The Way Back Home (25 page)

“I
DON
'
T THINK
she's coming,” Adam says softly. Along with several other artists, I've been invited to play Opry Country Classics at the legendary Ryman Auditorium, the “Mother Church of Country Music.” Adam and I are backstage, watching the show as we wait for my turn to go on.

He was so excited for me when I first booked this gig. Playing at the Ryman is a huge deal, something both of us have always dreamed of, but now, as I look at his desperately disappointed face, I can't see a trace of that enthusiasm. His mother bailed.

“All I hear about is how I've up and left her, how I don't care about my momma, how she's struggling in the poorhouse and I can't even toss her a few table scraps. And then you get her front row seats to the Grand Ole Opry, and she doesn't even show up?”

He sounds bitter, so much older than his age, and it breaks my heart. I rub his back as he closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall. I peer out into the crowd. There in the front row are Stella, Shannon, Bonnie, and Darryl, but the seat I reserved for Adam's mom is empty.

“I'm sorry, Bird,” he says. “This is your big moment, and I'm a total downer, whining about my family drama.”

“Hey,” I say, pulling him around. I take his face in my hands, feel the stubble against my fingers, and look him right in the eye. “Adam, listen.
I'm
your family now.” I nod toward the rest of the Barretts, also watching the show from a few feet behind us. “We're your family.”

He nods, and although I know he appreciates us, I also realize that it's not the same. But he kisses me sweetly, like he's done a thousand times, and it's clear that right now he's putting on a brave face and concealing an aching heart. His mother sees him as a paycheck, not as a son, and every time he thinks they've made headway, she does something like this. I think I hate her.

When Terri Clark finishes her third song, the crowd showers her with praise. She's going to be a tough act to follow. I clutch Maybelle tight in one hand and say a quick silent prayer, gripping my lucky rock pendant in the other.

“You'll be great,” Adam whispers in my ear.

“I can't believe that after all the arenas and stadiums I've played, I still get a little stage fright,” I admit softly.

“This is the ‘Mother Church,'” he says with a grin. “I'd be nervous, too.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks, babe.”

“The next artist in the lineup tonight is cute as a button,” the night's host, Trisha Yearwood, says into the microphone. “She wrote a song called ‘Shine Our Light,' and, folks, I can't think of a better message.” The crowd applauds in agreement.

I grip Maybelle tighter and shake out the jitters.

“Go shine, Bird,” Adam says, squeezing my shoulders. “I love you.”

I look over my shoulder and peck him on the cheek.

“Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor to welcome Miss Bird Barrett to the stage.”

I walk to the circle of light at center stage and stand behind the iconic WSM microphone stand. I smile out at the crowd, take in the hardwood pews and gorgeous stained glass windows above the balcony. This may not be a sold-out arena, but it's better. I turn toward my band.

“One, two, three,” I call, off mic. The guys come right in with the intro to “Shine Our Light,” and I raise Maybelle to my shoulder, leading with an improvisational melody, a slight twist on the chorus that's both slow and soulful. As I've come to do almost any time I play a show now, I get right into the music. I've learned that I've got to beat my nerves before they beat me, and the best way to do that is to play. Now as I wrap up the quick eleven bars, almost like a warm-up of sorts, I lower my fiddle and start the first verse, loving the intimacy of this hallowed music hall.

“You look at me like it's a natural rivalry,”
I sing.
“Like there's just room for one to succeed.”
As I sing, I think about my time with Kayelee yesterday. I always think about her when I perform this song, but tonight it's different. Tonight I realize that what our relationship needed was time
away
from the spotlight. It was so refreshing to talk to her like a normal person, to go deeper than the spray tan and accessories. I sing with more joy now that I've actually
seen
Kayelee's light, now that I know it's there and that she's finally getting the help she needs to let it shine.

By the time I come to the final chorus, the crowd is singing along. As we cut the song, they erupt in applause. Stella even shouts out, “I love you, Bird!” like a crazed fan. It's a moment I'll never forget.

I take a bow and tuck Maybelle under my arm before leading into the next number, something classic that fits with the night's theme. “Y'all may not know this,” I say into the microphone as the audience settles, “but tonight is sort of like a throwback for me. You see, I got my start in music with a fantastic little bluegrass group known as the Barrett Family Band, and we only covered the classics.” As I talk, Dylan steps forward from where he was playing with my band, and the rest of my family trickles onstage: Mom to my right on the mandolin, Jacob a little behind me with his upright bass, and my dad at the mic next to mine with his banjo. “We played everything from Bill Monroe to Ricky Skaggs, Emmylou Harris to June Carter, and to think that so many of those greats played this very stage is awe-inspiring.”

“Sweetheart, one day somebody will be standing right where you are saying the same thing about you,” my dad says into his mic. “Mark my words.”

I smile wide as the crowd cheers, and I strum the taut strings on my fiddle. “Now we'd like to play a number that is deeply special to every member of our band,” I go on. “This is the song they played at my little brother's funeral twelve years ago. Music is what pulled our family through the greatest grief we've ever known, and I don't know where I'd be without it… or without these people standing around me.”

I nod to Jacob, who counts us into “I'll Fly Away,” and just like the old days, we're off. I sing lead, my mom and dad harmonizing with me, and it starts as a sweet gospel; but by the time we're through the second verse, my dad starts nodding a little harder, stomping a little louder, picking a little faster. We follow. I see Dylan smiling, and I'm glad we decided to take this song to a fun place. We'll remember Caleb's spirit on this night in an epic Barrett Family kind of way. Soon everybody gets a chance at the mic, Dylan tilting up his dobro for his solo, my dad crushing it on the banjo, Jacob slapping with all he's got on the bass, and even my mom smiling contentedly as she picks out a solo on her mandolin. I go last and give the crowd everything I've got, the pace so blistering that I'm starting to sweat as I work my fiddle over.

By the time we cut the song, the pews are empty and everybody in the “Mother Church” is on their feet. It's exhilarating. It's a feeling unlike any other. I glance over to the wings and see Adam with a thumb and finger up to his mouth, whistling his support the same way he did the night I was first discovered at the Station Inn.

And I know what I want to do. It wasn't planned, certainly wasn't approved or rehearsed this afternoon, but I've gone rogue before, so why not now? I'm slotted for one more song, and it feels like a member of our family is missing.

“Thank you, everybody!” I call. “Now we've got one more song to go before I pass the baton to the beautiful and incomparable Pam Tillis. It's a song I wrote with my family on the way down to Jackson for Christmas the first year we left the road so I could pursue a solo career. It's called ‘Yellow Lines.'”

The crowd cheers, a lot of them knowing the song, but I'm not quite ready to play.

“Those yellow lines took us all over the country for seven years, but they also led us to a talented musician who happens to hold my heart,” I say. I stretch my arm to him and see the surprised look on Adam's face. “Mr. Adam Dean, would you come out here and sing with us, please?” I look out at the crowd again and ask for their help. “He didn't know about this, so can y'all help me give him a little nudge?”

The audience applauds, and my family urges him on, too, so Adam walks toward center stage, running a hand through his shaggy brown hair as if there's any way he could actually tame that mop. Dylan stays on dobro and hands Adam his guitar.

“You've always got something up your sleeve, don't you, Lady Bird?” Adam asks, his voice deep in my dad's microphone.

“Get over here, buddy,” I say, waving him around. “You're dating me, not my dad.”

The crowd laughs, and my father hoots into the mic. Adam actually blushes as he steps over next to me, but as always, he has a great sense of humor and goes with the flow, leaning in close, cheek to cheek with me at my mic. “There, darling,” he coos. “That better?”

“Well, hold on!” my mom calls, scooting over quick to share my dad's microphone. “There, darling,” she says, pressing her cheek against his with both their eyes bulging. “That better?”

“Before and after,” Adam quips, triggering a ripple of laughter through the crowd.

I laugh, too, and turn around, nodding for Jacob to count us in before this turns into the Minnie Pearl wannabes show.

The band starts up, lively and fun, and we bring an old Barrett Family Band number back to life, stripping away the contemporary sound and studio qualities the song has on my album
Wildflower
and performing it the way we originally wrote it back on the RV. The crowd loves it; their foot-stomping on the old wooden floors pounds through the auditorium. By the second chorus, they're singing along:

“We won't forget the journey,

Each mile makes us who we are.

We go when we feel ready,

But together it's not far.

Another school, another town,

Another round of good-byes.

Adventures wait and life unfolds along these yellow lines.”

When the song ends, we wave good-bye, to a standing ovation. Then we all line up at the front of the stage, hold hands, and take our bows as a family who hasn't skipped a beat since our days in America's honky-tonks. I think about the song I wrote with Adam on tour called “Broken People” and how grateful I am that I have this glue to keep me together—how I'll never take it for granted again.

Backstage Dan and Troy give me hugs, but it's Anita who puts it perfectly when she says, “Now
that's
how you control the narrative.”

I squeeze Adam's hand, and he kisses my forehead. It does feel nice to be the one telling my own story for a change.

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Thank you first to my early readers, Becky Bennett and Bobbie Jo Whitaker, for reading every single draft, chapter by chapter, one e-mail at a time, and for letting me know exactly where you stand. With skillfully crafted editorial notes like, “I hate that girl,” “I need more Adam,” and “I'm crying in public,” and somewhat dramatic responses like, “Whoa, 50 Shades of Whitaker,” I was motivated to keep the pages coming.

A heartfelt word of thanks to my actual editors, the pros, if you will: Pam Gruber, when you took over this project I knew I was in good hands from the start. I have felt that way ever since. Kathryn Williams and Dan Tucker, thank you for the conceptual notes and for all the little extras you do to make the trilogy something of which I think we can all be proud.

Alyssa Reuben, my agent, you are the best. I feel so lucky just to know you, let alone have you represent me. Thank you for always championing my ideas to hand-sell these books, to make appearances, and to get my work in front of the target audience. You go above and beyond. (And, Katelyn, holla!)

To Kristina Aven, my publicist for this Wildflower series journey, thanks for the support on promotion and for tips about the new neighborhood. To Wendy Dopkin and Chandra Wohleber, my killer copy editors, thank you for the attention to detail you always bring. Of course, you know my mamaw, Loretta Fryman, will still proof these pages, reading the whole thing aloud to my papaw, Joe Fryman, to make sure I haven't used the word
freaking
too much. Thanks to my awesome grandparents!

Megan Girvalo, I am so fortunate to have you in charge of my website. Ellen Hagan, I love bouncing ideas off you and being inspired by your need to create. Thanks also to Alisa Siwacharan, Joanna Pecak, Kim Pace, Micol Ostow, Cindy Johnson, and Whitney Grannis.

I adore my social media friends and followers and the help you give me when I'm stuck. So I thank Katherine Newman for recommending the word “dorks”; Bethanyelle_ on Instagram for the “Mz. Communication” and “Evangeline Grey” suggestions; Andrea Baker for “The Hicks from 36”; Judy King for “D-Lux,” which got changed to Kingdom-Luxe still in your honor; Emily Case Curtsinger for the cool name “Jase”; and Sarah Lyons for “Delightful Chaos.”

Many of my fans wouldn't get to read my books if it weren't for their school librarians and media specialists. Thank you for those who support my books and especially those who have invited me into your schools to meet your students in person. The fan mail I get proves how important meeting an author and holding a personalized copy of a book in their hands really is to them. LeeAnn Gamm of Maurice Bowling Middle School, I am so appreciative of the school visit video you and your students edited for me and allow me to use on my website. Renee Hale of Henry Moss Middle School, you are a goddess for creating my teacher's guide and making the Wildflower series curriculum connections.

Enormous gratitude goes to the Kentucky Bluegrass Awards committee for putting
Wildflower
on the 2016 Master List. Many schools have chosen the Wildflower series for their book clubs because of that, and I am happy to supply questions and discussion guides for those interested. And thank you to Chuck Coldiron for the opportunity to speak to eight thousand Kentucky students last fall with former first lady Jane Beshear at your annual Feed the Mind literacy event. It was an incredible experience. I was also thrilled to be the recipient of the Evelyn B. Thurman Young Readers Award from Western Kentucky University Libraries. I am humbled by the fact that although I have lived in New York for eleven years now, Kentucky literacy schools and programs always show me the “Way Back Home.”

Thank you forever and always to my dad and mom, Glen and Vicki Whitaker, for being my biggest fans. I am able to model great families in my books because I was privileged enough to grow up in yours.

Jerrod, thank you for reading all my books and pressuring all your friends to read them, too. And to Knox, Rhett, and Wyatt Mae, I look forward to the day when you can do the same.

Proverbs 22:6