2 A.M. — November 22, 1996 #8
Okay, this is going well. Keep playing. Keep singing.
Don’t think. And with each word she sang, it was like she was consuming a tiny morsel of the cake left for Alice.
Claudia grew taller, and bigger, and more sure that this was exactly where she was meant to be.
She convinced herself that she was the one the band was looking for.
The secret ingredient that had been missing all along.
She imagined her voice filling every inch of the auditorium with magic, and any second, the chairs might burst to life, so they could dance and sway and spin.
She was Madonna and Aretha and Cher and Whitney, and her name would one day be said among the legends.
She felt each word of the song deep within her bones—adoration, lust, and an achingly perfect forever sort of love.
And when she let the last note ring out, she placed her palm over the strings of her guitar as if soothing a lover who had just come undone.
She stood, wrung out and raw and filled with an infinite sense of pride because she had done what she came to do.
She hadn’t hidden herself away or held a little back like she usually did.
Finally, after twenty-four-years and three-hundred-sixty-three days, she let herself shine.
But whether Dan or Don thought so, remained to be seen.
The silence that followed seemed like it could swallow up the entire theater, dancing chairs and all. She was suspended in an endless pause, her life in the hands of the man who was staring up at her while he tapped his fingers on the table. “You said it’s your birthday in two days?”
She nodded, a smile building deep inside, ready to burst onto her face. “Yes. The fourth.”
“Happy birthday. You made the cut.”
ONE WEEK LATER
Her mother called right as Claudia was finishing a bowl of Ramen noodles.
She chased the last remaining piece of dehydrated onion floating at the bottom of her bowl, determined not to let it escape.
By the time she caught it, the answering machine picked up and she heard her mom’s voice over the speaker.
“I guess you must be in the shower or something. I called to wish you good—”
Claudia, against her better judgment, picked up the phone, cutting off the message. “I’m here.”
“I’m glad I caught you. What were you doing?”
She glanced down at the empty bowl. “Just getting out of the shower.”
“Good, good. Give yourself lots of time so you aren’t rushing. You don’t want to show up all sweaty and frantic.”
Claudia heard the single chime of her parents’ cuckoo clock indicating it was the bottom of the hour.
She could picture her mom sitting at their dark brown faux-wood kitchen table, her back against an upholstered chair in a pattern the salesman had called flower power.
Glad she was here in Los Angeles, instead of in their burnt orange kitchen in Holdrege, Nebraska, she decided to try to be agreeable.
After all, her mother had never had it easy.
She at least deserved an agreeable child. “Yeah, for sure.”
An awkward silence followed, and Claudia knew Doreen was at war with herself about whether or not to correct her daughter’s use of the word ‘yeah’ instead of ‘yes.’ Claudia waited to see how the battle would end.
“So? Are you nervous?”
“I am. I could hardly sleep,” she said. “In fact, I’ve barely slept since they told me I was shortlisted.”
Her mom made a little disapproving hmph sound. “Do you actually believe you’re going to get chosen?”
Ugh, why did I answer the phone? “Obviously I think I have a shot. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have moved to L.A. in the first place.”
“I don’t want you to get your hopes up. If you had what it took, someone would’ve discovered you by now.”
Claudia scrunched up her face, imagining herself hanging up on her mother for the first time ever. Her heart pounded, and she heard a little voice in her head. Screw being agreeable. Today, of all days, she should speak up. “Mom, would it kill you to be supportive?”
“If you mean playing into some delusional fantasy that you’re going to be some big rock star, then no. I won’t do that, Claudia,” Doreen said. “Somebody’s got to bring you back down to reality or you’re going to get crushed when they don’t pick you.”
“When?!”
“I’m sorry, but yes, it’s a when. There are a million girls out there who can sing backup, and these men are going to want a real knockout, not someone who can’t control herself around a bag of Oreos.”
Claudia squeezed her eyes shut, feeling that familiar sense of shame crawl across her skin like a million tiny spiders, leaving a trail of indignant rage as they hurried off to make some other woman feel bad about herself.
“You know, Mom, just once, it would be nice to hear you say something positive about me, like ‘you can do it,’ or ‘I love you.’”
“Obviously I love you. I love you so much that I’m forever trying to save you from yourself, even though sometimes I doubt you’ll ever come back down to earth.
” Doreen let out her put-upon sigh. “Honestly, you’re exactly like I was at your age.
When I married your father, I had it in my head that one day he’d be the dry-cleaning king of Nebraska.
He had such big plans. A store in every small town and ten stores in every big city in the state.
But here we are, still sweating away in the same lousy location after all these years. ”
“I’m sorry your life has been such a disappointment, Mom,” Claudia answered dryly. “But that doesn’t mean the same thing will happen to me, and to be honest, calling to stomp on my dream before someone else can doesn’t seem like a very motherly thing to do.”
“It’s precisely the sort of terrible job that gets dumped onto a mother’s lap. Someday you’ll understand, if you have children.”
“I doubt I will.”
“Doubt that you’ll have children or don’t think you’ll understand?”
“Both. Neither. I don’t know.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Doreen paused, then said, “Oh, I get it. You think that if you’re ever a mother, you won’t be like me.”
I hope not. “I don’t have time for this right now, Mom. Not if I’m going to avoid being all sweaty and frantic later.”
“You don’t have time for the woman who raised you. Okay, that’s fine,” her mom said in a clipped tone. “If you manage to find a few minutes to spare later, I’d like to hear how it went.”
“Assume I didn’t get it. Bye, Mom.” With that, Claudia hung up on her mother for the first time in her life.
She sat at the kitchen table, shocked at herself, then after a few seconds, she allowed herself a tiny but satisfied smile. If she could do that, she just might be able to snag the job of a lifetime.
“Next!”
Claudia felt like she was watching herself from above as she adjusted the microphone.
Burly Phil Collins (whose name turned out to be Dean when she looked at one of their CDs) was sitting at that same table, only he looked like he’d slept.
He was flanked on either side by members of The Vows—Russell Dwyer and Mike Kurilla.
A hum of excitement flowed through her, and she swallowed the little scream building in her chest. It was really them.
No Zane or Steven in sight, but just being in the same building as these two men was a story she could tell people for the rest of her life.
Dean pointed at her and muttered something to Rusty, who nodded.
She took a deep breath and said, “Hi, I’m Claudia Crawford, your new back-up singer.”
The men chuckled, and she felt a surge of pride. She might not be a total knockout, but she’d see to it that she was memorable.
Dean curved his lips up. “The birthday girl. How was it?”
Grinning, she said, “Good. I ate too much cake, but a girl’s got to treat herself once in a while, right?”
He nodded. “Absolutely. Now, how about you give us your version of ‘Faded Denim’? I already told the guys about it.”
They already talked about her? She had a distinct urge to jump up and down, but she’d have to stifle that until she got back home.
Or at least until she got off the stage.
Positioning her hands on her guitar strings, she started to play, a sense of calm coming over her.
She was halfway through the chorus when, from her left, Claudia heard another acoustic guitar join in.
When she looked over, she saw Zane McCreight himself walking toward her from between the red curtains.
It shocked her to her core. The smile on his face.
The look in his eyes. Her breath caught and her fingers stopped moving and her entire body felt a charge surging through it.
He was a lot taller than she thought, although it was hard to judge from an album cover.
But he was tall enough that she had to tilt her chin up to look at him by the time he was standing next to her.
He threw her a careless grin, then murmured, “Keep going. You’re doing great.”
A swell of pride caused the breath to return to her body and forced her hands back to their task without her telling them what to do.
Her voice grew stronger the closer he stood, and they shared a microphone, their words blending together as they stretched the harmony, then reined it in.
And when she stared up at him, she just knew.
Knew that he was going to hire her—because she could tell it was all up to him.
And she knew they’d have a lifetime of making music together ahead of them.
She felt a pull to him. Something deeper than anything physical that she’d known.
He was married, and Claudia read in a magazine that his wife was expecting their third child.
She’d never want to get in the way of that.
But their connection was a cosmic force, as if they’d sung together in countless lives before this one.
And if nothing else, they’d do this. They’d sing and make music together.