Diary of a Blues Goddess (29 page)

I stopped dead in my tracks and dropped my champagne glass, shattering it on the stone pathway. My soul left me in a great gasp. I could only utter one word.

"Daddy?"

He smiled awkwardly and started crying.

"Georgia Ray." He held open his arms.

I had often thought about what I would do if I found him. Would I yell at him, berate him, hate him? What would I do? I had pictured a dozen different reactions, but when I saw him there, older, grayer, tired-looking, lean and yet arms outstretched to me, I reacted with pure instinct. I ran into his arms as I used to when he came home from the clubs, filled with his music and self-content. He would lift me in the air and twirl me around, maybe hum a few bars of some tune he had in his mind. And though he didn't lift me up now, I no less felt the pureness of his embrace. I buried my face in his chest and tears started coming from somewhere, nowhere. I had been an orphan for so long, and here he was.

"Georgia, you are beautiful."

He held me fiercely. I was still unable to speak, and his voice was thick as well.

Finally, I stepped back.

"How? I… what are you
doing
here?"

"Oh… I've been keeping tabs on you, Georgia Ray Miller. I've even visited the Web site for your band. I downloaded a song to hear you sing. Now if that isn't the voice of a diva… And then Tony here got ahold of me."

My eyes snapped open, and I looked over at Tony for an explanation. He shrugged.

"What do you mean
Tony
got in touch with you?"

Tony looked to the ground. "I recognized your dad from the picture in your room. I played with him a couple of times, maybe three or four years ago, in New York. I called some old musician blokes I used to play with and tracked him down."

"Why didn't you say something?" I demanded.

He shrugged again. "I wanted to do it for you. A surprise."

"Tony, I didn't know if he was dead or alive. And you let me continue wondering. You're a bastard!"

My father looked at Nan and Tony. "Georgia… I'm sure Tony only meant to help."

"That's no help." I glared at Tony, who refused to look at me.

"Come on, Tony. We should go," Nan said. "These two have some catching up to do, alone. And then Sunday Saints Supper. I'm behind on cooking as it is."

I felt betrayed. How could Tony have come in my room, shared the blues with me, and not tell me he knew where my father was? I stared at him as he walked behind Nan, my heart beating with rage.

I turned to face my father. All I had in my mind were mental snapshots of moments that had faded. It was like memories of my mother. I kept her alive by thinking of her in photographic moments in time. But like photographs, the memories were now sepia-tinged, not in full color. My father was the same way. I remembered Saturday mornings with him, Sundays spent with his records. I remembered how he helped me practice my spelling words, and I remember laughing with him as I tried to learn how to do a cartwheel. But, as with my mother, I couldn't really recall his voice. Not its timbre or tone. I couldn't recall what he smelled like or the touch of his hand—whether his hands were callused or soft. I couldn't even recall meals with him or the day-in, day-out ordinary moments of family time. In short, he was stored like photos in plastic sheaths, not flesh and blood. Yet here he was.

"Ah, Georgia Ray… " He took out a handkerchief. Who even carried them anymore? Then I remembered how gentlemanly he was. It was one part of him that made my mother love him, she said. He blotted at his eyes. "I promised myself I wouldn't do this. Cry, I mean."

The two lawn chairs Tony had set up were at the edge of the evolving garden. Each sundown Tony sat there and took in his handiwork. More often than not, I would bring him a beer or a pitcher of Hurricanes and we would sit in the late evening together in the quiet.

"Can we sit down?" my father asked.

"Sure. "We sat facing each other, and he took my hand.

"Georgia… ! would not be the least bit surprised if you hated me. I left your mother and you… and I feel very ashamed for that. Since then I've been through a lot. Not the least of it is… " He sighed, and his hand trembled in mine.

"Georgia… I'm in AA now. And I am truthfully very sorry for some of the things I've done. Before I got sober, every time I thought of coming back to win your mother over again, I would just chicken out. I got in touch with her… she was sick by then. And I came back one weekend and saw her. Damn near tore me up."

"But you didn't see me."

"I did. From a distance. Your mother wanted you to live with your nan. And that was the right thing. I guess we both thought if I showed up temporarily it would just confuse matters. Of course, then I kept telling myself I would come here and talk to you after college. And I kept putting it off until… I couldn't anymore."

"Why not?" I asked warily.

He looked away and dropped my hand. "I just can't live with it no more. I've been in an' out of AA for ten years now. I always fall off the wagon. Only this time… this time I've been doing everything they say. I got a good sponsor. I've been working my steps. And when I got to the step—you see, there's a step where you have to make amends for all you've done—I knew I'd never get a minute of rest unless I came and made it right with you."

I stared at him. "So you've come here now, because you want to make yourself feel better? Or is sit because Tony called you? If he hadn't, would you have bothered, or would you just go on like you have, leaving me to wonder?" I was surprised at myself, surprised at how close to the surface my grief was. The hurt was as raw as it ever was, but in a different way. Sort of like the way wine ferments. If you leave it long enough, the flavors may mellow, but it's still the same wine, same grapes. I felt a flash of anger.

"I got a call from Tony. Tracked me down through a friend of ours, Slim Johnson, plays the piano. Your friend there is a mean bass player—almost as good as me." He smiled, hoping that I would soften.

"But if he hadn't called, you wouldn't be here, would you? You would just let me sit and wonder. Wonder if you were dead. Wonder what was wrong with me. Why I wasn't important enough to you to make you come back. Why—" I fought to keep my voice from cracking. A singer whose voice was betraying her.

"You were always important enough. I was just too messed up to see you most times. I wanted you to be proud of me. I didn't want you to pity me."

"You know, Dad… " The word
Dad
sounded foreign to me, felt strange as it moved over my tongue. "I've been singing hoping to make you proud of me, wherever you were. Do you remember when I was maybe twelve? I sang an old Billie Holiday song. You were sick, which was… now I realize, a hangover. And you told me to be quiet. You said no one would ever sing like her. That I could never sing like her. To be quiet… You told me to be quiet." I had never told anyone that memory. Yet I replayed it over and over in my mind.

My father's skin was tan, still unlined. His eyes were black, his hair, instead of dark black, was now flecked with white. He looked away. "I couldn't have said that. I know I did, if you say I did, but I swear I don't remember, Georgia Ray, which is no excuse."

I was silent for a long time. I was the girl they used to whisper about. Her father left them. Her mother's dying. Whispers had swirled around me like autumn leaves for so long that I realized now I sought out safety. A cocoon to protect me. My cocoon had been Dominique and Nan and Georgia's Saints.

"I understand if you don't want to have anything to do with me. I understand. I really do."

"Let me see your wallet."

"My wallet?" His expression was confused. He reached back and pulled it out of the pocket of his well-worn khakis and cautiously handed it to me.

I flipped it open. There, in the picture section, was my infant baby picture, fresh from the hospital—one of those ugly pictures with me scowling at the flash of the camera. I flipped to the picture on the reverse side. It was my mother in her wedding gown, in black and white. The next snapshot was one of me as a little girl with big hair and two missing front teeth. And the final one was one of me from the band's Web site. Cut out on a piece of printer paper.

I handed him back his wallet. He
had
loved me all these years. I was old enough now to understand a few things, not the least of which is when love comes to find you, in whatever form, you don't shut the door on it. "We've got to get to know each other, Dad. You don't even know me. And I sure as hell don't know you."

"I realize that. I'm willing to do whatever it takes to be even a friend. You don't have to treat me like a daddy, but we could start as friends."

"Just so long as you don't think you're getting your record collection back." I smiled.

"You still have them?"

"Yes. They're mine." I winked at him. "But I just might let you listen to them."