Phoenix’s stomach gave her a vicious stab.
Carlos squeezed her hand, as if he’d heard her thinking about Chicago. He leaned close to her ear. “Let Marcus see who his mom is.”
You mean let Marcus see how his namesake got shot at the Osiris, Phoenix couldn’t help thinking, but she squeezed away thoughts of Sarge, too. Marcus had been only a year old when she retired, and he’d never seen her perform. That was the only reason they’d brought him, and part of the reason she’d agreed to do the show at all.
Although it was eight o’clock and just getting dark, Marcus had tired of his GamePort and fallen asleep against the plush leather seat during the long stretch of drive on the I-5. A couple of weeks ago, she would have fretted that he would wet his pants during a long nap, but his recent spate of daytime wetting had magically stopped as soon as Carlos was home.
If Phoenix was honest with herself, she knew that she had come out of hiding for the Glow, already jonesing for a drug she’d never tried. After Carlos’s stories about Maricao, she wanted the vial Wright had offered her whether it was legal or not. She wanted it for her breast, now that she’d seen the alarm on her doctor’s face, his hurry to schedule a biopsy.
She wanted it for her future. Her son. She cursed herself daily for letting it out of her hand.
So far, Wright hadn’t offered the vial again, and the stone-faced young woman with him didn’t look like she was ready to extend special courtesies. Her black-dyed hair hung across her brow in a sheepdog cut, nearly hiding her eyes. If she was a fan, nothing in her face had shown it. And Wright was different around the girl—more businesslike, less playful. Phoenix wondered what had sculpted the girl’s jaw so hard already.
“Excuse me,” Phoenix called to the front seat. “What’s your name again?”
Wright turned to glance at the girl, who didn’t look back at Phoenix. “Caitlin,” she said.
“You like music, Caitlin?”
“Used to,” the girl said.
Phoenix and Carlos shared a look. Phoenix had carried this girl’s kind of weight after the gunshots that killed her father at the Osiris, and then after three strung-out college kids chewed cyanide pills at her Rose Garden show in Chicago. She knew what weight sounded like.
“Music takes you to another world. Believe me, I know,” Phoenix said. “Caitlin, I’m gonna help you remember what music is for.”
“Amen,” Wright said softly.
Caitlin turned around to look at Phoenix. She gave her head an economical shake to move a swatch of hair out of her eyes: bright blue glass. No smile, but her face was a little softer.
“No pressure, ma’am,” Caitlin O’Neal said softly. “But I sure as hell hope so.”
The street went from darkness to an unearthly red glow as brake lights lit up the trees within half a mile of the house on Beverly Drive. Wright turned on blue dashboard flashers to skirt the traffic jam, weaving in and out of the lanes. An hour until showtime, and the line for the valet parking was long, with Day-Glo cones set up to bring order to the crush.
Phoenix hadn’t realized that Marcus was awake until she saw him staring at the spectacle through his car window. “Whoa,” he said. “All these people are coming to see you?”
Phoenix and Carlos laughed at the shock in his voice.
“You know your mom’s famous,” Carlos said. “Lots of people like her singing.”
“Mom, are you a rock star? Like Bluefish?” Bluefish was the rage on kiddiecasts, although Phoenix didn’t consider the comparison to the costumed teen band a compliment.
Phoenix shrugged. “Something like that. Believe it or not.”
Wright spoke up. “Marcus? Your mom is more than a rock star. She’s a legend.”
Marcus looked at Phoenix, nose scrunched as if to say, What the hell …?
Phoenix decided she would put on a show her kid would never forget.
With polite honks, Wright ferried them across an ocean of driveway tiles until they reached the entrance of the palatial home, styled like an Italian villa with windows flaunting enough electricity to bring daylight to a village. Wright drove past porticoes and the crowd huddled at the valet line to a narrow green canopy roped off with black velvet. A security team waited, dressed in black.
Phoenix was trying to convince herself that the gig might be fun when she saw Caitlin brush her hand across her waist, caressing something hidden beneath her long white blouse the way a Catholic might touch her rosary.
Caitlin had a gun. Phoenix shouldn’t have been surprised, but she was.
“Are you my bodyguard?” Phoenix asked her.
Caitlin looked back at her with a start, as if she’d been discovered. “No, not officially,” she said, sheepish. She straightened her blouse, pretending she’d only been fussing with her clothes. “I’m our boss’s personal assistant. But she asked me to take very good care of you.”
The security team opened the SUV’s doors, swallowing them in lights and sound. What should have been familiar was made dizzying by her lack of practice—circled by staff, rushed past a crowd, doors opened for her in mechanical succession, gentle hands guiding her at her elbow. Carlos, as always, trailed two steps behind her.
Phoenix never let go of Marcus’s hand, kept her eyes mostly on her son’s pudgy face, finding him grinning, wide-eyed, as if he thought he was the president himself. Enjoy it while you can, kid, she thought, remembering why they had decided to raise Marcus away from the noise. An overblown sense of entitlement stunted children’s growth.
The only difference between this scene and her old life was the lack of flashbulbs; she’d stipulated no photos, except for Clarion’s event photographer. She’d never liked seeing spots dancing in her eyes. Besides, she might need to distance herself from Clarion one day. There was a lot of gray area between world saviors and crazed bioterrorists.
“Is this a hotel?” Marcus said as an endless marble corridor spread before them.
“Naw, li’l dude, this is somebody’s house,” Phoenix said, wrapping an arm around him. Marcus was a tree trunk like Sarge had been, stocky and already as tall as her shoulder. Before long, Marcus would be as tall as Carlos.
“This big?” Marcus said.
“Your mom had a house this big once,” Carlos said, as if he hadn’t signed the papers, too.
“Our house was a dollhouse compared to this,” Phoenix said.
“A fifteen-million-dollar dollhouse,” Carlos said, and Phoenix gave him a laser look over her shoulder. Carlos had always hated living in Hollywood. She’d ultimately agreed with him, but she never could stomach his whining about having money.
“Pobrecito,” she said sarcastically. Poor baby.
This house would have cost them fifty million dollars. She couldn’t guess how much it was worth today, but the sparse furnishings told her it had probably sat empty for a long time until Clarion rented it out. The furniture was sterile, showroom pieces. Through the windows, she could see that most of the crowd had gathered in the backyard by a swimming pool that looked as long as a river.
Inside, at least two hundred people were waiting for an early glimpse. The crowd sharpened into faces, and Phoenix was warmed by their beams of recognition as her family was led past their huddles. “Thanks for coming,” she said, returning their smiles. “It’s great to see you all here. I’m honored you came.”
Her feelings were sincere, but the words were straight from the pages of her reliable script, recited at predictable intervals. She had climbed back into her old skin already. She’d left her costumes in storage, but she wished she’d worn something more than new jeans and her favorite peacock-colored blouse, nearly sheer and fanning slightly at the sleeves. The blouse was elegantly artsy for grocery shopping in Paso, but it was flimsy here. With her head shaved, she felt like a Phoenix impostor. She should have worn a wig!
Most of the people lining the walls were dressed for a special occasion, in cocktail clothes. Like the crowds that had followed her on tour, they were o
f all races and ethnicities, from teenagers to seniors. The shiny, hairless scalp of a middle-aged white woman in an electric wheelchair reminded Phoenix of her mother. The woman was gravely ill, her floral-patterned dress hanging too loose on bony limbs. Get that biopsy tomorrow, or that’ll be you, she reminded herself.
Phoenix paused to squeeze the woman’s soft, dry hand. She squeezed back, tearful.
“Thank you,” the woman said, voice trembling with gratitude.
“Hey, I’m glad to be here,” Phoenix said. “And I’m glad you’re here with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” the woman said, defiant.
As the security staff encouraged her to keep walking, Phoenix noticed other infirmities—a teenage boy walking with crutches, a hollow-faced black man who could have been Sarge’s brother except for his gauntness. The faces were smiling, but many of them were weary.
“We’ve set up a green room for you,” Wright explained, walking beside Phoenix. “Anything you need is in there. I did my research—you don’t like chocolate. But we have some fresh tropical fruit and seafood, and pizza for Marcus. If you have any questions …”
“Who are they?” she said. “How did they get invited to the concert?”
“They’re … everyone,” Wright said, scanning the crowd. “Schoolteachers, journalists, bloggers, students, retirees, a couple politicians. The only thing they have in common is …” Wright lowered his voice. “They’re sick. Even if they don’t know it. Or don’t want to.”
Phoenix went mute as goose bumps traveled across her skin. She gazed at Wright, waiting for more of an explanation, but he only smiled pleasantly. A stocky black man with exotic features whispered in his ear, and Wright suddenly gave Phoenix a Japanese-style bow and then stopped midway, as if catching himself.
“Sorry, I’m needed in the guest house,” Wright said. “Can’t wait to see the show.”
A second black man joined Wright, and the three of them made their way to rear double doors of sturdy oak that opened into the night. Phoenix gazed after them through the rear picture window, unable to wrest her eyes free.
Something about the men captivated her. So striking! Their movements were fluid yet deliberate, like dancers’. Their faces? One of the men, like Wright, had looked like a boy—but he’d carried himself like an elder, a royal. The two men with Wright had seemed barely to notice her, much less recognize her.
Both men were adorned in loose-fitting tunics and pants that glowed bright white.
They might have been the most beautiful men Phoenix had ever seen.
A spotlight shone on the black Steinway baby grand piano waiting for her, lid raised in greeting. An electric hum quivered Phoenix’s bones as she walked across the large property, flanked by her family and a team of purposeful strangers. Although the audience had already gathered in front of the stage beyond the colossal lighted swimming pool, Phoenix was blanketed by the expectant hush.
The grounds were at least five acres, free of lighting except for the stage: a silent temple. At this elevation, the air smelled clear as a mountaintop.
Phoenix noticed the guest house beyond the stage, on a knoll to the left of it, wrapped in trees. The smaller guest house had its own thin columns, and there were four men clad in white clustered outside its entrance. Between them, enfolded in their group, was a girl—or maybe a small-boned woman—who had long hair and features hidden by the night.
The guest house was at least twenty yards from her, maybe closer to thirty, and there was no light on the porch where the group stood, but as Phoenix stared at the girl, her view became clear and sharp: the girl’s hair hung in dreadlock ropes long past her shoulders, and she was lithe and tall. She looked like a bride dressed in white. Like the other men, the girl was brown-skinned. A model? Phoenix wondered, although some part of her knew better.
Was Clarion run by Africans? News to her.
As if her own eyes suddenly had the power of binoculars, Phoenix saw the girl incline her head ever so slightly, the barest tilt of her forehead; a greeting meant for her. Phoenix nodded in return—bowed her head, really—to acknowledge the woman-child’s greeting.
For that instant, she and the girl alone shared five acres of emptied space. Time crawled.
When Phoenix blinked, the group at the cottage was again a distant huddle in the dark. It was a too-familiar feeling of dislocation, like brushing against her ghost all those years ago. What the …?
“You okay?” Carlos’s voice said, his assuring hand on her shoulder.
Suddenly, Wright appeared beside her; or maybe she had only noticed him again. The strange telescopic vision had vanished, and her periphery filled with the crowd she had forgotten.
“That’s the boss-lady,” Wright said, winking. “You’ll meet her after the show.”
The boss-lady? Phoenix squinted to try to see the girl again, but couldn’t make out her features in the haze of distance. In Phoenix’s memory, she’d looked barely eighteen.
The crowd parted silently, carving Phoenix’s path.
Showtime.
When Phoenix sat, the piano bench was comfortable old slippers, a beach hammock in Carlos’s beloved isle of Culebra, the embrace of her parents’ arms, and a summertime ice-cream sandwich; every sensation of safety and contentment Phoenix had ever known. She sat still for a moment just to savor it, awed and grateful.
Wright had done his research, choosing the same piano that sat in their music room at home, sadly neglected. She touched the shiny keys. Her fingers improvised a chord that filled the night with promise.
Carlos, watching with Marcus at the edge of the stage, mouthed I love you.
Phoenix noticed the microphone tilted near her mouth, and she adjusted it the way a guitarist tunes her strings. Wright had offered her a headset mic, but she liked old-school mics that reminded her of the jazz club her parents had run on Miami Beach when she was a kid.
“Do you feel it?” Phoenix said into the mic, gentle breath amplified into wind-song.
The crowd murmured, a church congregation.
“I don’t have words for how happy I am to be here tonight,” Phoenix said. “I was almost silly enough not to come. Now I’m just sorry I couldn’t bring my old band—love you, La’Keitha, Jabari, Andres, Devon, and T.” Love you, Scott. Love you, Sarge and Mom. Her ghosts. The power of her parents’ yawning absence thinned her voice. “They’re all here in spirit. Hope it’s all right with you guys if it’s just me in the flesh.”
Carlos began clapping, and the crowd followed in a thunderous wave that stopped as quickly as it had begun, sinking into expectant silence again.
“I think ya’ll might know this song,” she said. “I’ve played it a few million times.”
Good-natured laughter from the crowd.
“But this time, it’s in my heart again,” Phoenix went on. “Hope it’s still in yours.”
Phoenix’s fingers relished the familiar, lilting intro to the song that had brought her out of her ghost’s shadow. She could remember the exact moment she’d composed it, eating jerk chicken, tired of hearing the gunshots that had taken Sarge—suddenly wondering what it would sound like if Stevie Wonder, Jimi Hendrix, and Nina Simone came by her place to jam.
That day, Phoenix had been born.
Once upon a time, at a long-ago Grammys concert, she and Bono had sung her signature song as a duet, and Prince had surprised them on the stage with his purple guitar’s heartrending squeal. Now, alone with her piano, there were none of the subtle son and hip-hop undertones, electric guitar flourishes, or funky, stomach-rumbling bass lines. But it was the same song made simple, so sweet on her fingertips and tongue that it was hard to sing without tears.
Phoenix played “Wanna Fly” for the first time—again.
Can you put memories in a jar?
Turn them into marbles
Instead of stones?
Are broken wings just like a scar?
Heal yourself,
Heal the world.
Love yourself,
Love the world.
Wanna fly
Wanna fly
My soul gets cold from standing still.
If I can’t test my wings, I’ll die.
Don’t wanna die for a while.
I think I’ll fly for a while.
While Phoenix’s tear-roughened voice floated to the treetops, the audience sang with her, clinging to one another’s arms.
Phoenix was flying. She couldn’t feel the piano bench beneath her or the pedal at her feet. She tasted salt, but she couldn’t feel the tears on her face. The substance of her was gone, just like the days when her ghost had taken her on his journeys. Phoenix’s fingers stilled, and she and the crowd sang the a cappella chorus powerfully enough to shake the earth.
Heal yourself,
Heal the world.
Don’t wanna die for a while.
I think I’ll fly for a while.
People were hugging. Carlos was closest to her, with moon-eyed Marcus beside him, so Phoenix hopped from the stage and melted into her family. Around her, people sobbed and prayed, thanking Jesus and Jehovah and Olodumare and Allah and Jah, some of them sinking to their knees. She saw the woman she’d met in the wheelchair on her feet, the chair forgotten, spinning in a circle while her flowered dress flew above her thighs.
“Thank you,” Phoenix whispered, joining their new chorus.
Carlos’s body shook with sobs, and she held him to steady him while he steadied her.
“Mommy, what’s happening?” Marcus whispered.
If Phoenix had known which words to use, she would have told Marcus that a door had opened above them and below them, exposing the core of everything. The music might have led them all to the door, but Phoenix knew the door wasn’t hers any more than the music was, and she certainly hadn’t opened it: she wouldn’t have known how.
No one had to tell her to look back to the cottage on the knoll beyond the stage. Her eyes knew exactly where to go. All of her felt the source of the power that had swept over them.
The men she had seen earlier were gone.