To Be Over

I may not be vomiting any spaghetti, but Eminem wasn’t far off. Sweat’s running through both palms and my armpits. Cold and clammy, I button up the last on my shirt and tighten my belt buckle. There’s no way I would stand straight if there wasn’t a prop, these knees will chicken out halfway through, leaving me a blubbering mess.

My words are as good as the tone out of my mouth. I can’t really screw this up as it’s strictly a one-night only. Well, matinée. There’s an hour left and I already heard the car over the gravel. My sister picked me up and set us on our way.

“Mindy’s there.”

“Already?”

She nodded. I ask myself why was I given the part and say it to a close group of family and friends, along with any other who’s who in our town. Just remember the lines, remember what’s on the page, is my mantra. I glance at my annotations. They look less legible every time I see them. I fold the sheet firm and put it in my coat pocket. Then I close my eyes and picture the whole thing. The stage is set, great echo in that venue, and a small live orchestra will be accompanying after my part, which is conveniently placed at the end. Part of me wishes it was at the start. I go through the lines, read them out, then get off the stage and leave through the exit. But another side of me is happy where I am. At the end. The final blow. Where people, those who’ll share the stage with me and those watchful eyes in attendance, will hang onto my every word as I relish the impact I leave once I’m done.

The view of the fields with the grazing sheep distracted me for a moment until my sister put her hand on my knee.

“It’s going to be alright.”

I didn’t notice, but I was shaking my leg, which I only do when I’m super nervous, or frustrated. Definitely the former right now.

“Thanks.” I whisper, and let out a sigh. Now she stopped me, I’m thinking about it even more. If I flub, if I have to repeat something, I lose all momentum of what I have to say. Especially when it isn’t really off-the-cuff. This isn’t a friendly gathering, or a group huddled around. It’s a professional environment, and the right words on the page must be said.

I could go on in circles about this, but until you’ve been faced with less than hours, mere minutes to go, you really have no idea. I’m sorry but it’s true. They say that some people consider public speaking worse than dying. Oh, the irony. But they never care to mention the type of death. I for myself put it above a gunshot but way below drowning. That is just terrifying. I look out front and start seeing the familiar buildings. The outskirts of the village, the entire area consists of villages surrounding an impressive town, had those old houses that has leaned to one side with space so cramped your furniture has no other job than to remind you of your toe. Yet some young family would still shell out everything they have to own a piece of that. A piece of architectural history, a piece of living art, as my sister likes to say. She’s one of those young couples.

We arrive at the entrance and I make my way into the back of the building. I didn’t want to see the faces out there and asked to go through the backstage. Tired, both from the stress and what I was about to do, I rested my feet up a little and shut my eyes to gather my thoughts, organising the words and what I’m about to say, when I heard a loud pair of stilettos charging in.

“Where is she?” came the shrill voice.

Mindy.

“I thought she was off. You’ve seen what she is like.”

“No, I vouched for her, you don’t like it, tough shit.” My older sister has a way with words. And getting her way, thankfully in my benefit this time.

“I don’t care. You can’t get up there.” My eyes remained shut. “Hey! I’m talking to you.”

I opened the eye closest to the foghorn, raised a brow, and dismissed her by closing them again.

“I don’t care what you’ve had in the past, you cannot do this to him!”

I got up off my seat so hard both of them jumped back.

“No I will do this to him, and to you too. You suffer like I suffer and then we can talk. I pray that never, ever happens to you.”

She blew a huff and walked out, I heard the first few sniffles starting. I knew whenever Mindy turned on the waterworks but this was legitimate cries. I understood, but I had to read what I had written and go up there to say what I have to say. Everybody that meant anybody to our family, to me, would be watching.

“Five minutes.” came the assistant.

“Oh, God, oh, God, oh God,” I whispered, but Catherine, my older, heard me loud and clear.

“Stop it, you got this. Let it run right through you, and breathe with me,” she held out her arms and snorted a lungful in before breathing out, signalling with her eyes for me to follow suit. And she’s right. I got this. Who else knows my dad better than me. Perhaps with the exception of my older sister, everyone else who came to see him today has either worked with him, or a long-lost family member looking for a hand out now after the will readings. That will though. You’d think a world-famous violinist would have a few assets, but dad’s life was truly on the road. Still, the music hall was a fitting touch to his passion. And dad didn’t work no normal nine-to-five, there was no secretary who knew him eight hours a day for twenty years or anything like that. He toured frequently with different groups, performed at different venues, it’s impossible to truly know a person like that. At least that’s what I think. And it’s impossible to know, through his calm and caring demeanour, that he was the type to do what he did.

I took one long, drawn-out breath, a huge load just rolled onto me, and I felt pressed from every angle. I looked at the door and envisioned running out there, into the fields, tearing all my clothes off, slip into something comfortable and walk as far away from this whole mess with nobody to contact me again. The palpitations are getting stronger, the beats becoming thumps that want to break through my ribs.

I could go on.

I felt my feet moving, but my eyes were staring into space. The door is close, I saw it. I felt it before my eyes blur. I waited it out until they cleared up again and somehow moved further from the door. The legs still moved but the arms weighed me down and I headed on up the steps when I heard the announcer.

“-a few words from his daughter, Rochelle Givens.”

Cue the applause. The stage felt smaller than it is but the podium was a stadium on stilts. I held the sides on my hand and rubbed the wood against my fingertips, giving me a momentary distraction. I reach in to grab a sheet of paper but I don’t need it. I don’t know how the audience would react. I shouldn’t let it get to me, but I was afraid at any moment somebody would get up and assault or heckle me. There’s something vulnerable about standing up here and they’re behind the wall of the masses sitting down there.

I took one glance at the casket beside me then darted around looking for a patch on a wall. Right at the back, behind the chairs.

There.

That’s my audience, screw everybody else.

“I’m surprised so many have turned out today to pay respects for my father. Especially those who have worked with him, who came all the way from across the country and abroad. He would have appreciated your presence today.

“While he raised three daughters after our mother died of childbirth, and Mindy’s mother left him, I would be remiss if I didn’t come to terms, and share with you today, who Thomas Givens truly was.

“As a musician, he could make us cry. The happiest I saw him was when he was given a Stradivarius to perform a benefit with the Holy See presiding. He would talk about that to his dying days. Yet he was also privileged to have worked with everybody here. All of you. Holy or not.

As a human, he was a benefactor. College funds, Christmas cards from underprivileged families sent to us, thanking ‘Uncle Thomas’ so that they could be given the opportunity like he had, and he had given us.”

At that moment I saw Catherine and Mindy’s eyes watering. This was going to hurt me the most, knowing it could hurt them. But this opportunity was only going to happen once and he had his way for years. Now it’s my turn.

“As a father, Catherine was pushed to be the very best she could be. And her children, who are not with us today, no doubt brought joy into his world-weary eyes. When I was born, our mother died, and he sailed through, sunk deep into his work, while doing his best to raise us in a loving home. And ten years later, when the storm was over, he remarried and Mindy was born, who carried the same fiery heart in her work as he would in his.”

I swallowed. A lump hit my throat.

“Perhaps because of my mother’s death, or whatever he was going through, he decided to take it out on me. He was never physical, but he wanted to show his love, and nurture. He stopped after Mindy was born, and never did it again, but-”

I couldn’t say the rest to you. I almost couldn’t say it to them. But let me just say that Catherine had to come up to stand by me while Mindy walked away, tears streaming across her mascara, in shame. A few murmurs and two more walkouts occurred. But the damage was done. The speech, which I later heard some said was a performance, was a eulogy. Not to him. That man. But to my fear, just how he eulogised my innocence with a calm stroke to the face. I vomited afterwards, right in the toilet, with Catherine holding my hair up.

Months afterwards Mindy called out of the blue.

“Why?”

“I had to Mindy, I had to show the world who he was.”

“No, I get that now. Why did you let that monster do that to you for all those years?”

“I was young.”

“Is that it? You didn’t tell Cathy? The teachers?”

I thought for a moment.

“At the time, it was better to be abused than to be alone. But it wasn’t easy saying what I said. It was torture, and I really thought about it for days before, and weeks after. I just wanted it to be over. And I’m glad it is.”