Published in Iron Horse Literary Review 27.1
Calla’s Song
Calla looked in the bathroom mirror at her son, DJ, who was struggling to zip her dress. He was handsome, like his father, but his eyes were kind and sincere while DeMarcus’ had been cold. Calla also saw his frustration, and grief. She wished she could remove both, but there was nothing she could do. She was at stage 4 of pancreatic cancer; there wasn’t a stage 5. The disease had taken DJ’s childhood; she was not going to allow it to take his music.
“I didn’t hear you practice,” she said as she applied more makeup to her sallow skin.
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
“DJ, I love hearing you play, even in my dreams, but if you decide to practice later, make sure your mute box is on.”
“Where are you going? You’re too sick to be going out.”
“I’m going to see Gideon Banks and his band. He’s a good friend, remember? We grew up together.”
“If he’s such a good friend, why haven’t you ever mentioned him?” He whined as if he were four instead of 16 with a pimple on his chin.
“I have mentioned him. You probably don’t remember,” she said. “We were all good friends. Your father and his mother lived on the second floor. Gideon was on the first floor with his parents and older sister, Melanie…””
DJ finished zipping. “I did listen, and I do remember.”
“Then what?”
“Why are you going to see him? You’re sick, but you’re getting dressed up. If he’s a just a friend, who I’ve never met, why bother? You put your pill pack in your purse, so I know you plan on staying awhile.” His voice cracked. “Mom, what’s going on?”
Calla pushed pass him into the living room. “It’s ‘whom’ I’ve never met. Where’s my coat?’
DJ followed, “Mom, please,” he said wiping his tears on his sleeve. “I know something is up.”
Calla put on her coat, picked up her purse and keys. “I’m going to ask Gideon to be your guardian.”
“Gideon Banks, my guardian? What? His last album was nominated for a Grammy. Mom, what are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking about your future. You’ll need a guardian. If I don’t do it, you’ll end up in foster care, and you might end up with someone…” she coughed. “Someone who can’t appreciate your talent.” Calla touched DJ’s chin, avoiding the pimple. “I’ve gotta go. We’ll talk about it later. Don’t stay up too late and don’t forget to wash the dishes.”