But you wouldn’t know it from my current occupation. The pseudo radio therapist was someone I made up. I’d played around with different personalities on my college radio station as a joke. I got a call from a scout after college, and now the joke was on me because I’m stuck.
My producer, Rhonda, gave me a nod through the window panels, signaling the show was about to start. I scanned my small studio no bigger than half a dorm room. My U-shaped desk included a computer and all of my necessities. Green tea, because it made me wise: check. Fuzzy socks, because the GM at the station, who didn’t give a damn about his staff’s comfort, blasted cold air all year long: double check and a toe wiggle. A notepad for when I was inspired to write between commercial breaks: checkity-check-check. And last but not least, my handy whiteboard, also known as my sanity. Some nights I played hangman with myself. If my producer was in a bad mood, which wasn’t often, she’d join the game. The magic phrase that pays never changed: “Kill Me Now.”
I know, how millennial of me. Some of my callers were sweet, and I affectionately named them my raindrops. But a good majority were the cause of their own problems, and they wanted a song to magically fix it.
“Sure, Noah from Buckhead. I’ll put in your request to play ‘Ain’t No Sunshine’ for your wife, even though you got caught banging your secretary.” Some callers got the full K-I-L-L at once.
My producer’s pale fingers jutted in the air. “In three . . . two . . .” The “one” was silent.
I pulled in a breath away from the mic and then leaned in. “It’s midnight, and you’re listening to the smooth sounds of WBXL radio. I’m Raina, and I can’t wait to hear from my raindrops today. Before we kick off our calls, I want to read you an email I received last week from one of my listeners.” I pulled up the email on the computer screen.
Dear Raina,
My name is Elise. I’m twenty years old and my grandmother is dying. Nana raised me when my parents abandoned me. My first memories are of my grandmother reading to me, teaching me how to can fruits, sew, and cook. Best of all, she encouraged me to dance. I love dancing and I’m good at it—I’m currently attending Juilliard.
I called Nana and I visited home every chance I could afford, but it hadn’t occurred to me that her voice had gotten weaker. She told me to stay in New York the few times I insisted on visiting her, so I could save my money. After a while, I realized I was being put off and decided to go home. When I saw the oxygen tank, I knew she was dying.
The problem is, she refuses to let me take a leave of absence from school. She made me promise to stay and says it doesn’t make sense for me to stop my life to watch an old woman die. Against my better judgment, I’ve returned to school. But with every pirouette, extension, and plié I take, I feel heavy, guilty. I want to leave school. How do I get her to see that it’s the decision I want to make without upsetting her?
Conflicted and brokenhearted,
Elise
My throat squeezed shut, remembering Grandma Jean’s death. One moment she was watering her plants in the backyard, the next she was dead of a heart attack. I didn’t know which option was worse, the unexpected suddenness of someone being here today and gone tomorrow or knowing your loved one has limited time left. This poor girl was alone. At least I had my mother. I pressed my fingers against my eyelids.
Keep it together, girl.
I cleared my throat. “Grandmothers are precious. My grandmother passed when I was in my early twenties, and it was devastating. She was my rock like your Nana is yours. I can feel the agony pouring from your email . . . but, Elise, I think you’ve already made your decision. Go home. Take care of Nana. Don’t let her sway you. Stand your ground and her anger will pass. I don’t know if you’re religious, but I do believe in heaven, and Nana sounds like a pretty sure bet to get her wings when it’s her time. I also want to remind you to enjoy your grandmother. Read her stories, sew by her bedside, do the things she’s done with you.
“When she passes on, know that you’re never really alone. She’ll be there when you walk down the aisle and when you give birth to your children. And when life gets too much, give me a call or email. I’ll be praying for you, Elise. Be strong. Be brave. I’m going to find a special song for you and Nana.”
I played the song already queued, “I Hope You Dance.”
I took a deep sip of tea, hoping the hot liquid would eliminate the painful lump rising in my throat. I remembered when my neighbor’s dog had died and I had cried as hard as his owner because I’d loved that damned dog. Grandma Jean held me up and dried my tears with an old handkerchief she seemed to use for every occasion, whether it be swatting a fly or spit-shining my face.
“Whatcha crying for? We all gonna run out of birthdays. We pass on from here and on to the next. No sense in crying about it.”
My producer gave me the okay signal, and I forced myself to relax. Rolling my neck, I sent a quick prayer up for Elise and then geared up for the barrage of callers.
I glanced up and waved to my broadcast assistant who fielded our calls. After placing someone on hold, she looked up, waved, and smiled broadly at me. She was brilliant, and my favorite—I was willing to bet she would host her own show in a few years.
I waited for my call tag, which sounded so soulful and deep, like a cross between Toni Braxton and Anita Baker. I’m still proud someone thought enough of me to sing my name for seven full seconds.
“I’m back, raindrops, and I’m so excited to hear from you. We have . . .” I listened for Jamie to give me the name. “Rudy James from Woodstock. He’s from the OTP. That’s ‘outside the perimeter,’ for those of you new to Atlanta. How are you, Rudy?”
“I . . .” A deep voice sighed. “I’m good, Raina. I’m just a little emotional today.”
I nodded and gave him a “mm-hmm.” I’d practiced and perfected that “mm-hmm” over the years so it sounded soft, warm, and comforting, like homemade apple pie. Cameron wasn’t impressed by my trademark psychoanalyzing sound, and it was banned from our home.
“And, well, I’m thinking about Jeffrey.”
I perked up. Tonight could be two-for-two for being able to help people who actually needed advice.
“Tell me about Jeffrey. Who is he to you?” I asked.
“I have this anxiety, you know? It sometimes bubbles in my stomach. When I’m away from him I freak out. But when he’s near me, God, when he’s near, I feel like I can take on anything. But I have this deep-rooted fear. I’m afraid he’s going to leave me.”
I slid to the edge of my seat, waiting for him to dish.
“Like Mr. Miyagi,” he whispered, like saying the name caused a fracture in his soul.
“Mr. Miyagi?” I scrunched my forehead. “Like from The Karate Kid?”
“No. Mr. Mee-owwgi. Anyway, can you find the perfect song for my cat? Show him that I love him and that I don’t want him to ever leave me like the others.”
I flopped back in my seat. Jeffrey is a cat. A motherfucking cat. This was too much. I narrowed my eyes at Jamie, who clutched her stomach while silently laughing. She was no longer my favorite.