I had only been working as a full-time musician for about a year, but in that short time, I had played over a hundred gigs in towns as far away as Chicago and New Orleans, and been a part of over sixty studio sessions.
Those numbers might not sound like a lot, but by the time you do all the practicing, and planning, and rubbing of elbows, and keeping up appearances that goes with it, it's easy to feel like you're working all of the time. I was making real money, so I didn't complain.
Up until now, my studio experience had been playing and singing backup on other peoples records but not my own. I did have plans in the works for my own record, though, and hoped to get working on it soon.
I had always been drawn to the blues, but there was something about having my heart ripped out of my chest and smashed into a thousand pieces that that made me able to sing the blues in a real, raw way that people really understood.
I played and sang the blues, and people responded. My music was sad, and I was great at it because I was sad. The passion with which I sang was directly correlated with the heartache I felt.
So, in that way, maybe I should thank Michael Bishop. Maybe I should shake his hand for helping me get in touch with the singer people seemed to love so much.
But you know what? No. I didn't feel thankful. I would take it all back if I could. I would, in a heartbeat, trade all of the money, fans, and records for one single day with Michael. If I could have the same Michael I knew in the summer of 65, I would trade it all for one day with him. In my mind, if I had him for a day, I could talk him into loving me again. I could talk him into never leaving me.
I thought about him as I stared blankly at the people in my backyard. I hated being alone and almost always had someone else at my house. I didn't like the idea of coming home to an empty house after a late night gig. I was the one who paid for the house, but I had two other roommates (friends from college) who I let live with me for free just because I liked their company.
I always had people around, but I never mentioned Michael to any of them. They didn't even know he existed. I was surrounded by people all the time, and they weren't even aware of the one thing that was on my mind the most.
I was surrounded by people and still alone. I drank, and sometimes I took prescription pills, but honestly I didn't see myself as having a problem or even think I was doing it as a way to cope. I thought I was just doing it for fun. That stuff was just part of the scene when you're a musician, and nobody thought of it as doing anything wrong.
I wasn't trying to make excuses or anything. I knew I was probably giving a bad name to all preachers' kids by using drugs and alcohol, but those were the choices I was making at the time.
My parents didn't care, anyway. I had barely spoken to them in months. I was convinced that my dad had something to do with my breakup with Michael, and I just couldn't understand how somebody who loved me could do something like that.
They had financially cut me off long ago, and I normally didn't call them for anything, but that Tuesday night, I had an attack of nerves, and I wound up calling my mom to ask her and Dad to pray for me.
They came over the following day (which was yesterday) to check on me. Their visit was a surprise, and I could tell the number of people in my house took them and Jacob off guard. It wasn't my fault. It was ten o'clock in the morning, and I had no idea they were coming over. I had no time to prepare.
They stayed for most of the day, and I tried my best to interact with them, but it was a little weird. It was impossible for me to fully forgive my dad for the heartache I had experienced. I told them they could stay at my house so that they didn't have to make the trip twice in one day, but they insisted that they needed to get back.
Jacob didn't want to leave. I could tell he was worried about me, and I did my best to assure him I was fine. I told him that I thought Dad had interfered with my life, and I was mad at him for it, but that this happened to families sometimes, and I was sure I would get over it soon. He had smiled at me and assured me everything would be all right.
Currently, I had my roommates and some other friends over, and all of us were sitting outside while a few of the guys grilled hamburgers. There were about ten of us in all. The house I rented wasn't outrageous, but it did come with a small pool, and I had my feet in it as I watched some of the others clown around in the backyard.
There was music playing. I had on fashionable clothing and an oversized hat with a pair of designer sunglasses. I wore a big smile. To look at me from the outside, one would think I had everything figured out and didn't have a care in the world. I hoped to do a good job of making it continue to appear that way.
It was a beautiful Thursday evening, and I didn't have to work. I was on my fifth or sixth drink, and we hadn't eaten dinner, so I felt that swimmy sensation even earlier than I normally would.
I was staring blankly into the reflected light of the pool, thinking maybe I should slow down a little bit or eat something, when I heard one of my friends yell my name.
"Ivy!" he said.
I turned to find my roommate's boyfriend standing in the opening of the sliding glass door, waving at me.
"Ivy!" he repeated. "Somebody's at the door to see you."
"Who?" I asked.
"He said his name's Michael," he said.
I stared and the direction of the doorway, but everything became blurry when my eyes filled with tears.
Alcohol makes you do funny things, because even as I said the next words, I knew I didn't mean them. I knew it wasn't what I was in my heart, yet it was what came out of my mouth.
"I don't know anyone named Michael," I yelled nonchalantly.
My heart felt as if it might explode. It was aching and beating at about four times the speed than it had been only seconds before.
I numbly turned around, staring into the pool again and wondering what in the world was wrong with me.
It was less than two minutes later when I felt Eddie, my roommate's boyfriend, kneel down beside me and put his hand on my shoulder.
I glanced at him from over my sunglasses and under my hat, and he regarded me with a cautious expression.
"I told this guy you don't know any Michael, and he didn't take that too well," he said. "He seems to think you do know him. He said he's not going anywhere until you go out there and talk to him."
"Where is he?"
"Out front," Eddie said. "He's getting upset. Do you know him?"
I nodded.
"Well, he's out there," Eddie said. "Waiting."
"What did he say?"
"He just asked for you, and when I said you don't know any Michael, he said for me to ask you again, otherwise he was coming in with or without my permission. I wish you would just go out there and talk to him. And if not, I don't want to be the one to tell him you not coming."
My heart pounded. I felt brave and scared at the same time. I let out a shaky sigh. "Help me up," I said.
Eddie offered a hand to help me to my feet. I stood so swiftly that I felt lightheaded. I lost my balance and almost fell into the pool.
"You okay?" Eddie asked.
"Yeah, I just stood up too fast," I said.
"I'll take that," he said gesturing to the glass I had in my hand. It was empty except for two small pieces of half-melted ice, and I threw my head back, taking them into my mouth before handing Eddie my glass.
"Thank you," I said.
We walked into the house together, and Eddie went into the kitchen as I crossed to the front door. The shades were drawn in the front of the house, so I didn't set eyes on Michael until I opened the door.
There he was.
Just the same as I remembered him.
Michael Bishop, standing right there on my front porch. There was a glass door separating us, and we had only met eyes for a second or two before he reached out, opening it and stepping around it in one motion.
He didn't ask how I felt about it or if I wanted him to; he just closed the distance between us and took me into his arms, taking my hat off in the process. My face squinted with tears, and I buried it in his chest. He held me tightly, and I cried with relief and anger and about a hundred other emotions.
Between the tears, I leaned into him, smelling him, and feeling his heartbeat. I felt him breathing as his chest moved under my face, and I realized that I was never so alive as I was when I was touching this man.
"Ivy, I’m sorry," I heard him whisper after a minute.
I think it was the word sorry that did it.
I thought about all the nights I cried over him, and a combination of those memories combined with alcohol made me utterly snap.
It was a bad evening.
My new "perfect" world was intersecting the world I really wanted deep down but had left behind. I didn't take it too well. I should have taken the time to eat something—that would have probably helped a little bit, but as it stood, I ended up letting the alcohol give voice to all the anger, hurt, and embarrassment I had felt during the last year.
I fought with Michael.
It seemed like he was trying to be reasonable, but I didn't feel reasonable when I looked at him. To look at Michael, was to want him. I felt the uncontrollable urge to send myself flying into his arms. I knew I would end up giving my heart back to him if he asked for it, and I was sincerely terrified of doing that.
So, I fought with him.
I wasn't even sure what all I said.
The timing was bad. I had definitely had too much to drink when he got there.
My friends came in the house several times during the evening to check on me, and every time, I told them to leave Michael and me alone—that I had some stuff from my past to deal with.
It was a bad night.
I could see that Michael was being patient with me, and yet I just stood there and said bad things to him. I said hurtful things—things that I hoped would make him leave—things that I hoped would protect me from another broken heart.
I asked my friends to leave after they ate their burgers. They were reluctant to do it because of my emotional state, but I assure them I would be fine.
Michael stayed with me that night even though I'm pretty sure I asked him more than a few times to leave. I remember him tucking me into bed and saying he would see me in the morning.
I woke up at 8am the following morning with a pounding headache and an extremely dry mouth. I had a nightmare that Michael Bishop had come to my house and I had done nothing but fight with him and tell him I wanted him to leave.
I blinked and stared at the alarm clock, having vivid memories of my dream and experiencing pain in my heart at the thought of Michael. I felt extremely nauseated, and there was a stinging sensation in my jaw. My stomach clinched and my mouth filled with spit.
I barely had time to make it to the bathroom before I threw up. I almost never threw up, and I hated to do it, but apparently, it was the first thing on my body's list of things to do that morning.
I was in the middle of getting sick when I felt someone come up behind me. The person grabbed my hair, keeping it out of the way, putting a hand on my back while I finished. My body knew it was Michael before my brain did. I felt a reaction to his touch before I even realized who it was.
By the time I was finished getting sick, I remembered that my nightmarish encounter with Michael was not a dream but had actually happened.
It was Michael.
He was still at my house.
Michael Bishop was standing behind me, helping me hold my hair back while I did the most disgusting thing I could possibly do.
I hated myself.
Physically, I felt much better when I finished. I knew I had freaked out on Michael the night before, and I felt wretched about that, but at least I now felt more in control of my body.
I gave Michael a regretful smile without making eye contact. I needed to look at him—I just wasn't able to. I felt his presence and could see him out of my periphery, but I found it impossible to meet his gaze.
"Are you okay?" he asked, touching my shoulder. He was so sweet and concerned. It seemed as if he wasn't mad about the things I said to him the night before, which was inconceivable to me since I remembered some of it, and it was horrifying.
"I'm fine," I said sheepishly. "I actually feel better now." I sighed guiltily as I stood up, still not looking at him. "I think I should probably take a shower."