Fast footsteps came from backstage and Juliet’s assistant, Linda, who appeared distressed, hurried to them. Jikata remembered, and the small moment of normality shattered.
“I’m sorry.” Linda stopped, inhaled a breath that raised her thin chest. Looked at the Philberts, hesitated and said, “I’m sorry. I have bad news. We should…ah…let’s go to your dressing room.” Linda pulled Jikata backstage, past the greenroom and into the star’s dressing room. The Philberts followed.
The small room was elegant in cream and white, but four people made it crowded. Jikata placed the birdcage on the dressing room table. Chasonette stepped nervously back and forth on her perch, then apparently caught sight of herself in the mirror and preened.
Linda led Jikata to the cream brocade Victorian fainting couch that took up most of one end wall. She figured she had to sit. The moment she did, Linda released her hand—a blessing since both their palms were sweaty.
Linda grabbed a box of tissues from the dressing table and dropped it in her lap. “I got a call. Your great-grandmother has died, Jikata.”
“I was supposed to visit her tomorrow,” Jikata said, still shocked.
“Sorry,” repeated Linda. She was a young intern with the University of Southern California who’d traveled with Jikata during the two-month tour. Though they’d managed well enough, neither of them expected the job to transform into anything more.
“She was an old woman and had a good life.” Isn’t that what Jikata was supposed to say? “I want to be alone,” she choked out.
“Of course. We’ll take care of your crew and fans.” Juliet, patting Jikata on the shoulder, trilled her tongue. Chasonette perked up and warbled a low, soothing melody. “I’m sure you don’t want to attend the opening gala.”
“No, I don’t.” It had completely gone from her mind.
“We’ll make sure your room in the hotel next door is booked for you through the next week. It’s been a gruelling tour for you, I know. You need rest.”
“Yes, I’d planned a long break.” Rote answers seemed to work. Jikata didn’t know what she felt except…empty. Nothing new about that.
“You just go next door when you’re ready,” Juliet insisted.
“Fine.”
The bird continued to croon, soft background scales that tugged at Jikata, reminding her of the chants and chimes that had haunted her. She rubbed her temples.
Trenton squatted down, as if setting himself in her vision. “Jikata, if there’s anything we can do….”
She nodded. “You go on to the gala. You’re the star of that show.”
“All right, but if you need us here in Denver, let us know.”
She watched blindly as the Philberts left. They were the only people she felt she could call on in Denver, and they were acquaintances. All her old ties had withered.
“Um, Jikata?” Linda said.
Oh. The girl had looked forward to the end of the tour and the big party to celebrate the renovation of the theater. With another nod, another blank gaze, Jikata said, “You go ahead. You don’t have to stay with me the next couple of days. Let’s call this the end of the internship.”
“I don’t know, if you need me….” But Linda sounded relieved.
Jikata was prepared. She went to her designer backpack and got the card—with bonus—from an inner pocket. Held it out. “Thanks for all your help. I’ve already turned in my last report. You’re free to go.”
“Thanks!” With a smile showing the job was already history, Linda hurried from the room.
Jikata sat and listened as the theater emptied, then dragged herself into the shower. Let the heat and steam flow over her as she prodded her feelings about her Japanese great-grandmother. Regret, as always, they hadn’t ever seen eye-to-eye. Her great-grandmother had refused to speak to her after she’d legally changed her name to Jikata, had hated that she’d become a pop singer. At eighteen, Jikata had left the dust of Denver for L.A. and prospered.
Well enough that she could buy whatever she wanted, keep her great-grandmother in style. Which, of course, Ishi had refused, liking the little house in east Denver she’d bought a few years after leaving the internment camp in southeastern Colorado. Both of Jikata’s grandmothers had died before she was born. Both her grandfathers had been unknown, a bond between her parents who were killed in a car accident when she was fourteen.
Sad. Jikata felt it, mostly for the lost opportunity to reconcile, though she’d known in her bones that was wishful thinking.
Now she was truly alone. No more family.
She wondered what to do. Knowing Ishi, all her affairs would have been arranged. Jikata was ambivalent about seeing the old house. At the end of a tour, she usually found the nearest bed and fell into it. But lately her sleep had been troubled by dreams that had her sweating and tangled in sheets when she woke. Or, worse, visions that were pure beauty she strove to put into words and sing.
Those songs always bombed. She did much better when she sang others’ melodies and lyrics, and that was a raw spot in her soul.
The pipes creaked and water cooled and she turned the shower off. At least the makeup and sweat of the last show, of the tour, was finally gone.
Wrapping herself in a large towel, she stepped into the dressing room. The mirror was foggy with steam so she opened the door, dressed quickly in jeans and a blue silk blouse and packed a small suitcase, put her backpack in order and swung one strap over her shoulder.
She turned to do a sweep of the room and froze.
The birdcage door was wide open. Jikata blinked—could the bird have unlatched it herself? Apparently so. A very valuable, rare bird.
Her gaze trailed to the open door of the dressing room. Shit! She looked wildly around the room, but it was small and a foot-long scarlet bird was not evident against the cream-and-gold background.
Dammit!
She hadn’t seen or heard the wretched bird leave. No trilling of a goodbye song. No soft whoof of feathers.
Sliding her feet into ballet slippers, she opened the door wider, then heard a tinny chime. She glanced at the table where the chiming-ball necklace Juliet Philbert had given her when they’d met had been. Pretty and shiny on a gold satin ribbon, it was gone, too.
Jikata grimaced. She was ambivalent about chimes. She’d included them in her own compositions that hadn’t been successful, then the last one that had made it big. It was hitting the top of the charts now. The strange concoction of bells and chimes and an occasional gong tone. She’d sung—chanted—a mishmash of words in English and Japanese and French and had layered her voice in the track again and again over four octaves. She barely had a full four-octave range and had worked hard on that track until each note was strong and perfect.
“Come to Me” was going platinum.
The tune wasn’t really her composition and that’s what bothered her. She’d heard odd patterns of notes, of chimes, of chants, the occasional gong beat in her head over the past two years. It had started here in Denver, her hometown, two years ago February. A February as dreary as her life. Ishi hadn’t wanted to see her then, either.
She shook the thought away. Stop dithering! Go hunt the bird. She stepped to the door, called, “Chasonette!” Would a bird come to her name? Cockatoos were supposed to be intelligent for birds, weren’t they?
Another chime. Faint. But her hearing was good and she was sure it came from the stage