10.
ONE OF THE NICEST THINGS about living on Chrystie Street is the long, skinny park that stretches the length of it, a shimmering green line separating it from Forsyth Street on the other side. Bobby tells me it hasn’t always been the safest place to hang out, but these days it’s a shady refuge on hot city days and an oasis on any kind of day. Kids come for the playgrounds and basketball courts, green-fingered locals come for the community gardens. I don’t feel much like it, but after my self-pity party yesterday I’ve pulled on my big-girl pants and hauled my ass outside to take a walk. I paint seasonal shade into my backdrop as I go—russets and burnt orange, evergreens and blackcurrant mauves, and the smoky, earthen scents of autumn. I feel…I don’t know. Peaceful? I’m still undecided what to do about Belotti’s, but after my strung-out morning yesterday I’m cutting myself some slack. I’ve got a home, friends, a job. Everything I had before I saw that door, I still have. All of the progress I’ve made since leaving London still shows.
Snatches of music catch my ear, and I follow them toward a busker who’s set up a synthesizer on wobbly legs, a microphone in front of it. She’s young, younger than me, and she’s playing that small keyboard with some serious skill. I recognize the upbeat opening bars of “Don’t Get Me Wrong” instantly—the Pretenders were a huge influence on my mother’s musical style. Even in her later years she rocked a Chrissie Hynde fringe and heavy eyeliner. Other people linger to listen too, and I find myself sympathizing because the girl has the most beautiful tone but is clearly struggling with a throat infection. It’s cold out here; she nods gratefully when someone throws a few coins in her upturned cap. It reaches deep inside me, reminding me of the way my mum would sell her soul to be out there performing. Music has always been my lifeblood too, so I sit for a while to show my appreciation to this girl for showing up even when she clearly feels like death.
When she plays the melancholy opening bars of “I’ll Stand By You,” all I can hear is my mother; it was one of her favorite songs to perform. I find a note and approach to put it in her hat, bending to tuck it inside the brim so it doesn’t blow away with the autumn leaves. I’m singing with her as I straighten, as much in solidarity as anything, when her voice cracks. I see gratitude in her pale-green eyes and I smile in sympathy, but as I walk away she catches hold of my sleeve and nods toward the microphone. I falter, and although she keeps singing as best she can, it’s clear she’s not going to make it to the end of the track and is desperate enough to ask a stranger for help. Me. Can I? I’m paralyzed in the moment, wanting to help, not feeling able to. She holds my gaze, her fingers still around the sleeve of my jacket. My mother would have done it in a heartbeat. Did she ever come to this park? For all I know, she could even have busked here. I swallow, summon up what vestiges of courage I have, and for the woman I am now and the woman my mother was then, I step up and help this girl out in her hour of need.
“Okay,” I whisper, pulling my bobble hat off and tucking my hair behind my ears.
She closes her eyes momentarily with sheer relief as she hands me the microphone, and I sense a ripple of anticipation among the people standing around. I’d be the same if I was watching this play out. I’d wonder if this random person was going to be able to hold a note or if it was going to be a bit of well-intended earache. Please let it be the former, I think. Singing in the shower is as good as it gets for me these days, and Smirnoff is an unreliable judge on my skills. Rolling my shoulders, I clear my throat and listen to the music. I know this song like the back of my hand.
“I’ll stand by you…” I sing, picking the song up at the chorus, my eyes trained on the busker, her eyes watching me, a cocktail of hope and fear. She barely looks down as she plays the keys from memory and I hear my voice amplified in the park. Relief dissolves the fear from her eyes and a slow smile creeps across her face as she listens to me sing. An answering joy blooms in my chest as I find myself in the music and lose myself in the aching lyrics. This. Just as it was playing piano in Belotti’s last week, making music is like watering my soul.
There’s applause when the song comes to an end, and I can’t quite believe I’ve just sung in public and that it felt so good.
The busker shrugs, laughing when I look her way. “More?”
I want to. I want to stand here and sing forever. She passes me her music book and I flick through it, pausing at a Pat Benatar track. “This one, and maybe this?”
She puts her fingers on the keyboard and bangs out the rocky opening chords of “Hit Me With Your Best Shot,” and I’m away, riding shotgun with my mum in her old Vauxhall Viva, barreling along and singing at the top of our lungs in the dog days of summer. It’s an anthem and I belt it out like one, a metaphorical middle finger to anyone who wants to come and try to take me down. I feel like I’m singing right into Adam’s ear; how I wish the girl I was then could see me now. I slam a hand over my heart and sing for her. The words burst from me, strong and proud, and I dash away tears of elation from my cheeks. More people have joined the crowd now, and when my new friend rocks out the iconic opening beat of Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock ’N’ Roll,” a guy at the front plays air guitar and people start clapping the beat, like a drum. We are in this together, a thirty-strong band, and it’s actually electric. I’m singing, they’re singing back at me, and by the time I’m belting the chorus out I feel as if I’m onstage in Madison Square Garden. People put more than another dime in the jukebox, they stuff money in the busker’s hat until it’s brimming, and it’s like drinking champagne straight from the bottle. Oh Mum, was this why? Was this it? I’ve never been brave enough to sing in front of people, and I’ve somehow just brought this corner of this New York City park to a momentary standstill and it felt like pure, glittering magic. You know those scenes you see in the movies where the entire school canteen goes up, kids are on the tables, people spill on to the streets and dance on the roof of a line of yellow cabs? That’s how it felt and, quite honestly, I think the last half an hour has changed me forever.
I hug the busker tight enough to crush her ribs, not giving a damn if I catch her bug because she’s just given me back something money can’t buy: my confidence. I laughingly refuse the money she offers me and walk away, practically bouncing along the path until I’m out of sight of the scene. Hello, New York, I’m here, and I can’t wait to spend a couple more hours spinning through this crazy, heart-pounding, life-affirming neighborhood I call home.
* * *
—
JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT, BOBBY bangs on my door.
“You can come in but there’s still no gelato,” I shout, not getting up from my spot on the sofa. It’s been a busy night downstairs in the restaurant and I’m not moving unless the building’s on fire.
He throws the door wide and stands in the frame with his phone in his hand turned toward me. It takes me a few seconds to realize that the video on his screen is from the park this morning, and that the sound coming from it is me giving the Pretenders a run for their money.