But I haven’t called her, nor has she called me.
Nor have we texted.
Nothing.
For over a month.
In between finishing the last few classes I need for my bachelor’s, I’ve watched every Echo the Stars video there is, and I’m stunned breathless by Echo’s talent. Kylie wasn’t kidding: the girl can sing. But it’s her lyrics that really push it over the edge, for me at least. I mean, the music is stunning. Complex, intricate, bursting with raw talent and passion and creativity. But Echo’s lyrics…they’re open and deep and aching with pain and meaning. She doesn’t pull any punches. She writes from the heart, from the gut, from the soul, and some of the songs are almost embarrassingly personal in nature. She bares it all, leaves it all on stage. It’s shocking, sometimes brutal and painful, and always mesmerizing.
Eventually, I decide to watch them play live. So I find their next date, a Saturday show in a packed bar. I show up early to drink, find a spot at the end of the bar where I’ll be able to see the stage. They’re supposed to go on at nine and I’m there at eight. I pace myself, drink slowly. 8:30 rolls around and band members show up to set up the equipment, plug in instruments and monitors and effects pedals, adjust mics and sound levels, but I don’t see her. 8:59…and the band is milling around off-stage. I see the cellist/bassist on her cell phone, gesturing frantically, angrily.
Finally, she gets up on the stage and takes the center mic. “So we’re supposed to be playing right now, and obviously we’re not. Our vocalist is running late, but she’ll be here any minute. Sorry.”
There’s grumbling, but no one leaves. The house technician turns on some music from the in-house system, “Anji” by Simon & Garfunkel.
9:30, and finally there’s noise from the back of the house, a door opening then closing, followed by heavy steps. The mandolin player shows up, basically carrying Echo. She’s wasted. He snags a stool on the way to the stage, sets it up front and center and deposits Echo on it. She sits unsteadily, pawing at her hair, pulling a strand out of her mouth. Her eyes are bleary, wild. She doesn’t see me, yet.
“Sorry, sorry. Bad day.” She drags the mic closer, lowers it, screws it tight once more. “No sense wasting time with preamble, right? I’m Echo Leveaux, and this is Brayden MacKellan, Vance Lawson, Mim Lang, Atticus Vaughn, and Will Wolf, and we are Echo the Stars. But then you know that, don’t you?” She sounds surprisingly lucid for how clearly hammered she is. She points at the drummer. “Hit it, Atticus.”
The drummer, Atticus Vaughn, lays a fast, intricate beat, joined by Mim Lang on an upright bass, picking and thumping and slapping, and then everyone is playing. The first half of the song is all instrumental, and I can see Echo composing herself, breathing and closing her eyes and swaying with the music, and then finally she unlatches the mic from the stand and brings it to her lips.
“Don’t you know, Mother,
How I love you?
How could you, Mother, when all we did was fight?
How could you, Mother, when you’ve gone into the light?
Don’t you know, Mother,
How I miss you?
How could you, Mother, when you’re gone?
How could you, when it’s been so long?
I wasted so much time,
Wasted so much life.
Don’t you know, Mother, don’t you know?
Do you get messages in Heaven?
Or wherever you are…
Do you hear me, late at night,
When I cry until the sun shines bright?
Do you hear me, Mother?
I’m telling you now, I’m sorry.
I’m telling you now, I wish I’d said it then,
When I still had you here,
When I still had you near.
I’m sending this message to Heaven, Mom,
Do you hear me?
Do you hear me?
I’m sorry, Mom, I’m sorry,
I love you, Mom, I love you,
And I want to come home,
I want you to come home.
I’m sending this message to Heaven,
But I don’t think it will make it there,
And neither will I.”
She gasps and curls in on herself as she finishes the lyrics, and the band plays on a couple minutes longer, and then Brayden leans against her as he plays one last lilting circular melody on his mandolin. She’s sobbing, and everyone, including her bandmates, is clearly wondering what to do, what to say. She pulls it together, after a moment.
“Sorry. I’m sorry, guys. My mom died recently, and I’m just—I’m trying to deal with it. Not well, clearly.” She laughs bitterly. “I mean, how do you deal with that kind of regret, you know? You heard the song…I have so many regrets. So much I never got to say. I didn’t feel any of this until recently…when she died I was just numb at first, you know? Just…numb. It didn’t feel real. I still cried, but the reality of it, that she was really, permanently gone, it hadn’t hit. I— I tried to call her. Right after I got back to Nashville, after the funeral. I wasn’t even thinking, I just dialed her number, wanting to talk to her, to tell her something, to resolve the stupid shit we’d been arguing about, and—her number was disconnected. I didn’t even have an old voicemail to hear her voice one more time. Just…” she waves a hand and makes her voice go high and robotic, “‘We’re sorry, the number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.’”
“Echo, honey, let’s play another song, huh?” Brayden says, trying to ease her out of her rant.
“No, Bray, I need to say this. I need—they need to know why I’m like this.” She waves him off, and now she doesn’t seem quite so stable, emotionally or physically. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I tried to call her, and she didn’t answer, she wasn’t there…and—I just miss her. But you know, it’s not even that. It’s—it’s…there was this guy, right?” She sways on her seat, gripping the mic stand for balance. “There was this guy. We met, and we had this thing. You know…this thing. This big, important…thing. And I let it go. I let him go. But I didn’t just let him go, did I? Oh no. Not Echo, I couldn’t do anything that easy, could I? No, I had to push him away. Make him think I didn’t—make him think I didn’t feel what he… ” She weaves unsteadily on the stool, shades her eyes, peering out at the crowd.
She sees me.
“I…am I drunker than I thought, or is that you out there, Ben?” She stands up slowly, with the careful precision of the very, very drunk, and stares at me. “It is you. Goddammit. You shouldn’t be here. You said…you said you weren’t coming back, and now you’re here. And you’re seeing me like this.” She looks like she’s about to pass out, swaying on her feet.