Savanah's Swan Song (Part 7)

That afternoon, Savanah elucidated to her mother and sister the reasons for her extended stay in Podunk purgatory.  She had to.  According to a few stolen moments of Internet access on Skeeter’s iPhone 5, the Pop Star was breaking attendance records in Germany and “looking and sounding better than ever.” 

Which was hard to explain when she was currently sitting in her mother’s kitchen noshing a cinnamon roll. 

She tried, nevertheless.  Momma and Skeeter listened, jaws agape as if Savanah were telling them aliens had landed in the pasture behind the farmhouse.  That might have been more believable.  ‘Singing cyborgs’ sounded like something that Momma would read about in The Inquirer or the title of a bad sci-fi movie.  

To their credit, they didn’t ask questions and nodded along as if it all made perfect sense.  Savanah did detect a faint whiff of disappointment on her mother’s face, which forced the singing sensation to focus on her dwindling pastry.  Having just lectured her mother about there not being shortcuts in life, it was hard to look her in the eye as she explained about the replicant currently touring Europe in her place.

After Savanah finished her tale of ‘woah,’ Momma patted her on the hand as if to say, I’m not sure what to make of all that, but we’re happy you’re here.

Her little sister, however, was less taciturn.  “That’s so fucking cool!”

“Skeeter!” Momma cried.

“You seriously have your own custom robot?  What else can it do?  Does it cook and clean for you, too?  Does it sing on your records?”    

So much for not asking questions.

“What?”  Savanah shifted uncomfortably in her seat.  “No, it’s just to give me more free time.  Time to rehearse for my movie.  Time to spend with Chad.  Time to spend with you.”

“Well, I think that’s great,” Momma said, patting Savanah’s hand like a gameshow buzzer. 

“You can’t tell anyone,” Savanah continued.  “No one knows except for you and Chad.”

“Not even Darrell Hamilton?”  Skeeter asked.  “He’d really get a kick out of this.”

The death stare on her sister's face answered the zaftig blonde’s question.

“Fine.  Not even Darrell Hamilton.”

“It won’t leave this room,” Momma said, as her hand pat turned to a squeeze.  “But what about Chad?”

“What about Chad?”

“Can you trust him?”

“Of course, I can trust Chad,” Savanah said, pulling her hand away.  “This whole thing was his idea.”

The look on Momma’s face said she wasn’t convinced.  “Where is he now?”

“He’s in Germany.  Dr. Wagner thought it would be good if he was there for the first few weeks of the tour.” 

Momma said nothing.

“It’s just a precaution.  In case something goes wrong.” 

Momma said nothing.

“He didn’t even want to go!”

Savanah couldn’t remember if that last part was true.  The post-show celebration in Dr. Wagner’s office was a hazy malaise of hugs, handshakes, and champagne.  It had occurred less than 48 hours before but already seemed like a lifetime ago.  The uncertainty, coupled with her mother’s continued silence, irritated Savanah.

“Anyway, you don’t know him like I do,” Savanah said, rising from the table. “You don’t know him at all.”

Then she stormed off to her bedroom…but not before grabbing another cinnamon roll to go. 

****

As the days turned to weeks, Savanah settled into a routine.  She would sleep until 10 AM, at which point she’d wander into the kitchen for breakfast.  Having Savanah home had stoked Momma’s passion for cooking and, since she hadn’t lost her country cook’s ability to whip up an army-feeding spread at a moment’s notice, there were always plenty of leftovers for Savanah’s sleepy second platoon.  Savanah just assumed her plump sister and portly mother were eating less now that she'd called them out for their weight issues. 

The pop star was proud of herself.  Shame was a powerful tool. 

After grazing on French Toast, sausage, biscuits and gravy, and whatever else remained from the morning’s menu, Savanah would retreat to her room, ostensibly to study her script, but usually to nap until noon, at which point she’d awaken to the sound and smell of hamburgers sizzling on the skillet. 

“I don’t want to distract you,” would come Momma’s gentle voice at the door.  “But there’s an extra burger if you want it.”

Savanah always did.  She’d eat with her mother on the sofa, an open bag of potato chips between them, as the television transitioned from gameshows to soap operas.  Initially, Savanah shook her head at the insipid soaps before leaving to rehearse her lines, however, before long she’d linger “until the next commercial,” which eventually became until Skeeter arrived home from work in the afternoon.    

“Looks like you two have been busy,” Skeeter said, assessing the two lumps on the crumb-covered couch.

“Looks like you two have been busy,” Momma mocked, rolling her eyes and croaking like a toad.  Then the two older Georgia women giggled as they rose sluggishly from the sofa to begin dinner.

Dinnertime was the best.  Momma and Savanah rekindled their partnership in the culinary arts and the results--chicken fried steak, fried chicken, fried okra, fried zucchini, fried fish (which Skeeter had caught in a nearby lake), fried potatoes, and anything else that could be fit in the frier and lathered with lard—were delicious.  The eating never took as long as the cooking, of course, but that was OK.  The trio would linger at the demolished table, gorging on an endless buffet of gossip.  What happened to that cute guy at the lumber yard?  Flo Danzig got divorced, again?  Pastor John ran off with who?  And one topic Savanah was loathe to discuss—

How her tour was going.   

For the first week or so, Savanah pestered her little sister incessantly for access to her phone to watch clips and read reviews.  The tour had moved to the UK where the arenas were larger and the paparazzi more prevalent, but everything was still going extraordinarily well, with an article in the London Times proclaiming it “the most successful concert tour in history.”  The story was accompanied by a photo of Chad and her bot meeting Queen Camilla. 

It didn’t make Savanah happy, however.  All she wanted to do was wring that stupid neckerchief dangling from her replicant’s neck.  So, she eventually followed Dr. Wagner’s advice and stopped obsessing over it.   It was relatively easy to do during the day, when soaps and snacks provided a distraction, but alone in her bedroom at night, her off-limits iPhone within easy reach, proved more difficult.  That’s when belts from Momma’s bottle came in handy. 

Wake.  Eat.  Nap.  Eat.  Watch TV.  Eat.  Fret.  Drink.  Pass out. 

Wash.  Rinse.  Repeat.  (Only without much washing or rinsing.) 

By the third week, physical changes in Savanah were becoming obvious.  Her shoulder blades dulled and the ridges between her ribs filled.  If you squinted past her oily complexion, unkempt hair, and the grubby sweats she wore for days at a time, she looked healthier than she had in years. The womanly curves hinted at during puberty were finally blossoming into more than mere suggestions.

Skeeter and Momma took advantage of Savanah’s lapses in willpower to funnel even more food in her direction.  It wasn’t done out of malice.  Momma enjoyed bonding with her growing girl and even Skeeter had to admit it was nice to have her big sister home.  However, they remembered the harsh words Savanah had spoken about their weights, and if a few extra servings helped to even the scales, so be it.    

“Finish this pie for me, sweetie,” Momma said, pushing her plate towards Savanah.  “I don’t have your speedy metabolism.”

Skeeter dumped a dollop of vanilla ice cream atop the picked-over peach pie. “Might as well polish this off, too.  I don’t need the temptation.” 

“Ugh,” Savanah said, powering through the final bites.  “They’re gonna have to roll me back to Atlanta.”

Despite acknowledgment from Savanah herself that she’d been eating more than usual and had maybe even gained a pound or two, it didn’t derail the gravy train.  Instead, Savanah reveled in the responsibility-and-consequence-free bubble that had been blown around her.

Unfortunately for Savanah, that bubble was about to burst.

(Nota bene: I didn't want to chock the story TOO full of visuals, so I've attached several extra Magma illustrations of Savanah in her bedroom following her angry outburst. I hope you don't mind!)