Drumbeats into My Heart

4. Jordi Fights Memories

"Dad! I'm home!" I roll my bike through the apartment door, shimmying the makeshift bike trailer through the barely-wide-enough opening. The pots and pans clatter as they bump over the threshold.

"In here," he calls from the kitchen.

I find him standing over the sink with a cup of tea and a slice of sprouted grain toast. His close-cropped beard has crumbs in it, and his light brown hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail. Streaks of grey are forming at his temple.

"Isn't it a little late for breakfast?" I ask, raising an eyebrow and glancing at the wall clock to confirm that it is, indeed, late afternoon.

"I know, but I won't have time for dinner. I'm sorry, cupcake. Mike went home with food poisoning, so I have to cover his shift." He shakes his head. "I swear, if they sold sushi at the local gas station, he'd eat it." He takes an overly crunchy bite of his toast and grimaces. "You know, sometimes I miss coffee and donuts."

I give him a one-armed hug. "I know, Dad. Me too. How about a green smoothie to go? Gotta get your veggies in, you know that."

He rolls his eyes. "Who's the adult in this house anyway? Fine, fine. Veggies to go."

As I turn to fetch the blender, he catches my hand, face earnest. "You take such good care of us, Jordi. I don't know what I'd do without you. Mom would be so proud of you."

Mom. I nod and turn away, fighting the sting in my eyes. How can he talk about her already? It's only been a few months since the funeral.

Silence ensues. When I peek at him, his face is crumpled with sorrow, like he regrets mentioning her.

"I miss her, Dad," I whisper.

"Me too, cupcake," he whispers back and engulfs me in a hug. "Every single day."

We stand like that for a good long time, until he notices the time and sighs. "Duty calls. I need to get going." He reluctantly pulls away. "Do we need anything?"

"We're out of kale."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

"Ha ha." My mouth curves into a genuine smile, lifting some of the gloom. "It's a top tumor-fighter. So even though it tastes like lawn clippings—"

"Got it, got it. I'll pick up some more." He clips on his red Grocery King name tag proclaiming DAVE. "Employee discount to the rescue." He kisses my cheek, his beard tickling my skin. "See you later, cupcake."

"Bye, Dad. And don't think this gets you out of the green smoothie later."

He gives me a cheeky grin. "Damn. I'll tell Mike his elaborate plan to get me out of today's green smoothie failed."

"Foiled again. No donuts!" I point at him emphatically. "I mean it."

He gives me a thumbs up before stepping out and shutting the door.

I flick the radio on to start prepping dinner for one. It's a top-forties pop station, and I wrinkle my nose at a particularly generic song that comes on. Pop is so uninspiring, but Mom used to love it. Sometimes having her favorite station on makes it feel like she might come blustering around the corner, victoriously shaking the latest sudoku puzzle she'd solved.

As I beat eggs in a bowl, I listen to the sound the whisk makes against the glass. It's interesting. Unique. I make the movements more rhythmic, and soon my other hand is tapping a counter-beat. Maybe I should incorporate a whisk into my routine.

Today's earnings had been decent—for a Tuesday—and I like the new venue I discovered. The spot was shaded—very important during the brutal summer heat—but most of all, a curious boy named Seth had liked my performance. I wonder if he frequents that farmer's market a lot. Does he live nearby? Will he visit again next week?

I tell myself it's not because I like him—I don't know a thing about him. I'm interested because he really seems to like my music. I mean, he said he would buy my album. What a sweet thing to say. How could I not want to see him again?

As a fan. Maybe even a friend. I've never had a fan before. And who knows, maybe having one fan would mean having more, and then I'll bring in a little more cash.

I've tried the fast food thing. Gave it a whole month before finally determining that refilling deep-fryer vats with solid white goo would crush my soul. Dad had seen how miserable I'd been and told me not to worry about money. That we would get by somehow.

I wonder what Mom would think of me now? Would she disapprove of me performing on the street for money? Was it panhandling if I was doing what I loved, and people happened to give me money for it?

She always used to tell me, "You don't have to be the best student. Just finish school."

I am not the best student. I'm not even the most average student. When I brought home yet another dismal report card, Mom had said, "It's okay as long as you keep trying. It's important not to give up."

I'd held onto that. My mom's voice was always in my head, reminding me to keep trying.

Until the day she died.

Mom had been my biggest cheerleader and best friend, and when she passed, something inside me died with her: the desire to try.

So I gave up.

I skipped the last week of school before summer, and I'm not planning on going back.

I sigh and place a pan onto the stove. My fingers tap a beat as I wait for the pan to heat. Dad taught me to drum when I was little. Said it was healing. But that's not why I do it. Drumming fills the empty spaces in my soul. Makes me forget, even if only temporarily, that things suck now.

Drumming also never reminds me that my closest friend is not only gone.

She's never coming back.

Aww maybe some votes will make her feel better.