Cassie
Los Angeles, 2024
sat in the dressing room backstage, hearing voices, the tumult of a live show getting ready to begin, thinking that everything felt different; but, also, everything felt exactly the same.
The fashions had changed, and, obviously, everyone had iPhones now, but the feeling before a performance, the crackling energy, the smells of hairspray and anxiety, the sounds of high heels clicking and headsets squawking and the ambient hum of the audience, not too far away—all of that was the same.
Except, this time, she had nothing to worry about.
This time, wasn’t the one performing.
A PA knocked at the door and stuck her head inside, calling, “Twenty minutes to places.”
“Thank you,”
said Cherry.
The dressing room was tiny, with barely room for a full-length mirror and a vanity with a narrow counter running its length.
There was just one chair.
was sitting in it, and Cherry, who’d said she was too nervous to sit, stood behind her, practically trembling with anticipation.
The hair and makeup people had sprayed Cherry’s two inches of bleached hair into spikes.
They’d put circles of kohl around her eyes, and slicked her lips with pink gloss.
She wore black leather leggings (vegan leather, she’d taken pains to explain), a loose black lace top with billowing sleeves, and studded platform-soled black boots.
thought Cherry looked like a punk Peter Pan, androgynous and adorably fierce, like a kitten that would swipe at you with its tiny claws before it curled up in your lap.
Cherry stopped bouncing and swung one hip up to perch on the countertop, next to the litter of makeup and tissues.
could hear her niece breathing—in for a four-count, hold it, a slow, eight-count exhalation.
With Cherry occupied, forced herself to look at her own face in the mirror.
She, too, had been made camera-ready.
The hair and makeup people had tried their hardest, but her face was still soft and round, skin pale, and her body....
well.
At least they’d mostly managed to disguise her, in a flowing caftan made of vivid pink silk.
She wore leggings underneath it, in a complimentary shade of pink, and gold beaded slippers.
Her hair had been augmented with extensions, piled on top of her head in an updo, with curls falling down to frame (read: disguise) her face.
“All this trouble, for a five-second reaction shot?”
she’d asked.
The makeup artist just smiled.
“We want everyone to look their best,”
he’d replied.
The Next Stage had been airing for six weeks.
There’d been four shows devoted to auditions held in each of the four cities the producers had visited, and two weeks about the winnowing that had taken place in Los Angeles, and the mentor assignments.
Tonight, the first six finalists would be performing with their mentors.
knew that Cherry, who’d agreed to work with April, was going to sing “Alone,”
by Heart, with April, and “When You’re Here,”
a Griffin Sisters song, which she’d do alone.
knew that Cherry was still hoping that she would change her mind, that she’d agree to sing, no matter how many times had told her that it wouldn’t be happening.
Just being here was almost more than she could handle.
Getting on the plane had been hard, even with Cherry beside her, and Wesley, in his traveling crate, at her feet.
She’d felt, or imagined she could feel, people’s eyes on her.
She told herself that what she felt was just the judgmental scrutiny every fat lady got for the crime of existing in public or daring to board an airplane—hostile stares, people hoping that you wouldn’t end up sitting next to them and not even trying to hide it.
She kept her head down until she was buckled into her seat, praying that no one had recognized her and that the inspection wouldn’t morph into recognition.
Oh my God, aren’t you . . . ?
More than once, asked herself why she was doing this.
Why she was bothering.
Why she was leaving the nest she’d built, why she was venturing back out into a world that had done nothing but hurt her.
The answer was rarely a few feet from her side ...
or, for a few hours on the flight, it was sleeping, with its head on her shoulder and its mouth open, snoring softly, eyes moving underneath her lavender-colored eyelids as she dreamed.
She’d told her niece the truth.
She’d never wanted children.
Maybe because she’d been, more or less, a child herself when she’d fallen in love with Russell.
She’d never imagined them having a family, never pictured herself as a mom.
Or as an aunt, once she’d run away and knew she would never see her sister again.
But then there was Cherry—funny, prickly, talented Cherry, with her sweet voice and her spiky hair.
Cherry, who’d pulled her back into the world, even though she hadn’t wanted to rejoin it.
The world still hurt.
had always hated being looked at, feeling like, in any room she entered, she never knew what to say or how to stand or where to put her hands, and that feeling had not subsided at all since that terrible morning in Michigan.
But Cherry needed her.
And liked Cherry, who was all hustle and drive, all platform-soled Doc Martens and ambition.
It was possible that even loved her a little bit ...
and she wanted to keep her safe, safer than she’d been, when she’d been young and trying to make it.
And so she’d boarded the plane, and, when they’d landed at LAX, she’d followed her niece through the airport, keeping a sweaty grip on Wesley’s carrying case.
Cherry moved briskly, cutting through the crowds, leading her outside, across six lanes of traffic, onto an island, where they waited for a car to come and get them.
The Griffin Sisters had played only a few shows in Los Angeles, back in the day, but could still remember the look and the feel of the city, the vertiginous roads that wound up the mountains and down through the canyons and left her carsick with their twists and tight turns; the endless concrete strip malls, the monochrome landscape of beige and off-white buildings and black roads; the flat, glaring light.
When their Uber driver had taken them past the Hollywood Bowl, she’d had to clench her hands together tightly and close her eyes, praying that she wouldn’t throw up, or pass out, that coming hadn’t been a mistake.
I’ll sit in the audience, she’d told Cherry.
And you can’t say who I am.
Just that I’m a friend.
Even that, knew, was risky ...
but, as much as she feared being recognized, even more she hated the idea of Cherry being up there, onstage, without anyone to support her.
She could be there for her niece, wishing her well, cheering her on.
At dress rehearsal the previous afternoon, had watched as the producers had walked Cherry through the beats of the show—the emcee’s introduction, the camera operator who would follow her from backstage as she took her place.
They’d edited the songs down to ninety-second versions, and there’d be a drummer, a bass player, a keyboard player, and, for the second song, a cello and a violin.
Cameras up front; cameras overhead and in the wings; cameras there, in the audience, to catch ’s reaction to Cherry’s performance.
It’s been twenty years, told herself, when the panic of being in public, on camera, threatened to overwhelm her.
No one will be looking for me.
No one even remembers me, and I don’t look the same.
She’d cram herself into the aisle seat they’d designated for her use, and she’d try to make herself as small as possible to keep her body from overspilling the armrests, and she’d do what she’d come to do.
She would support Cherry, and cheer her on, and then she’d go back home, to be an art monster.
Or a former art monster, a retired art monster who ran rental cottages and lived alone, but who talked to her niece from time to time.
In the dressing room, Cherry fiddled with her phone, then propped it against a makeup kit.
It was filming, but didn’t think much of that.
Cherry had been filming everything, including her plane trip from Alaska to LA, her purchase of a Frappuccino that morning, and Wesley’s encounter with a purse dog on the sidewalk the previous afternoon.
Cherry’s fingers looked a little shaky, and heard her swallow hard as she got to her feet.
“Hey.
So.
You know how you told me that you’ve never been onstage singing without my mom?”
Cherry asked, in a tone that was trying for casual and not quite getting there.
nodded.
“Well,”
said Cherry.
“What if . . .”
She cleared her throat.
“What if I could make that happen?”
she asked.
“What if we could all sing together? The three of us?”
“What?”
’s pulse quickened as someone knocked at the dressing room door.
“Come in!”
Cherry called ...
and felt her heart stop.
Because this time, it wasn’t a PA or a makeup artist.
It was not Braden or Tori or one of the other contestants, stopping by to tell Cherry to break a leg.
It was her sister.
Zoe looked the same.
Older, but still pretty, maybe even more beautiful than she’d been.
She wore a navy-blue silk top, cropped, sharply creased black trousers, and high-heeled shoes.
A camera guy and someone holding a boom mic stood behind her, the better to catch every sound, every expression, every instant of the reunion.
Cherry had moved to stand at her aunt’s side.
She shot a look that was both anxious and proud, as if this reunion was a wonderful bit of magic she’d engineered, a gift she’d set in ’s lap.
sat, frozen, watching one of Zoe’s hands drift up, slowly, to cover her mouth, red-painted nails splayed over red-lipsticked lips.
“,”
Zoe whispered.
“Oh God. .”
wasn’t in a dressing room in Los Angeles any longer.
Instead, she was back in the hotel lobby, in Detroit, where three police officers and CJ were standing in a huddle, and one of the cops’ radios was squawking, and people were clustered in front of the hotel’s windows, staring out at the scene, and CJ’s face was tinted red, then blue, then red again, washed by the ambulance’s strobing lights.
I’m sorry, CJ was saying.
, I am so sorry.
“So listen!”
Cherry was saying brightly, for the benefit of the cameras.
“Mom——I know this is a big surprise for both of you, but I’m hoping—and I know I’m not the only one—that you guys would be willing to sing with me.”
When neither sister spoke, Cherry touched the spikes of her hair, then fidgeted with the microphone pack wrapped around her waist.
“I hope you’ll do it.”
She pressed her lips together, shot the camera operator an apologetic glance, then said, lowering her voice, “Because I kind of told the producers that you would.
And they’re really, really excited for that to happen.”
At that, Zoe and both turned to stare at Cherry.
Zoe spoke first. “Wait,”
she said, lifting one hand to her temple.
“Cherry.
You told me knew about this! You said—you told me—”
decided that whatever Cherry had told her sister did not matter.
She couldn’t be here.
She got to her feet and pushed past Zoe and the camera guy and the guy holding the boom mic, blundering through the door, down the hall, her feet, in their stupid twinkly gold shoes, going faster and faster, speeding her toward an exit, daylight and fresh air and escape.
She would get Wesley and she would go home, where no one knew who she was and no one wanted anything from her.
Where she could hide in her treehouse, hide in her parka, hide in the dark.
“!”
At the sound of her sister’s voice, quickened her pace.
Of course Zoe was coming after her.
Of course Zoe wouldn’t leave her alone.
Zoe probably wanted to review ’s cruelties and transgressions; she’d want to pick through all the trouble had caused and demand recompense.
“, wait!”
pushed past a wardrobe assistant wheeling a rack of clothes, half running as she dodged rolling lights and moving bodies, until she finally spotted an exit sign.
She opened the door it marked, feeling the daytime heat blast her, pulling in a breath of desert air, trying to orient herself and figure out where the street was.
And then Zoe was there.
Zoe had her hand on ’s shoulder, Zoe was saying, “, wait, please.
Don’t run away.
I need to talk to you.”
stopped.
Mostly because she knew she couldn’t outrun her sister.
Without turning, without looking, she asked, “What?”
Zoe touched ’s shoulder again.
“Can we go somewhere? Please? Can we sit down and talk?”
Helplessly, turned back toward the soundstage.
A small part of her wondered what Cherry was doing; how Cherry was trying to explain this turn of events to the producers.
Cherry was supposed to be onstage soon, maybe even now.
Part of her wanted to run.
But another part wanted to hear what Zoe had to say ...
and to stay with Cherry.
To be there for her niece, the way she’d planned.
When Zoe asked again, managed a jerky nod.
She let her sister lead her toward the parking lot, where Zoe unlocked a car and got behind the wheel, waiting until opened the passenger’s door and climbed in beside her.
didn’t ask where they were going, just snuck glances as Zoe drove, trying to superimpose her sister’s current, adult face over the face of the younger woman Zoe had been when she’d last seen her.
Zoe’s hair was shorter—shoulder-length and straight, where, before, it had fallen to the small of her back in waves—and her posture was stiffer, controlled and contained.
Once, Zoe had twirled and danced across the stage, arms loose, eyes closed, heedless and free, exuberantly taking up room and making it everyone else’s job to get out of her way.
could not imagine this woman, in her sharply creased trouser pants and her high heels, dancing at all.
And it was her fault.
All her fault.
had stolen her husband; she’d taken Zoe’s dream away; she’d turned her sister into this stiffened, diminished version of herself.
Married to a lawyer.
Estranged from her daughter.
A PTA mom.
I need to tell her I’m sorry, thought.
I need to say that to her face.
Zoe consulted a map on her phone’s screen and drove them up into the hills, to a park that wound along a hillside, with benches, and green grass, and weeping willows giving shade, their fronds rustling in the hot wind.
unbuckled her seat belt.
She followed Zoe out of the car, to a bench, set a little way off from a path.
When Zoe sat down, she sat, too, taking in the scene.
The park was full of people walking their dogs or hiking or working out with their trainers.
wondered how she looked to her sister—if she seemed older, if she looked changed.
“Where to begin,”
Zoe said, almost to herself.
decided that she should be the one to start.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Zoe had been on the verge of saying something.
She closed her mouth and turned toward , looking startled.
“You’re sorry? For what?”
For sleeping with your husband, thought, but could not make herself say.
Instead, haltingly, she tried to tell Zoe why she’d done what she’d done.
“Russell told me ...when we were together ...he said it wasn’t real.That you were the one who’d wanted to get married.That you’d said you were engaged on TV.”
swallowed hard, a little astonished that she’d managed to get the words out.
Zoe pressed her lips together, then nodded. “Yes,”
she said.
“That is true.”
“Did you love him?”
asked.
“I wanted him,”
said Zoe.
She had stopped looking at and, instead, was staring straight ahead, like a prisoner who’d refused the blindfold and was waiting for the firing squad to start shooting.
“I felt like I didn’t matter very much.
Like I wasn’t essential to the band.
I knew I wasn’t as good as the rest of you.
And I thought, if Russell wanted me, if we were together, that would be ...
something to hold on to, I guess.
Or a reason for the band to hold on to me.”
Her shoulders slumped.
“I wanted to be a star.
I wanted all of it, so badly, and then, to get it, and to find out that I wasn’t good enough . . .”
Her voice trailed off.
She licked her lips.
“So I went after Russell.
But he told you the truth.
He never wanted me.
Not really.
He certainly never wanted to get married.
He was willing to go along with it, because it helped the band’s image, you know? It was free press, and Jerry, and CJ, and everyone else, they were all for it.”
She stopped talking, then turned to .
“But you were the one he loved.”
could barely swallow around the lump in her throat.
“So it wasn’t real?”
Zoe shook her head. “No.”
She clasped her hands together in her lap.
“And I wasn’t even being faithful.”
“What?”
asked.
Then, “Who?”
“Tommy,” Zoe said.
blinked.
For a moment, Tommy meant nothing.
“Tommy Kelleher? Tommy the drummer? Tommy from Curtis?”
“Tommy from Curtis,”
Zoe confirmed.
“You were with Tommy?”
’s voice was a squeak.
“More than I was with Russell, by the end,”
Zoe admitted.
“And there’s something else I need to tell you.”
’s skin was prickling, and the muscles in her legs and her back were tensed, like her body had decided before her mind could that she did not want to hear whatever it was Zoe had to say.
Zoe looked down.
She pinched the crease of her pants.
“You remember the note.
The note Russell left.”
made a noise.
The noise meant, Yes, of course I remember the note, I remember as if I had it tattooed on my heart.
Her voice was leaden, uninflected, as she recited the words.
“‘I’m sorry.
I never should have touched you.’”
“That’s the one,”
Zoe said, wincing.
“But the thing is ... that note? I don’t think it was meant for you.”
’s heart stopped.
Her entire body went still, like a watch someone had smashed with a hammer.
A great roaring sound filled her ears.
When she opened her mouth, what emerged was not quite a word, more like a sound: Wha? If Russell hadn’t written the note for her, had it been for Zoe? Was her sister the one he should never have touched, the one he couldn’t be with?
groaned out loud and buried her face in her hands, feeling the false eyelashes, the airbrushed foundation, all of that strangeness covering her skin.
“You know he loved lyrics you could read a few different ways,”
Zoe said wryly.
shook her head.
She felt the oddest mixture of fury and relief.
As angry as she was at Zoe, for letting her believe, all this time, that she’d been the one at fault, she also felt relief, like something tied tight inside of her had loosened, like some knot had been unpicked.
“It wasn’t your fault,”
Zoe said.
“If anyone was to blame, it’s me.”
’s body, her entire world, might have stopped, but the world around her rushed on.
A car pulled into the parking lot, cruised slowly past the occupied spots, then backed up toward the entry, where it idled, waiting for someone to leave and make room.
The wind stirred up an eddy of dust.
Two hikers, sleekly clad in technical fabric leggings and tops, greeted each other, then started walking, side by side.
A bird trilled its song from a tree.
“There’s more,” Zoe said.
shook her head.
There couldn’t be more.
She couldn’t survive more.
“The night Russell died,”
Zoe said.
“After I walked in on you two, I told him I was pregnant, and that it was his.
But I wasn’t sure if that was true.
I’m still not.”
It took a minute to put the words together, to fit what Zoe had just told her into her own memories of the night.
When it finally made sense, when she came back to herself and could hear again over the roaring in her ears, Zoe was still talking.
“He was ashamed, and I was angry, and I just kept going at him, and going at him . . .”
Zoe shook her head.
“I told him that we’d have to stay together, and that he couldn’t be with you.”
She sounded so normal, thought.
So calm and controlled.
She could have been talking about her flight to Los Angeles, or what she’d had for breakfast, and not the end of Russell’s life.
“And I think—I think that’s why it happened.
Why he got drunk, and went out in the dark.”
Staring straight ahead at nothing, Zoe said, “I think he decided that he’d rather be dead than have to spend the rest of his life with me.”
She sat back against the bench, looking smaller, and older, and drained.
Like all of the rock-star glamour had faded and all her well-heeled housewife elegance had disappeared.
The disguises were off, and she was just a regular middle-aged woman, not famous, not special, not immune to heartache, or to time.
“I should have told you the truth a long, long time ago.
And I’m sorry.”
Zoe paused for a breath.
“And if you can’t forgive me—if you never want to see me again, if you want to go back to Alaska and never speak to me again—I will understand.”
didn’t answer.
“But if you want to come home—if you want to make music again, or not make music again, or if you want to go back to the Curtis Institute, pick up where you left off, if that’s even possible, whatever—anything.
If you want to see Mom and Dad, and Bess, and get to know Cherry, and meet my husband, and my sons . . .”
Zoe’s throat bobbed.
She was still looking straight ahead.
Not at .
“If you want anything, any part of me, or my family, I would love that.
Because I’ve missed you. So much.”
For a long moment, didn’t speak.
She barely breathed.
Zoe had lied to Russell, about the baby.
She’d lied to , about the note.
had spent twenty years atoning for a sin she believed was hers alone, only that wasn’t true.
Part of the blame had been Zoe’s.
Part of it had been Zoe’s fault, all along.
“?”
Zoe’s voice was tiny.
“I know you’re angry.
And you should be.
But I have missed you.
So much.
I feel like I lost a part of myself when you went away.
And I want it back.
I want you to come back.”
didn’t move.
You lost a part of yourself, she thought.
I lost all of you.
All of Russell.
I lost everything.
“Can you forgive me?”
Zoe was asking.
sat, not moving.
Not speaking.
“I don’t know,”
she finally said.
And then, before Zoe could tell her anything else, or ask her anything more, she got to her feet and walked away.