47. Abigail – “Everyone of my regrets has produced a song I’m proud of”- Taylor Swift
47
Abigail
“Everyone of my regrets has produced a song I’m proud of”- Taylor Swift
Four weeks after Colt left and I found out the truth about my parents, I finally had fallen into a routine. I’d go to school Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from 9-2 p.m., then catch up on homework and study on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and weekends when I had nothing else to do, which was pretty much every weekend. I'd work Friday and Saturday, sometimes Sundays at Shifferes and do it all over again.
I’ve been living with my sister since she was kind enough to let me stay in her guest room after I found out about everything. She had no idea how hard I was working to earn my medical degree, and her husband was a hard worker from the Middle East, so he appreciated how focused I was to make something of myself . I didn’t mind being here, which was a huge relief. Being here and getting to know my niece a lot more was nice. And what a mom's life looked like behind the scenes. Adalee worked just as hard as me, even harder since it entailed a lack of sleep.
On the days I was caught up on all my studies, I would go over to see Cliff. He was still at the lake house, and I preferred going there rather than him coming here. I didn’t want my sister to question what I was doing. I honestly didn’t want anyone to know about the album until it was ready to be presented and released into the world.
I’m not sure if Cliff loved Blake's mom, but there had to be something about that woman he remembered because he knew a lot about production. He was coming up with melodies, creating background music, and finding rhymes and tempos to go along with the lyrics.
I was in awe of how this man brought so much to the table without even knowing it. He knew almost as much about music as he did football.
“I’m not sure. That beat doesn’t seem to fit the lyrics.” I said.
It’s been forty-five minutes, and Cliff and I still couldn’t agree on a tempo to Toxic Wishes, trying to match the beats with which the lyrics would fit perfectly.
“Blake would have wanted the songs as close to the original as possible. And before we present it to those big-time Hollywood assholes that will slice and dice the shit out of my son’s album, I want to make sure it's so perfectly presentable they would take a shot in their foot before even considering that.”
I blinked at him. He always got so defensive, like I didn’t know how important this was. I’m the one who came to him asking for help but didn’t know anything about making beats, so I let his little outbursts slide for the most part.
I told Cliff the big news tonight, so I think he’s even more on edge than I am about making this album perfect. Mel’s dad knew a lot of producers and big-time recording studios, so she agreed to help me get this in the hands of the right people when we were finished.
“I still think the falsetto beat fits with the chorus since it’s more of an uplifted one. This was a song about being high, and the choice of words Blake used, I know he would have wanted an upbeat, not a dark depressing one.” I tell Cliff as he continues to mess with the tunes on the Digital Audio Workstation. I couldn’t believe he bought a whole software system on top of the mixing table to create all these beats, mixing and mastering the tempos, but he said it helped him stay sober and single, occupying his time since he worked on it day and night. Once we recorded my voice singing the lyrics, all I had to do was trust Cliff to get a song done, and so far, he hasn’t disappointed me in this journey one bit.
My stomach growled, and I was thankful Cliff couldn't hear it with all the noise going on, but as if he was in sync with my stomach, someone knocked at the bedroom door simultaneously.
“Oh, perfect,” Cliff gets up and struts over to open the door.
“Good evening. Ti Amo’s delivery.”
“Ah, thank you. Here you go.” Ciff says, handing him some cash.
The guy looks down at it and sees his tip. “Nice, thanks, man.” He waves goodbye with the cash in his hand.
“No problem.” Cliff kicks the door behind him and places the food on the small kitchen table in the left-hand corner of the room. The food smelled delicious. Which only made my stomach growl more. But I’ve gotten used to ignoring it. It's the scariest part of having an eating disorder or any addiction. It’s incredible how it’s so easy to relapse or go back to those toxic habits you once had or never truly left.
“Mmm,” he says, holding up the container that looks full of grease and unhealthy oils.
“Here,” he says, grabbing another one out of the bag. “I got you something, too.”
“Thank you, but I’m fine.”
“Eat it. You look like you lost five pounds just sitting here. And It’s not bad. I got you the grilled chicken with broccoli and fettuccine alfredo. So it’s very portion-controlled.”
Cliff said stuff like that after we discovered the song Blake wrote about pretty girls, this society, and how eating disorders were like margaritas. It tasted sweet while it went down your throat, but the result was never good over time.”
As he put the container in front of me, I naturally took it and looked down at it before opening it. I could eat the whole thing and throw it up afterward. I don't want to disappoint him, but at the same time, I don’t want to eat this, and if I take a couple of bites, it will only draw more attention to myself.
I decided to take the easy route and tell him I would eat it later.
“I’ll eat it when I get home.”
“At least eat the chicken or broccoli. Humor me, won’t ya.”
I sighed deeply before placing the container on my lap and opening the plastic silverware that went along with it. I could play this game I’ve perfected and pretend I was eating a bunch by chewing for a long time while continuing a conversation I didn’t want to continue.
“So that’s how you two met, isn’t it?” Cliff asks with a mouthful.
“Excuse me?”
“The hospital. You were in there about to die from lack of eating, and he was in there and almost killed himself from his addiction to drugs.”
I slowly peeled the container open. Cliff was not lying about his lack of empathy regarding sensitive topics and his need to learn how to communicate gently.
“Precisely, yes.”
“Do you think we could have done anything?” His question came out fast and cold, like a bullet. I wasn’t expecting it. I stare up at him.
“What do you mean?”
“Like, did we do everything we could to help him?”
His question hits home to me straight through the gut. If my parents, or should I say parent, ever cared enough to ask that, I may shit my pants and think I’d died and gone to heaven.
“That’s not a question I can answer. I know you put him through rehab, which is more than my parents ever did.”
“That was his mom. She used to complain about him being a troubled kid. I used to think she only did that for attention or to make me feel guilty, but when she died, I had to take him in full-time. I knew exactly what she meant. Blake,” he hesitates, was emotional.”
“He was a Scorpio. We’re pretty intense people. Cancers have us beat in that area, though.”
“You really believe in that stuff, huh?”
“Yeah, why not? It’s not hurting anyone to think that astrology is an accurate type of divination that involves the forecasting of earthly and human events through the observation and interpretation of the fixed stars, the Sun, the Moon, and the planets.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re a little weird.”
“None taken at all,” I tell him as I take a bite of chicken and chew it slowly, feeling a slight curl to my lips.
“Maybe that’s been my problem. I’ve been hooking up with the wrong zodiac signs,” he chuckles as he takes a bite of his creamy pasta that looks like chicken alfredo.
“Do you remember the birthdates of the women you dated?”
He looks up at the ceiling as he chews slowly. “Let’s see. Blake's mom was on January 1st. I remember that because we always partied it up on New Year's Eve. That girl could drink,” he says, chewing slowly. He squints his eyes as if he’s trying to concentrate.
“Colt’s mom was born on September 1st. And Josh’s mom is May 11th.” He looks at me. “Well, I’ll be damned. That’s the first time I realized they all had birthdays with a one in it.” He shakes his head slightly as he takes another bite of food.
“My point exactly, what’s the odds of that happening?” I tell him.
“Eh, I’m sure it’s a coincidence.”
“Believe what you want, but I would steer clear of those months. That, I can tell you for sure.”
“Why? The bad signs or something?”
I snort to myself. “No, but I can see why it never worked out with any of them.”
“Why?”
“You aren’t compatible with any of them.”
“How do you know? You don’t even know my birthday.”
“I may not know that, but I know it’s between July 23rd and August 22nd.”
Cliff stops chewing at that, narrowing his eyes at me. “Did you look that up or something?”
“No,” I say through a laugh.
“Okay, miss psychic or zodiac expert, whatever you call yourself, what’s the deal with my kid's moms? Well, the ones I remember anyways.”
“Blake’s mom was a Capricorn. You’re a party animal by nature, but Capricorns aren't, so I’m guessing she tried to keep up with you and failed. Since you both didn’t realize how little you had in common until after Blake was born.”
Cliff zoned in on what I was saying a little closer now.
“Colt’s mom is a Virgo, and boy, you both approach life so differently, which puts you at odds quite a bit, especially at first. I’m sure you both didn’t understand each other or why you did the things you did. And over time, you both may have discovered you have more in common than you both realized, and that’s maybe why you and Colt’s mom are somewhat cordial to each other to this day.” I shrug my shoulders. “Just a guess.”
Cliff’s mouth is hanging open, and I try not to laugh.
“And Josh’s mom is a Taurus, which shocks me because you both are fixed signs, but you butt heads a lot. The bull and the lion have difficulty finding a way to compromise. In part because neither of you wants to compromise. Both of you have the mentality that it’s my way or the highway , making it hard for you to build a relationship.” I pop a broccoli in my mouth, smiling as Cliff looks dumbfounded.
“I’ll be damned.” He murmurs again to himself.
“Is that why I couldn’t get along with my son?”
The round balloon I was floating on pops. I'm unsure which one he’s referring to.
“I love all my kids.” he finally says when I don’t answer, returning his gaze to his food, but now, he’s just twirling the food on his fork over and over instead of eating it.
“I know I fucked up in a lot of ways. And this whole wish thing you and Blake had going, it was powerful. But there’s something more powerful than an unanswered wish.”
“Yeah? And what’s that? I ask him as I chew slowly.
“Regret. At least with wishes, you hope it will come true, but with regret, there’s no more hope.”
I couldn’t help but think of a quote by Taylor Swift when I was watching her perform on television.
“Everyone of my regrets has produced a song I’m proud of.”
And something told me Toxic Wishes would be the same way.