christinamguerrero.com ~ the official site ~
I Am The Music
Part One
Chapter One
Copyright 2006 Christina M. Guerrero
DEDICATION
This is for my high school buddies.
I miss you guys.
STORY BEHIND THE STORY
When I was in high school and college, reading those obtuse short stories,
I'd think with glee, "Some day I'm going to write something like this
and put it where everyone can see it, even if I don't get paid to do so."
Thanks to the internet, I've been able to fulfill this goal.
So this is one of my deliberately obtuse plots ...
although I think after one reading you'll figure it out. ;)
ABOUT THE THIRD DRAFT
I wrote this before I started saving drafts, so the first two are history.
Confession: I got the idea for this story while watching
Neal Schon's solo from "Journey Live In Houston."
When I saw that solo for the first time,
this story came to me, fully developed, and I couldn't write it fast enough.
This story touches on the sensitive subject of child abuse.
I tried to be as fair as possible,
and to provide possible explanations for the parents' behavior.
Although I enjoy having written this obtuse little story,
it makes me cry like a baby. The last time this happened,
I decided to write a sequel, and to make the sequel as funny as possible.
When it's finished, I will post a link.
* * * * *
JULY 2006
Trevor stepped out of his midnight blue Corvette.
To his left was Highway Five, stretching north and south across California. To his right
was something he didn’t want to think about or face.
For a moment he glared at the highway. Tears threatened to spill, then retreated, then
threatened once more.
He wiped his eyes, reluctantly shut the driver’s side door and walked around the front of
his car.
The whispery sound of a hot summer breeze wafted through the still air, making him feel
nervous, ruffling his hair and brushing his face, sounding like the ghosts of faded
memories.
He stood alone near an empty two-acre area that had once been a massive stadium and its
surrounding parking lot. Now the area was a huge swatch of dirt with patches of weeds. It
all baked under the hot July sun.
“They razed it,” Trevor mumbled. “The stadium owners ran into financial trouble, so
they sold the building and the property. The new owners said they’d build a hotel here,
but nothing has happened for ten years.”
His cell phone rang, startling him. The display area read, “TWINS.”
“Which one?” Trevor answered.
“Nicolas here. You at the site?”
“Yeah.”
“Give her my love. Sorry we couldn’t make it. Last year was too much for both of us. It’s
not that we’ve moved on. It’s too intense. Too sad. I hope you don’t think we’re sissies.”
“No, Nic. It’s okay. It wipes me out, too.”
“Heard from Gina?”
“Not yet.”
“Take care, man. Twenty-five years, huh? I could care less about closure for Amelia’s
family. But for us ....”
Trevor nodded. “Yeah. At least ... well ... some remains. You know? And if not ... an
article of clothing, or some DNA. Something.”
Nicolas’s voice was somber. “Dude, I gotta go.”
“Okay, Nicky. Say hi to Nelson. Maybe we could celebrate her life when I get back.”
“Yeah, that’s more positive.”
“Bye.”
“Love ya. Bye.”
Trevor examined his position, then began walking, estimating where the parking lot had
been, and where the entrance to the stadium had been.
As he moved away from the highway and toward the area where Amelia had disappeared,
he saw something that looked like flowers where they had enjoyed the concert
twenty-five years ago.
Another hot breeze brushed his face and hair. He looked around, afraid of discovering
ghosts or monsters, but saw only distant low mountains in the west, flat land to the east,
and the highway, which was strangely silent.
Focusing once again on his trek, Trevor used the flowers as a guide. Soon, he stood over
them. He counted twenty-five plus a small card attached to them.
“ ‘We will never forget you,’” Trevor read softly. “ ‘Mickey, Todd, Peter, Juden and
Race.”
Trevor closed his eyes and stroked several roses, praying briefly, thanking God for the
concern of the band. The members of Spaceship had acknowledged Amelia’s
disappearance each year during the past twenty-five years, usually with a concert
benefiting abused children. Ever since the stadium had been razed, the band members
had switched to calling Trevor yearly and placing white roses on the deserted land. When
they had time, they got together with Trevor and his friends for dinner.
His phone rang; he knew who it was without looking.
“Mickey?” he said.
“Yes, sir. How you doing, Trev?”
“Well, thank you. Thank you so much for the flowers. I’m looking at them.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You doing okay?”
“Yeah, old age has been good to me.” Mickey laughed.
“You’re not old. You’re only forty-seven.”
“Feels old sometimes. When I look at tapes of the concerts from back then, I’m like ...
dude, you sure have changed.”
“I saw a picture of you in People Magazine. You don’t look any older than you did back
then.”
Trevor waited for a response, but Mickey was quiet.
“You there, Mick?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re awesome. I can’t believe you’d do this year after year, and take the time to call
us. It means a lot.”
“We care about our fans. You guys sign our paychecks. And we grieve for those who
have less than the ideal concert experience ... and those who suffer from being harassed
when you become part of our posse.”
Trevor smiled. He and the twins, and Gina, were as well known as Spaceship. They had
been interviewed at first by local TV stations, then a few news magazines, then major
talk shows. Since July of 1981, whenever he said his name, people either displayed a
great deal of sympathy or shrieked with pleasure and asked if he was still friends with
Mickey and the other band members.
“Mick, we’ll have a celebration of Amelia’s life in a couple of days. If you’re in Los
Angeles, you’re welcome to stop by.”
“We’re down here now.”
“Cool. Can I call you with the details?”
“Go for it. You take care, Trev.”
“You too, Mickey.”
Trevor put his phone aside, then sighed as he bowed his head and placed a single white
rose near the bouquet.
His cell phone beeped. The display area read, “One Text Message.” He found a note from
Gina: “Tell Amelia Hi. Sorry. Too sad.”
Another breeze rushed past, rustling his hair once again.
“It’s just you and me,” he said.
He knelt, and placed his hands to either side of his knees, running his fingers through the
dusty dirt, closing his eyes, hearing the echoes of time ... remembering ... remembering ...
... the end of the concert ... their happy faces ... exotic Gina; the slender blond boys
Nicolas and Nelson; Trevor himself, tall and dark-haired, a bit heavyset. He had looked
for Amelia, found only the crowd around them, felt uneasy, then figured she was around
somewhere. She was only five feet tall and way too skinny; she was probably behind one
of the others.
But as the crowd thinned and as they discussed reasons for Amelia’s absence, his
discomfort grew. Finally, he told the others, “We are in serious trouble with her parents if
she’s lost.”
They approached security with pale faces and somber attitudes. Soon, an important voice
requested several times through the PA system that “Amelia Dodgson please go to Will
Call at the south side of the venue.”
An hour later, at 12 a.m. they were still there. Trevor had called her parents but no one
was answering, which made him feel temporarily relieved. He anxiously watched as
bright lights switched on inside the stadium, and as security slowly canvassed the rows
and seats.
At 1 a.m. Gina said in a voice that had grown scratchy and weary, “Look. It’s the band.”
A door at the end of a tunnel to stage left stood wide open, and Mickey walked up the
ramp, followed by Todd, Peter, Juden and Race. With solemn faces, they approached
Trevor, Gina and the twins.
Mickey blushed, studied the floor, then extended his right hand to an incredulous Gina
and said, “Hi. I’m Mickey Garfield. I hear you’re having an emergency.”
Nicolas burst into tears. He was fourteen -- the youngest out of their group -- and five
minutes younger than his brother. “What if she was kidnapped? What if she’s already
dead? What can we do?” His face reddened as he cried.
Juden, the bass player, patted Nicolas’s back. “Hey. Maybe she went to the bathroom and
got sick. Maybe she’s out near your car already. There are plenty of explanations for this.
Let’s see what security comes up with.”
An hour later, at 2 a.m., as they all tried to sleep in the band’s quiet room backstage,
Amelia was still missing.
The band had stayed with them, surprising them, sleeping on the floor, promising to help
in any way they could, despite protests from their own security and bodyguards.
Trevor had tried Amelia’s parents throughout the night, but no one was answering.
Later, in the dark hours of the morning, the police arrived.
There had been endless questions. Their fingerprints had been taken. Their parents had
been notified. Finally, after what seemed like forever, they were invited by the band to
get some rest and eat a good meal before they drove back to Los Angeles ...
... Trevor covered his face, shaking his head .... Once back in LA, he had approached
Amelia’s parents, hoping to offer an explanation, but they had insisted everything was
okay, that he didn’t need to tell them anything, and that they were busy, saying all of this
in a manner that was way too bright and cheerful. Trevor wondered about this. He
wondered about a lot of things, but tamped them down. The investigation turned up
nothing unsavory about Amelia’s family, so he often felt stupid about his suspicious
thoughts. The family chose not to have a memorial service, even after a few years, saying
they wanted the police to continue searching as long as they had the manpower. Her
parents continued working at their respective jobs; her siblings grew up and married and
had children. No one ever went out of their way to visit the area or help the police, but
Trevor figured maybe it was too painful for Amelia’s immediate family.
Twenty-five years later, that was still the status quo. Everyone had gotten older; everyone
had moved on. The police had kept the case open, but still had no leads.
“Amelia,” he said. “Where are you? Where did you go?”
He looked around the huge empty patch of dirt, remembering ... going back in time ...
hearing the sounds and sights and excitement of the first of three Spaceship concerts at
the big venue north of Los Angeles ...
* * * * *
JULY 1981
We stood there that evening in the parking lot, admiring the Southern California Arena.
To the west was a line of tour buses and tractor-trailers. To the east and south was the
gigantic parking area. All around were excited fans of all ages and backgrounds, anxious
to get inside and see the hard rock band Spaceship perform.
“I’d give anything to have backstage passes,” Gina said.
She looked so pretty: dark wavy hair; a figure that was way too curvy at age fifteen;
dressed in tight jeans and a pretty pink button-down blouse. Spaceship’s lead singer
Mickey Garfield would take one look at her and be more than happy to sign his
autograph or give her a hug.
Nelson guffawed lewdly, then made obscene gestures with his hands. “So you could do
this, you nerd?”
“No, thanks. Do you have to be so disgusting?”
Nicolas watched them with interest, with a wistful sensitive expression. He never said
anything, but I knew he had as big a crush on Mickey as Gina did. I felt protective of
him, and was always secretly making sure no one was harassing him. Another gay
teenager had recently been shoved around in the gym at school, and now I was afraid for
Nicolas.
Trevor, dear Trevor stood nearby, so tall, so sweet with his big dark green eyes and
friendly smile and easygoing manner. If I could do it over again, I would have confided
only in him. I often caught him looking in my direction, and then quickly looking away. I
wondered what was so fascinating about me. I was short and thin and had no concept of
style. I was morbidly shy and rarely spoke. And I was often moody and sullen. Why
would he look at me?
“Everyone ready?” he asked.
We moved toward the venue, getting more excited as we stood in line. When the doors
opened, a roar broke out among the impatient crowd, and we slowly filed into the
stadium.
There was a frenzy of activity -- getting to our area; going up and down the stairs to the
concession stands for food; returning to our area, getting comfortable.
A few months before, we had agreed to do anything we could to snag floor tickets. We
took turns sleeping outside the ticket agency several days before the tickets went on sale.
Our obsessive behavior netted us four seats in the standing room only area right in front
of the stage.
Now, before the opening act, we sat on the ground on a big blanket, as did other fans, and
ate our dinner.
The others talked nonstop; I just listened. Occasionally Trevor would try to get me
involved, but I would provide one-word answers or short responses, then look shyly at the
others as they chattered. I knew this was socially bizarre, but could not get the words out.
I heard them and understood them, but felt an odd persistent detachment from them, as if
an invisible divide separated us.
Around us, a few people played with huge beach balls. The stadium slowly filled up with
noisy people who cheered at even the tiniest movement from the stage. A drone of soft
pop music blared from the speakers, once in a while prompting people to sing along.
It got closer and closer to 7:30. At 7:25, I turned away from Trevor, Gina and the twins,
and focused on the stage. Red Starz would be the opening act, and I was curious about
them. I was not able to find information on them before we left Los Angeles.
Right on time, the lights went out and the crowd went wild. As the lights brightened
again, the four members of Red Starz appeared near their instruments. The stadium filled
with the energetic pulses of hard rock.
I moved in time to the beat and clapped along, and smiled at Trevor when I caught him
staring. He smiled back, and I felt comfortable instead of bashful.
Just when Red Starz started to get interesting, it was 8:00. They played their last song,
thanked us and Spaceship, and left the stage.
For thirty more minutes we waited as the crews made the changeover. The crowd grew
impatient, and started chanting, then pounding their feet, then doing the wave. As those
of us in the standing room only area stood, the lights went out again.
I couldn’t help myself. In the dark, I jumped up and down and happily shouted with
excitement. I could see shadows moving onstage, and so could the rest of the crowd,
which screamed and cheered and roared in approval.
A drum made two sounds like a heartbeat, and a small spotlight illuminated Race, the
drummer, his hands holding his drumsticks in mid-air, at the rear of the stage.
Two more sounds, and we saw Todd at his keyboards, to our right, ready to play.
Next were Juden on bass and Peter on lead guitar, both of them on either side of the
stage.
All four spotlights began to flash on and off in time to the “heartbeat,” mixing with other
more colorful lights. It was a symphony of sounds and lights and sensations. The
heartbeat grew faster and faster. The lights flashed rapidly. As the crowd’s noises
threatened to destroy my eardrums, a spotlight focused on Mickey Garfield, who slowly
moved out of the floor on a riser, larger than life, all six-feet-four of his skinny frame; his
dark brown hair streaked with golden highlights; his dark brown eyes sparkling with
anticipation; a microphone in his right hand held to his mouth. He wore a flashy silver
ong-sleeved shirt and tight black leather pants.
He shut his eyes, inhaled and shouted, “One! Two! One two three go!”
I raised my hands to the sky. I had to feel the music. “Come On” began with Mickey
singing by himself to the drums and keyboards. He stopped, and started up again, walking
in unison toward the crowd with Juden and Peter; which caused the audience to scream
even louder.
The song exploded into a faster pace. I sang along, not missing a word or a note, my
hands raised high, feeling the bass reverberating, feeling the chord changes not only with
my ears, but with my entire being. I closed my eyes and smiled.
When I opened my eyes, I saw a clear line to the stage. People were swaying back and
forth, and clapping in time to the beat, and cheering. Between two huge sections of
people in front of me was an odd tunnel which led right up to the stage near Peter’s area.
I took off, not caring if I got lost. I got to the base of the stage just in time; someone to
my left tried to move over, but I slammed my hands against the wall as if playing tag and
stayed there for a moment.
Mickey sang passionately, closing his eyes and straining, curling his left hand into a fist.
He went from his normal tenor to an octave higher, to just a bit higher, and ended the
song on an even higher note.
There was a very pregnant pause, then the song started up again. I jumped up and down
with anticipation when Mickey moved slowly to stage left. Rumors claimed he touched
the crowd only during the second song, going from stage left to stage right. I leaned
against the six-foot high stage, and reached up as far as possible, standing on tip-toe.
Mickey continued to sing, and started slapping peoples’ hands. He did this in time to the
beat and as he got closer to me, I reached even further.
He slapped a few hands to my right then reached toward me. But instead of slapping, he
grabbed my hand and tugged. The contact seemed simultaneously lengthy and short. He
let go and moved on, going toward stage right.
A beautiful blonde to my right glared at me. I shifted my eyes away and looked for my
friends. I saw Nicolas making a “get over here” motion. I ran back to him and the others.
Gina mouthed something, and I showed her my hand. She pretended to swoon. I turned to
the stage to see the last of “Come On,” which ended with a big bang as a fireworks went
off behind the stage.
Mickey greeted us with, “How y’all doinnnnnngggg?”
“My Friends” started with its funky melody and beat. I got lost in it, dancing, not even
feeling self-conscious. Nicolas was feeling it, too, and danced over to me and bumped his
hip against mine in time to the beat.
I felt momentarily charmed. He was fourteen; I was seventeen. He accepted me
unconditionally, and didn’t get irritated at my quietness. We could spend a lot of time
together saying hardly anything. He always had a kind word for me. That was why I
looked out for him.
He bumped against me until the song ended, then grinned, showing his braces. I smiled
back shyly.
The slow haunting song “Sad Days” started. People held out their arms or cigarette
lighters and swayed.
That was when my mood changed.
I wanted to have a great time, and forget about what waited for me back in Los Angeles. I
wanted just a few hours of pure happiness. I wanted all the bad things to go away.
But the song brought everything I hated into my mind. Mickey had written this song after
visiting a juvenile detention center. He volunteered in between recording and touring,
and had been touched by the stories he heard.
I watched silently, and was vaguely aware of my friends swaying back and forth along
with the rest of the SRO crowd.
A swirling sensation began somewhere behind my sternum, and went faster and faster. A
second swirling sensation began in my head, crowding out all the good things that had
happened since I left home that afternoon, happy to get away from the horrendous things
going on inside that innocent-looking suburban house.
I suddenly had trouble breathing, and began to wheeze. Of course the concert was so loud
that no one noticed. All the happiness left me, as if I were an almost empty tube of
toothpaste being squeezed unmercifully by a tightwad.
The swirling sensations grew more and more intense. I stiffened, suddenly wanting to
hurt someone. I thought about tackling a tall brunette woman in front of me and ripping
her hair out, just for the hell of it. For a moment, I was terrified at what I might do, then
the violent feelings slowly passed, leaving me terribly sad.
For what seemed like the millionth time, I was tempted to get Trevor or Gina alone and
tell them everything. Everything. Maybe they could help me. Maybe?
But I had tried that with other people, and had been mocked one too many times. I was
afraid. If either one of them didn’t believe me, or laughed, or refused to help, I knew I
would be tempted to do something terrible.
There were also other factors I had to consider. They had their own problems, and didn’t
need to feel obligated to help me with mine. Gina had a brother with cerebral palsy, and
was expected to help with his care. She often felt stressed. Nicolas -- ever the
peacemaker -- provided wisdom beyond his years: “Just schedule your days carefully,
Gina.” Trevor had a father who was just plain irresponsible, yet somehow Trevor had a
positive attitude, probably because he went to counseling at our high school. The peer
support group seemed to be good for him.
No, I couldn’t burden them.
Another option -- I had thought of leaving home. I knew I could go. I had heard of foster
care.
But I was as wise as Nicolas. Things were bad, but they could be much worse. I had
enough common sense to understand I wasn’t strong enough or mature enough to handle
any more than what I silently endured. It wasn’t a healthy situation, but it was better than
being somewhere else, among those who might take even more.
Bottom line: I knew how to handle it. I had learned how to be invisible. Any signs of a
personality, or happiness, or individuality I had learned to hide. These things were not
encouraged, so I indulged in them in secret. That was how it had been for a very long
time. I often thought that since they focused only on me, that saved the others. It was my
life. I knew no one had a perfect life. It was something to deal with and learn from, and
survive.
And that was okay.
No, it wasn’t.
I lowered my head. I often felt dangerous when I realized the gravity of my situation.
Why exactly were they targeting me? Was I special? I didn’t want to do it anymore. I
wanted to be left alone, and have a “normal” childhood, or what was left of it. I would be
eighteen in seven months.
Once again, I understood that it could be worse, that not everyone gets to have a perfect
childhood free from pain. I was one of the unlucky ones, and I needed to deal with it.
“Sad Days” continued. As Mickey sang the bridge, I could see he was getting emotional. His nose reddened; a single tear flowed down his right cheek. However, he continued to
sing in a strong voice, impressing me.
I watched, feeling numb. After this concert, after these few hours of joy, I had to go back.
I wasn’t happy anymore.
For about fifteen minutes, I stood there quietly, not moving, once in a while checking the
others, glad that the twins were too busy reacting to each others’ excitement; and that
Gina and Trevor had moved to the twins’ right side, away from me. No one was paying
attention to me, which was good. I didn’t feel like faking it for now.
A memory of an incident invaded my precious remaining sense of safety ...
... Hiding in my closet, standing there among my clothes, as my father looked for me and
then said, “Get out here. We need to talk.”
Reluctantly, I had followed him out of the room and into the kitchen. I could hear the
others downstairs, away from this Disease. That was what I called them. Most people call
their parents Mom and Dad. I mentally regarded them collectively as The Disease.
Mom sat at the table, looking at me as if I had sprouted something bizarre on my
forehead. Dad paced back and forth, and my heart started pounding.
“Did you take our sex toys out of our bedroom?” Dad asked as he continued to pace.
I sat down, staring at first one, then the other. This was disgusting on so many levels, that
I couldn’t even begin to respond.
Mom scared me with her sharp tone and loud voice. “Where ARE they, Amelia?”
Dad stopped pacing and examined me. Something reasonable entered his eyes, then he
squinted. “They are missing, and as the oldest child in this household, you need to take
charge and make sure your baby brother isn’t exposed to them.”
My latent rage softened, and I abruptly recognized that their sex toys were their
responsibility, not mine. That made me feel just a little bit better.
“Are you using them?” Mom asked me in a matter-of-fact way, as if discussing a recipe.
Dad snorted. Mom giggled.
Dad giggled too, then laughed heartily, and Mom joined in.
I began to tremble, feeling the most intense rage yet. But my thoughts were rational.
Should I do something utterly stupid, like take it out on them, I could go to jail. Vaguely,
I knew I needed to discuss this with someone, but I also knew -- and wasn’t sure why --
that if I told the wrong people, I could be removed. The others might be removed, too.
What if someone was molested, or killed? Then it would be my fault.
If I said nothing I could save the whole family. I had only seven months left. I would
leave then, and escape from from nine years of this treatment. No one else would be hurt
except me.
“I found them!” someone said downstairs.
One of the Disease-lets came upstairs (my fifteen-year-old brother) holding a shoebox.
He gave this to Dad and said, “Guess Amelia didn’t have them after all.” He snickered
before returning to the basement.
I got out of the chair, but Mom stopped me with, “You ever use them?”
Dad raised his eyebrows up and down.
Suddenly, I felt the most incredible emotions. I was tired and impatient and irritated.
Why didn’t I feel this way more often?
Remembering I could usually escape by not looking them in the eyes, and by keeping my
voice as emotionless as possible, I asked the closest dining room chair quietly but firmly,
“May I be excused? I have some trigonometry homework to do.”
“In your closet?” Dad asked, laughing.
“No. I was in there because I did not want to be disturbed.” I spoke slowly and distinctly
as if addressing a toddler. “I’m having trouble understanding the subject, and didn’t have
time to come out here.”
Mom said, “Of course. Go back and do your homework. We know how important good
grades are to you.”
I grudgingly appreciated this rare moment of understanding. I avoided their eyes. I turned
and walked slowly to my room, hoping they wouldn’t need anything else.
As I was about to shut my door Dad said, “She didn’t have time to COME out here. Get
it?”
They laughed softly ...
... As I stood at the concert, I felt the bad mood lifting a bit. The slow song had ended and
Mickey said, “Thank you. That’s a special song to me. It’s about abused children. Please
do what you can to relieve their suffering. In some cases, you can be anonymous.”
He walked toward the rear of the stage as the rest of the band played a quiet interlude that
sounded like a combination of new age and jazz. Gradually the soft music turned into a
gentle version of the introduction to their fast-paced song “Speed of Light.”
A big section of the crowd cheered. They started pounding and clapping. Soon, the entire
stadium was keeping time to the growing beat. Lights flashed on and off, hiding and
exposing the musicians. My world turned into shades of black and white, and sounds of
my favorite song pulsing around me.
A light focused on Mickey, who had returned to the front of the stage. How did he get
there? The stadium roared with approval. With a hoarser, grittier voice than before, he
began singing.
I raised my hands. I loved feeling the music, and letting it surround me.
Images burned their way into my brain, captured for future use: Mickey straining to get
the words out; his skinny body moving sexily in time to the music; the lights pulsing; the
music pounding.
I reached higher, letting the sympathetic vibrations from the bass touch me from my
fingertips to my soles. After a while, it seemed like I had always been there, stretched
out, full of joy once again.
And then suddenly, from up above, a heart-stopping velvety sensation tickled my fingers.
I squeezed, not sure why.
The sensation squeezed back.
A strange knowledge filled me up: I had to make a decision, and quickly. There was a
place I could go to, where I would be part of a team; where we would help each other
move forward; where we would work together compatibly; where feeling either ecstatic
or despondent would not be looked down upon, but instead accepted, and even
encouraged at times. We would be managed by a variety of leaders, all of them talented,
wise and creative.
Most important of all, they were free, and I could be, as well.
I chose to hang on, and a few seconds later, I was gone. I would not be able to go back.
The horrible sadness vanished. I would now be able to heal. I understood that Trevor would have listened had I shared; but that Gina would have been
less patient because of her responsibilities; and that had I told them, the twins would
have dropped anything and helped me at a moment’s notice because they loved me as a
friend. I discovered that my parents had each been traumatized repeatedly as children,
and still coped with others in ways they had been taught and had not yet discarded. I was
far away from forgiving them, but felt a great deal of compassion for them.
I looked around, amazed that just a small change could make me happy. I felt such peace. I had no idea that so much happiness could be a part of my world.
But now it was.
I looked at Gina, Trevor and the twins one last time.
Then I had to move on, grateful to do so, and already prepared to pay back those who had
helped me so generously, by jumping right in and moving on.
* * * * *
JULY 2006
... Trevor raised his head.
The empty space stretched out around him: silent, still, dusty.
Sometimes he wondered. As a newspaper reporter, sometimes he wondered about a lot of
things when he had to interview the disadvantaged, and the abused, and the homeless. He
looked into their eyes, and would later compare his only photo of Amelia with his mental
images of these people.
His photograph showed her from that evening, just outside his car, dressed in jeans, a
light blue blouse and a black leather jacket that was too big. Her long blonde hair hung
around her face ... a wise yet sad face ... a face that seemed much older than a
high-schooler’s ... less like a semi-innocent almost-adult’s, and more like the emotionless
resigned faces of those he wrote about.
He wanted to believe she had escaped, had changed her name, had gone underground,
anything that indicated she still lived.
As he stood, he cried about her disappearance for the first time since that night, mourning
the loss of her, wondering how she would have changed the world had she left the
concert with them.
“Where are you, Amelia?” he begged the still air. “Where ARE you?”
On the highway, moving north, a light blue pickup truck distracted him. The truck’s
music must have been turned full blast, because he could hear it from about a hundred
feet away, where he sat near the flowers.
Spaceship’s “Speed of Light” played inside the truck.
“AMELIA!” Trevor shouted, letting loose some of the strain he had been holding inside
for twenty-five years.
The truck continued on, blasting the song for a few more yards, then disappeared into the
north.
The music swirled around Trevor’s ears, reminding him of the lyrics, the melody, the
chords, the bass.
For no reason he could think of, he looked up from Amelia’s last known spot on Earth
and imagined he could see the song’s notes fading into the heavens.
For a few blessed moments he believed she was in a better place.
* ~* END *~*
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