MELODY OF UNCERTAINTY

“Show up Show them Do it with heart The Caruso way” My father made that chant. It was our chant. A daily reminder that we were stronger than the hurt of yesterday and bigger than the hurdles ahead. It reminded us of what was most important, what was most true. Heart. I pondered these things in my heart, a faint chuckle escaping my faintly tinted lips, my eyes lidded shut as I imagined it all. My father was here. Knowing him, he’d have gotten into a scuffle with the other parents to get himself a seat upfront. Not first row, not second, perhaps fourth. Yes. That’s it. A seat next to the isle in the fourth row, where I could see him from the stage with ease and lock my hazel eyes with his and watch him mouth the chant as I began my performance. I could see him lead the standing ovation I’d receive at the end, hooting and hollering to anyone that cared to listen, “That’s my girl. That’s mi carino. That’s my Mae-Mae!” He’d gesture for me to bow to my applauding audience -snapping me out of the surreal amazement I’d feel upon that stage- standing in my black fur coat, grey one piece blouse, black jean trousers and white trainers, the only thing captivating them would be my acoustic guitar made from a translucent material, giving it the faux appearance of glass but what’s more, those dainty fingers of mine that’d played it so skillfully. I thought about the rest of my family in spur of the moment. Uncle Randy would’ve probably been on his way to the physiotherapist’s office, my obstinate grandmother bundled in his truck, insisting on gracing my performance with her eccentric presence instead of honouring her appointment. I knew she’d give him a hard time, thus making him late and if my calculations were correct -which, they always are- he’d be no sooner than thirty minutes late. Since I was the last act, per usual, he’d miss it all but still show up, heaving and panting into the almost empty auditorium, a large congratulatory cake in his hands. My mother…was a touchy subject. The last performance of mine she’d attended willfully was when I was eight years old. Tens whole years ago. I tried to imagine the possibility of her showing up. Her and Dad laughing at some lady sitting in front of them with a comically elaborate hairdo or some kid in the audience who’s face reminded them of some character from the movie 'Madagascar'. Just like old times . However, even in the realm of my imagination, that was far from feasible. I wasn’t going to let that stop me though. I hadn’t in a decade. Now was my moment. My time. I had to… “Show up Show them Do it with heart The Caruso way” The curtains parted dramatically and the stage lights fixated upon me, gentle beams cascading my features and of course, my prized possession, my lumineer guitar that began to glow soft shades of pink and purple in the light. The audience gently applauded. Most people did when they saw this little trick. They didn’t quite, however, when I told them how much the guitar cost. Shortly after, silence bewitched the auditorium. I approached the mic stand, my guitar strapped around my shoulders, my fingers ready to strum the first chord when like clockwork, as I imagined, my father mouthed the chant. No. I’m not a genius. I just have an adorably predictable family! I started working my fingers across the strings with bare, calloused fingers. The oscillatory bounce of each string stirring a crescendo in me. Like a kettle with water set to boil, ready to let off that shrill whistle, I raked upon the stage, my feet tapping wildly, my wrist bobbing consistently. This was my high, my cloud nine. This was my domain. Right on cue, I brought my lips to the mic, the taste of the hard metal mesh grazing my tongue minutely before I began vocalizing, my guitar providing an enchanting harmony to the song on my lips. What was said song you ask? It was called Carino, meaning Heart. It was one my father wrote during his prime when he had dreams of making it big in the industry. He never got to share it with the world though as things sort of spiraled down the line. Here I was though, doing so on his behalf. Maybe not to the world but to roughly six hundred people, but it was a start. When I became a star, I swore, I’d make his song travel across world. I’d make it a global sensation, a hymn on the lips of babes and a nostalgic trigger for the old. I saw a tear roll down his cheeks. I hadn’t told him what song I was to perform, simply indulging him, calling it a 'surprise'. What a surprise it was, filled with several nights sneaking into his studio, fiddling with my guitar and the lyrics of his song from his old songbook from high school. He was ecstatic. He was bewildered. He was proud. My eyes tore away from his, a smile plastered across my face, as my eyes swept across the faces of the crowd for no one in particular. An action I loathed myself for, for many months. “Mum?”, I voiced involuntarily into the mic, my fingers slipping off the strings as my performance came to an abrupt dimuendo, barely halfway through the song. My father followed my line of sight and brought his to settle on a familiar woman dressed aesthetically. Their differences could best be summarized -not completely- on their races. My father was an African man; black, to be more specific. My mother was American, white to be more lucid. They separated about a decade ago and hadn’t seen each other since then. But here she was, sitting with an air of elegance and pride, clad in heavy jewelry and lavish clothes, too lavish for a high school program, sitting next to the rich bastard she left my father for, Kent Declare. I saw my father clench his chest and groan with pain. At first I thought he was overexaggerating the situation at first but when he slumped out of his chair, it all became too real. My father was sprawled on the ground, unconscious. I heard a woman bellow for a doctor in the audience while some members of the teaching staff rushed to his side. But I stood there. Hot tears pouring down my petite eyes, hidden behind my silver framed glasses, as I stared daggers at the woman I claimed to be my mother. She made no effort to help father, despite sitting two rows behind him. I watched as strangers showed more concern for my father than my own mother. His ex-wife. She looked at me, her eyes emotionless, her lips pressed into a firm line...she didn't care. SHE DIDN'T! I wiped my tears and the snot running down my nose with the back of my hand and slung my guitar behind me. Leaping off the stage and into the audience. My father was being given CPR. His pupils seemed to have rolled to the back of his head and his mouth was slightly ajar, a white foamy substance with a foul stench trickling out. Call the ambulance Get the first aid! Where’s the damn school nurse? I suppose I was wrong. My family wasn’t as predictable as I thought.