I point to myself nervously.
“I know!” she says again. “From The Mindy Love Show. You’re the one with the memory.” She reaches her hand out. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
I shake her hand but I don’t know what to say. It doesn’t seem to matter anyway because she’s happy to do all the talking.
“Let me just say, you are an absolute delight. Just wonderful. It’s Joan, right?”
“Yes.” But I don’t like how it comes out. It’s way too quiet. I raise the volume on my voice so that my next words are very easy to hear. “My name is Joan Lennon.”
I’m sitting at the desk in our hotel room, using Dad’s laptop. I can smell his feet from here but I don’t say anything because he looks so comfortable on the bed with Mom curled under his arm. Sometimes Mom seems so big and powerful but Dad can take all that away just by being near her.
I was in a very bad mood after Dad said we weren’t keeping the studio but that was before I got recognized. Getting recognized reminded me of when my songwriting partner who I can’t name took me to New York City and the two ladies spotted him and they wanted to take a picture with him. And now I’m thinking about him and our song and how he sang about starting over and leaving the past behind. I never understood what he was talking about because I can’t leave the past behind no matter what I do, but hearing Dad talk about music during dinner made me hear the words to our song a little differently. Dad started a new job and he said his music days were over, but now he’s going back to music in a new way and he feels good about it. So now I’m thinking that when my songwriting partner who I can’t name sings Leave the past behind, he really means Leave the past behind until it starts to feel good again and then go back to it, but that’s too long to fit in a song so he had to make it shorter.
And that gets me thinking about what Mom told me when we were kicking our legs in the lake or harbor or whatever it was and that’s why I’ve decided to take her advice and do what I do best: remember.
I ask Dad for my songwriting partner’s e-mail address and I start typing. It seems like my partner needs someone to help him remember the right stuff because from what Mom tells me and from what I’ve seen, he’s not very good at doing that by himself.
So I write it all out and now I’m clicking the button that makes it go through the wires and across the universe and into his brain so that his brain can be full of all the things my brain is full of. This way he’ll know that it’s okay to go back to the past now because there are a few things back there that are worth seeing a second time.
38
I’m dancing on a floor of sand while the band plays what I can only describe as island music. The singer performs barefoot on the low outdoor stage, but no one besides the chesty woman by the speaker is paying him any attention. The rest of us have our backs to the musicians, soaking up the sounds, receiving the vibrations, but indifferent to the source.
Veronica shimmies next to me, reaching for my hand every few minutes as if to verify that it’s really happening, that I’m actually here with her in Florida. For now, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. That’s not, however, an entirely organic determination. It’s partly a choice. This music, both in lyric and atmosphere, is insisting that everything is going to be all right, all right, and for once I’m choosing not to dismiss the sentiment out of hand. I don’t typically go for this don’t-worry-be-happy thing. I’ve always preferred songs that are raw-hearted and honest. Songs with integrity and truth. A song like Joan and I tried to make. But tonight I want to be like my sister and Syd. I want to believe that this music isn’t about willfully ignoring the tragedies of life but bravely choosing optimism despite them. Tonight, for once, I want to believe everything will be all right.
After retrieving two more beers from the tiki bar, I weave back through the crowd, hand Veronica her beverage, and semi-shout into her ear, “Paige says I should still do it.”
“Do what?” Veronica yells back.
I sip from my glass, give her time to think. When that doesn’t work, I stare into her eyes until they widen in acknowledgment.
She gets it now, she must, or else she wouldn’t be pulling me by the arm to a quieter spot. We relocate to where the ocean waves produce more noise than the band. She faces me and says, “Yes. My answer is yes. Let’s do it. I’m in.”
This is exactly why I didn’t ask Veronica back when I should’ve asked her. I knew she’d jump on board impulsively before she even knew where the boat was headed or how long the trip would be.
“Don’t just say that,” I tell her. “It’s a huge commitment for you. It goes beyond just handing over your eggs.”
“I know that,” Veronica says, undeterred. “Whatever it takes.”
But I’m still not sure she’s understanding the full magnitude of what I’m suggesting. I’m not sure I understand. “I’m not saying I’d actually do it,” I say. “I’m just putting it out there. I have no idea how it would work. I don’t know how to take care of a kid.”
“Come on. Yes, you do. You’re great with children.”
“Since when?”
She grabs my hand and forces me to sit down with her on a bench. “Since about as long as I can remember. When I was little you’d make these really detailed houses for my dolls out of cardboard boxes from Mom’s store. And you always brought home those frozen-fruit bars for me when you were working at the day camp. And you’d let me sleep in your bed when I was scared even though I’d kick you the whole night. And I’d ask you to take me to the park after school and you’d always say no, because you had better things to do, but then you’d take me anyway. And when I was older and you were in L.A., you called my first boyfriend on the phone, and do you remember what you told him? You said he’d better act like a gentleman because you had people following him. He never wanted to kiss me in public.”
She shakes her head, either because she can’t believe I said that to her boyfriend or because he actually bought it. “Really, I can go on, Gavin. You were just a kid yourself but you were always so thoughtful and nurturing and protective and just there, even when you weren’t.”
I don’t know how she emerged from her precarious beginnings with such positivity and perspective and gratitude. Maybe I did have something to do with that after all.
“And you even fill up my bike tires,” she adds playfully. “Gavin, honestly, I can’t think of anyone who’d make a better father than you. And the fact that you’ve hesitated this long just proves how seriously you’d take it when it finally does happen.”
I look for my beer and find it resting on the ground next to me. “I appreciate what you’re saying, but I can’t do it all by myself.”
“Why not?” Veronica says. “Mom raised us alone and she did a pretty good job.”