Thank You For The Music

"That's so tacky!" 

“Hmm?” I was jolted from my daily trance.

“Your songs!” she mumbled, looking out the window. “They’re so tacky.”

“Oh,” I reached for the CD player while keeping my eyes on the road, “I’ll stop...”

“NO!” she interrupted sharply.

Startled, I pulled back my hand, “OK!”

“I mean... it’s fine!” she crossed her arms over her seatbelt.

“OK.”

That was the first conversation I’d ever had with Joy despite having driven her to and from school for the past ten days.

Seventeen years ago, when George had introduced me to her, she nodded and went upstairs.

It was very awkward and I wanted so badly to back out of my promise to look after her while he was in China. What was I even thinking, promising to take care of a teenager when I had had zero experience? Making rash decisions has always been my thing. But I’d felt so bad for George because his promotion hung on this trip to China. Having moved to Chicago only a year prior, he had no one to look after his daughter. So who came to the rescue? This girl he’d been dating for four months!

“Don’t worry,” he caressed my cheek, “her bark is worse than her bite.”

I guess he thought that was supposed to reassure me.

When we got to the McDonald’s by her school, Joy got out of the car and slammed the door. Did she think I didn’t know that she wasn’t really getting a McFlurry every single day, but rather avoiding being seen with a woman with a flaming red shock of hair and crazy jewellery?

When I picked her up, at Starbucks, she slid into the passenger seat. No need to say hi of course. I had already made up my mind: I would break up with George when he came back. He had been nothing but wonderful to me. He took me to new restaurants, read me poetry, cleaned my fridge, and, most importantly, cleaned the cobwebs which had overtaken my heart. With each passing day with Joy, however, I was sure that this was not going to happen. It was like swallowing a small dose of poison two times a day. She wasn’t exactly rude, but she made it very clear that she resented this conniving woman who was going to steal her daddy. 

My mom had warned me. Why would a single woman, successful in her practice, sought after by many men (she already had three men in mind) want to be with a “used” man? 

I didn’t really know the answer. Was it because said man was kind and gentle? Was it the way he played with my hair until I fell asleep? Or was it the fact that he built his whole life around his daughter? My father didn’t! 

Still, it quickly became abundantly clear that I was no teen-whisperer. George would easily find a better-suited woman for Joy. But what about him? If it was true what he had said about having never been so sure about anyone he'd met, would he be very sad if I gave him the key to his house back when he returned? What an unjust world this was.

I couldn't think about anything other than breakup scenarios all day. I didn’t bring it up on the phone of course. Long-distance calls were brief and practical back then.

But then something crazy happened. ABBA was playing, as usual, and from the corner of my eye, I detected a very subtle, probably involuntary, tapping of Joy's fingers on the side of her thigh. 

“If you change your mind

I’m the first in line.

Honey, I’m still free

Take a chance on me!”

Still, I had resigned myself to the fate of being the hated woman who looked after her until her father came back. Only nineteen more days to go, I told myself.

When we got "home", I put the keys in the blue bowl in the hallway, kicked off my heels and repeated my daily, though less and less enthusiastic, question: “What would you like to eat?”

“I’m not hungry!” had been the usual response shouted from the stairs before the door slammed.

Not this time. This time she wanted “whatever”.

I caught myself squealing with excitement.

The next morning, another ABBA song was playing: "Does your mother know?"

I turned the music down and told her that I had my first kiss while this song was playing. The boy, Jim was his name, jokingly asked me, "Does your mother know?"

"She would kill me," I'd answered, and he laughed so hard.

Joy didn't look at me while I told her the story. But her arms weren't crossed, and she didn't look out the window. Instead, she was looking at my hands on the steering wheel. 

"Is that how you got this scar on your hand?" she whispered almost inaudibly over the loud refrain. 

"What?" 

"Nothing."

When we approached McDonald's, I pulled over and watched her leave the car and slam the door.

What did she mean? The scar on my hand had been from falling off the swing when I was seven, but what did she think?

When I picked her up at Starbucks that afternoon, she got in with a grunt, which I welcomed as progress. I suggested going to 360 Chicago, hoping the window of connection we'd had would open just a bit more. She nodded.

We didn't say much in the elevator or on the rooftop. She squinted against the glorious evening sun as she slowly moved around, taking in the spectacular views. I was more interested in watching her than anything else. She wore her backpack, which she'd insisted on not leaving in the car, on her front rather than on her back. Her fine hair flapped in the wind while she kept trying to tuck it behind her ears. She never looked people in the eye. A man who was moving backwards to take a better picture of the skyscrapers, almost knocked her over. He apologised profusely, but she looked at the floor and mumbled that she was fine. 

On the way back, "Money, money, money" was playing. I sang along dramatically in the hope of getting a smile out of her. What I got was not exactly a smile, but more like an attempt to keep her lips pursed. Success!

Over the next four days, we were back to the way it had been. Quiet. Distant. The space that separated us in that green Beetle seemed to grow like a chasm swallowing every drop of familiarity. I imagined that if I tried reaching my arm to touch her shoulder, my fingertips would never reach her. She was so far away. Listening to "Knowing me, knowing you, it's the best I can do..." didn't really help. I resigned to my fate again. George and I would never work.

That night on the phone, George suggested watching a movie together. There were many DVDs in the bookcase, he said, and Joy's favourite movie was The Wizard of Oz. 

I found some popcorn in the cupboard, so I made that, put the movie on and called her downstairs. Surprisingly, she put the gigantic bowl of popcorn between us and sat on the couch. Her eyes lit up as she watched the movie. She even allowed a smile to form sometimes. When the movie was over, she whispered good night and went upstairs. No door slamming this time.

The next day was a bright, beautiful Saturday. I knocked on her door and asked if she wanted to come to North Point Marina with me. I packed a picnic, a blanket and badminton rackets into the car. 

She had an expression that resembled excitement. I was never sure with her if it was excitement or anxiety that was manifesting on her face, but she had tucked her hands under her thighs and her eyes weren't straining to look up when I asked her a question. This looked promising.

As we pulled into the parking area, the song "S.O.S." was playing. Joy seemed to be listening intently to this one. She turned her face from the window to the CD player, as if awaiting some life-changing news.

I slowed down the search for a spot, allowing her to listen to the full song. 

"You seemed so far away

Though you were standing near

You made me feel alive

But something died I fear"

When I killed the engine and the song stopped, she closed her eyes for a few moments and lowered her head. A battle was going on in my head between an invitation to ask her if she was OK and leaving her alone in her thoughts. The last thing I wanted was to scare her away. She was like a jumpy squirrel slowly inching forward to snatch nuts from my hand. The trick, my mum used to say, was to be completely still and feign disinterest until the squirrel came and accepted your offering. "Patience, child".

We walked silently, our steps slowly syncing until we found ourselves a quiet, shady patch of grass not too far away from the water. We ate quietly, save for a few remarks, by me of course, about the balmy breeze and the cute kids running around. For the first time, I genuinely enjoyed Joy's company. Her silence was no longer a micro portion of poison but rather a hint of acceptance. She turned out to be a better badminton partner than her father. Her face seemed to open up like a book eager to be read with every point she scored and every scream of amazement I hurled her way.

On the way back, the next song on the Abba CD was "Chiquitita". It opened:

“Chiquitita, tell me what's wrong

You're enchained by your own sorrow

In your eyes, there is no hope for tomorrow

How I hate to see you like this

There is no way you can deny it

I can see that you're oh, so sad, so quiet”

I sang along enunciating every word and making a point of looking at her. 

“You can’t tell Dad!” she whispered, gazing at her fingernails.

I turned down the music and pulled over at the side of the road. The sun was now a candy apple in a sea of purple and orange hues. It cast a golden glow onto her hazel eyes turning them into two deep wells of honey. Her trembling lower lip forewarned of a tornado I wasn’t sure I was prepared for. But I couldn’t back out now.

“Before Dad and I moved out here,” she whispered, “I lived with my mom.”

I knew that. George’s ex-wife had called him in the middle of the night telling him to go pick up Joy. Right now. He drove six hours from Boston to Syracuse, picked his daughter up and drove back again. A week later, they moved to Chicago for his new job. Joy had lived with her mother for the past two years. 

“She would leave me alone all night and go out drinking. In the morning, I had to clean up her vomit and wash her hair. She would be completely out of it.”

“Oh, child!” I stroked her hair.

She flinched. I quickly withdrew my hand, praying that the jumpy squirrel wouldn’t withdraw.

She lifted her shoulder and rubbed it to her ear as if to wipe me away.

“But that was OK. I loved her so much, I loved helping her,” she continued. “But she hated it. One time, she threw her keys at me when I told her that she should not go out one night. The next day I had to lie to my teacher and tell her I had fallen on to the icy snow and scratched my cheek.”

It’s a good thing I was sitting down because my knees felt weak with pain.

“Oh, Joy!” was all I could mutter.

“But one day she asked me why my hand was wrapped in gauze,” she struggled to get her words out while she choked on her tears.

I put my hand to my mouth.

“I didn’t want to tell her! She hadn’t done it on purpose!” she sobbed, searching my eyes for confirmation that her mother didn’t mean to hurt her. “You know?”

No, I didn’t know. My mother was different. 

“That’s why I asked you about your scar,” she put up her left hand to show me a jagged line that ran from her wrist to the tip of her thumb.

I put my hand next to hers, feigning a small smile. Our scars were identical yet very, very different.

“So you asked her to call your dad?”

“No!” she said almost defensively. “My mother needed my help, and I never even thought about abandoning her. She was so shocked by what she’d done, remembering none of it. She… she thought she was a bad mother, so she called my dad. I haven’t seen her since!” 

The tears were streaming down her face by then. My heart ached for her, but I knew better than to touch her.

The rest of that month, the distance between the driver’s seat and the passenger seat kept getting shorter and shorter and the conversations got longer and longer.

I never told George what I knew. A promise is a promise.

We were together for three years before we both agreed that we weren’t meant for each other. I like to believe that I was put in George’s path so Joy could find me. We were all born to serve a few purposes. One of mine was to bring the joy back to Joy.

When I got married to my now husband, Joy was a beautiful young woman of seventeen in a stunning purple gown. She was my maid of honor. Towards the end of the night, when most of the guests had left and most of the heels were kicked off, she asked the DJ for “Dancing Queen” and led me to the dance floor.

Having only had three boys, Joy will forever be my Dancing Queen.