THE SIGN ON the door reads Closed for a private party.
A huge crowd is gathered inside.
“You ready?” Mama asks as we stare into the plate glass windows of the Crow.
I nod, even though I can’t stop trembling. This is what I wanted all along, but now that it’s right in front of me, I’m petrified.
Nigel opens the door for us with a toothy smile. Laughter and conversation roar as we step inside. Nearly every table and booth is filled.
I spot Patrick in a big round corner booth next to George. They both wave to us. I scan the crowd. No Henry. Mama hooks her arm into mine and leads me over to join them. A waitress brings us a pitcher of water and glasses. Patrick studies me as I scoot in next to him.
“You good?” he asks me with a nudge.
I nod and take inventory of the room. “I can’t believe how many people are here.”
Patrick says, “Here comes another.”
I meet Henry’s eyes as he approaches our table, carrying Patrick’s guitar.
“Room for one more?” He looks directly at me. I nod. I barely slept the other night after our conversation in the lobby. Beating myself up for all the things I didn’t say. He pulls up a chair at the end of the table and passes the guitar to his brother.
I glance over at Patrick as he props it on the floor between him and George. “Are you planning to play?”
He shrugs, impish grin spreading over his face. “Never know. I’m full of surprises.”
We all turn to the stage as Nigel does a mic check.
“Thank you all for being here tonight on such short notice,” he says. “Nate meant a lot to all of us, and of course it only made sense to have a bit of an informal memorial for him while his family is in town.” He motions toward where Mama and I sit.
“I know some of you have prepared some words about Nate, but you don’t have to have a perfect speech planned. If you’d like to say a few words—”
Several hands go up at once.
And that’s how it starts.
They line up to share memories. The first is Walter Kingsley. He was the former drummer of Walrus Gumboot, who quit—long before I was born—to start a family. He talks about the camaraderie of the guys in the band, the way Pop was the leader and the glue that kept them all together.
It doesn’t go unnoticed that none of those other members are here, which kind of reinforces his point. Without him, they all drifted away.
Friends of Julia’s from university get up then, one by one. The last of them tells the story about how the resident advisor found Pop in the girl’s dorm. As it turns out, he was naked and playing his guitar in the showers on their floor. The story draws hearty laughs from the crowd.
Then there’s the man who grew up in the boys’ home with Pop at Strawberry Field. Then a bar owner who took him to rehab. Friends who let him sleep on their couches when he was homeless. A former manager for the band, who quit to chase his own sobriety—at Pop’s suggestion.
One after the next they go to the microphone to talk about what Pop meant to them. With each story it becomes clearer. Pop brought joy to these people’s lives.
I glance over at Mama through my tears. I could pick her apart. I could stay mad at her. But I think about how she forgave Pop, forgave him before she even knew all the details. How she’s forgiven a dead woman, enough to welcome her son—the very proof of a heartbreaking betrayal—into our home with open arms and treat him like family.
She lost more than I did. She lost her husband, her partner in parenting. But she forgave everyone who played a part in her loss. No questions asked.
Mama and I are different in a lot of ways, but this is one way I could stand to be more like her. More forgiving.
When everyone has shared, Nigel takes the microphone again.
“Anyone else?”
The room goes quiet. I only have to think about it for a second, before an invisible nudge makes me raise my hand.
Mama’s eyes widen.
“Are you sure?” she mouths. Everyone at the table stares at me. Even Nigel’s eyebrows rise as he calls on me. As I approach the stage this time, it isn’t like the night I got up to sing. It’s better and worse. Better because it doesn’t matter now if my delivery is imperfect or choked with tears; people will expect that. It’s worse, though, because the hope of him magically appearing is gone now.
I step up to the microphone and face the crowd. Every face is a blur, but it doesn’t matter. There’s a kaleidoscope of auras and I feel the warmth emanating from each of them.
“Thank you all for being here,” I tell them. “It means a lot to my family and me.” I glance up at Patrick when I say it. He smiles. “Though I’ve learned a lot about my father’s life during the time I’ve been in London, I’m still filling in a lot of blanks from the years he spent here before I was born. And maybe even after I was born. Hearing you all share your stories about him tonight is the most comforted I’ve felt since we lost him.”
They all clap. Tears burn my eyes and I ask Pop for one last favor. Please, help me keep it together for this. I reach into my back pocket.
“I’m going to read you a letter he sent me just before he died. Until this moment, only one other person knew about it. I kept it to myself for a long time because I didn’t want to share. I wanted it to be all mine. I realize now how selfish that was. So I want to share it all with you.”
I read the letter. The room is dead silent, save for a few sniffles.
When I glance up, I catch Mama’s expression. She’s crying.
“Just so you all know, I’ve done everything he suggested we’d do here, except dance on the glass floor at the bridge.” Everyone laughs. “Heights kind of terrify me.”
Henry’s eyes meet mine through the crowd. He’s smiling that smile.
I tried for a long time to handle my grief on my own. That’s my biggest regret.
Everyone here lost him, just like I did.
“We all loved him,” I say. “Thank you for being here.”
The room becomes a hug fest when I leave the microphone. As I descend the steps and return to my table, I’m stopped over and over by people who want to tell me something about Pop. How he helped them in some way, how he gave them his last dollar for cigarettes or pushed their car out of a ditch. He was a flawed man, but he left a mark on every life he touched.
When I make it back to our corner booth, everyone is standing. Mama grabs me and hugs me for the longest time. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispers.
“I need to give you something,” Patrick says. He reaches into the booth and picks up the guitar by the neck and outstretches it toward me.
“Wait, what?” I take it, confused.
“It’s yours,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“I don’t understand.” I glance at each face staring back at me, then to Patrick again. “That’s your guitar.”
He shakes his head. “It’s yours.”
Mama looks at me like she was expecting this. Like it was previously discussed.
“He bought it the day he died,” George says. “And we are certain now that it was for you. It was in his hotel. Tags still on it.”
“But…” I glance down and feel the warmth in the wood as I turn it over in my hands.
Then I remember. PS - I picked up a little something for you today.
“He told us for years that he wanted to buy you a Lennon replica.” George smiles.
I blink away tears and glance at Henry, remembering the night he refused to let me ruin it in the rain. “You knew?”
He nods.
My hands trace the pickups. I stare at my reflection in the shiny finish. A tear splashes beside it and I wipe it away.
I look up at them. “Thank you.”
Patrick steps toward me and wraps me up in a hug. Mama drapes her arms around us both. Then George does the same. Henry places a hand on my back. He squeezes us into the most epic group hug I’ve ever felt.
As we stand there, one big dysfunctional family, a warm sensation shivers over me and a familiar voice whispers in my ear.
We’re finally together.