grow up. I want to show you the beach and teach you how to tend a garden. Your father has assured me that if this is what I really want to do, we can swing it financially.
I just hope you don’t think I’m a quitter. I’m not. But I’m not so proud to admit that I’ve changed, and the things I hold dear, my priorities, have changed too. There is nothing more beautiful than embracing the change in your heart. The trees can’t cling to their leaves as they turn from green to red.
So, my little peanut, we will sing lullabies together and both get to know this new version of me. And if I can teach you anything by my example, it is to always follow your heart—even when it seems like it’s leading you off of your carefully-mapped-out journey, even when it seems like it’s leading you off the road altogether into unknown waters. Listen and learn to swim.
Love,
Your adoring mother
I close the journal so my tears won’t smudge the precious writing. Mom was not a selkie longing to return to the ocean, to the wild adventure of being a professional diva. I was the adventure, I was her watery home, and leaving all of that behind to raise me was the bold, uncertain choice.
I keep reading until the fire is the only thing lighting the pages, the sun having dipped below the hills. The journal goes all the way up to my first birthday. Each sentence feels as warm as she was. I can almost smell her rose-scented perfume and feel the tickle of her hair on my face as I read. When I finish, I go back to the page my father has marked and read it again.
Have I been following my heart? Or have I buried my head in the sand, tucked myself away in this castle, terrified of more change since my mother passed? I know the answer. I know I have been living eachday just like the last, shuffling along. The only real bravery or reach for any kind of future was in the queries I sent out, and even then, one stiff rejection sent me hiding under my covers.
Until Miles showed up.
Everything changed: I felt lighter, more myself. Each day suddenly had a rosy glow of hope cast over it. Hope that I will see him, or kiss him, or make him laugh.
I get up, feeling my body adjust to not being curled on the couch, and look out the window. The night is clear, the moon a perfect sliver—a cheshire cat moon. A bloody banana moon. I wish Miles were here to see it. It hits me, and I feel like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, hitting the bottom with a massive thud. I have been lying to myself as much as Miles. This is not a fling.
I am in love with Miles Casey.
I try to sleep,but sleep won’t come. I’m in love with Miles. I am. But now what? Will he forgive me for being distant, for basically shutting him out?
I reach for my phone and see I have aYHFnews article alert. I click it and watch in horror as a very large man is about to punch Miles. Miles ends up flat on his back in the snow. I can’t tell if the guy actually punched him or if he slipped. Without thinking, I go over to my texts and type.
Me: Are you okay? I saw you got in a fight.
I send it and then instantly regret it. No hi, no how are you? JustI saw you got in a fight. What was I thinking?
I watch my phone for a few minutes, hoping for a reply from Miles, but nothing comes.
In the morning, I check my phone first thing, but still nothing. I sigh. It’s going to take more than a text to get through to Miles after all the things I said. But what?
I tinker with different ideas at my laptop. I need a grand gesture,both for my manuscript and with Miles. Something to show him how much I love him. Show him that I’m done living in fear—I’m ready to believe in love, in us. I could take him back to Somewhere Only We Know, but how? That’s not right anyway. I don’t want us to sneak around anymore.
Maybe I could sing to him, at the pub—serenade him with “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You”,like Heath Ledger in10 Things I Hate About You.No, that’s silly. I don’t even know if he likes that movie, although who doesn’t? It’s delightful.
What does he do at the end of his football movie,Undercover Quarterback? Oh, right. He has fans in the stands hold up signs saying “I love you.” That might work, except I don’t have a stadium or a crowd.
The ideas keep bouncing around in the back of my brain while I open a new document, a fresh story. This one is about a mother and daughter. One is a writer, the other a singer. It’s told in a dual timeline, both of them at age twenty-four. There is a love story in both as well, but it’s more about the two women finding themselves.
I write like my keys are on fire and my fingertips are the only thing that can smother the flame threatening to consume me. I think about it all day as I patch another hole in the hall ceiling, as I check on the cows, as Thora, my dad, and I put up the Christmas tree. Each ornament that reminds me of my mother sparks a new idea in my manuscript.
The next morning, I make myself some coffee, light my candle, and get back to work. This has a lot of me and my mother in it, but it is a departure. They are their own characters, and the story starts to become its own living, breathing beast as well.
I finish a full synopsis, the first chapter, and half of the second, and take a deep breath. A new story. It’s satisfying to know that I don’t need Miles to write. But I still want him. I shut my laptop once the light peeks over the hills, no closer to knowing how to finish my novel or tell Miles how I feel.
