My pseudo family helped me out a lot during my broken-foot era. By mid-August I was off the crutches and out of the cast. Jenny was busy planning her wedding every second of the day. With Tyler’s support, I talked her out of having it on Halloween. They decided on an outdoor wedding in September.
I was starting to settle into my life even though at times I still felt like I was an observer, looking from the outside in. I saw people around me really living; Will was working a lot and still playing his secret shows, which he wouldn’t tell a soul about until after the fact. The only time I felt present and alive was when I played music. Will and I worked on a bunch of piano tracks for his songs. He was never short on praise when we played together, which gave me the confidence to really explore music. He started bringing home other instruments; I dug out my father’s guitar and banjo and Will and I would spend hours goofing around in our little makeshift studio. I really enjoyed those sessions and I know he did too. One night after a little tequila and a lot jamming, Will told me he thought we shared a mystical alchemy when we played; I couldn’t agree more. He never shared any details about record labels courting him, but I knew there was hype over Will because there were countless calls and meetings. I didn’t want our sessions to ever come to an end, but I knew Will would eventually move on.
Track 9: Mystical Alchemy
“Your mom and dad made those,” Martha said as she washed dishes in the big sink in the back of the café.
I was dusting off some hand-thrown pottery mugs that I had found hiding deep in a cabinet. Each one was beautiful and different with a unique pattern. I paused and wondered how that was possible and then I shouted over the clanking dishes and faucet noise, “When? Those five days back when my mom was nineteen?”
Martha looked at me but didn’t say a word. I think she realized her slip and so did I.
One of the mugs went crashing to the ground when I absentmindedly set it on the edge of the counter. “Dammit!”
Martha came over to help me pick up the pieces. When I picked up the bottom part of the mug, I saw a heart inscription between my parents’ initials. I set the piece down and jumped up. “I’ll be right back.” I ran out the door and bolted to my apartment. I ran past Will, who was standing at the kitchen counter. I went straight to the closet and yanked the big box of my father’s pictures and documents down. Kneeling on my bedroom floor, I hastily sifted through the contents of the box until I came across a manila envelope. I pinched the metal prongs, opened the flap, and turned it upside down. Two tiny boxes fell out, along with a file of documents and a stack of letters and pictures. I don’t know how, but I realized right away that I was holding proof of some kind of history that had been kept from me.
I went to the pictures first. There were three black-and-white photos. The first picture was an artsy closeup photo of my father lying on his side, shirtless, and looking down. My mother is peeking up from behind him, staring right into the camera lens with a seductive look. They were both very young and it could have easily been taken during the notorious five days. I imagined my father’s version of Andy Warhol’s Factory. My mother looked so different, so vibrant and uninhibited. Her hair was long and straight and contrasted beautifully with her fair skin; she was clearly the muse. The second photo was of my mom lying in a bed, shirtless and nursing her baby. My eyes welled up when I realized the picture was taken in the very room I was sitting in. That photograph with my mother, the peaceful look on her face was a gift in itself, but it was a gift that was hard to appreciate because at that moment I was still very torn and confused. The third picture was of the three of us lying on the same bed. I must have been six months old, lying in between my mother and father, both of them looking serenely at me.
By the time I got to the fourth photograph, I was a blubbering mess. It was my mother and father standing in front of the courthouse. My father was dressed uncharacteristically in a suit and my mother was in a white, knee-length, A-line dress. I knew immediately it was their wedding photo. The photos were images of events I had wished were real my whole life and now they were.
I started sifting frantically through the file of documents. I saw their marriage license and the divorce decree. They were married six months before I was born and it lasted one year, almost to the day. The boxes held two gold wedding bands and a beautiful pair of diamond earrings.