Page 19 of Night Songs

“I know what you mean about the silence—it was like that in my house, too,” I said.

“With your aunt and uncle?”

“Yeah, but they weren’t against music, really—it was more like silence between us or something.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, we never talked, because I don’t think they had a lot to say to me.”

“Did they mistreat you?”

“No, not exactly.” I considered mentioning my uncle’s creepiness, but I didn’t want to spoil the conversation with his stench. “They were just… indifferent, maybe? They didn’t want me there, but I also didn’t take up much space, so they just lived with it, I guess.”

Hess was quiet for a moment as we continued to stroll. “That sounds hard, Rhea. I’m sorry it was like that for you.”

Now I was embarrassed. “It wasn’t that bad. I could have been in the system, or whatever. There was a kid at school who didn’t have parents either, and I could tell his situation was pretty horrible. Honestly, I’m lucky. I don’t know why I complain.”

“But it shouldn’t have been that way. If your mother was still alive—” She paused, chastened. “I’m sorry, forgive me.”

I urged her on. “Please, don’t stop. What were you going to say?”

She took a deep breath. “Only that, even if it wasn’t so bad, you should have been loved.” She looked away. “Your mother loved you so much.”

My chest ached as it had earlier, this time more strongly than I’d ever felt it. I didn’t know what to say, or what other questions I had. It was all I needed to know in that moment—that my mother had loved me.

Hess went to say something else, but then Phoebe squealed up ahead, “We’re here!”

On the left stood a pink iron gate withBELLEWOODwritten in gold metal cursive across the front.

“Is this…?”

“Yes, this was your mother’s house before she died.Yourhouse.” Hess smiled and stepped up to a keypad off to the side where she poked a few buttons. The gate swung open, and Phoebe skipped through, waving her flashlight over her head.

We followed on the unlit, winding drive as Hess explained how Lou had left provisions in her will to turn Bellewood into a museum whose proceeds would fund music education in rural Tennessee. The estate had partnered with the Country Music Hall of Fame to set up the exhibits, and now it was a popular side tour. Thousands visited every week.

“I wanted you to see it without all the crowds,” she added.

We rounded a bend, and a house loomed into view, my eyes now accustomed to the dark. The front had the same Greek columns as Hess’s parents’ house, but these were painted hot pink, and two large pink wings extended from either side, making it look like the White House if it’d been designed for Barbie.

I saw a light blink near one of the bushes at the front, and I wondered if it was a faulty outdoor light. Then another one blinked a few feet away, and then another, and another, until the house glittered.

“Do you remember lightning bugs?” Hess asked me, and I shook my head in wonder. It was amazing what beauty a person could forget.

Hess disappeared for a bit, and then there was a heavy clang, and the house lit up all at once like a carnival ride, dispersing the twinkling bugs. The façade shimmered with tiny pink bulbs, and a Belle Powers song I didn’t know poured from a fake rock speaker next to me.

Phoebe jumped up and down clapping, then led the charge up to the front door where Hess let us inside.

The entryway was a grand two-storied situation that led to a corded-off living room decorated entirely in different shades of pink. An enormousportrait of Belle Powers done in pink rhinestones instead of paint hung above the magenta fireplace.

I stood behind the plush exhibit rope and tried to remember something of this room, but it looked like no one had ever set foot here, much less played on its rug. The flamingo satin of the couch shone so slickly, I imagined you’d slide right off. And the smell only reminded me of church, with its crumbling carpet and burnt coffee.

The kitchen, which I expected to be homier, looked like it’d been dipped in liquid gold—gold counters, gold stove, gold fridge. There was a gold bowl of gold fruit sitting on the solid gold breakfast table in the corner. I couldn’t imagine someone cooking, much less eating, in the kitchen without going blind.

I wandered into a more subdued room with nothing but a white grand piano and a desk stacked with notebooks, scribbled napkins, and a Krystal takeout menu with a few lines written in the spaces between the prices. I had been ignoring the accompanying placards to force my own memories, but now I read this one for the “Music Room.”

It described Belle’s voracious songwriting habit—at any moment, she might come up with a few lyrics or chords and have to write them down on whatever was available. One time she wrote a whole song in turquoise eyeliner on a hotel mirror and the maid left it for the next guest, afraid to scrub it off.

This was the room where she assembled the fragments into songs, and this space, at least, still buzzed with life. I wondered if she’d ever let me sit with her in here, or if this was a place she went to be alone to make her music. Even in this room, it was hard to imagine a child had ever lived in this house.