My Heart's Song

Alone in the middle of the stage with the microphone I stood, fingers clenched tightly around it as if I were hanging onto it to avoid some terrible fall. The crowd cheered wildly. Their encouraging screams swelled into one loud boisterous noise that partially deafened me, causing their collective chants to have a reverse crescendo effect as I slowly began to have an out-of-body experience. "SING! SING! SING!" But my lips were dumb. The floor began to rise, the ceiling began to lower, and the walls began creep toward me as if they thought to catch me off guard. My eyes scanned the crowd looking for a faint sign of security and familiarity.  Suddenly, I dropped the microphone, which had been my life line from some unknown existence below. I turned to escape the fast moving walls that were caving in on me mentally and quickly fled backstage where I knew my mother would be disgustedly awaiting me.

For years, she had been this superstar, the center of attention, in every room that her presence had ever adorned. Her hair was beginning to gray now, which she'd dye time and time again at the slightest hint. The skin on her once tight face had now began to settle into her cheekbones. 

When she wasn't singing, she was drinking down alcohol. I don't know what ever lead her to drinking, but it had to have happened long ago. For as long as I could remember, the bottle came before me. She could still sing if she wanted, but the moment that she heard my voice maturing in my teen years, she was ready to retire and live vicariously through her now most prized possession -- next to alcohol. She'd have a second chance to start all over again.   

I ran into the dressing room to find her staring into the screen at the confused crowd that I left cheering and chanting, not for me, but for my mother's daughter -- for her. They didn't know me. My own mother didn't even know me after twenty years. I never wanted to be a singer, but this was her dream for me. This is what would make her happy.  

I knew she could hear my deep, heavy pants as I stood in the doorway gasping for air, but she didn't even look my direction. Her eyes were fixed on the screen as she listened to the crowd's loud eruption sizzle down to awkward silence.  

"What are you doing! Her rebuking words pierced my spine at the sound of her chastising tone. Are you trying to ruin this family! Singing is in your blood! It's what you were meant to do! Now get ..." 

"No, it's what YOU want me to do! I never wanted to sing! I want to be an actor! I missed out on so many chances in drama class during high school, and now I'm stuck here with you!"

Her mouth dropped in awe, perhaps surprised at my tone of voice which had never been raised at her before. "Oh, you're grown now, so you get to disrespect your mother? Your family is making it off of this business! You..."

"I'm done, mom! I'm through! You have a nice life!" I stormed out of the coliseum as she followed behind me begging and pleading. "There's no life out there for you! Here is the only place you'll do well. You'll never make it!"

Her words echoed from the foyer of the coliseum as I stormed out of the building and out of her life. Those same words still echo in my soul today. They were the last words I heard from her a year ago, the last time we spoke. My sister Sandra called me three months later to tell me the horrible news. 

She had been struck by a vehicle in the parking lot after singing at a club one evening. A hit and run we were told. A green Toyota Sedan with tinted windows was the only description given. How could a person hit someone with a two ton vehicle and not even have the conscience or moral decency to stop and see if they're dead or alive?   

At the funeral, hundreds of her fans were there, true sympathetic fans and a few people, I'm sure, that envied her. They all came to pay their last respects to my mother, the fallen singer. I sat comforted between my Dad, an accomplished musician, and my mom's older sister, Lisa, whom she grew up singing with. We had the same black hair, so people always thought I was her daughter instead.  

She was buried in her favorite concert dress. There were so many flowers, red roses, pink roses and many more. They were lined from the front to the back of the event center, so many flowers that she could no longer see nor smell. Family and friends young and old stood to give their remarks and tell personal stories and experiences that they had with her. 

So many things I learned about her that day. She was passionate, sensitive, passive, a side of her that I'd never seen. The mother that I knew was stern, strict, and didn't take anything from anybody. She was strong. She was brave. The irony of a woman, bursting from the seems with ambition and determination, too large for life, now confined to a six by two coffin that, in life, couldn't contain her. 

A woman came adorned in a long, black dress with black sunglasses and a black veil covering her face. She sat motionless in the corner until it was her time to view my mother. The two women that accompanied her pulled her away from the casket when she tried hanging onto it. I've never seen either of them a day in my life. 

Outside, I got a glimpse of her face as she was escorted to her ride. She had bright skin, looked about ten years older than I, and appeared to be of biracial decent. She had a round, button shaped nose and her long, curly hair was halfway down her back. After the funeral, I inquired about her, but no one seemed to know who she was. Of course there were a lot of people in my mother's life whom I didn't know.    

Here it is one year later, and I'm still trying to forgive myself for walking out of her life and still struggling to cope without her. It's ironic because all I wanted was to get away from her all of my life. We didn't and couldn't get along. I couldn't live with her. But it's hard living without her. There is no in between except a state of unconsciousness, the state in which I feel I've been living for the past year. If only our parting words would've been more positive. If only I had answered the phone when she called over and over again at first and later when the calls started to taper off.

Sandra and I have gotten a lot closer since the tragedy. She's two years older than I am. We've lived together for the past year. It makes the days more bearable with someone around sharing the same feelings as you. We moved back into Mom's house. Dad moved into an apartment across town. The memories of Mom here at home were too much for him to bear.

All of her belongings are packed in storage. I go through her things when I'm alone. I smell her perfumes and clothes. They still smell like her. I can remember the places to which she wore each outfit. I sit and reminisce on each memory for hours, sometimes falling asleep, before coming down from the attic.   

I went to visit her grave one evening and noticed a figure in a long black coat standing by the place where she lay. I swiftly began to approach to see who it may be that came to pay their respects to her, but when they noticed me, they quickly walked off. I followed for a few yards trying to catch them, but they only walked faster, so I retreated. I figured it was just a fan who needed some time alone. A fresh bouquet of pink roses had been left on her grave, just like the ones that were at her funeral.

Detective Dibbs called while I was taking my morning jog. They had a lead in my Mom's case. A green Toyota Sedan had received body work and a paint job in Cliffdale, an hour away from town a week after my mother was killed. I was feeling hopeful about the news, hoping that it would lead to an arrest and I could find out who did this to my mother. He promised to keep me informed. 

I found a new love over the past six months -- the gym. There I can get my mind off of all that has haunted me lately. For an hour a day, I have no worries, no cares, and the stress is relieved. There's also a cute guy that works there as a personal trainer. We've been schmoozing and working out together. He's always available when I need someone to talk to. Every week, we go out to eat at Mom and Dad's favorite restaurant before heading home for the night.    

A few weeks later after leaving the gym, I stopped by Mom's grave to leave her some flowers. I saw a figure once again, this time not so concealed. It was a lady in a short, dark skirt and a fitted jean jacket. I saw the long curly black hair, similar to the hair from the lady that hovered over Mom's casket. I walked quietly around and hid behind a cluster of bushes to get a peek at her face. To my surprise, it was her standing there holding a pink bouquet of flowers. Afraid that I'd never see her again, I finally gathered up the nerve to approach her.  

"Please don't run away this time." Startled from her stoic position, she looked up and saw me walking toward her, then looked back down at the grave. "She's my mother," I boasted easing up beside her. I looked at her face, her tan skin shone by the nearby street lights. Tears glistened and streamed down her face as she opened her mouth to speak. "It should've been me," she whimpered as she placed the flowers on her grave. "What do you mean?" She turned and began walking away. "Please don't go. How do you know her?" She stopped in her tracks, hesitated never turning around, then scurried off sobbing and weeping. Hopefully I'd see her again and she'd be ready to talk.    

I asked Dad and Aunt Lisa about the woman in black with the long, curly hair at the funeral again and told them that she'd been visiting Mom's grave bringing the pink roses. They were clueless as to who she was. Every few nights, I'd stop by Mom's grave hoping to see her again. Her chilling comment haunted me whenever I tried to sleep at night. What did she mean by "It should've been me"?  

I stopped by Dad's to drop off his guitar that had been stored since the tragedy. He was finally ready to play it again. It soothed me to know that he was trying to put the pieces of his life back together. When I came in the side door, I could hear Dad and Aunt Lisa talking in the living room. I could hear Dad's voice shaking as he spoke. "She knows. It won't be too much longer before she finds out."  

Aunt Lisa was less worried and more reassuring about the issue. "She doesn't know anything. Just keep calm and act like you know nothing."  

"But Lisa, if she comes back again, if it's really her, she may talk. Then what?"  

I suddenly realized this whole conversation was possibly about me and the mysterious lady. Feeling ashamed and guilty of eaves dropping had I stood there any longer, I decided that I'd make them aware of my presence. If there was something that I needed to know about, I felt that they should tell me without me having to sneak around and find out on my own.

I opened the door and closed it louder, then headed down the hallway towards the living room. "Dad? I have your guitar." "Thanks honey, it's fine time I started playing again."

"Oh, hi Aunt Lisa." "Hi, hun. I hope you've been trying to get some rest these days." "Yes, I'm trying."

There was a discomfort in the air. Had I not heard the conversation prior, I would've thought they had just jumped out of bed together. I made up some lame excuse to escape the awkward situation and headed off to see Timmy at the gym.

"Maybe they were talking about something totally different from what you think, two people elsewhere that you know nothing about, babe."

"Then why did they look like two deer caught in headlights?"

"Well, maybe they're having an affair, haha!"

"Come on. Be serious, Tim."

 "Ok, but I think you're making something out of nothing."

"I sure hope so."

Detective Dibbs called and said that he was close to cracking the case. "I think I am too," I bragged. "Just keep working on it."

I drove past the cemetery that night hoping to see her again. I thought my eyes deceived me when I saw someone standing near the area where her grave was. I got out to get a closer look and, to my surprise, it was really her standing at Mom's grave again. I came up beside her as she stood there with another bouquet of pink roses.

"You haven't come for a while. I haven't seen any pink roses lately."

"They were her favorite," she replied as she continued staring at her grave. She seemed to be just as hurt about Mom's death as I've been.

"I never knew she liked pink roses. There's a lot I didn't know about her."

"Yes there is." Tears trickled down the curve of her light brown cheek again.

"I shouldn't have gone there that night."  

I remained silent thinking that any response would make her run away again. I could just see myself chasing her down this time, grabbing her, and hanging onto her until she quenched my thirsty inquiries with whatever knowledge she had to offer.

"I just wanted to talk to her. To make her understand," she sobbed.

"Maybe she did," I replied sympathetically.

"I was driving away and she tried to stop me."

My heart sunk to my stomach. I felt sick and nauseous at her words. 

"How did you know her?"  

She took a long, drawn out breath, then paused.  

"Just tell me."

"She was my mother."  

I stared in shock at the unearthing of this truth that I had so desperately been wanting to discover. My stomach turned and twisted in discomforting knots.

"If you don't mind, your father... who is he?"

"She was seventeen and in love with her high school sweetheart, Jimmy Turner, star of the Varsity basketball team. It was forbidden love from the start. It was a high day when I was born, but her mother took me and gave me away because she was ashamed of my father's race and ashamed of me. 'A baby might ruin your future singing career,' was her mother's excuse. Lisa and your Dad were sworn to secrecy."

"Mom would always come visit me in Cliffdale and bring me pink roses out of guilt. I bring her pink roses now for the same reason. I didn't want flowers. I just wanted to feel that she loved me."

"That night, I told her I was through with her acting as if I barely existed. I headed to the car while she followed me screaming something about people walking out of her life. I promise I didn't see her when she darted out from the front of another vehicle, I ... I JUST DIDN'T SEE HER! I was wrong for leaving, but I was just so afraid." She fell on my shoulder weeping bitterly.  

"She sang to forget her troubles," she continued. For a moment, while in the spotlight, she could pretend that her past never happened."

"I believe it. That's when she was happiest."

"Well, I have to go again."   

"Wait... What's your name?" 

"Tina... Tina Anne."  

"I'm Aydra Anne."

"She grabbed my hand and held it for a quick moment, then walked off into the dark, lonely night. 

I kept my distance and surreptitiously followed her through the thick wooded area behind the cemetery. I stood in the shadows and watched her drive off in a black, tinted Toyota Sedan.

I went back to my Mom's grave with new light. "I finally understand you. The drinking, the instability, unanswered questions, why we couldn't bond."    

Back at the Grand Theater a few months later, I sat in the dressing room awaiting my moment. The clock struck 6:00 pm. I walked onto the stage and grabbed the mic from the stand. The crowd screamed uncontrollably once again for my mother's daughter, for me, Aydra Anne. The music began. My heart skipped a beat. It had it's own song to sing. 

Dad was on the guitar. My sisters Tina Anne and Sandra, Aunt Lisa, and Timmy were together in the midst of the crowd. I thought I saw a faint glimpse of my mother next to them. I smiled and sang fearlessly. I knew she'd be so proud. There will always be a scar in my heart from losing her, but life is not always hopeless and dreary even in sorrow. I lost my mother, but I gained another sister. You have to keep living and waiting for the joyful moments in life. Believe me, they will come.