“My name is Amery Taylor. I’m twenty-six years old, and I’m from Nashville, Tennessee.”
“Very good, Amery. Now tell me, what do you like to do in your free time?”
“Well, for one thing, my band needs me, so I spend most of my time rehearsing and writing our music. I try to always keep something new on its way out, that way each of our concerts can be a little different than the last one, and our fans don’t get bored.”
“Tell me about this band of yours.”
“Well, we aren’t exactly as big as I make it out to be, but that’s just because it’s a piece of work; there’s nothing easy about such a profession, you know. I’ve written many songs, but I’m still waiting on the producers to get back to me. Only folks back home have actually heard us. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately – the rest of the band’s getting impatient. They say that if our music doesn’t come out soon, then they’ll quit on me. Me being the one who does all the heavy lifting in our group, their comments make me want to break the band up sometimes, but I know it wouldn’t be worth it. After all, they’re everything to me, everything to my music. I couldn’t just throw all of that away. Music is my life, and nothing’s gonna change that.”
“I can see how a situation like that could be stressful. Who all is in your band?”
“The band has had the same members since my junior year of college: Beck – electric guitar & backing vocals; Syd – bass; Delilah – keys & backing vocals; Bash – drums; and me – lead singer and acoustic guitarist. Which reminds me: they’re probably waiting for me in the parking lot. Are we almost done?”
“Just a few more questions and we’ll be done with the session.”
“Session?”
“Interview. I meant the interview. Now, when and where does your band usually meet up, and about how long do you practice?”
“We meet up in a different place every time, whenever we want, really. There’s no set schedule, so we can practice anywhere from 30 minutes to 5 hours. It just depends on what we’re feeling.”
“Interesting. What producers are you working with?”
“Well, I started out with The 515 Studio, but I just recently switched over to Third Man Records, and I think we will have some success with that one.”
“Is everyone in your band from Nashville?”
“Yep. But we didn’t meet until college.”
“And where did you go to college?”
“We all went to USD – University of South Dakota – in Brookings.”
“Hm. What made you decide to go there?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Okay, and how did you meet your friends there?”
“Umm… you know, I can’t seem to remember that either.”
“That’s alright. Tell me about your homelife.”
“I never knew my parents. I was put in foster care and went from house to house until I was 15, and then I ran away. I got a job at a diner and worked long hours, but it was a while before I could afford rent for an apartment, or anything. So until then, I lived on the streets.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t attend school during this time?”
“No, sir. I had nothing to wear and no way to get there. No time.”
“If this is true, then how did you manage to get into college, and so far away at that?”
“Sir, I think we’re getting a bit personal with this interview. It was a pleasure discussing my work with you, but I don’t see how my education and homelife is yours to worry about. I’ll be going now.”
“I understand. Thank you for your time.”
Amery and Dr. Davidson left the room and entered the lobby. Even being a doctor, the solid white lobby was still painful to Davidson’s eyes, after having seen it multiple times a day for years. No color whatsoever can mess with the average human mind. But to the less average minds, perhaps that’s not the case at all.
Amery quite enjoyed the lobby. It’s bright, vibrant colors – a splash here, and a splash there – the lit up stage holding the drums, keys, guitars, and mics, beads and lanterns hung from the framing, the speakers painted to add even more pizazz. It was perfect. She turned to Dr. Davidson. “Would you mind if I held my band practice here today?”
“I don’t mind, just as long as you don’t disturb my other clients. But otherwise, I would love to observe your work.” The doctor wondered what she would do, considering there was no designated area or equipment for her to practice with. He slipped into the back room to inform his colleague, Dr. Meyers, of some of his findings. “I can certainly see why Amery’s family sent her here. She doesn’t seem to have any sort of grip on reality, and is definitely living in a fake one. She can’t remember key details of her past that connect important events together, and thinks that she and her “band” will be famous soon. In other words, she’ll be staying here for a little while,and if I’m ever not around, keep an eye on her. I want to figure out where her mind is at.”
Dr. Davidson peeked out of the door between the back room and the lobby. Amery was standing on the coffee table, telling everyone to take their places as she picked up a couch cushion and began playing it like a guitar. She was the only one in the lobby. But she did have an amazing voice, there was no doubt about that, and the doctor was sure it would sound even better with a real guitar. He had some ideas.
About an hour later, Amery brought the rehearsal to a close, and was ready to leave. However, when she went to the door, it was locked from the outside. Dr. Davidson met her at the door. “Why isn’t it opening?” she asked with concern.
“You have to have a key in order to get out, but first you must gain permission from a doctor.”
“Don’t you mean a producer?”
“Yes, a producer. Producers here don’t usually want people walking out on them; it could
hurt the business. But I will give you permission only because you aren’t interested in our special, limited time only deal.”
“What deal?”
“Well, we produce your music, let you stay here in a complimentary suite, provide you with three meals a day, special events, and guidance in your songwriting and performing, as well as allowing your band to practice on our stage as often as they’d like. All in exchange for your loyalty to the company. Free.”
“That sounds… almost too good to be true. Are you sure it’s free?”
“100% positive. That’s why we’re the most successful production company in Jerome, Arizona.” Amery held out her hand.
“You’ve got a deal.”
“Wonderful. Now follow me and I will get someone to show you to your room.”
That night, Amery’s family came down to visit. Amery was sitting on her bed, staring off into space when she heard a knock on the door. “Amery, someone is here to see you.” Dr. Davidson said from the hallway. Amery hurried to the door excited to find out who wanted to speak to her. When she opened the door, she saw a woman in her late forties or lower fifties, a man about the same age, and a boy who looked to be about eighteen or nineteen. The boy must have been their son, because he looked almost exactly like the father, and had the same deep, blue eyes as the mother. “Hello, how can I help you?” Amery asked politely. The woman’s eyes swelled up with tears. Had she done something wrong? Did she somehow hurt her feelings?
“These kind people are here because they would like to sing a song with you,” the doctor intervened, “they were hoping that you would remember it, and if you didn’t, then they were hoping to teach it to you.”
“Um, alright. Come on in.” Amery sat down on her bed and motioned toward the available seats in the room. Everyone entered except for Dr.Davidson, who stood at the door. There was an awkward silence for a moment, then broken by the woman.
“Amery, I apologize for what might seem rude to you, but we aren’t gonna introduce ourselves just yet, alright.” Amery nodded. “Do you know the song Memories by Shawn Mendes?” Amery thought for a moment.
“How does it go?” she asked. The woman looked at her husband as he began playing it on his phone. As the woman began singing the verse, Amery closed her eyes. The tune was so familiar.
The voice was so familiar.
Suddenly, it came to her, and she began singing along. First a hum, then a mumble, working her way up until she was letting loose into a full belt, the woman harmonizing with her. Everyone in the room stared in awe of the two voices. Amery couldn’t speak the words if she tried, but she could sing them with no trouble. It’s like the words were written on her heart.
All I need to know is
Where to start
Take my hand and show me forever
So never will I ever let you go
Let’s write our story
And let’s sing our song
Let’s hang our pictures on the wall
All these precious moments
That we carved in stone
Are only memories after all
Memories after all
Her eyes opened as the song came to an end. The woman stood up and led Amery over to the mirror. “Tell me what you see.” she said. Amery looked at the woman, and back at herself.
“I see you, and I see me.”
“Look a little closer,” said the woman. Amery looked at the woman’s face, and then back at her own. Then a little closer. She looked at the woman’s eyes, and then at her own eyes. They were the same deep blue. Amery called for the boy to come over to the mirror. She looked at his eyes, and then at the woman’s, and then at her own again. They were all the same. She called for the man to come over as well. Then, looking at the man, then at the boy, and then at herself, she realized that they all had the same dark brown hair.
She turned around to look at her family as they moved in to embrace her.
Amery woke up the next morning feeling refreshed. She was brought breakfast in bed, to an extent, which didn’t hurt her feelings. She decided that the band should practice this morning, so she got dressed and ready, and headed downstairs, accompanied by one of the caretakers from her floor. When she reached the lobby of the therapy unit, Dr. Davidson met her. “Congratulations! I believe you have achieved your dreams of becoming famous!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, your brother videoed the entire reunion last night, and by the time you woke up this morning it had gone viral!”
“Whoa, that’s crazy! I’ve gotta go tell the band about this!”
“Okay, I’ll see you after rehearsal.”
The weeks passed by, as Amery lived her life in the asylum. Her family would occasionally drop in for a visit, her brother would record her singing, and her fame continued. One day, she became more famous than she had ever been, and it wasn’t because of her singing. It was because of her disappearance. No one knows where she could have possibly gone, starting from the ghost town of Jerome, Arizona; but wherever she’s going, everyone believes that she’ll get there. She’ll find what she’s looking for whether she’s in her right mind or not. She has a dream, and she’s chasing it; not waiting for it to chase her back. All the evidence we have that she is doing so is the note that she left.
Write your story,
Sing your song.
See you on the flip side.
Not goodbye,
Amery Taylor
She was gone. Gone to a world of her own.
