I squeeze my eyes shut and massage my jaw so hard, it hurts. A restless thrum echoes in my ear like a moth trapped in glass,and the pain sharpens with every beat. "I think I have a migraine coming on. I’m gonna take some medicine and see if I can sleep it off."
I look at Patty, but he’s already looking away, hunched over the guitar, playing a meticulous solo that would leave me in awe of his talent if I weren’t so frustrated by it.
By him.
By me.
Momma gets my medication for me and insists on walking me up to my childhood room and tucking me in. She cracks my window, letting in a bit of fresh, cold air just how I like it. We both know if I throw up, the smell will make me feel even worse.
And maybe it’s because the pain has dulled my inhibitions, but the question I’ve always wanted to ask her springs to my lips.
"How could you leave it all when it makes you so happy?"
Momma shrugs, smiling and smoothing my hair. "Music still makes me happy. But I had something that made me happier."
"Dad should never have?—"
"Don’t. Don’t blame him for my choices."
"You didn’t have a choice! It was him or music."
Momma shakes her head. "I know it looks that way, but that was never the issue. It was me or a lifetime of being on tour."
"You didn’t have to tour every year. You could have taken longer breaks, could have had fewer stops. You could have flown?—"
"It was a different time, and there were different expectations, and it was no life for a family."
"So it’s not just Dad who ended your career. It’s having a family. Good to know," I say, my voice sharp, my throat aching. I sound so bitter. So hurt. Because Iam.
But Momma just keeps running her hands through my hair. My eyes are heavy from the pain, but also from her soothing touch.
"I’m sorry it was hard for you.” Her voice is tender. “I wish I’d known how to balance it all better. Being a mom means taking the weight of everyone else’s emotions into consideration, and maybe I should have done a better job with yours."
I turn my face into the pillow, my voice barely above a whisper. "If you had to do it over again, would you still have left?"
Momma’s hand stops in my hair for just a second before she resumes, her touch steady but slower now, like she’s thinking too hard about something she doesn’t want to say.
"Yes."
She sounds so sure, but then why did her hand stop?
"You wouldn’t have changed a thing?"
"There’s no right answer to that question, Lou Lou."
"Yes, there is." My throat tightens. "You just don’t want to say it."
I barely catch her sigh over the pounding in my skull. "I would have done a lot of things differently. Buthereis where I want to be."
Here. With us. With Dad. Without music.
I stare up at the ceiling, my chest aching. "But you were so happy tonight."
Her fingers trace slow patterns along my forehead. "I never stopped loving music. I just stopped loving what came with it."
I swallow, the words sticking in my throat like thorns. "Because of Dad."
She hesitates, just long enough to make my pulse pick up. Then, softly, "Because of everything."
