Dream On, Suzanne

I’ve always wanted to be a star. Always. That’s what I’ve wanted since I was a child.

Why? Well… I suppose it would solve all my problems, wouldn’t it? I can sing well enough – people tell me that often – and when I was small my teachers always said I had a lovely, sweet voice that was better than all the others.

Just imagine it. Up there with the true stars, like Doris Day or Vera Lynn. That’s who I want to be like.

My mother says it’s a fantastical dream, while my father just smiles to himself, whistling away as I sit with my head in my hands, bopping to the latest tune on the record player. Oh, how I love to lose myself! I wish that were me. One day, it will be me.

But the real reason I want to go all the way – to have my name in lights so blindingly bright – isn’t really about recognition or stardom at all. It’s for security, I suppose. Just think of all that money.

And I’m not being greedy. I wouldn’t keep it all for myself. It would be for my parents, mainly. To get us out of this little hovel – yes, it’s our home, but I can tell they aren’t happy. I can see it in the way my mother stares wistfully when a gaggle of fine ladies walk past in their lovely hats and jackets, buttons shining in the sun. I know she dreams, secretly, of being able to walk into any shop and be treated like one of them.

How I’d love to see her face if we walked into a shop like that, and I was famous. People would recognise me, begging for Mother and me to be seen in their new line.

And calm and collected as my father may seem, I notice the wrinkles by his eyes, the tired hue of them. I may not know much, but I know when a man’s at the end of his rope. I just wish I could ease the burden on them. Help them thrive. Step up.

And I know – before you say anything – that most women just dream of marrying a good, wealthy man and raising a family. I may one day do that, too. But not just that. Not that there’s anything wrong with it – it’s the way of things, and for some women it’s fine. But not for me.

I can’t explain it, but I feel this peculiar sense of responsibility. Not just to provide for my family – whether that’s my parents or my future children – but a responsibility to shine. To be a role model. To show the world how to do life “right.”

And if women like Doris and Vera can do it – why can’t I?

But that’s the thing, I suppose. The reason I’ll never get to Hollywood, or anywhere like that. This town? No one ever comes here. I don’t even have the money for a train ticket, let alone a plane. And who’s going to come here and discover me? Discover me how, and when? I don’t even perform anywhere.

Maybe my dreams are too big. Too unreasonable. If I ever share them as boldly as I did when I was a child, people just laugh. “You? A singer?” they say. “Dream on, Suzanne. You’re deluded. Who’d want to listen to you?” Or worse: “Don’t you have to be pretty to be famous?” That one stings.

So I stick to singing with my records, or the occasional duet with my dad. Dreaming I’m on a big stage, or in a fancy recording studio, knowing I’m making gold that people will lap up.

But even though they knock me down, tell me I’m crazy, say, “Girls like you don’t do things like that,” there’s this light inside me. This buzz. This knowing. They’re wrong. I can feel it like a burn, an itch. But how? When? Am I delusional? Was it some fever dream I’m clinging to, living in an alternate universe?

“No, Mum,” comes a voice, as I sit in my chair, blanket over my knees and a spotlight blazing onto my forehead like a laser beam.

“No, what?” I ask, blinking hard, looking around at the blackness. Nothing but blackness.

“No, you’re not delusional. In fact, that’s the most you-like thing you’ve said in a long time,” the voice says again.

“Is it? What – what did I say?”

The man sitting before me comes into focus. He smiles, sorrowful, before closing a book and standing up.

“Who are you? What are you doing?” I ask. He seems kind, but indignant. Inches from me, though I don’t know him.

“Where am I? Who are you again?”

Moments later I find myself in a room with a bed, its walls covered – strewn, in fact – with pictures, art, a record player. Oh, I used to have one just like that when I was younger. How sweetly I used to sing, learning the occasional duet with my father.

He was a kind, calm man, my father. But I could tell he was stressed. Something was amiss. That’s why I always wanted to become a singer – so famous and rich that he’d never have to worry again.

“See?” a man says, pointing at the pictures on the wall. I don’t recognise him.

“Mum,” he says. “That’s you.”

“Who?” I ask, staring at the photos. They show a young woman, then middle-aged, then older. All beautiful. All the same woman.

“Mum, that’s you,” he repeats.

“How can it be me? I’m only sixteen,” I say.

There’s a silence.

“Mum, that’s you. You were famous. You are famous. Revered. Talented. Loved. You made records, won a Grammy. You made it, Mum. That’s you. That itch you feel? That knowing? You proved them all wrong. A hundred times over. And Grandma and Grandpa moved to Spain, lived their dream – in a house you bought them. Remember?”

“Remember?” I say. “How could I forget?”

Lional is standing next to me. My son. Oh, what a lovely boy he always was.

“Oh, look there,” I say, giggling. “I remember I’d just told Dionne Warwick a joke and she couldn’t stop laughing.”

Lional looks at me, amazed. “Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask. “It really happened.”

“I… know it did, Mum. Trust me, I do. But how–?”

“Who are you?” I ask, staring at a man I don’t recognise. “Where am I? Help!”

“Mum, it’s me – your son,” he says.

“Son? I’m only sixteen! How dare you assume such a thing – I’ve never even been with a man!”

Then some ladies in nurses’ uniforms come in. “I think it’s time she got some rest,” they tell him.

“Good,” I say. “Get him away. Rude bastard.”

The man looks dejected, and for a moment I feel sorry for him. But it fades.

The kindly nurse with blonde curls kneels beside me and looks deep into my eyes.

“You alright, Suzanne?” she says warmly.

“Oh yes, dear, thank you. I’ll be alright. Where’s my mum? She out shopping? I know she had her eye on that jacket with the golden buttons in the window. I’ll give her the money for it. Whatever she wants.”

The nurse’s eyes crease into a smile and I instantly warm to her.

“Yes, exactly. She’s out shopping,” she says.

“You know,” I begin as my mum guides me to bed, my eyes growing heavy. I yawn. “One day, I’m going to be a famous singer. A star. You’ll see. Then you can buy all the hats and coats you like.”

I lay in bed, staring at her beautiful blonde curls and smile.

“That’s just a silly dream, Suzanne. You don’t really want that. Everyone recognising you and being in the news.”

“No, I do! I want it more than anything. And I’d be really good at it.”

“Go to sleep now, Suzanne,” Mum says.

“But I read somewhere—” I force my eyes to stay open.

“What did you read, Suzanne?” Mum sighs, patience thinning.

“I read somewhere that someone once said, a man’s worth is no greater than his ambition. So why does everyone make out it's so very wrong of me to dream?”

“But you’re not a man, Suzanne.” Mum's shoes click on the floor as she walks away.

“No, well… I want to be worth more than any silly man,” I whisper, before my eyes close.

And I dream of being a star.