“What was that for?” Mom asks, bewildered by my impromptu bear hug. She’s at her desk, a huge paper mess everywhere. Pen over her ear. Frazzled, working, solving Mom. Beautiful. Just beautiful.
“Nothing,” I say, but my heart feels full.
Everything. You’re the best.
Outside the office Faith is coming down the stairs, tight pants, platform shoes, hair carefully misplaced, makeup on, all but the big red nose. Behind her, some dude carrying her bags. Packed and out of here.
“Shut up, okay?” she says, slipping on her sunglasses.
How classy. “I wasn’t saying anything.”
“Right. Desert without any comments. Uh-huh.”
Whatever. I swear, the only thing missing from this picture is the little poodle on a gold leash. The baggage dude opens the front door with his pinky, Faith mumbles something that sounds like, “Good luck without me, geezers,” and the whole clown show exits.
Party!
With Faith gone now, Dad’s going to be even busier than before. He’ll start writing new songs soon, new lyrics. It’ll be sort of like starting all over again. J. C., Max, and Phil are coming over later tonight. That’s a good sign. I don’t know why, but I’m really excited about this. Excited to have them over, having the family around all over again, to work with Dad, keeping him busy, doing what they do. It’s like the old days, the pre-Faith days.
Sunday night. Sigh. I haven’t stopped thinking about my family, Liam, Becca, Adriana, everything. It’s been wild. Weird, wild, wacky stuff. I have to turn in a book report to Ms. Smigla by tomorrow, and I haven’t even finished half of it. It’s not like nobody knows how Romeo and Juliet ends or anything. How it ends, geez. That could’ve been Becca.
I open my notebook. All my work is in careful order, from the very first day. All my homework assignments graded and returned. A. A. A. A+. A++. A+++. Smig is so dramatic. Especially with the poems. I guess Dad has a point. I don’t really have any hobbies, and while I do appreciate music intensely, and can even play some, writing is my thing.
Writing is my thing. I just realized that right now. Who would’ve guessed?
I make fun of Dad, and don’t get me wrong, I’ll make fun of him till the day I die, because he’s my dad, and dads are perfect targets, even if they happen to be Flesh. But as much as I might make fun of him for the way he bares his soul to the world, I know a truth, and he knows it too. A truth we don’t talk about much. One that I’ve only started to realize, but don’t even want to admit sometimes.
That I’m him. I’m basically him, about twenty-three years younger. We may be very different in loads of ways, but writing connects us. These poems, this one about the water, and this one, the park, and this one. I leaf through my pages. Now I know how Dad felt. And to think I actually accused him once of being overly dramatic, writing all kinds of sappy stuff just for a reaction, just for the listener’s approval. But I know it wasn’t like that. I know it, now. He did it because he had to, because it was a need to get it out of his head, or else he’d lose it.
A need.
Water is pure, day is clear
Thoughts purge, release all fear
Fog lifts off a cluttered mind
Clouds break slow, I can see
Many roads ahead of me
Take this and use it as I wish
Fog has lifted, the cluttered mind
Rain is gone, storms unkind
Soon I will be gone again
Soon I will be gone
Dad’s alone. As usual. Working, thinking, aching. I know he’s aching because he’s writing. His pencil scurries across the page, scratching at the paper. I know he’s deep in thought because he doesn’t hear me when I walk into the studio. Writing is painful, and risky. And he does it, still he does it, for everyone to see and hear.
“Dad.” A whisper.
His face lifts from his pensive pose, turns to see me. He smiles. He always smiles when he sees me. I love that about him. “Girly.”
Girly. Such a silly little name can lift my heart. Especially now.
“What’re you doing?” I ask, because it’s what I always ask. Even though nothing changes. My dad is doing what he always does, what he does best.
He sighs. “What do you think?”
“It’s easier, though, right? Writing without Faith here?”
“Yeah.” He breathes. “Actually, it is. I really don’t care anymore, Des. I can’t use her stuff. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with it. I’m sure she does really well and I wish her luck, but it’s just not me.” He shakes his head, looking down at his work again.
“I know.” Dad could never be Faith. Thank God for that! He is so much more. Dimensions and light-years and all that more.
For a while we’re quiet. I love how I can interrupt my dad while he’s writing, and he’s okay with it. Anybody else interrupts him, and they’ll have hell to pay. But he’s fine with me there, and I never get the sense he wants me out. It’s like I’m another layer of him, standing there, watching over him. And he knows it.
“Dad?”
“Yeah, baby,” he answers, crossing out in a graphite cloud the words he can’t seem to make clear.
“I know the whole thing with Faith was so the twenty-five-and-unders could identify with the music.”
He doesn’t look up. Just keeps writing. “Something like that, Des. It doesn’t matter anymore. If they can’t connect with my lyrics, that’s nobody’s fault.” Then he eyes me in that way he does when he really wants me to understand something. “Either they enjoy them, or they don’t. I can’t ask for anything more. We have to get back to what counts, the music, clicking, enjoying it for what it is, while we’re still together. If nobody buys into it, that’s their problem. I’ll still be at peace.”
Yes. He’s right. I totally get it.
“Still,” I say, “it’d be good to have some songs that young people can relate to, even if it’s just to get them to buy the CD, so they can hear the better songs, right? Like getting a foot in the door?”
“Yeah, that’s true, girly. You got it.”
“So…” God, I am crazy for doing this. So freakin’ crazy. “I don’t know what good this does, or if you can even use any of this crap, but here’s some stuff I wrote.”
His expression changes, pauses. He looks at me, trying to see me differently. “What stuff, hon?”
If I hand him these sheets, it’s all over. My private thoughts will end up in CD racks, cars, players, people’s minds everywhere. But I don’t care anymore. I kind of need for it to be out there.
“Well, the bracket you’re targeting, the twenty-five-and-unders, I think maybe they can relate to this. I mean, it’s all teen angst anyway,” I say, handing him my poems. He reaches for them, fingertips closing over the sheets softly.
Let go, Des. Let go. You can do it, girly.
I release my grip, and he begins to scan over them. I watch his expression, changing from faint smile to recognition, to guilt maybe, to connection. I can tell he’s connected with something, some words I wrote. He’s nodding.
“Girly,” he says with a smile. “This is wonderful.”
He loves them. The Almighty Flesh loves my poems! I don’t know why that surprises me. I mean, I’ve always known that my dad likes my writing, but still, this confirms it right here. I always kind of thought that maybe he was just saying it to encourage me, you know, like any parent should encourage the twinkling of a talent, but no.
Then his smile dampens. “Wonderful. But personal. I can’t use them, hon. Believe me, it means everything to me that you’re offering them, and I know how hard it must be for you to be doing this…but I have to write my own. You know, it’s—”
“A need. I know, Dad.” Whew, this is kind of a relief!
He looks down at them again, rereading. “They are beautiful, though, Des. Absolutely beautiful. You are so gifted, you know that?” He shakes his head like he can’t believe I wrote them.
“Dad, come on, all parents think that.”
“No, really. Truly, Desert. This,” he says, shuffling the sheets one behind the other, taking another look at the lines, “this is talent, hon. This makes me look bad. I have no doubt whatsoever that these words’ll be seen by millions of people someday. Whether you write songs or not.” He reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Thanks, girly, but save ’em. You’ll use ’em one day.”
Something in my heart breaks just then. I can’t explain it. I can feel my father’s acceptance. Acceptance that the time’s coming when he’ll need to let someone else be heard, someone with his voice, but different. Female maybe, twenty-three years younger, a different perspective, and yet the same.
I have no doubt that someone will be me.
And that means…I am in such deep shit, now. The world is gonna see these. My inner thoughts. Maybe not right away, but…holy crappy poems, Batman!
“Hey Dad,” I say. “Write whatever it takes to keep you guys going, okay?”
And if I have to tour along for another seventeen years, so be it. I’m fine with that.
That’s been my life in a nutshell anyway.