27. Followed
Followed
MARY
“Must they follow us?” Pappa grumbled in Swedish as we traversed the airport in New York. “Why?”
After a successful day shooting a quick recording session, the documentary crew chased us to Miragelite.
We filed from gate to gate, hurrying to board with the rest of first class.
Father wanted to see me play. At nearly ninety, he sometimes needed a wheelchair, but his health remained good.
He was still the same grumpy old man he’d always been and remained my greatest fan.
We arrived at the gate where a gaggle of girls wearing college hoodies and toting rucksacks confronted us.
“Oh my god! You’re the Zamboneys!” One shrieked. “I am obsessed with you, Mary!”
That was a new one. Uneasy, I just smiled.
A friend slapped her. “Stop being so damn thirsty!”
Mortified, I waited for Alicia to play the normal one. Baby strapped to her chest, she said, “We could sign an autograph, if you’d like.”
“That would be… oh my God!”
AJ handed us some markers and we signed their rucksacks.
“Are you off to Miragelite, too?” Barry asked.
“Oh my God, yes! We will see you! I cannot believe this is happening!” One brimmed.
Dad’s English was still spotty—even after years playing in the NHL—but he understood more than he let on. He followed this, a proud smile on his face over my newfound relevance.
He chuckled, “You’re famous—again.”
I snickered. “It makes me uncomfortable. I still don’t quite believe it.”
“Well, your mother would be proud,” Dad said.
It hit me in the feels. If anyone would have lived to see me perform at this festival, it would be Mum.
She’d have been dancing the entire time—her feet unable to stop no matter her health.
The day she lost her “dancing feet” was the day we knew it was over.
For her, losing that ability was the end in the same way losing my ability to sing or play guitar might upend all I lived for.
“Why are you bothered?” Dad asked.
“Because I’m in my early forties being sent into a place I don’t feel comfortable. I was never supposed to be the lead singer in an alt-pop group, Pappa.”
“Yeah, well, look at you. You are. Chin up. You aren’t a loser. Be grateful.”
I snickered at his curt pep talk. My parents couldn’t have been more different growing up.
Pappa was the hockey coach. Mama was the sweet, kind one.
They divorced and I ping-ponged between the UK and Norway throughout high school.
It sucked, but now I was grateful I’d gotten used to this road life. I supposed they’d always been that way.
“Sure. Okay, Dad.”
“You will know I am right someday. Hopefully before you are too old to be happy!”
“Dad, I am happy,” I laughed. “I promise.”
“You are lonely,” he said in English, loud enough that anyone could hear. “Don’t be a denier.”
I wasn’t lonely. I’d been with Betty only days before.
Even now, I sat with my phone about to text her.
I wanted to deny my loneliness, but worried I wasn’t ready to let Dad in on my secret.
I didn’t need more opinions. Of course, Alicia was there to do the work for me.
Nothing with the band stayed secret for long.
“Oh, she’s not,” Alicia sat and shifted Jonas.
Dad raised his eyebrows. I glared.
“What? You’re loved up and you’re texting that woman all the damn time. He’s going to find out.”
Dad got that much.
He perked and spoke Swedish, “A girl?”
“Far, a lot may have changed but I still don’t date men,” I explained in my mother tongue.
He ignored me, demanding of the band, “And how is she? Is she Swedish?”
“She’s close, but no,” Barry snickered. “Norwegian.”
“Prettier than your daughter has any right to date,” Bea confirmed.
I glared, but did not deny her truth.
“She hits above her weight,” he said in clear-as-a-bell English, patting my back heartily.
“Baseball references, really?” I groaned. “I tried to explain things to you—”
“It’s boxing,” Pappa sighed.
“Of course it is,” I grumbled.
Pappa held out his hand. “Picture.”
Before I could protest, Alicia snatched my unlocked mobile and scrolled through my photos. There were a host of ridiculous snaps Betty sent from the road—mostly pictures of her kissing horse noses or selfies with a horse.
“See, she’s cute,” Alicia offered.
Dad nodded, as if impressed. It was his pat on the back that somehow sold his approval of my new girlfriend.
“She’s young,” he gave a dorky thumbs up.
“Jag dor h?r,” I groaned, wanting to die there.
“You didn’t die,” Dad said. “Nej.”
The baby woke, suddenly angry at his transatlantic travel surroundings. Alicia stood to bop him around.
Dad continued in Swedish, “But she has a horse. Why? And this does not look like Norway?”
“She was showing in a competition in the U.S.. She’s an equestrian. She does this for a living.”
Sort of.
“She doesn’t have a job?” He tutted. “She needs a job. Riding horses isn’t a living.”
“She’s on her way to the Olympics,” I said. “And last I checked, you made all your money by slamming men into the boards harder than some other asshole, right?”
He quieted. “Well, I just know that horse girls… they want someone to support their habit.”
“I think she’s gonna be okay,” I said. “Fortunately enough for her, money isn’t an issue.”
“Rich? Young? Pretty? Good. Horses?” He pulled a face.
I snickered, “Well, it could be worse, Pappa.”
“She’s really sweet, too,” Clarice added, guessing context by tone. “Thinks the world of Mary. She’s lovely.”
Dad handed my mobile back, satisfied.
Almost on cue, my phone rang. It was Betty.
I answered. “Yes?”
“Are you in Palm Springs yet?”
“Negative. We’re at the gate in New York.”
“Cool.”
“Why?” I asked, confused.
“Well, I am doing a catch ride at an event in Rancho Mission Viejo. Someone got knocked up and then someone got run over.”
“What?”
“Long story,” Betty said. “I’m literally taxiing to the gate now at LAX. When are you getting to town?”
“A few hours. You’re there? Right now?”
“Yeah. I was told to come out and ride this horse by Hank. Despite my protests, he forced me to go. He said, ‘You have no one here,’ like I was the loneliest girl in the world.”
I snickered, hearing the playback of that conversation in his cowboy accent.
“So, will I see you? Can I stay and watch you all perform? Laguna Beach is only a couple of hours from there.”
“We don’t perform for days—”
“Well, good, because I can ride and then come up to see you.”
“It’s not so simple, skatt.” I looked at Dad.
He had his I’m-not-being-nosey mug on.
“You really don’t want to see me?” Her voice dropped, hurt.
“No, I do. Very much. It’s just… my father is here with me to watch me play. His idea. Not mine.”
In adorably simple Swedish, she said, “Most dads love me.”
“You know it’s unfair to weaponize this language,” I responded in Swedish.
“Weapons?” She asked.
“It’s unfair to weaponize it against me as you so often do.” I chuckled. “The issue is that a crew is also following me.”
“Oh.”
We each sat with that. As we did, I watched Max Mixxson and his crew pass through the row ahead, settling in for the first-class boarding call.
The crew focused on him as much as I did.
I couldn’t help but wonder if this was a setup.
I looked to the band, trying to gauge their reactions.
Barry and Alicia shot daggers as Clarice hand-talked to my Dad.
My father was thankfully too absorbed in going on about my social life to my bandmates, that he ignored Max.
It was for the best. Even in his current state, he’d want to clean the guy’s clock. No one needed that on camera.
Alia made eye contact, then quickly returned to her phone, all under Max’s watchful gaze. I couldn’t help but observe Max never let Alia out of his sight. Every time I saw that little girl, I wanted to tell her to run for the hills and save herself. She was so young.
“Are you there, baby?” Betty asked.
“Yeah. I’m here. Uh… sorry. Look, let me think about it. I’ll call you when we land in Palm Springs.”
“Sure,” Betty said. “Well, fly safe.”
“Will, do, ?lskling.”
I hung up and turned to see my father’s judgement.
“What?”
“You call her ?lskling?” He asked in Swedish.
“Ja! What is it to you?” I grumbled, standing. “I need a walk. I’ll be back well before we board.”
I didn’t care where I went. I fled the gate and down the terminal to the nearest coffee shop.
I grabbed a double shot of espresso—something that would not help my disorientation from jet lag—and ducked into the sweet shop next door.
As I perused candy bars, thinking about what my father might prefer, Max appeared.
Heart stopping, I backed away, almost knocking over a carousel of chocolate covered almonds.
“I heard you got a break,” Max said.
I picked up the two bags that fell and ignored him.
“It’s nice if you’d say thank you.”
I glared. “For what, Max?”
“For teaching you how to write and sing pop songs. Look, when they said you were going to do this, I laughed heartily. I thought I’d never see the day you embraced it without complaint, but you did.”
I rolled my eyes. “I fell into this. I wrote the damn song—just like I wrote the last one that completely outsold anything you’ve written in the past 20 years.”
“And who taught you to do that?”
“Me,” I said. “My mother. You exploited my talents and claimed them as yours, you sick bastard!”
He backed up, face turning from smirk to angry snarl.
“That girl—that precious, young thing? The one who you see covered in dollar signs? She’ll be better in your stable for longer if you don’t torture her like you did me.”
“I don’t know what you’re alleging—”
“I am telling the truth.”
“Well, you can write a nice hook making you the victim, sweetheart, but that doesn’t make it reality.”
I set my jaw. “I write about what is real to me. That’s the best part.”
“Well, there’s no way you pull this revenge plot out. At your age, you’re lucky to have any options at all.”
“I have been more successful in this industry than most. I have had a long career. I am fortunate, Max. And I owe myself that debt. If teenaged me working with you was the end of the line, I’d have been fucked, Max Mikkelsson. Thankfully, I didn’t let that trauma define me.”
I saw the cameraman from the crew appear within my periphery—just outside the shop. My blood ran cold. They had no audio, but they could see my reaction and put it all together in post. Knowing I couldn’t make a scene, I panic-grabbed an assortment of chocolates and strode to the counter.
I declared with a smile plastered on. “I think I’m done, thanks.”
“Uh… great…” the kid behind the counter rang up the order.
Max stopped behind me. “You know, Marit, I made you and I can destroy you. I want to be happy for you. Don’t make me regret that.”
“That will be $124.99, ma’am.”
My hand shook as I tapped my card. “You know, Max. You already tried. I survived. And no matter what you throw at me, I will bob and weave. I don’t let any man define my worth—not even someone as powerful as you.”