WREN

Motown croons from a playlist I carefully compiled for housework. I’m on hands and knees scrubbing my kitchen floor and this kind of music helps the medicine go down. Woke up with an urge to scour.

Knees barking for a break I stand up and stretch. “Oh God, that feels good! Uhhh!!!”

A few minutes and fresher water later—I Heard It Through The Grapevine by Marvin Gaye, making my butt bounce—I’m on the floor scrubbing the last eight months, maybe nine, from my tiles.

The phone has bounced across the granite counter several times during however long I’ve been down here. I knew if I picked it up I’d stop cleaning. Couldn’t take the chance of a two-toned floor haunting my weeks to come. Living alone I can get away with a lot, I’m the queen of this shoebox, but a kitchen of half clean half filth? Nope nope nope. I don’t need that kind of guilt. Over time gradually growing darker in a consistent fashion, that I am fine with.

After at least another hour I swirl my hips to the end beats of Brick House by the Commodores and step back to appreciate my work. “Who’s got an awesome kitchen? I do! That’s right. That’s right! Oh yeah, oh yeah, boom!”

Snatching the phone on my way to a shower I scan the notifications and see Mike, my Mom, and my old bandmate, Ginny. Surprised, I stop to listen to her message right away.

“Hi Wren, how ya been? Listen, we’re playing The Drunken Unicorn on the 14^th and wanted to see if you’d like to come?”

My heart is pounding way too hard for me to call her back, so I toss the phone on my bed and don’t move for a whole three minutes. Rushing over and snatching it up, my trembling thumb hovers over her number and dials Mike.

“Hey, what’s up?” he answers, sounds of the loud bar in the background.

“Just turning my home into a better version of itself. You called?”

“Yeah, uh, Eric Cocker is here asking about you.”

Peeling strands of wet hair from my forehead I blink a couple times. “He really is determined isn’t he?”

Mike chuckles, “Looks like it.”

“Tell him I’m not a notch to carve into his goal post.”

“I’m not telling the star player who brings in thousands of bucks for us every week, that. Maybe he likes you, ever thought of that?”

“Yeah right,” I laugh. “He’s a guy who gets what he wants and for once he can’t. That’s all this is. Tell him I’m cleaning my floors or I’d so be there.”

Mike snorts, “Nice priorities,” and hangs up.

“Dumbass,” I mutter, texting back my mom that I’ll see her in an hour. Tossing the phone back on the bed I head into the bathroom to wash off this goo, and the nervousness Ginny’s invite just gifted me.

* * *

“Oh that’s a good idea, Wren,” Mom smiles, excitedly telling our lunch server on the patio of Meehans. “I’ll have a sweet tea like my daughter is having, and the salmon with sautéed kale. Do you have french fries?”

“We do. Shoestring.”

She lights up even more, making me smile. “Oh yay! Those please. We have a thing for potatoes.”

Agreeing with her I add, “You cook ‘em we’ll eat ‘em. But fried is our favorite.”

He takes our menus. “I don’t trust a person who doesn’t like french fries. I’ll get those sweet teas for you ladies.”

“Thank you,” Mom and I say in unison as he strolls off, sunlight dappled around him.

“I used to think it was silly that we have to put our napkins on our laps. I’m not afraid of spilling. What’s the point. It’s such a thing. Then you know what I found out?”

“What?” she asks, absently sculpting her short hair into place, just in case the light amount of hairspray wasn’t enough. My mother is an older version of me except she’s not an artist, she’s got a Southern accent, and she prefers short hair. Also she has no tattoos, which pretty much falls under the first category. Not that all creative people get ink, but the vast majority, for sure.

“Well I thought it was dumb so I rebelled and left my napkin on the table. But I was having a burger. And I wore lipstick. With the grease from my fingers, the dripping mustard I had to wipe off, the lipstick that came off with it, if I’d have left that on the table a second longer I would have lost my appetite!”

Mom laughs, “So we’re hiding the mess?”

“Yes!” I grin. “That’s why it’s civilized. We look all perfect up here but hidden on our laps is the grime and grit of reality!”

“Oh, how your mind works, Wren. This is why I wish you hadn’t given up singing.”

I glance down. “I wondered how long it would take for you to bring that up.”

Her lips go prim, but she doesn’t argue.

Sighing I tell her, “Ginny called me today.”

“Oh?”

“Mom, don’t look so excited.”

“Well, what did she say?”

Playing with the sunglasses I set next to the tiny flower vase, I shrug, “They’re doing a gig soon. Wants me to come. Oh, God, I knew I shouldn’t have told you. Stop bouncing in your chair!”

“Where is it? Can I come?”

My heart aches as I realize she thinks I’ll be performing. “No, Mom, that’s not what I meant. Ginny’s their singer now. She just wants to stay friends, doesn’t want me to feel left out. Ginny’s just being nice.”

Mom’s eyes dull and she leans back as the server arrives with our drinks. “That’s very thoughtful of Ginny,” she mumbles, adding a distracted, “Thank you.”

He doesn’t dawdle. Sensing he intruded at a bad time he sets everything down and disappears quickly.

Biting my lips I spin the straw in circles. “I know you want me performing but it’s just not meant to be, okay?”

Taking a sip, glass in one hand, straw in the other, she mumbles, “There is no meant to be. There’s only what you make happen.”

“If I were supposed to be on stage I wouldn’t be so terrified. If I were meant to be a singer, I would love being in front of audiences rather than puking before and after the show! Mom, the other night I was on the bar at work, making people laugh and that was fun. But I wasn’t baring my soul like I do when I sing. It was over in a snap, like a dumb comedy routine or something. But singing is different. Don’t you get it?”

“No, I don’t!”

Leaning toward her and keeping my voice down I try to make her understand. “Singing is—how do I explain it?—your soul is your instrument. Your voice! You’re literally stretching melodies out of your own vocal chords, opening your heart and putting it on display for everyone. You don’t even need a band for backup if you’re really doing it right, if you have that talent. That’s powerful and it’s terrifying! I can’t just give people my heart like that, when I don’t know who’s watching.”

“You have the talent, Wren.”

Sighing I sit back and stare at my tea. “Maybe…but something’s missing.”

“If I had your gift I’d be on every stage from here to Nashville! Heck, I’d even move there!”

My lips thin as I gaze at her. Is it like this with every generation? Are parents and children meant to question each other, be so different? Is that what makes us grow?

“Mom, I appreciate you wanting me to push myself but if I was meant to sing, it wouldn’t be painful for me to do it.”

“What about your songs? Are those just going to collect dust? I just think you should give it one more try! You gave up too easily.”

“No, I didn’t! God, this is so frustrating!”

“You’re telling me.”

The waiter returns, interrupting us again, but this time both of us want him to. He places her salmon down first, and my Cobb sandwich next. A basket of perfectly tanned french fries lands between us.

Mom lights up. “Oh, those look delicious!” she breathes, clapping her hands.

I laugh and lock eyes with him. “You just saved me.”

He gives me a wink.

Mom purses her lips and pops a fry in her mouth, chewing with purpose. And that’s not to tell me to fuck off. She is a Southern Belle after all.