But I didn’t want to just go. I wanted to be part of it, to somehow mark what it meant to me. And though I’ve been lucky to make a living as an artist through commercialwork, I’ve always harbored a soft spot for concert photography, though the format rarely suits my schedule or income needs as a single parent. So few public experiences are as transcendent as live music. No matter how intimate I am with a portrait subject, I can never get them to release themselves as fully as their favorite musician can.
So I reached out to one of the co-organizers and offered my services for free. I only told my agent, Hayes, when the gig was confirmed so I didn’t have to hear about his moral allergy to pro bono work. Now I snap a quick succession of shots of the band—the frontwoman knows exactly how to present for maximum visual impact in her billowing white dress—then swing my camera around to the crowd. It’s generationally diverse, a testament to the enduring power of Jeff Buckley’s music. My lens finds more scenes than it can capture, and I wonder if there isn’t something more to this show than a remembrance. If maybe this night could shake me out of my artistic stasis. Inspire my next long-term project. Keep me from feeling perpetually unmoored.
When the set ends, I make my way to Emme, who dutifully returned to our original spot after she came back from the bathroom.
Something is wrong. I can see it in her rigid posture, her crossed arms, the defiant set of her mouth. In a matter of milliseconds, using the part of my brain that defies language or logic, I calculate that she isn’t physically harmed, and she’s not particularlysad. She’s angry.
“OK.” I finally reach Emme through the thick crowd. “Tell me what happened.”
She shrugs, dropping her arms to her sides with a dramatic huff. “It’s nothing. Just a girl while I was in line for the bathroom.”
I feel every fight-or-flight muscle in my body tense, ready to tear apart whoever upset her like this. I flash back to the bout of bullying she faced in middle school before her eclectic interests—manga! calligraphy! collecting vintage subway tokens!—made her categorically cool at her artsy high school.
I take a breath. “What happened?”
With the side of her hand, Emme brushes nonexistent hair from her forehead—her signature pissed-off move. “So I was waiting in line for the bathroom for, like, five million years, and I have never needed to pee so badly in my life—like, the pee was practically leaking out of me—and when I was finally next in line, this girl on a FaceTime call—on speaker, by the way!—brushes right past me and gets into the next open stall before I can. And then she, like, hogs the sink forever, just yapping on her phone. I just getso madwhen people are so presumptuous. I mean, who does she think she is? Just because she was fucking—sorry—insanely gorgeous with, like, the shiniest hair I have ever seen,andshe was wearing that miniskirt I’ve been trying to find, you know the micro one with all the buckles on it? And she also smelled amazing, so I guess she thinks she deserves to pee before the rest of us? I can’t stand it.” Then, “I don’t even think she’s from here.” The hardest-hitting diss in Emme’s arsenal.
“Did you say anything to her?”
“No. And I’m mad about that too. I wish I’d stood up for myself. I just felt really shy all of a sudden.”
Empathy spears through me. I know exactly how she feels.
“Try not to be so hard on yourself,” I say. “We all have moments when we wish we’d handled things differently.”
A little smirk breaks across Emme’s face that reminds me of the purple devil emoji. Emme wears it when she’s about to say something she knows I won’t like.
“You’re referring to Dad stuff, aren’t you?”
“No, Emme Jade. I’m not referring to Dad stuff.”
I’m notonlyreferring to Dad stuff.
Since my split with James, I’ve tried to protect Emme from the extent to which he neglected me, tossed my feelings aside. Didn’t consider what I did, said, or thought, let alone care about those things. Or just how long I let his behavior slide, until I became hardened to his hardness, indifferent to his indifference. Until I lost myself so completely that I reached a breaking point.
James loves Emme, but as Emme gets older, his perpetual absence speaks for itself. She doesn’t need me to be her translator.
Now I loop my arm through hers, grateful that she’s not the kind of teen who’s mortified by public shows of affection from her mother, and direct our attention back to the show. The musical acts are now over, and a former waiter at Sin-é, who was also a close friend of Jeff Buckley’s,has taken to the stage to reflect on the musician’s legacy and his outsized influence. And to remind the crowd to tip their bartenders generously.
Afterward, we slowly filter out to the street. All I want to do right now is get a big bowl of ramen, pop a melatonin, and crawl into bed. My soul may still feel like it’s twenty-two, but my back does not.
The June air is balmy and supple. I’ve lived my entire life in New York City, but I’ll never get over the miracle of stepping outside and being met with warm air. Summer is when the city shows its soft center.
We turn toward home, but Emme suddenly grabs my arm.
She freezes in place, her eyes baby-doll-wide, like she’s seen a ghost.
“That’s her,” she says. “That’s the bitch—sorry—theshockingly entitled young womanwho cut me in line for the bathroom.”
I follow where she points down the block, toward the fluorescent lights of the movie theater on Third Avenue. There, I see a girl with, indeed, remarkably long, shiny chestnut hair, wearing one of the shortest skirts I’ve seen in my life. Yes, I recognize this miniskirt Emme has attempted to hunt down. The girl is scrolling through her phone, pinching and pulling her fingers apart on the screen.
I’m about to tell Emme to shake it off, that we can talk more about it over dinner, when I notice something else.
Standing next to the girl is a tall dark-haired man.
The girl leans in to show him something on her phone. When the man tugs a pair of reading glasses out of his shirt pocket, I can’t stop looking at the way his shoulders shift beneath his khaki-green chore coat.
Recognition lances through me.
