Disclaimer: No, sadly not mine.
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Prologue
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My Dad always told me that if you're really lucky, you get constants in life. Be it people, places, or things, they give you a sense of continuity and stability. I'm really lucky because I, Lane Andrews, have three.
The first is my Dad of course. He's been my the center of my world my whole life, and I love it. I admit freely-I'm a Daddy's girl and I absolutely adore it. I worship my Dad, he's my hero. And I get to see him all the time because he works from home. You know the magazine Riff? My Dad's the creator and Editor-In-Chief. Yep, that's right. Jamie Andrews, music mogul is my father. How lucky am I?
The second one would have to be without a doubt my best friend Lucas. He's lived next door to me my whole life. Our family's occupy the two top floor penthouses of the Winchester Building in New York and we pretty much see each other about twenty hours a day. Lucas is an artist, and a great one at that. He's the youngest artist to have a painting on display in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I've never wanted or felt the need for a sibling, because I've got him and he's the best brother I could ever ask for.
The third is music. My Dad controls a rock empire, of course it's a part of my life. I love it like most people love food or air. I've been writing songs since before I could form coherent sentences. On my seventh birthday my Dad gave me a guitar and lessons-I haven't looked back since. My dream is to be a song writer, but he doesn't approve. He says the music industry destroys people, young girls in particular. When I point out that he's in the music industry he tells me his distance is the only thing that's kept him sane. At those times, he gets this look in his eyes and I get the feeling there's something he's not telling me. I know he wasn't a musician-he can't sing to save his life and he doesn't play an instrument. That's why he has Riff and why he manages artists. He loves music, but can't really contribute creatively.
When I tell people about my constants, or my Dad, the first thing they always ask is "What about your Mom?" I just say I don't really want to talk about it. And they drop it of course, no one wants to risk upsetting the poor little girl with no mother. But that's not the reason I don't say anything.
It's because I don't remember her.
It used to bother me that I never thought about my Mom. My Dad has made my life so wonderful, I never really believed there was anything she could have done to make it better. I don't want siblings. I've got Lucas and I have my Dad all to myself. I'm not that girly, so she wouldn't have been able to teach me to cook or anything like that. I just never felt I needed one.
Oh sure, I've wondered. She was my mother after all. But not enough to ask questions. I did once and my Dad almost started to cry. That was the moment I understood why there are no pictures of her, no mention of her name, why we pretend she doesn't exist. It hurts my Dad too much to talk about her.
That's another constant in my life, the one I don't talk about. My Mom. The woman gave me life and I don't even know her name. My Dad just says 'your mother' on the rare occasion he talks about her. There are no pictures. I saw one once, but it was more of my Dad than her.
Whenever my grandparents come to visit they always bring pictures of my Dad. He's always worn glasses. I've only seen two where he wasn't. One was his high school graduation picture. The other is one of him and my Mom. They're the only pictures of my Dad I've ever seen at that age. From sixteen to twenty there's almost nothing. Just those two.
Lucas and I found it in a drawer when we were nine. My Dad is leaning on a wall by an ocean or lake somewhere, his arm propped on it but facing toward the camera. Only, he's not looking at it. He gazing up at a girl sitting on the wall. I can't see he face because she's looking back at him and her face is hidden behind her dark red hair. I know it's her because he looks totally and completely in love. He caught us and confirmed it, she's my mother.
That's the only time I've ever seen her.
I know it should bother me that I don't think about her, don't miss her. I know other people who have lost their moms and they say they miss them like crazy. Maybe I don't because I can't remember her. Or because my Dad has always given me whatever I needed, he bought me my first bra after all, that I don't.
Lucas, being the artist and so in touch with his emotions, holds firm to the belief that my lack of attention to my Mom has to do with the fact that I don't know anything about her. I've never seen a picture of her, I don't know her name, I wouldn't know her if she were alive and I walked past her on the street. Thus she's not 'real' to me. If I did, then she would be relevant and I'd miss her.
And I don't want to. My life is great. Thinking about her would just complicate things. It's better to pretend she never existed at all.