Chapter 3 Miles #2
“You’ll always be my star.” I look over at her. That line would have worked when she was six.
She rolls her eyes—dramatically—taking her entire head along for the ride. “You know what I mean!”
“Had to be said.”
After a pause, she says with a trembling voice, “Maybe I’m just not good enough.”
Fuck me. I would move heaven and earth for this person, but I can’t lie to her like that.
“No, you’re good, Macy. You’re good because you’re determined and you know what you want.
That’s half the game.” I sit back up. Like I’m Mel Gibson on his horse in Braveheart, rallying his troops for battle.
Because this is about freedom. It’s about my daughter’s freedom to suck at singing, even though she wants to be a singer.
“Hey, you know how every main character in those musicals you love has that song they sing near the beginning of the movie or the show? I think Dylan always talked about how it’s called the I Want song?
The I Want song is the beginning of the heroine’s story.
Right? Identifying what she wants. And then she tries to get it.
And it wouldn’t be a story if she just got what she wanted right away, now, would it? ”
She looks so painfully serious right now. Like she’s forcing her brain cells to absorb what I’m talking about. “Like when Ariel sings about wanting to be part of the people world.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“But she has to give something up to get it.”
“They usually do.”
“Well, what do I have to give up?”
“Time, probably. To practice, so you can get better and better and rehearse things once you start getting those parts.”
She slaps her palms down on the mattress and struggles to sit up. The girl has no core strength, but she certainly knows what she wants. “I can do that.”
“I know you can. So what do you want?”
“I want to be the star of Alice in Wonderland. I want to be Alice.”
“Okay then. Let’s get you that part.” I can’t help it. I just have to say it. “They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freedom!”
She just looks so confused. “What? Why are you talking like that?”
“That was an amazing Scottish accent. It’s from a movie. Never mind. We’ll get you that part.”
“Okay, but then I want to be Annie and Anne and Lucy and Dorothy, and I want to play both Anna and Elsa in the same production.”
“Sounds like a plan. Why don’t we try getting Gramma on the phone so you can wish her a happy birthday, and then we’ll have breakfast and you can tell me more about this show you’re going to be the star of.”
“Okay. I need some water.”
Pointing to the bottle of water on my bedside table, I tell her, “You can have that.” I grab my iPad and initiate a video call with my mama, silently praying that she doesn’t answer.
If she so much as blinks while Macy is singing to her, it will throw her off for the rest of the day.
She’s over there sipping water and doing vocal warmups.
No. Such. Luck.
Mama accepts the call, and her neck and chin appear in the video window. “Happy birthday to me!” I wait a few seconds for her to adjust the placement of her iPad. She goes upside-down and then spins around a couple of times, and then I just see the ceiling.
“Mornin’, Mama. Happy birthday.”
“Ohhh, hello sunshine. Sorry my hair’s such a mess, I haven’t had time to set it yet.”
“Your ceiling looks fantastic.”
“Oh. Son of a bee sting. Joe! Joe! Come fix this whosiewhat, will you? The iPad’s actin’ up again.”
She must be having mimosas for breakfast.
“Well, lemme just fix that camera for you, madame…” My dad props up the iPad and winks at me. “Mornin’, son.”
“Mornin’, Pops. Macy’s here too, and she’d like to sing ‘Happy Birthday to You’.” I angle my camera so Macy’s in the frame.
“Ohhhhh, wonderful! Hey there, dumplin’! Well, aren’t I just the luckiest girl alive. Did you hear that, Joe?” Her hand reaches up, and I know she’s trying to lower the volume on her iPad. I hope to God Macy doesn’t realize that’s what she’s doing.
“All right, all right, all right. I am here for it, as the kids today would say. Hi there, sweet pea.” Pops waves to the camera.
“Hi, Grampa Joe.”
“Okay,” my mama says. “Let’s get this—”
Before she can say over with, Pops jumps in with “Let’s get this party started!”
“You ready, honey?”
Macy nods. She looks like she’s about to go on stage to compete in a spelling bee or stand before a firing squad. I just wish I could get her to loosen up even a little bit.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!!!”
Oh Christ, I gotta jump in there. While she shouts, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR GRAMMA!”
I sing, “Happy birthday, dear Mama… Happy birthday—”
“No, Daddy! It’s just me! This was supposed to be my solo!”
“Sorry, honey.”
“Now I have to start again!”
“Oh, now, you don’t have to do that, sweetums,” Mama protests. “I already feel so blessed. You have made my day. Really.”
But Macy takes a deep breath, or at least a big breath from her upper chest, and then launches into it again—like she’s mad at the iPad, at the woman who gave me life, at the words, at her voice. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR GRAMMA! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!”
Mama and Pops and I start to clap, but Macy continues.
“FROM GOOD FRIENDS AND TRUE!”
“Oh my goodness, there’s more,” my mother exhales.
“FROM OLD FRIENDS AND NEW! MAY GOOD LUCK GO WITH YOU! AND HAPPINESS TOO!”
“Wow, I’ve never heard those lyrics before, honey,” I say. I guess I should be proud that she didn’t go with the you look like a monkey and you smell like one too version.
But Macy continues by chanting, “Hip-hip-hooray!” She signals to Pops and me to join her.
“Hip-hip-hooray! Hip-hip-hooray!”
There’s a long pause while we all wait to see if she’s going to sing or yell anything else. Macy finally forces a smile. The kind of smile she’s probably seen child beauty pageant winners sporting on the internet. “Happy birthday, Gramma.”
“That was absolutely wonderful, sugar. Thank you for making my day extra special.”
“You’re welcome.” She curtsies.
I tell Mama I love her and then sign off before she can say anything else. Macy looks happy. Or at least she doesn’t look disappointed or hurt. This day might not be terrible for her after all.