Thirty Six
Emily still felt shaky, and lighter than air, as she walked over to the concourse joining the hotel to the arena to join the throngs of Uptown fans heading for the concert. As she walked up to the ticket booth, a thought struck her. What if Trent had seen the kids? That wasn’t how he was supposed to find out about her ‘baggage’. Dread clenched at her stomach and from the distance of a few minutes, she had more than a second’s doubt about the meaning of the look they’d shared for that tiny moment in time. She was distracted enough that the ticket booth attendant twice asked her what her name was.
Taking the proffered envelope, she took a deep breath and pushed the thought from her mind. Although it continued to nag at her, she forced herself to remember the force with which she had felt that connection, and headed into the arena to find her seat.
Long-forgotten memories of adolescent events like this rose unbidden as she was greeted by the familiar combination of arena smells: popcorn, beer, hotdogs, and marijuana smoke. She could see that the house lights were down and the opening band was about to take the stage. The sound of thirty thousand screaming fans was as familiar as the smells, and for a second she wished she’d brought ear plugs.
A man in a maroon uniform jacket pointed her in the direction of her seats. “You’re in the band’s box, ma’am,” he said.
Emily grimaced at the man’s use of ‘ma’am’, and then it dawned on her what he’d said. The box? she thought. Cool. He handed her back her ticket, and she looked down at it, only now noticing a discreet blue ticket marked ‘Backstage Pass”. Looking guiltily around at the hundreds of teenaged girls in her immediate vicinity who, she knew, would give their eye teeth for that little piece of paper, and quickly shoved it in her purse. She headed for the box, nervous, and wishing desperately for Sarah.
The box was directly opposite the stage, bathed in the soft glow of three or four table lamps. Plushy carpet covered the floor, and there were club chairs and a couple of tables with upholstered stools. A bar stood to one side, complete with uniformed bartender, and, recognizing none of the eight or ten people in the small room, Emily headed for the bar and asked for a glass of wine. A row of bar stools lined a narrow ledge near the large open window that overlooked the arena. Emily found an empty seat there, and sat down. She kept expecting someone official to appear and ask her to show her ticket or something, but no one seemed the least bit distressed by her presence, and she relaxed a little.
The opening band played through their set. Their sound was heavy pop, and, judging by the reaction from the crowd, they were well-liked. They looked young, and Emily had never heard a single one of their songs. Nonetheless, the beat was infectious, and she found herself tapping her foot and quite enjoying herself, despite feeling like the oldest one in the room.
After the opening band finished their set, there was about half an hour of set-up before Uptown came on. The crowd was young and ardent, and many carried small glow-in-the-dark sticks that they waved enthusiastically. Emily paced the box, caught up in the excitement of the show, but unconsciously dreading the talk with Trent, when she would reveal the truths that she knew she owed him. And although she knew in her gut that she had blown this lie of omission way out of proportion, it was a significant source of stress: the knowledge that today, the first day they had actually seen each other in person since the trial, was the day she had to tell him that she was a widow with two children.
When the house lights finally went down, Emily thought she might go out of her mind. No one in the box had approached; tension radiated from her, and the people nearby seemed to know it would be of no use to speak to her.
From a dark stage, a familiar chord was struck, and the lights shone on the band, with Trent suddenly front and centre, a guitar in his hands and a microphone at his lips. Her heart leapt at the sight of him, and she found she could not take her eyes off him. Thousands of people screamed for him, and she kept thinking, hey, that guy kissed me. The thought occurred over and over. She wondered how many others could make the same claim. She wondered how any others would kill for the chance.
The show started with a set of three songs from the current CD. Entertaining as it was, Emily found herself longing to hear Trent speak. Finally, after the third song, he did.
“Thank you Toronto!” he shouted. “This is a song called ‘Everyone Needs a Song’.” She recognized it as a fan favourite from one of Uptown’s first albums, as did the crowd, judging by the response.
Song after song, Trent played his heart out, and, to Emily’s surprise, her knees grew weak with each guitar solo. It was obvious that he was having a great time. His passion for his music was something tangible that she could relate to, now that she had finally seen him play. It was the same passion she felt on hearing a baby’s cry after an emergency delivery, or when, in a trauma room, a previously absent heartbeat started up after defibrillation. The same passion that made her go back, shift after shift, to the hospital. At that moment, she felt constrained, claustrophobic in the box, her heart full of emotion she couldn’t label.
Finally, an hour and a half into the show, he said, “I wrote this song a little while ago for someone very special. We’ve never played it before.”
At first, it did not occur to Emily that he might be talking about her. The arena was quiet and he carried on. “I met her a while ago, and she’s here tonight. This is for Emily. It’s called ‘Life After’.”
The keyboardist, whom Emily had not met, played a slow and poignant chord progression. Trent stood before the microphone, his guitar hanging in front of him, his hands at his sides. Wordlessly, he sang a haunting melody, and then the lyrics flowed, seamless with the music.
Your broken heart is on your sleeve
You want to go, but I can’t let you leave
I need to tell you, you need to believe
That I’m your life after
It’s easy to see, I need you with me
I want to be your life after
If I have to, I can wait
We need to start before it’s too late
If only I could see your face
You’d know I’m your life after
I’ll hold you up, won’t let you down
You are my life after
We’re both afraid of what’s to come
But take my hand, we’ll make our way
Through your storm, to the sun
Into our life after
Your broken heart is on your sleeve
I’ll put it together and you can believe
That I’m your life after
Trent’s voice, abandoned by the piano in the third verse, echoed throughout the arena, and for a split-second, was the only sound in the room. He looked toward the box where Emily was sitting, and although she was what felt like a thousand feet away from him, among thousands of people, she felt his eyes lock on hers, before the crowd erupted. Her throat closed in and hot tears pricked her eyes. A public declaration that she meant something was almost more than she could bear.
Suddenly, it felt like every eye in the building was on her, even though she was aware that no one knew she was the woman to whom he’d dedicated the song. I’m not ready, she thought, and tears of grief for what could have been with Trent flowed again. She sat, unmoving, as the band struck the familiar opening chords from ‘Some Day’. Bright and energetic as they were, they could not block the sound of Trent’s words from echoing through her head.
Taking the proffered envelope, she took a deep breath and pushed the thought from her mind. Although it continued to nag at her, she forced herself to remember the force with which she had felt that connection, and headed into the arena to find her seat.
Long-forgotten memories of adolescent events like this rose unbidden as she was greeted by the familiar combination of arena smells: popcorn, beer, hotdogs, and marijuana smoke. She could see that the house lights were down and the opening band was about to take the stage. The sound of thirty thousand screaming fans was as familiar as the smells, and for a second she wished she’d brought ear plugs.
A man in a maroon uniform jacket pointed her in the direction of her seats. “You’re in the band’s box, ma’am,” he said.
Emily grimaced at the man’s use of ‘ma’am’, and then it dawned on her what he’d said. The box? she thought. Cool. He handed her back her ticket, and she looked down at it, only now noticing a discreet blue ticket marked ‘Backstage Pass”. Looking guiltily around at the hundreds of teenaged girls in her immediate vicinity who, she knew, would give their eye teeth for that little piece of paper, and quickly shoved it in her purse. She headed for the box, nervous, and wishing desperately for Sarah.
The box was directly opposite the stage, bathed in the soft glow of three or four table lamps. Plushy carpet covered the floor, and there were club chairs and a couple of tables with upholstered stools. A bar stood to one side, complete with uniformed bartender, and, recognizing none of the eight or ten people in the small room, Emily headed for the bar and asked for a glass of wine. A row of bar stools lined a narrow ledge near the large open window that overlooked the arena. Emily found an empty seat there, and sat down. She kept expecting someone official to appear and ask her to show her ticket or something, but no one seemed the least bit distressed by her presence, and she relaxed a little.
The opening band played through their set. Their sound was heavy pop, and, judging by the reaction from the crowd, they were well-liked. They looked young, and Emily had never heard a single one of their songs. Nonetheless, the beat was infectious, and she found herself tapping her foot and quite enjoying herself, despite feeling like the oldest one in the room.
After the opening band finished their set, there was about half an hour of set-up before Uptown came on. The crowd was young and ardent, and many carried small glow-in-the-dark sticks that they waved enthusiastically. Emily paced the box, caught up in the excitement of the show, but unconsciously dreading the talk with Trent, when she would reveal the truths that she knew she owed him. And although she knew in her gut that she had blown this lie of omission way out of proportion, it was a significant source of stress: the knowledge that today, the first day they had actually seen each other in person since the trial, was the day she had to tell him that she was a widow with two children.
When the house lights finally went down, Emily thought she might go out of her mind. No one in the box had approached; tension radiated from her, and the people nearby seemed to know it would be of no use to speak to her.
From a dark stage, a familiar chord was struck, and the lights shone on the band, with Trent suddenly front and centre, a guitar in his hands and a microphone at his lips. Her heart leapt at the sight of him, and she found she could not take her eyes off him. Thousands of people screamed for him, and she kept thinking, hey, that guy kissed me. The thought occurred over and over. She wondered how many others could make the same claim. She wondered how any others would kill for the chance.
The show started with a set of three songs from the current CD. Entertaining as it was, Emily found herself longing to hear Trent speak. Finally, after the third song, he did.
“Thank you Toronto!” he shouted. “This is a song called ‘Everyone Needs a Song’.” She recognized it as a fan favourite from one of Uptown’s first albums, as did the crowd, judging by the response.
Song after song, Trent played his heart out, and, to Emily’s surprise, her knees grew weak with each guitar solo. It was obvious that he was having a great time. His passion for his music was something tangible that she could relate to, now that she had finally seen him play. It was the same passion she felt on hearing a baby’s cry after an emergency delivery, or when, in a trauma room, a previously absent heartbeat started up after defibrillation. The same passion that made her go back, shift after shift, to the hospital. At that moment, she felt constrained, claustrophobic in the box, her heart full of emotion she couldn’t label.
Finally, an hour and a half into the show, he said, “I wrote this song a little while ago for someone very special. We’ve never played it before.”
At first, it did not occur to Emily that he might be talking about her. The arena was quiet and he carried on. “I met her a while ago, and she’s here tonight. This is for Emily. It’s called ‘Life After’.”
The keyboardist, whom Emily had not met, played a slow and poignant chord progression. Trent stood before the microphone, his guitar hanging in front of him, his hands at his sides. Wordlessly, he sang a haunting melody, and then the lyrics flowed, seamless with the music.
Your broken heart is on your sleeve
You want to go, but I can’t let you leave
I need to tell you, you need to believe
That I’m your life after
It’s easy to see, I need you with me
I want to be your life after
If I have to, I can wait
We need to start before it’s too late
If only I could see your face
You’d know I’m your life after
I’ll hold you up, won’t let you down
You are my life after
We’re both afraid of what’s to come
But take my hand, we’ll make our way
Through your storm, to the sun
Into our life after
Your broken heart is on your sleeve
I’ll put it together and you can believe
That I’m your life after
Trent’s voice, abandoned by the piano in the third verse, echoed throughout the arena, and for a split-second, was the only sound in the room. He looked toward the box where Emily was sitting, and although she was what felt like a thousand feet away from him, among thousands of people, she felt his eyes lock on hers, before the crowd erupted. Her throat closed in and hot tears pricked her eyes. A public declaration that she meant something was almost more than she could bear.
Suddenly, it felt like every eye in the building was on her, even though she was aware that no one knew she was the woman to whom he’d dedicated the song. I’m not ready, she thought, and tears of grief for what could have been with Trent flowed again. She sat, unmoving, as the band struck the familiar opening chords from ‘Some Day’. Bright and energetic as they were, they could not block the sound of Trent’s words from echoing through her head.
posted by Cluttered Mind | 7:06 PM
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