We were in Milwaukee a few weeks later. Corry had seemingly traded me for Brill in his attentions; he had barely spoken to me since the day they met. I guess Brill was more interesting. Still, I looked better in a skirt!
My depression wore down my defenses, and I struggled to fight back a sore throat as I sat in the GC replacing a corroded whammy bar on Elmer's Hamer. It felt worse than shards of broken glass in my throat. God, I'd have killed for a throat lozenge!
Lucy tapped on the open door and stepped inside. "Hi Wren!"
"Hi Lucy. Do you have a throat lozenge? My throat's killing me." I pushed the guitar away and leaned back in my chair.
"Aww...sure do!" She reached into the pocket of her jeans and handed me a box of honey-lemon cough drops, then sat across the table from me.
I joyously grabbed the box. "Oh, bless you, Lucy!"
"Hey, I'm a musician's wife; 'cough drop' is my middle name! You know how they have to take care of their voices? I've also got a killer supply of tea!" She giggled.
I giggled too, and popped the drop into my mouth.
"Get some extra rest tonight. I'll bet you anything that Voz will share some of his tea with you."
Showtime came, and I took my post backstage to hand out and collect guitars. Elysia was up first tonight. The lozenges didn't help much. I had eaten some dinner, filled my 64 oz water bottle with orange juice, and hoped I could drown this bug. I also had a couple of ibuprofens rattling around in my system. I felt I had done all I could to get through the night. I felt drowsy and disconnected from the world. Even through the drowsiness, the pain was so bad, I felt like crying. I sat on the floor and slumped against the wall. The backstage area was very dimly lit; soothing for my aching eyes. I reached for the next instrument to be handed out: Shawn's resonator guitar. It was my favorite one; a big, beautiful metal-wood marriage, cones replacing the sound hole found on a traditional acoustic, making it the loudest acoustic guitar in existence. Resonators predated the invention of the electric guitar. They were invented by the Dopera brothers, who named their company "Dobro": a contraction of "Dopera Brothers".
It was so heavy; lifting it hurt my aching arms, but I embraced the Dobro and leaned against the wall. Sleepy...so warm and sleepy...The pain in my throat started to subside.
From nowhere, a blob of color appeared and drifted toward me. I reached for it, trying to grab it, the way I did when I was a little girl. After looking at something too bright, then looking away, I'd chase after the color spots left on my retina. This blob was magenta. There was more to it than the little girl spots. It might have been an aura. What ever it was, I knew it wasn't one of those optical spots; this one had life; sentience. "Corry? Is that you?"
The spot hovered, seemingly listening. "Corry, I don't know why you just left me like you did! I mean, I know Brill is your hero, and that's very distracting, and a huge thrill to be able to make friends with your hero, but what about me? How come you just left me flapping in the breeze? I loved you, Corry!" The spot hovered as I cried, growing larger, intensifying its hue, and coming closer and closer until I felt a hand on my cheek, then arms embracing me, lifting me up, carrying me away.
I dreamed. I dreamed of the ocean, and icebergs, and cool wetness. I swam in the wreck of the Titanic. I went home to Rhode Island and went sledding with my brother. We made snow angels, then came inside and stripped off our soaked snow suits on the front stoop. I dreamed of my childhood summers, playing in the ocean waves in Narragansett. The cool wetness pervaded each scene. I was 16 again, and walking along the beach, holding hands with Roy. When I was 18 and he was 22, we talked about getting married and moving to LA, where he'd follow his dream of becoming a rock star. Roy was killed a week after we started making those plans. I could see him so clearly. He was still 22; still beautiful, with his warm brown eyes, freckles, and sandy hair. Roy hugged me, kissed me. "We should go soon," he said.
"Go where?" I asked him, still wrapped in our hug.
"No place bad, sweetheart! I'll always take care of you. Trust me." He hugged me tighter.
"Always, Roy! Are we going to California?"
"We're going to Paradise, Wrenny."