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James would drop everything if he knew it was this bad; it’s what he does. He left his full scholarship when, barely five months after shooting up the music charts, I had to be admitted to rehab for my pills addiction. The fact that the college waited for him says more about him and his talent than any musical piece he’s ever composed ever will. But for once, I don’t want to burden him with this too.
Because this is stupid.
Isaiah: Just texted him. The idiot stayed up to watch my show from across the pond.
Mom: That sounds like him. Listen, Zay, I am rethinking my decision. Maybe I should be with my boys at Christmas.
Isaiah: Don’t rethink it, mom. One of your boys is teaching in Paris and probably having concerts back-to-back during the holiday season, and the other one of your boys is going to be sleeping straight until New Year’s.
Mom: Tired, baby?
Isaiah: Very tired baby.
Mom: Your mom should be there when you get home.
Isaiah: My mom should stay where she is and keep playing her cello for as long as she wants to.
Mom: For as long as I can, baby. I need to work with the time I have left.
Suddenly, I’m fighting tears.
Isaiah: You… You’ll have a lot of time, ok? You’ll have all the time in the world.
Mom: I know, baby. But just in case.
Isaiah: It makes me so happy that you’re doing this, mom. So happy.
Mom: It makes me happy too, Zay. You brother was telling me the same thing the other day.
Isaiah: Good. We’re on the same page. As usual.
Mom: But not in the same continent.
Isaiah: Also as usual.
Mom: Will you be ok, Isaiah?
Isaiah: Of course I will.
She sends me kisses and I send her love and then I let her go, leaning back and closing my eyes, exhausted. We’ve always met up on New Year’s Day, the three of us, even with our crazy lives. But three years ago, mom was diagnosed with degenerative arthritis in her hands, which means that she might not be able to play the cello for much longer.
She will still be able to teach, conduct and compose, but her passion is playing the cello. Right now, she is first chair in more than three philharmonic orchestras, something of a rock star in the classical music scene. And she needs to be able to do this for as long as she can.
I know she is in way too much pain while she plays, but she takes a mountain of medication to be able to endure it and she never complains. How can she be so strong? Here I am, falling apart because I thought I saw the ghost of a memory.
A soft snow is beginning to fall, glistening in the pale morning light. Christmas Eve is dawning in New York. I turn off my phone once more, shaking myself awake as we near my hotel. I look out the window, at the busy activity on the pavement. A crowd has gathered, already waiting for me, cameras and phones ready. My guards stand with their backs in front of them, ready to open my door and rush me inside.
While the members of my band are heading towards their families, or what each of them has passing for a family these days, I’m heading towards uniformed men. Strangers I hardly know, men who are being paid with the money I make, to block the way between the seas of my adoring fans and me.
And the thought dawns on me once more:
I hate my life.
The Elliot sisters chat room
Eden: So, I almost died last night.
Manuela: You WHAT?
