But staring at that sign, she felt like a balloon with a pinhole, all the air slowly seeping out of her. The oddest part was how aware she was, how her thoughts matched up so precisely with what her body was doing. Now my legs are going slack, she thought as her foot came off the pedal. And now my fingers are frozen, she thought as the pick fell onto the stage.
Simple. Mechanical. Inevitable.
Behind her, the two backup musicians—Atsuko on the drums and Nate on the keys—continued to play even after Greta had stopped, bent forward like someone who’d been punched in the stomach, all those eyes tracking her as she tried to catch her breath. She didn’t even know she was crying at first, not until she felt a tear travel down the bridge of her nose, and by then, Atsuko and Nate had stopped too, and it was silent in a way that no music venue should ever be, in a way that felt wholly and entirely wrong. A murmur broke out, and she knew they were still with her, the audience, sympathetic and concerned and maybe even a little touched to see someone being so real, a little excited to bear witness to such a raw display of authenticity.
But then something shifted, and as she continued to cry, as the silence yawned between them, she could feel it going on too long, could feel it stretching out painfully, so she forced herself up to the microphone again, hoping to summon an inner strength that was surely there—because wasn’t it always there in moments like these, if you dug deep enough?—and she started again, playing without a pick, singing without breath, and what came out was so scratchy and out of tune that she couldn’t even pretend to keep it up. There was another silence, less forgiving this time, and she opened her mouth to apologize but found she couldn’t even do that.
The crowd stared at her, and she stared back at them.
Then, without another word, she simply turned and walked off the stage, feeling the heat of all those cameras following her.
Howie insists it wasn’t as bad as she thinks.
But it was. She knows, because she’s seen the video. It’s everywhere.
What was hardest to swallow wasn’t the fact that she’d melted down in front of a large crowd or even that the footage had spread so far and wide. Given the circumstances, it was an acceptable sort of failure, one wrought by grief, and most of the articles about it said as much.
The part that knocked her totally off-balance was the pity that came along with it. Pity for her collapse, for her moment of weakness, for her vulnerability.
And pity for the song itself, which was the worst part of all.
Rolling Stone called it “maudlin and sentimental—at least what could be heard of it.” Pitchfork said it was “more nursery rhyme than song, a saccharine ballad out of step with James’s usual vibe.” New York magazine was blunter, dubbing the whole thing “an utter disaster from top to bottom.”
Greta had always come to the stage from a place of power. It was where she felt most confident and in control. A thick skin is a requirement in this line of work, especially as a female musician—a female guitarist, no less—and she had long since learned how to take criticism. She has no problem dealing with heckling. She can brush off insults and disapproval and snark.
But the tidal wave of sympathy—not just for her situation, or even the performance, but for the song itself—was what really flattened her.
The label was furious. They were in the middle of a rollout for her second album, which they’d been promising would be even more explosive and exciting than her first. And then she went and stood up onstage and cried her way through an overly sentimental ballad, which was now the top result when you searched for Greta James.
They wanted her to do another show right away. A chance to quickly wipe the slate clean and move on. But Howie—who had flown overnight from L.A. to New York and shown up at Greta’s apartment the next morning with coffee and bagels—convinced them it would be better to take a pause, even just for a week. That week, of course, had turned into a month. And then another. Soon, everything had to be pushed back: the single, the album, the tour, all the publicity. Even so, it took a long time for Greta to begin paying attention again, to start to worry about any of it—not because the other, greater loss had faded but because she knew if she lost this too, she might never recover at all.
Now she looks at her phone again, trying to imagine being back onstage, singing a brand-new song, all of the execs hoping for a fresh start, all of her fans looking for a story to tell, all of it in concert with the embarrassment and doubt that have been beating like twin drums underneath her grief, that constant fist around her heart.
She knows it’s time. It’s past time. It’s possibly even too late.
But still, she’s not sure she’s ready.
One of the strangest things about death is that it doesn’t mean you stop hearing someone’s voice in your head, and right now, Greta knows exactly what her mom would say.
You’ll be fine. You’re ready. You’ve got this.
But she’s not here to say it.
And so Greta attempts to do it for herself.
I’ll be fine, she writes to Howie. I’m ready. I’ve got this.
She’s just not sure she believes it.
Chapter Fifteen
Greta is standing at the rail, mesmerized by the tiny icebergs floating past in the tranquil water, when Mary appears at her side. She’s wearing a red coat, and her knit hat is pulled tight over her short black hair.
“The bad news,” she says, leaning her elbows on the railing beside Greta, “is that we lost our trivia title. The good news is that we got the one about the Rolling Stones.”
Greta laughs. “Happy to help.”
“I checked on your dad.” Mary rubs her hands together. “He seems a lot better.”
“Did he yell at you about the quarantine too?”
“Honestly,” she says, “I’d be more worried about him if he hadn’t.”
“I feel bad he’s stuck in his room,” Greta says. “I can’t even blame him for being grumpy for once.”
“Go easy on him. He’s having a hard time.”
“We all are.”
Mary gives her an appraising look. “I’m glad you’re getting a little break this week.”
“I’ve been on a break for a while now, actually.”
“I know. I saw the video.”
“You and about two million other people,” Greta says, turning to her with an attempt at a smile. But it falters when she sees the look on Mary’s face, which is so tender it makes her want to cry.
“For what it’s worth, I thought the song was beautiful.”
“That’s only because you miss her too.”