Hide & Seek - James Patterson [66]
There was a fax from Will waiting for me at the Four Seasons Hotel in town:
GOOD LUCK, MY SONGBIRD
FORGIVE YOUR WILL HIS TRESPASSES
PLEASE FORGIVE ME
HURRY HOME WITH THE CHILDREN
I LOVE YOU—ALWAYS HAVE, ALWAYS WILL.
I crumpled the paper.
Always Will, indeed.
CHAPTER 78
BARRY, JENNIE, ALLIE, and I were cuddled inside a big red-and-silver Bell helicopter. Beneath us were the bright lights of Candlestick Park, the dark waters of the bay. I was dressed in my usual outfit: a loose white peasant's blouse, long skirt, flat shoes, so I wouldn't be a millimeter taller than I was.
But was I really ready for this? I wasn't sure, but I had to try it, really wanted to.
In less than an hour I would be making my first major concert appearance in almost three years. The networks had sent film crews. This was news, right?—hard copy. A live album was being recorded tonight. There had been over five hundred thousand requests for tickets; there were fewer than eighty thousand seats.
Yet we were sealed off in the helicopter, a private family: my children, my best friend. This was better than being down there. I was thinking.
“Let's not land,” I said.
Barry raised an eyebrow and made a face. He put his hand over his mouth as though he were speaking into a mike. “Uh, Earth to Maggie, Earth to Peter Pan.”
“I mean it. Can't we just stay up here till tomorrow?” I was feeling a little giddy.
“What'll we use for fuel?” Jennie asked.
“They can refuel us in midair. Like long-range bombers. It'll be cool.”
“We'd be hungry,” Allie said, always thinking of eats.
“They can pass in sandwiches with the fuel. No problem.”
Jennie laughed. She liked it when I talked nonsense.
“I'm hungry now,” Allie announced. He was always the most practical member of JAM.
“We're about to land,” Barry told him, “no matter what your mother says. I'll get you some food at the Park. All-beef franks, mmm-mmm good.”
I suddenly felt a wave of sadness, and also unbelievable fear. Stage fright. “I don't know if I can go on,” I said. “Really, Barry. No joke.”
He took my hand. “Preconcert jitters. Go with the fear. Use it.”
“More than that. It seems so safe here, so right. Down there is danger. First the fans, and then—”
“Will,” he said. I had told Barry nothing about the fight, but he'd guessed something was wrong. He knew me too well.
“Life,” I said.
Okay, so I'd sold close to twenty million albums; I'd won eleven Grammy Awards.
But I could still get scared, couldn't I?
My singing style was the personal confessional mode, right? I could do that now. Just go out there in front of all those people and be myself. Be very up front and personal.
The trouble was—I was starting to feel like my old self. I remembered the Maggie who had existed in West Point. I even remembered the little girl who broke into tears because she couldn't stop stuttering when she had to answer questions in school.
I knew exactly what my performance was supposed to be—edgy, but also heartfelt. My songs were supposed to be succinct and catchy on the surface—infected with all kinds of influences: rock, Broadway, classical, French art song—but under the surface, complex and psychologically true.
I knew all this as I walked out on that big stage in San Francisco, as I looked down on all those expectant faces.
So why was I afraid? No, absolutely petrified? Why was I scared that I wouldn't be able to sing at all?
I sat down at the piano, and I started to mouth lyrics against the stiff, chilly breeze off the bay.
I almost got through the first song—
Then I went to pieces.
With all those strangers watching—but also my children, with Jennie and Allie right there in the stage wings.
BATTERY, I sang.
HE HIT ME
THIS CAN'T BE ME
I started to stammer, then to stutter again—something I hadn't done in so many years, something I'd fought so hard to overcome.
I couldn't sing anymore. I couldn't go on.
I finally turned and talked to the huge crowd—”I'm having a little trouble up here. Whew. I'm sorry. I'm in trouble.”
I was beginning to have heart palpitations.