11.10.08 - Word Count 12777

The more I thought of the beginnings of Emmey’s story, the more I felt connected to her. I had grown up in a family that was as different from me as night was to day. My parents were Baptist missionaries in Africa up until the time I was six years old, when we moved back to Alabama for my father to pastor a church in one of the poorest counties in the country. I started singing at the knee of my mother – the great hymns of the Baptist tradition, she called them – as she pounded them out on the old upright piano, one clunky chord after another. She was not a natural pianist – she had learned laboriously, and only in order to serve as my father’s helper.

I still remember when they realized I could sing, and sing well. I was in the kitchen of our little parsonage, making cornbread for our supper. My brother and sister were setting the table and singing some of the songs my mother had taught them to help them memorize the books of The Bible. When they finished the Old Testament, I broke in with The Gospels, in a high, clear soprano and sang clear through to Revelation. I could still feel the silence that followed. I looked up from the oven to see my brother and sister staring at me with their mouths open. My mother walked into the kitchen and asked who that was singing, and I was afraid to answer her. Afraid I had done something wrong.

My sister pointed at me and said, “It was Carrie!”

For the next hour, my mother made me sing everything she could think of, just to test and see if it was real, or some sort of fluke that had caused the melody to flow out of my mouth.

That Sunday, I was standing on the wooden platform in front of the little church, knees knocking, voice quivering, singing, “I Shall Not Be Moved,” while my mother clunked out the chords on the piano behind me. The congregation sat perfectly still during the entire song. I’d never seen anything like it –even when Daddy preached people coughed and sneezed, and fidgeted on the hard wooden pews. When I was done, a chorus of deacons’ voices rang out in “Amens” and “Hallelujahs,” but I was speechless.

Back then, no one applauded in churches. An amen or two was high praise.

Every Sunday after that, I stood on that same wooden stage, behind that same dark walnut stained podium, lined up with the center of the cross in the baptistery, and sang my heart out. I never told Mama and Daddy that I sang to hear the Amens and Hallelujahs, not for the Lord’s approval like they told me I should. I didn’t think they’d understand.

We were raised, my brother and sister and I, to serve the Lord. Every aspect of our lives was supposed to honor God and lift up the name of Jesus. I just wasn’t very good at it. I tried – God knows I tried – at least I hope He does. But it wasn’t in me to serve in the way my family did. I was very young when I realized how very selfish I was, and how little I cared about how selfish I was. It just didn’t bother me. At least not the way it bothered them – my family.

In school, I was an okay student. I excelled in choir and theater, though and found that to be a very powerful tool in the avoidance of the consequences of underachievement. I was always cast in the lead role of every musical production, and so I couldn’t ever be expected to do quite as well on tests and term papers, because I needed to prepare for the big show. My teachers were quite enamored of me and my voice, and I learned how to use it to my advantage. I wasn’t an honor student, but I received grades that far surpassed my effort.

One of my high school boyfriends, Chris Beatty, taught me to play his guitar and how to work through chord progressions. I saved up my babysitting money for months before I had enough to buy the old Yamaha guitar that was in the window of the pawnshop in downtown Eutaw. I had been writing lyrics and melodies since I had learned to write my letters, and soon I was writing songs more often than I was writing term papers. The songs were better than the term papers, anyway. I performed one of them at a school concert my junior year. It was a typical teenage song about unrequited love and unfulfilled dreams. And kissing.

Lots and lots of kissing.

After the concert, my parents locked me in my room and took away my guitar, thinking that I had forsaken my faith by writing this “piece of filth,” as my father called it. I do think they were somewhat relieved that that song had only involved kissing, but it was still too much for them to accept.

Mama and Daddy meant well, of course. I promised to write only songs that uplifted people’s faith in Jesus, and they gave me my guitar back. I was careful to not sing any of my real songs in front of any member of my family. Ever.

My sister and brother both went into full-time ministry when they grew up. Sarah married a preacher from just over the state line in Mississippi and went on to have babies and host women’s luncheons and spearhead food drives and baby showers. David went to seminary in New Orleans and became a youth pastor at a church in Brookwood. After a few years, he married a sweet girl and then was called to a church in Tuscaloosa as pastor. Mama and Daddy couldn’t be prouder.

Of them.

I tried. I really did. I thought maybe I could go into music ministry, so that I could be on the stage every week, but then I found out that most Baptist churches don’t let women be music ministers, so that kind of killed that. My parents suggested that I get a degree in music education so I could work with children and teach them how to sing for the Lord. I applied to a small college near home that had a music education program and was accepted. I wanted so much for them to approve of me, too.

I had worked at the Dairy Queen in town every summer during high school so I could have enough money to go to college, but the day after I turned 18 years old, I wrote my parents a long letter, took my money, my old Yamaha acoustic guitar and the 15 songs I had written that I really liked and went up to Nashville to see if I could get them recorded instead of going to school. I didn’t tell Mama and Daddy about that. None of the songs had anything about Jesus in them. I didn’t think they’d approve.

I called them when I got there and told them I had a job at a diner, waiting tables, which was mostly true. It was a job. And I was waiting tables. But I was serving cocktails instead of coffee, and my skirt was as high and tight as the collars on my daddy’s Sunday shirts. I worked nights at the “diner” and during the day I beat on the doors of studios and agencies and anyone I could get to listen to me. On my off nights at the club, if they didn’t have anyone else booked, they’d let me play and sing for the customers and for tips.

It took two years, and one of those fortunate misunderstandings to finally break into the business. One Monday night at the club, I was scheduled to work until 11 pm, then play until closing at 1 am. When I got to work, the manager pulled me aside and told me he had messed up the schedule and booked five waitresses on a night when he usually booked 3. He couldn’t afford to pay all of us, and since I was the youngest of the bunch, I would have to give up my shift. I told him that would be fine if he’d let me play for tips starting at 9 instead of 11 and he agreed.

That night, Mitch Ryland walked into the club and changed my life.

After my first set, he walked up to the stage and handed me his card. When I looked at it and saw “CFA Records” under his name, I thought it was a pick up and handed it back to him. I may have only been 20, but I had been waiting cocktail hour for 2 years. I wasn’t stupid.

After my second set, he came back up and handed me his card again. He was very insistent that I take it, and said he understood my hesitation, and that he would prove to me that he was who he said he was. I took the card and told him I hoped so – I could use a break – and put it in my front pocket.

He stayed for all four sets – all 15 of those original songs I'd walked out of Greene County, Alabama with, and 5 that I had added since arriving in Nashville. As the bar closed, I packed up my guitar and headed out to my little beaten up Chevy Chevette hatchback, escorted by the club's bouncer, Hector Smith. Hector put my guitar case in the back of the car and told me goodnight.

When I got into the car, I looked out the front windshield and saw something flapping from my windshield wiper. I rolled down the window and reached out to get it, waving goodnight at Hector at the same time. As I rolled up the window, I turned on the dome light to see what it was.

It was a newspaper article from the Nashville paper, The Tennessean, about the impact Mitch Ryland, CEO of CFA Records, had made on the country music scene in Nashville over the past 5 years. The accompanying photograph didn’t do him justice, but certainly did make it clear that he was who he said he was. I reached into the pocket of my blue jeans and pulled out the card.

“Mitch Ryland,
CFA Records,
Country Music’s Rising Stars.”

11.5.08 - Word Count 6476

After helping me bathe and get dressed, Louise wheeled me into the activity room and over to the table where I usually sat, looking out the window or putting together a puzzle. “I’ll be back in an hour, Miss Carrie. Try to keep all the beverages on the table, okay?” She called over her shoulder as she walked away.

“Funny. That’s just great.” I looked out at the grounds of the center. The maple trees had just passed their peak of autumn color and were beginning to fall to the ground, creating drifts of orange and red and yellow on the neatly trimmed grass. Doctors and nurses, aides and patients were walking through the grounds, looking for a sunny spot to take the chill out of the air and enjoy a few minutes outside. I made a mental note to ask Louise to take me for a walk today. It had been over a week since I had been outside.

“Ooh!” A woman’s voice cried out in alarm. I turned in the direction of the sound and saw the old woman there – Emmeline Wilson. She was standing in front of the seat she normally took by the fireplace, wringing her hands and looking down at the chair in confusion. The only other person in the room was an old man who had never looked up from his lap in the time I had been in the center. With no small amount of effort, I turned my chair and wheeled up to her.

“Are you okay? Do you need a nurse?” I asked.

She lifted her head and looked at me, those pale blue eyes rimmed with tears. “My goodness, no. I don’t need a nurse. What is wrong with you? Why would I need a nurse? I’m perfectly fine. “ She looked back at the chair, then returned her gaze to me. “I was just getting tired of waiting for you. Had to employ a little subterfuge.” She giggled and shuffled over to the chair, lowering herself down in the same careful way she always did.

I sat there stunned for a moment. She had baited me.

I liked her.

I rolled up and maneuvered my chair so that I could sit facing her. “Okay. So what is it that you want to talk to me about?”

“I don’t know. I just want to talk to you. You seem so lonely. I’m rather lonely. I thought maybe we could keep each other company for a while. I’m Emmeline Wilson, but you may call me Emmey. “ She reached out her slight hand and I took it. It was cool and soft, so finely wrought it looked sculpted, covered in the pale, wrinkled skin of a very old woman.

“I’m Carrie McCarthy.”

“Oh, yes, dear. I know. Everyone here knows who you are. Why, you were on the news all the time before you came here. Not that I watch the news, but everyone talked about you. Carrie McCarthy has a new CD out. Have you heard about Carrie McCarthy and her latest boyfriend? Is that really all her hair? You’d think they could find something else to talk about every now and then.” She smiled in her enigmatic way and turned her head toward the fireplace.

She seemed lost in thought for a moment, then turned back toward me and said, “You know. Time passes very slowly when you don’t know who you are.”

“You said that to me the first day I saw you.”

“Did I? Well. I guess I wanted you to know that, didn’t I?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Carrie, sometimes I don’t know who I am. Or where I am. There are days when I can’t remember a single thing that happened the day before. But I can remember the past. I can remember the things that happened to me when I was a young woman. I find it is so odd – for one to know and recognize the loss of memory. It isn’t anything that I ever expected. I start to realize that my mind wants to be 30 again and stay there and that time just ceases to move forward for me on those days. When I was actually 30, time flew by a hundred miles an hour.”

She sighed and shook her head.

“I’m 30. Time gets faster every year. At least it did until I got here. Now it moves at the pace of Louise.”

“That’s because you don’t remember who you are anymore, dear. It’s gotten lost in your mind. My mind is like swiss cheese. Lots of giant holes with little to support them anymore. Today is a good day. I know what I had for breakfast, although that’s a bit of an unfortunate memory. Whoever decided that waffles and scrambled eggs was a good breakfast?” She shuddered.

I laughed. “I skipped breakfast.”

“I heard. News travels fast when you throw a water pitcher at Dr. Fussy’s head.” She threw her head back and laughed delightedly. “I think maybe you have some anger issues, Carrie. Have you thought about talking with Dr. Morris?”

I looked at her witheringly. Great. Was this some kind of set up?

Emmeline laughed again. “I am glad to see that you have not. Dr. Morris is an idiot. She’s a well-educated idiot, but still an idiot.” She pushed herself up to her walker and looked back down at me. “It’s time for my nap, Carrie. I’m heading off to my room.”

“Oh! Oh. I thought we’d be able to talk today.” I suddenly didn’t want her to go.

“We have been talking, girl. What did you expect? I’m no oracle. I can’t help you figure anything out. I just want to be your friend. Do you have anyone coming to visit tomorrow?” She smiled kindly at me.

“No. There’s no one that would come.”

“Me neither. They’re all dead. That’s the problem with living to be 90. It’s easy to outlive everyone else. Let’s meet here while visitation is going on. We can talk more then.” She began to move toward the door. “Goodbye, Carrie. I hope the rest of your day continues without any more thrown pitchers.” She winked at me and shuffled off to her room.

11.3.08 - Word Count 2180

The next few days, I noticed the old woman in the activities room. She would shuffle in, look around and catch my eye. With a wiggle of her fingers, she would wave at me and grin her childish grin, then continue to the large chair by the fire. I would glance her way occasionally, without trying look as if I were really looking, but it didn’t matter. She was caught up in her internal world, seemingly oblivious to everyone around her.

One day, I asked Louise about her. “Who is that old woman over there?” “Honey, you are gonna have to be more specific than that. There are a bunch of old women in this room.” I pointed to the woman by the fireplace. “Her – the one by the fire.” I said. “Oh, my. That one? Well, I’m not supposed to talk about other clients, you know. Why don’t you go ask her about herself?” She smiled an enigmatic smile and turned away from me.

“Oh, come on, Louise. I’m not asking for her freakin’ medical history. Just tell me her name!”

“Sugar, that lady there is Miss Emmeline Wilson. That is all I will tell you, except this – you should talk to her. She’s got a lot of wisdom to pass along.”

“Great! Wisdom! Wow – thanks Louise. Gee, I think I’ll go right now and ask her what the Beav and I should do when faced with peer pressure. Sheesh. What the hell?”

“Hmm. Sensitive a bit, are we child? Well, let’s get you down to PT before you turn into a cream puff.” Her cackle rankled every nerve in my body. I looked over at Miss Emmeline Wilson, Wise Old Woman, and would swear she was laughing, too.

That night, as I lay in my hospital bed, all I could think about was Miss Emmeline Wilson. Her name reminded me of something, was familiar in some way that I couldn’t put my finger on.

That night I had a dream. I was driving my silver Mustang convertible down a country road. Miss Emmeline Wilson was sitting in the passenger seat, her translucent white hair blowing in the breeze. She kept looking over at me and telling me something, but her words were torn away by the swift wind barreling through the open top. I asked again and again what she was saying, but every time I asked, she looked away and her mouth went slack. She turned to me again and again, but I couldn’t hear her. The last time I asked her to repeat it, she looked through the windshield and screamed.

I saw the bridge abutment, heard the ripping of metal on concrete and felt the searing heat of my pelvis being crushed as my car folded in on its self.

My eyes flashed open and I caught myself just before I cried out loud in the dark room. My heart was beating so fast, it felt as if it would fly out of my chest, and the sweat on my forehead was dripping into my hair. It was as if I were back there again, at the scene of the accident. That’s all I could ever remember – seeing the bridge, hearing the crash and feeling the initial pain. Everything on the day leading up to that event was completely lost, as were the seven days following the accident.

Apparently, that’s not uncommon in an alcohol-related blackout.

Here We Go Again!

I'm off and running. 1670 words today. I'm not ready to post an excerpt, but I'm sure I will be in a day or two. I've already been surprised about where my characters are taking me - and strangely enough, I don't like one of them very much right now. And that's okay. She's not really very likable.

But I think maybe she will be.

If Emmeline has anything to do with it.

I like Emmeline.