Broken Wings (Broken Wings 1)

“What are you talking about now?”

“When I was in that school play in seventh grade, everybody else’s mother or father was there, but not my mother darling. My mother darling was strumming a guitar in some sawdust-floor saloon instead.”

“Damn, you never let me forget that, do you? I do the best I can, Robin. It’s not easy bein‘ a single mother, and my parents never helped us all that much. You know Grandpa took my money, even though he condemned me for the way I earned it. You know what he says, ’There’s no such thing as dirty money, only dirty people.‘ He’s been punishin’ me ever since I got pregnant with you,” she reminded me.

“You should have run off and had an abortion. I wish I wasn’t born anyway.”

“Yeah, right. That’s easy for you to say now. Bein‘ a girl out there alone in the world is no picnic with or without a baby, and it’s not been a picnic for me livin’ with my parents and hearin‘ Grandpa complain about you all the time, blamin’ me for every stupid thing you do.”

“Don’t worry, Mother darling. I’m not complaining about your not leaving me back there with them. I’d probably have run off anyway.”

“I don’t doubt it. I know I’m savin‘ your life takin’ you with me, Robin. The least you could do is be a little grateful and very cooperative. And another thing, I don’t want you callin‘ me Mother darlin’ anymore. I know you’re just bein‘ sarcastic ’cause of that book Mommie Dearest. Besides,” she said, “I told you how I have to present myself as bein‘ younger. From the day we get to Nashville, until I say otherwise, you’re my younger sister. Always call me Kay.”

“That won’t be hard,” I said. “It takes more than just calling someone Mother for her to be a mother.”

“Oh, you’re so smart.” She thought a moment. “Actually, I like that. It’s a great first line for a new song: It takes more than calling someone Mother for her to be a mother,” she sang. She looked at me. “Thanks.”

I shook my head and stared at the floor. She turned on one of her country music stations and began to sing along. The happier she was, the angrier and more depressed I became. This wasn’t my dream life; it was hers. I was like a piece of paper stuck to the bottom of her boots. She couldn’t shake me off, and I couldn’t pull away.

The road streamed ahead. She saw only promise and glory. I just saw a strip of highway going to nowhere, which was where I had been.

Why did she ever name me Robin? I thought. She should have called me Canary.

I’m just like one: trapped in a cage.

All I had to do was tell her and she would turn it into another song.

2

Getting to Glory

I fell asleep again, despite Mother darling’s singing. When I woke this time, I had to go to the bathroom. She moaned about it.

“We’re almost to I-65. Can’t you put a plug in it?” she whined.

“I have to go now!” I screamed.

Reluctantly, she turned into the first road stop, complaining about the time we were going to lose. I didn’t understand why she had to get to Nashville so fast.

“Where are we going to live when we get there anyway?” I wanted to know.

“We’re going to live with Cory. He has a two-bedroom apartment, and it’s not far from where you go to school,” she told me.

Two bedrooms? I thought. She and I weren’t going to share one. That was for sure.

“How do you just go and pick up again with someone you haven’t seen in years?” I asked her.

She stared ahead, looking for a place to park. I thought she wasn’t going to answer.

Then, when we stopped, she turned to me and with steely eyes said, “You do what you have to do to move ahead in the business, Robin. Cory knows people now and besides, what are you worrying about? I’m the one sleeping with him, not you.”

“Who don’t you sleep with?” I mumbled. “That’s why you never could tell who my father was.”

It was the only explanation I knew. From what I could put together, she had been at some wild party and actually had gone to bed with three different boys. She was either so drunk or hopped up on something, she didn’t know who was first and who was last. Some wild sperm had seized upon one of her eggs and brought me into this world. Like Grandpa paraphrased, “The sins of the mother rest on the head of the daughter.”

“I heard what you mumbled, Robin. Don’t be so smart,” she said, turning off the engine.

I got out, slammed the door behind me, and went into the restaurant and to the bathroom. I heard her follow me into the bathroom. I could never mistake the clip-clop of those boots on tile.