They're not unlike the grueling rehearsals I put in during my Sassy Cat days, but I never had a kid at home waiting for me then. But I was also twenty years younger then, so my well of energy never seemed to run dry.
Now it's like the Sahara in there.
And then add a four-year-old.
When this is done, I'm sleeping for a month. Maybe two.
I don't know how the rest of the cast and crew here do it. I've been in rehearsals for eight days now, and every inch of my body hurts. And I don't even really dance. I do stand around in heels for most of the day, and by the time I get home, my toes and ankles bear a striking resemblance to the sausages hanging in the window of the Wurst Haus on Chapel Street.
Last week, when they were still doing their other show, I got a break from rehearsals in the evening. This week, we're running until almost midnight every night. It's probably a good thing Henderson and I put a pin in things for the time being. Even if I wanted to, I'm too tired for anything else.
We open in two days, which is a day earlier than the normal schedule. They had to do it, to accommodate the demand for tickets.
The demand for me.
It's unspoken but understood that this feverish pace is because of my presence here. I even feel a little guilty, forcing the cast to work at a breakneck pace to hit the stage a day earlier. I should do something nice.
"Maria, let's stop at the coffee shop. I want to see if she can bring up a treat for everyone either today … or tomorrow." Sometimes I forget that I'm not in LA anymore and things don't work as quickly here.
I leave Maria and Paisley in the car while I run into Dean's Beans. While it seems like half the population of Hicklam swings by the kitschy cafe for their caffeine fix, they usually aren't all in here at once. Today, it's wall to wall people, and the barista behind the counter looks as if she's going to collapse. There's a tall, skinny kid working frantically to foam a drink and failing terribly.
Maybe I should come back later. This doesn't seem like the most opportune time to put in a large catering order. As I'm about to slink out the door, Heidi—I think that's her name—spots me. Her eyes grow wide in panic. She shakes her head violently from side to side in an attempt to convey some sort of message to me.
I don't understand.
But then I see it and I know, and it's too late.
One person turns. And then another. Still another. Heads and eyes swivel toward me. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see the recognition in their faces.
"Tabby!" someone screams. That's all it takes for the crowd to push forward, closing the gaps between them and me. The noise level rises, compounded by the hiss of the steam machine.
This is not good.
When I was a Sassy Cat, we always had a team of burly security guards to keep us from being flattened. I haven't had a security detail in years.
You don't really need one when no one recognizes you.
But I need it right now.
Above the din, I hear the door chime behind me and feel the rush of hot summer air as the door opens. The small hand slipping into mine tells me it's the last person who should be in here. She's likely to be crushed.
"Is that your daughter?"
"She's so big."
"She's so cute!"
"Who's her father?"
The last question has me gripping Paisley's hand for dear life. Nope, I'm not doing this now. I turn, scooping Paisley up into my arms and rushing outside into the bright sunlight where Maria is waiting.
"Holy cow! What happened?"
Clutching Paisley to my body with one arm, I grab Maria with my free hand, practically dragging her to the car. "Take her. Now."
Maria is surprisingly fast and nimble. She scoops Paisley from me, buckling her into her booster before sliding around into the driver's seat. I open the passenger door, but stop. I almost forgot what I should be doing. All these people—they're here for me.
For The Edison.
