Unforgotten

Prologue

By the time he was thirty years old, Nick Groff gave very little thought to the scar, a ragged, faded zigzag circling about two-thirds the way around his left bicep. He gave even less thought to the pain that had accompanied that accident so long ago. He didn’t remember much about the accident itself, but the immediate aftermath – the blackout – this he remembered.

Nick knew he was eight when it happened. It was during the time when gadgets like IPads and Smartphones were still in the realm of Sci-Fi, and Nintendo and Atari were just taking hold. So playtime for a hyperactive eight-year-old still meant going outdoors to ride bikes, run in playgrounds and climb trees. He knew how the accident had occurred. He knew he’d impulsively climbed an old oak tree on the edge of the YMCA grounds and had grabbed for a rotting branch that suspended over a rusty old cyclone fence, intending to pull himself up on it. The branch had given way with a loud crack and Nick fell.

His left arm caught on the sharp barbs on the top of the fence, cruelly tearing muscle from bone. But like many old memories of childhood, he wasn’t sure how many of his recollections were really his. Many he was sure were actually planted in his brain by others speaking of it, an oft-repeated tale his parents and older sister Dianna related to extended family and friends. It had happened during one of Dianna’s swim practices, something she never let him forget.

“You could have seen me make Level 3 if you hadn’t been so stupid climbing that tree,” she often chided him afterwards. “You’re such an attention hog!” as if Nick had fallen on purpose.

The scar was something else, though – tangible, permanent evidence that the injury had been bad. He really had nearly been killed and if his mother had not chosen that moment to retrieve him and bring him back inside, if she had not known what to do to slow the bleeding, if the fence had severed the main artery, his life would have been over right then and there.

So many ifs.

Nick had blacked out with shock and blood loss.

Yes. That part he still remembered; what had happened in those waves of blackness in between brief periods of consciousness was something he would probably never forget.

The young woman with the long golden hair and flowing black dress, the woman with the terrible scars. She had appeared out of the unfathomable depths and spoke.

What had she said to him? Nick couldn’t remember.

Then there was the accident a scant two years later when Nick had again fallen, this time from his rope swing. He hit his head on some rocks under the deceptive cushion of the autumn leaves below him and again, blacked out. And again, the scarred woman had appeared and spoken to him. And again, Nick had absolutely no memory of what she said to him.

And then, intermittently over the next two decades, the dreams. The woman coming through the darkness and speaking to him. And Nick awakening without the slightest recollection of what she actually said. At least, not until a hot June night in 2009 - the Linda Vista Hospital lockdown, when she appeared out of the blackness once more and spoke to him.

Only this time Nick was uninjured and fully conscious.

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Chapter One

Joshua Tremont wasn’t famous – wasn’t even close. Getting a credit on an album’s inner sleeve hardly constituted success in the music business, though for a twenty-year-old kid who was still pretty damp behind the ears. seeing his name in print on a Frampton album was as good as seeing it on a marquee. Hey - he was on his way.

Peter Frampton had already reached the apex of his career, true, but he was still a name. A very well-known, connected name, and Joshua felt honored to be chosen from all the hungry studio musicians in L.A. to lend his talent to the album. And who knew what it would lead to next? Frampton had shown up on a day Joshua had happened to be at Sweetfire Studios cutting a demo. He’d paid an obscene amount he could ill afford for the privilege and tried to tell himself it wasn’t a waste of time and money. And, as he soon dicovered, it wasn’t.

Frampton heard him play and sing and liked what he heard. Offered him the job and Joshua said yes. And that was that. Maybe Dylan was right about things just happening like that – a simple twist of fate. In any case, Frampton had liked Joshua’s work on the album, and really, getting to play alongside a powerhouse, an idol - albeit a slightly faded one - well, how many guys from his little hometown of Burlington, Iowa could boast the same?

The session lasted a week and Joshua got paid union scale which barely replaced what he’d spent to cut the demo. But still, his name was there on Peter Frampton’s album. His name. Joshua Tremont, bassist and backup vocals! Priceless.

Until then, Joshua had spent his first six months in L.A. scraping by with odd jobs here and there. Waiting tables, slicing lox in a Jewish deli, a singing gig in a supper club whenever he could book one, and occasional sessions at Sweetfire. Finally landing a semi-regular weekend job at Dino’s Italian Bistro – a seedy dive if there ever was one – singing what amounted to elevator muzak for the diners. Hardly what he’d imagined for himself when he’d set off for Los Angeles to follow his dream of becoming a rock star. Still, the thought of giving up and returning to Iowa refused to take root in his mind. There was nothing for him there. Sure, he had a mother, siblings - a houseful of those in fact - and Joshua knew he wasn’t missed. He suspected his going was a bit of a relief. One less mouth to feed, and his mother had more than enough to deal with.

Joshua’s father, never much good for anything but drinking and getting his kicks knocking around his wife and kids, was brought up on an armed robbery charge when Joshua was twelve. It was the kind of armed robbery that ended badly and an elderly drugstore proprietor and his wife were dead as a result. John Tremont got twenty-five to life. Janice Tremont finally divorced him, remarried, ironically to one of the cops that had busted Joshua’s dad and she subsequently added two more to her existing brood of four. Joshua was now the eldest of six. He and his stepdad never hit it off and it wasn’t long after Joshua graduated high school that he set his sights on the West Coast. He just packed his beloved Gibson (how many shit farmhand jobs had he taken to earn that?), gassed up his '69 Camaro (a lot more shit farmhand jobs had paid for that) and Joshua hit the road and never looked back.

Good-looking but not exactly a standout, Joshua had very little success with women in LA, but California girls were different than the girls back home. Phony, bitchy, self-absorbed. At least that was his assessment of the women his roommates managed to score with. Pains in the ass all the way around and not worth the headache, in Joshua’s opinion. Anyway it was soon made very clear that Adonis looks and big money were two prerequisites to catch a woman’s interest out here. Joshua possessed neither. So he focused on other things; namely his music and his daydreams of one day making it big.

He lived with two other studio musicians also hoping for their big break. Misery loved company in that regard, but that’s where the similarities between Joshua Tremont, Craig Stevens, and Mike Gruis ended. Both were blonde and built like surfers (which they were whenever they had a chance), where Joshua was slender and his hair, while fashionably long, was a nondescript brown. His best feature were his eyes; large, almond shaped, and an interesting hazel/brown color, fringed with thick lashes and, when it appeared, he had a great infectious smile.

Where Craig and Mike were outgoing and athletic, Joshua was serious, introverted and studious – a nerd, one could say. Yet the three of them got along well and had been friends since meeting at an employment agency when Joshua had first arrived in California and faced the sad truth that record companies weren’t going to be ringing his phone off the hook with multi-million dollar contracts. Craig and Mike had likewise discovered that their musical talent and looks only got them so far professionally in a town overrun with talented, beautiful people all vying for the same thing – stardom. It was a tough old world, all right.

A couple of months after the Frampton session, Columbia Records called while Joshua was at work. Craig had gotten the call and could hardly contain his excitement when Joshua dragged himself in after a day shift at the deli and then four hours at Dino’s. Craig was off the couch and covered the living room in four long strides, meeting Joshua at the door the second he opened it.

“Oh, man, J, cop a load of this!” He shoved a piece of paper in Joshua’s face before Joshua could close the door and set his guitar case down. “You gotta session, man!” Craig was genuinely happy for his friend and roommate, though sessions he was called to sit in on were just as few and far in between as Joshua’s. Craig clapped him on a thin shoulder and yelled “congratulations, dude, you lucky sonofabitch!”

Joshua read the message and looked up, an expression of shock and joy crossing his thin face. “S-Sirena? Sirena Welsh?” He looked at the paper again and blinked a few times. “Are you sure that’s who he said?”

“Yeah, man!” Craig exclaimed. “Oh man, I wanna meet her so bad!” He gave Joshua a little shake and repeated, “You lucky sonofabitch!”

Sirena Welsh. Joshua idolized her. A gypsy-eyed beauty with cascades of dark blonde hair, Sirena was goddess-like in her ethereal beauty and aura of mystery, her uniquely raspy and haunting voice serenading him through his high school years. The band she’d fronted, Tramp, was the one of the hottest bands around; a true supergroup, right up there with The Eagles, Journey, Boston and Foreigner; then just like that it was over. The band breakup late last year was the biggest shocker since the split-up of the Beatles. And then just as suddenly, the news broke that Sirena was pursuing a solo career. And now he, Joshua Tremont, had been asked to session with her? It hardly seemed possible.

A simple twist of fate, Joshua thought incoherently as he sunk into the battered rust-and-gold plaid Goodwill couch in their living room, still staring at the hastily scribbled message Craig had written. A simple twist of fate.

When Mike got home from work soon after – he had a job packing produce in a warehouse, getting off at 3:00am – he went into an advanced state of excitement for his friend too. They talked until the wee hours about what it might mean for Joshua to land this session; Sirena was rumored to be a perfectionist, which in turn meant Joshua might be logging a lot of hours in the studio – certainly more than he had with Peter Frampton. And while union scale was hardly big money, it was more than he was making gigging in seedy supper clubs and slicing lox.

After a restless few hours of attempted sleep, Joshua downed several cups of coffee and called Columbia back. And said yes, naturally, trying his best to keep his poise. To his disappointment, however, he was told that he would likely not actually be in the studio with Sirena herself at all. He was only to cut some vocals and lay some lead guitar tracks, and the actual mixing with Sirena’s vocals would be done in the mixing booth.

Of course. That's how they did things these days. Joshua was crushed, but gamely agreed anyway. If nothing else, he would get credit on the album’s inner sleeve and again see his name in print on a superstar’s record.

Craig and Mike seemed as crestfallen as Joshua himself; it hardly seemed fair, they said, to get his hopes up only to crush them. That was the recording industry, they told him. It would still be cool to hear him sing with Sirena, though, wouldn’t it? Provided any of the songs he worked on actually made it to the album.

Of course, Joshua told them and himself, and he meant it. God knew he had sung along with her countless times already. He knew her unique voice as well as his own. What if a song he worked on ended up being cut as a single, played all over the radio, all over the world? There was no way Joshua couldn’t be excited at that prospect. It would be a dream come true, even if he never got to meet Sirena herself. But oh, God, how he wanted to meet her, to talk to her, to tell her how beautiful she was, how amazing she was, how much he admired her talent, how she was everything he ever dreamed of.

Like every other guy on the planet didn’t feel the same way about Sirena Welsh. But he, Joshua Tremont, a nobody, was chosen to actually sing with her. To record with her and make possibly a hit record with her. He couldn’t help but feel that made him special. A somebody.

Joshua arrived at Sweetfire Studios at precisely ten in the morning exactly a week later. Though Sirena wouldn’t be there, he was nervous nonetheless as he tentatively stepped inside the building and made his way to the receptionist’s desk. A dark haired man in a suit was there speaking to the secretary and Joshua waited, shifting his Gibson slung across his back, lost in thought and anticipation. His mouth was dry with apprehension and he wondered if he’d be able to sing a note without drinking a whole lot of water, which of course then would mean having to piss nonstop -

The mention of Sirena’s name jarred him. The man in front of him had spoken it.

“- window of time. I want Sirena to wrap this up in three weeks, so please be sure that there is adequate studio time to accommodate us.”

Susan Bright, the secretary who Joshua knew from his previous sessions laying tracks for artists that went nowhere, cutting his demo, and then with Frampton, thinned her lips as she looked up at the man with barely concealed distaste. Strange, Joshua had known Susan to be very polite and gracious to everyone. “Of course, Mr. Landry. We will certainly accommodate Sirena any way she needs us to.” Her voice had an edge. Handing the man a badge, she noticed Joshua standing silently and off to the side. Her tone brightened considerably as she smiled and said, “Joshua! Hi there!”

The man turned and barely gave Joshua a glance before walking away, heading into the bowels of the studio without so much as a thank you to Susan. Joshua caught a glimpse of chiseled, handsome features and piercing gray eyes before the man strode through the double doors on the left side of the lobby. The very air around the guy reeked of power and money.

“Geez Susan, who’s that guy?” Joshua asked when he was gone.

“A Columbia bastard.” Susan glared at the door the man had gone through. “I had no idea Paul Landry is Sirena Welsh’s producer now.” She tossed her feathered mane of blonde frosted, Farrah Fawcett-inspired hair and looked at Joshua again. “And lucky you, you’re recording with her!” Susan smiled. “Takes the sting out of working with a jerk like Landry, at least a little.”

“Well, in a way I guess I’m recording with her,” Joshua mumbled as Susan handed him a badge. He had no idea who Paul Landry was, had never heard of him. “It’s not like I’m really working with her. I’m cutting backup vocals and laying down some guitar tracks is all. It’s not like she’ll be here or anyth –“suddenly Joshua remembered what the producer, Landry, had said. “Wait a sec – she’s here?” Joshua’s eyes widened and his heart began to pound erratically. Unconsciously, nervously, he touched the beginning of the thin mustache and goatee he’d started growing the last few weeks. Oh, shit. Why hadn’t he shaved?

Susan smiled. “She sure is. She arrived fifteen minutes before you did. Go on back now, they’re probably waiting for you, and she and especially Paul Landry don’t like to be kept waiting.”
Joshua managed a thanks, his heart pounding so loudly he barely heard himself speak. Overcome with nerves and excitement, he entered the double doors and his future.