Spence shakes her head like a dog with wet ears in the universal sign for,let’s change the subject. “And now look at us.Look at you, mega pop star.You could wipe your ass with our old rent money.”
“Yeah…look at me,” I mutter bitterly.
The humor wipes clean from her face. “What’s that tone?”
“Nothing,” I mumble, trying to busy myself with the papers again, but Spence, as usual, refuses to let it go.
“How’s the tour training going? You must be working hard.” She pats my thigh, feeling the firmness of my quadriceps that wasn’t there last year.
“I rehearse six hours a day, five days a week, and I still look like an ostrich on stilts when I dance.”
It doesn’t matter how much they dumb down the choreography, I can’t keep up. But in my defense when I started this whole thing seven years ago, I said I was a singer-songwriter. Not a dancer. Not a grand performer. Not some blonde, Barbie icon who would fool tens of millions of fans that she’s perfect…that she’s happy.
“A world arena tour of this size has been your dream since you signed with Domino Records, right?”
Wordlessly, I shrug.
“You’re allowed to change your mind.”
I scoff this time.
“As much as I’m enjoying your caveman responses, do you want to actually tell me what’s going on?”
“Claire’s pregnant.” I say it like a full sentence, as if Spencer is supposed to understand.
“I’m aware of that. She’s my daughter.”
I cackle. “Our family is so twisted. You’re my half sister. Your husband is my adoptive dad. My dad’s other adoptive daughter was my childhood best friend before she became my sister. Your sons are technically my nephews yet they call me ‘sissy’ and basically we’re eligible to be onMauryany day now.”
“Yeah, our family sounds like a complicated math problem, but that’s beside the point. What do you mean by ‘Claire’s pregnant’? Are you upset she’s on bed rest and can’t go on the tour with you?”
“No.” My eyes pop into wide circles. “I’m not that selfish. I’m happy for her, and I really want this baby to make it all the way. I’m just…lonely. Claire’s been with me on every tour. This will be the first one she sits out. She’s due when I’m scheduled to start the European leg.”
“Well, what about me? I can be your assistant this year.”
I sigh heavily, stretching out my legs. “You have Eli and Remy to care for.”
“They can come. Nate too,” she insists. “If you need your family, Charlie, we’re here.”
“A four-year-old and six-year-old have no business being stuck on a tour bus, or catching endless flights to the corners of the world. I just want what’s best for your kids.”
“What’s best for my kids?” Spencer asks in a tone as soft and sweet as a toasted marshmallow.
“Simplicity. That’s what I wish for the people I love most. Peace…and beautiful, simple things. Like home-cooked Sunday dinners and little babies that smell like graham crackers and lavender bubble bath.” I loved those precious moments with the boys when they were toddlers. It wasn’t that long ago but the memories have already begun to fade.
“I hate to break it to you but they smell less like lavender and more like feet and dirty laundry these days. They are going tolose their minds when they find out you’re here visiting. Uncle Dex took them to play laser tag but they’ll be back soon. How long can you stay?”
“Just tonight. I have to get back to rehearsals. The tour kicks off in less than three months.”
Spencer tucks a thick tendril of her curly hair behind one ear. “You came all this way from LA for one night for this?” She taps the side of the bin with her knuckle. “What are you looking for?”
“More paper hearts,” I admit.
They are little love notes from Mom. When she was diagnosed with cancer, she started documenting, afraid the clock was running out. Mom had always been a crafter, full of old-school creativity in the form of calligraphy and pressed flowers. She used photographs and letters to keep me company from beyond the grave. For years she tried to squeeze a lifetime of motherhood into a collection of scrapbooks. I love the pictures, the lines of lyrics from her favorite songs. But my favorite parts are the paper hearts—love notes of encouragement, or just sweet sentiments scribbled onto various kinds of paper cut into Cupid’s favorite shape. I plucked them from the scrapbooks and trapped them in a keepsake box like little fireflies I could keep alive forever. Precious specs of light to guide my path.
Eighteen years later, I've not only read them all, the messages are etched into my mind and heart. I could trace the curve of her handwriting in the air from memory. The paper is creased, worn, used far past its purpose. I’m desperate for fresh inspiration. I need more of her voice, breadcrumbs to follow through this forest of disappointment that has become my life. A life I desperately wish I had lived differently. But now it’s too late. I don’t belong to myself. I belong to the label, the machine, the money…the world. But those little paper phantoms stick tome. They remind me of a precious, simple time—when I used to belong to my mother.
“All right, I’ll dig through all of this with you, but we’re going to need coffee.”
