"It's almost time," Carlotta stuck her face through the worn velour curtain that screened the tiny green room off from the bar floor, "Everybody ready?"
"Ready, oh Fearless Leader," Hannah bumped Christine's elbow for the sixth time as she vigorously rosined her bow. The brunette stuck out an impish tongue as Christine grumbled and swiped at the flecks of white dust that sparkled down her black skirt.
"Sorry, hon," she shrugged, "not much room to maneuver in this broom closet."
Christine didn't reply. As she scraped at the rosin on her skirt, she felt her heartbeat stuttering more wildly with every passing second.
She couldn't believe she'd been looking forward to this. But after the great rehearsals of the past two nights, Christine had felt not only comfortable but confident in the idea of being on stage.
After all, the band was great, Carlotta was an exacting but talented director, and the songs were catchy and fun.
However, at five minutes from show time, with all her friends from the hospital in attendance—not to mention her new boyfriend—Christine was just now remembering that this would be her first time on stage since her father died.
She was going to choke. With so little preparation, how could she avoid it? And when she did…it was going to shame the memory of her father, and all the work that they'd done together.
Of course, none of that would matter if she couldn't get this damn stain off her skirt. If she didn't, the quality of her singing wouldn't matter. Everyone would be staring at that instead.
"Hey," Carlotta's hand was on her arm, "are you okay?"
She contemplated lying, but tears were bubbling warm just below her lids, too insistent to be pushed back. "I'm not sure I can do this," she whispered. "I shouldn't have rushed into it…I'm just gonna let you down."
"No, you're not," Carlotta replied firmly, grabbing a nearby chamois—ignoring the trombonist's indignant sputter—and wetting it with a splash from her water bottle. She scrubbed at the rosin flakes and muttered, "I'm not gonna let you. This is the last show we'll do before my album drops, and if you don't get it right I'm gonna make you buy more than one measly copy."
Christine managed a weak chuckle. "Well, in that case…I'll do my best."
The butterflies in her stomach didn't care about her promise. They were whirling like a hurricane, and she felt like she might faint, vomit, or both.
Carlotta's rough, prodding fingers were so different from her father's warm, broad hand resting on her back. He'd always held her close, just before a show…reminding her of a difficult transition, an accent to hit, or the cues he would give her. Christine could curse her memory.
For years, she had ignored or suppressed thoughts of his pleasant, steady voice, and now they were loud in her ears.
She was going to fail. She was going to fail. How could she succeed at this without him?
Christine closed her eyes so tight she saw stars. But the close darkness was stifling and did not ease her fear. "I am not going to panic," she whispered, trying to force her unsteady breaths into an even rhythm. "I am not," she repeated.
"You're going to be great," Carlotta's hand on her back was too cool and too slim to conflict with the phantom memory of her father's, but somehow it still managed to comfort.
She cracked her eyes open just wide enough to see Carlotta's wry smile.
"I really mean it," she said, "you are. I couldn't believe how fast you picked things up during practice. You're the real deal…and one day you're gonna have a show of your own."
Christine straightened up, tension unspooling like a rusty vise between her shoulder blades. Her vision was hazy still with the threat of tears, but she swallowed hard, blinked, and they vanished.
"Thanks," her voice was jagged. She cleared it, shaking her head and sighing. "I feel like such an idiot…for months, I thought you were just this selfish, uncaring bitch."
"Well, don't rush to canonize me yet," Carlotta brushed a perfectly styled red curl off her ivory forehead, "I am a bitch. And if you weren't performing in my act, I'd rather eat crushed glass than compliment your voice. You're good, Dale…and this town is too small for two tremendous sopranos."
It felt good to laugh. "So what you're saying is that once this is over, it's on. Okay then, bitch," she grinned in the face of Carlotta's incredulous gasp, "let's do this."
()()()
The world beyond the pool of light that whelmed around the band did not exist.
Christine did not search the darkness for anything familiar—not Meg's hair gleaming like buried gold, not the sparkle of Rebecca's wire-rimmed glasses, not the flash of Raoul's broad sunny smile—because their existence did not matter.
Her own existence did not matter.
All that mattered was the song. How her voice brought it to life, made it soar, sent it fluttering into the air for anyone or everyone to hear.
The lyrics were simple. Often she did nothing more than hum along with the melody, her voice a buttress to the swelling music. When she did have something to say, she said it with her whole soul, with every drop of blood that surged through her heart.
The applause that filled the silence between songs was air in her lungs, the universe's karmic feedback for the beauty she gave it. She took in the enthusiasm, the cheers, the appreciation, and fed it right back into the next song.
When the final note dropped heavy into the night and the house lights came up, Christine felt embarrassed, almost as though she stood naked and exposed in the sudden brilliance.
Standing onstage, pinned there by the rush of people to congratulate them, she grinned awkwardly and could barely nod her thanks in the face of her friends' exuberance.
It would have been easier to just slink back into the green room under cover of shadow and sneak right out the back door!
As it was, Meg made her stay on stage for picture after picture, posing her as easily as she'd maneuver a Barbie doll. Raoul pressed a drink into her hand and wouldn't leave her alone until she'd drained it to the last drop. Finally, tipsy from the double shot of whisky and flushed almost as red as the rose Raoul presented her with—along with a kiss to her hand—she managed to make an escape down the hallway to the bathroom.
Solitude. Comparative stillness. The walls were thin; she could still hear the low rumble of chatter, punctuated by the occasional exclamation or cut-off shriek of laughter. But they gave her the moment of mental space she needed.
Christine locked herself into a stall and balanced shakily on the edge of the toilet. She stared down at the rounded, scuffed toes of her old black pumps and toyed with the faded hem of her old black dress.
She breathed as deeply as she could in the atmosphere of stale, spilled liquor and lemon-scented cleaner.
"I am not going to panic," the words came to her lips by rote. It was true, she would not panic…but for a moment, it felt like she was tearing apart at the seams.
Tears leaked from behind her closed eyes, too swiftly to be choked back. She sobbed then, almost gasping for air, as she buried her face in her hands, bending forward until she pressed hard against her knees.
Relief, exhilaration, adrenaline, pride…a riot of emotions rolled jumbled endorphins together into a champagne cocktail in her blood. Christine laughed just as easily as she cried, until her voice trailed off into a hoarse whisper and she just sat, silent, hidden in the shadows cradled between her fingers.
Eventually she sat upright, wiping sweat and tears from her face with broad strokes. The alcohol in her blood made her head spin; she supported herself with both hands on the stall's walls as she levered herself upright.
The moment she clicked back the lock, she heard Meg chuckle and say, "Thank God. I was worried you'd choke on your own tongue in there."
"Oh, you're kidding me," Christine had no energy for her friend right now, "I'm surprised you didn't break the door down."
She turned on the sink and washed her hands. One glance in the mirror told her that her makeup was a lost cause, so she just splashed the icy spray on her face and wiped it off with a handful of paper towels.
When she looked up, Meg was holding out a bottle of water. "You sounded pretty parched in there."
"Thanks," she took it and rolled the cold bottle over the back of her neck before gulping half of it down. "I needed that."
They stood in companionable quiet for a moment, Christine still not able to meet her friend's eyes. Somehow the visions of her past—the memories that crowded thick and fast before her sight—obscured her view of the present.
It wasn't possible to see Meg when she was still seeing her father's smile.
"You were amazing," Meg's voice broke through the illusion as though it were no stronger than spider silk. "I know I said it before, but…even with Carlotta being all sultry in the spotlight, you were still a star. Everyone else thought so too."
She shrugged, gnawing on her lip to keep a pleased grin from surfacing. "I was just her backup singer. Anyone would have sounded good on those songs. She's really a…" I'd rather eat crushed glass, "a good musician."
"Hmm," Meg's raised eyebrow told Christine that she saw right through her. "Well, you're a hell of a singer anyway. Why haven't you sung for me before?"
"I was working up to it," she cried, "Remember, I only started again a few months ago. And it's not like a jazz group was on my radar anyway. If Carlotta hadn't needed the favor, I don't know when I would have gotten on stage."
"Then, in a way, she did you a favor."
"I guess," it galled to admit it, but Meg was right. "Even if it was a totally self-interested—"
The door banged open and Carlotta swept in, nodding to each of them before settling on her reflection in the mirror.
"What are you doing hiding in here?" she asked, in between dabs of her lipstick. Her dark-lined eyes studied Christine's blotchy, flushed face. "If you need some concealer, I've got some in the back."
"She's fine," Meg bristled, tucking her arm around Christine's shoulders and drawing her away, "We're just going to get another drink."
Carlotta waved them off with her pinky, focused entirely on the arched bow of her lower lip.
"What a jerk," Meg muttered.
"Still, she's right. I look pretty bad," Christine tried to laugh it off, but she really didn't want to go back into the crowd. "I think I'll just step outside for a sec…until I've calmed down a bit."
"Want me to come with?"
"No, it's okay," she said, stepping back from her friend's arm, "I'll just be a minute."
She stepped down the hall and scurried through the bar's tiny kitchen, where a few fry cooks glanced at her curiously before returning to their baskets of onion rings and garlic bread. Christine shoved open the delivery door and stepped into the alley outside.
The chilly evening air pulled her back to reality faster than anything else. Christine leaned against the brick wall and sighed.
"What a night," she murmured.
"What a night, indeed," a voice replied.
She jerked upright, heart galloping in the hollow of her throat until she thought she might choke on it.
"Erik," she managed, though her voice was strangled and raw, "you came."