We grew apart as we grew older. There had been a time, quite a while ago, where I had seen myself in her. Or perhaps it was the other way around, because I was the one who had always looked up to her. When she grinned, I would beam. When she reached out towards me, I would grasp for her arm as if it were my lifeline.
And when she would sing, I would stand in front of her, mesmerized, unyielding to no one’s voice but hers. And she knew, because she would always cut glances at me between the verses, or throw a playful wink at the audience at the end of her piece, although I knew every time that it was just for me.
Those were the memories that characterized the first half of my childhood. There was always an element of chasing when it came to her, solely because I wanted to embody everything she was. Although in due time I allowed myself to accept that I did not have the charm she had- neither with my voice nor my appearance- so I resorted to jotting my ideas and thoughts on paper, in between the lines of novels and scribbled on the back of receipts.
I stopped going to her concerts when we abruptly lost our connection. I was simply put off by the fact that her voice shifted from her natural, soothing gentleness to a sultry rasp and sang with her eyes glazed over, as if she was idly looking for something miles away. Sometimes she would smoke a cigarette on stage, the stench amplified by the stuffy heat of the crowd. I would cover my mouth. The crowd went wild.
When we met up during the few times that we did every year, we would sit next to each other at the dinner table, in the same two spots that we did growing up. She often came rushedly after a show, and the pungent smell of her perfume barely covered her stench of smoke. Still, with a smile plastered on her face, she would be received wonderfully. She knew how to be, always. Her eyes were often bloodshot, although I doubt my parents really understood why.
She told them that it was because they got dry while she was touring.
And we didn’t have much to say to each other after she asked me how I was, and I said good, fine. And when I asked her she would smile distantly and say wonderful, thanks so much! as if she were on television.
One Christmas I considered confronting her about the way she was living. But she
left on business before I could say more than twenty words to her that night.
I believe speaking to her at the hospital was one of the first times that I had spoken, really spoken to her, in years. Seeing her so incredibly enfeebled, with barely enough energy to open her mouth, was sickening. When she did open her mouth, her breath reeked of cigarette smoke. But her eyes were clear when I knelt beside her, and she extended her right arm towards me, which an IV stuck out of the back of her hand.
“You know I’ve always admired you, right?” she said to me hoarsely. She gave me a small, anticipatory smile.
I think I would have laughed if I hadn’t choked up at the same moment. Admired me?
“Are you feeling okay?” I asked her instead.
“No, I’m serious. I look up to you.”
I finally returned a dry smile. “You admire me, Lucy, because we hardly know each other anymore.”
--
Skye Bassett is a high school junior from Seattle, Washington. She is an avid writer and ice skater, spending most of her free time skating or skiing with her friends. She loves animals and aspires to be a veterinarian in the future, and currently volunteers at an animal shelter. Some of her other hobbies include dance and baking.
Comments