From This Moment On (28 page)

I don’t remember how it came about, or even what the gentleman’s name was, but there was a lawyer representing my parents’ case regarding the accident, and the estate and legal matters associated with my parents. I asked the lawyer to explain how the accident could have been my father’s fault. Naturally, I was defensive and wanted to be able to blame it on the transport driver, who survived, as his vehicle
was bigger and tons heavier than my father’s, and, considering the sheer size of it, it was no wonder the collision killed my parents. The notion that my father had been responsible, on top of everything else, was just too much to bear. But as the attorney explained, although he didn’t exceed the speed limit, my father would have been expected to be driving at a speed appropriate for the slippery road conditions. Further irony: had he just continued driving and not applied the brake, the two vehicles would have passed each other harmlessly like ships in the night, as there was ample room between them. Braking or not braking is all that determined whether my mom and my dad stayed alive.

For me, being just twenty-two, it was hard to take: sitting in an office, surrounded by total strangers, and having to relive my parents’ final moments, which had been reduced to several paragraphs and black-and-white diagrams. But it was necessary for an immediate family member to know and understand the circumstances as part of the procedure regarding the various insurance issues at hand. I had to sign that I understood what had been explained to me and that I accepted the accident report to be true. I wished I could deny it all, but there it was, right in front of me. I signed my name.

It was explained to me that my father’s being at fault meant that his estate would most likely be sued by the insurance companies representing the two employees and the transport driver. The company that owned the truck would no doubt sue as well for damages. I couldn’t help but think to myself,
Who cares about the other vehicle? My parents are dead, and you guys are worried about a few thousand dollars’ damage to your truck? Your driver is alive; what more do you want? Hasn’t the Twain family paid enough, with two lives?
I was really torn, because, on the other hand, I freely if painfully acknowledged that my father
had
been at fault. Which made me angry at him! But how could I be angry with my own father, when his simple error, which anyone could have made just as easily under the same circumstances, had cost him his own life?

My mother’s brother, Uncle Don, told me during the initial period after my parents’ passing that he’d promised my grandmother Eileen on her dying bed to be there for us kids after she was gone. He reminded me that he was there if we needed anything, and I should have taken him up on that after my parents died. I was lost in a world of legal protocol and jargon that I knew nothing about, but I didn’t feel right about burdening anyone else with our problems. I needed help but didn’t know how to accept it. There really wasn’t anyone else I felt I could turn to, as it was my parents whom most of our other relatives depended on. So I got through this legal affairs aftermath alone, but not without being overwhelmed and feeling the urge to flee at certain moments.

I’d heard of student groups going on missions to third-world countries. In my youthful idealism and naïveté, I figured that volunteering to do relief work in a crisis region of the world would not only take me far away from all my pain and suffering, but would put me among people in much deeper despair than I was, so that, by comparison, I’d realize how lucky I was just to be alive.

I visualized a lone child lost, dazed, and sitting by herself in the middle of a fly-pit dust bowl with her entire family dead and no relatives
to help her, her fate sealed with no help no matter how hard she cried out for it. No one was coming. This was who I felt I needed to be with to help put things in a different perspective: a child whose suffering was so unimaginable, I’d actually consider myself lucky that I had lost “only” my parents and not my whole family, like this poor girl.

I imagined my only responsibilities on this mission would be carrying supplies, aiding nurses, hauling water, feeding babies, cooking meals, and living in possibly uncomfortable but manageable conditions while fulfilling helpful but functional duties that took no education or expertise. These were all things I could do, things I could manage without pressure. Understanding my parents’ estate, how it functioned, and how it would have to be dealt with over the months to come, handling their taxes, resolving the insurance issues, inheritance details—it was all too much. My role in the “no will” process of settling my parents’ affairs took many stressful and painful months to resolve. Advice to any adults out there with children: write a will so that your children never have to go through this logistical nightmare should you die unexpectedly. You will save your loved ones a lot of anguish.

In this state of mind, I was on the phone one day with a dear family friend by the name of Eveline Kasner. She, too, was a singer, known professionally as Mary Bailey. Mary was my mother’s age, and they’d become friends after having crossed paths backstage from time to time during the various shows we played together. My mom and Mary stayed in touch by phone over the years, sharing music industry stories and discussing how best to nurture my career. Mary could relate because she had been there, and my mother was, well, my mother, obsessed and passionate about her dream of her little girl making it. I got to know Mary in a more personal way after my mother died; in some respects, she became like a surrogate mother to me.

I was telling her over the phone, as Mary lived more than an hour’s drive from Timmins, how overwhelming everything felt and that I was considering flying to Africa as part of some humanitarian
aid mission. I knew that I could not just abandon my younger siblings at this difficult time, but I was so beaten down that I questioned how much good I could do for them. I mean, I didn’t even know what a freaking mortgage was! Plus, I was no less in need of comfort and support than anyone else.

I remember saying to Mary, “What good can I be to them anyway, when the only professional thing I know how to do is in music? And I’m still at the bottom of the box in the big, bad world of the entertainment industry.” The most pressing concern at the moment was how to provide for me, Carrie, Mark, and Darryl, because no life insurance money had been released to us yet, and it was caught up in a lengthy logistical process, so it wouldn’t be for a while. What was I to do in the meantime? The idea of having to support an instant family was terrifying. My younger sister worked full-time and was very independent with regard to her own personal needs, but what about keeping up the mortgage of the family home we were all living in and covering the daily living needs of two adolescent boys, let alone electricity, heat, and phone bills?

I had no formal education and could not imagine singing in a local bar in Timmins to make my living for the next several years until Mark and Darryl were grown. That was just too depressing a thought. Not only would it derail my hopes of having a career in music, but also it wouldn’t even come close to meeting the bills. The only way I could make a decent living singing would be to travel in a band. Except how could I care for my family with two minors if I was on the road all the time? The remaining options were unacceptable to me: seeing my brothers taken separately by relatives—which was a possibility but by no means a sure thing—or, if no one could or would take them, placing them in foster care.

I could not imagine the boys being separated. They were crushed by the loss of our parents, and it would have been cruel to have taken them from each other. In fact, I believed strongly that all four of us staying together was the most emotionally supportive choice for everyone. I was barely old enough to qualify for becoming Mark’s and
Darryl’s guardian, but I felt naturally obligated to step into that role. I was convinced that we needed to stick together, and I felt they were counting on me for this.

So, I rambled on to Mary, either I would commit myself to assuming the family responsibilities or run away to Africa. Whatever I decided, however, I would have to quit music. When you’re twenty-two and have just lost your parents, logic becomes a relative concept.

Mary listened quietly to this young woman she’d known from childhood unraveling. When I finished talking, she kindly but firmly encouraged me not to quit music—and certainly not to run away. As I said, just as I’d had the role of protector thrust on me, Mary willingly found herself playing surrogate mother to me, and as so often happens between mothers and daughters, I didn’t regard her advice seriously at first, because how could she possibly understand the enormous pressure I was under? She did, of course. I gradually began to put more stock in what she had to say regarding my future and that of my siblings.

One day Mary called to tell me of a golf resort called Deerhurst that she had just been to, located about an hour and a half north of Toronto, on the outskirts of a town called Huntsville. “They have a Vegas-style production they run there featuring various styles of singers and performers,” she explained with a bit of a sparkle in her voice. “Before you go ahead and quit music, please promise me you’ll go there with me to see what it’s all about, okay? Then you can make up your mind.” I wasn’t sure how this prospect solved anything, given that it was so far away. Not only did I feel it was essential that my brothers remain together, they needed to continue to live in their home, amid familiar surroundings. So even if there was a job for me at this Deerhurst place, how could I possibly accept it?

Mary has an infectious positivity to her personality, so although I was feeling entirely discouraged about knowing what decisions to make next, Mary motivated me to at least consider checking out Deerhurst. So with a bit of gentle coaxing, I agreed, albeit reluctantly.

Several kilometers past Huntsville, a winding road took us around countless bends and up and down a few hills before depositing us at a golf resort overlooking tiny Penn Lake. Deerhurst was not nearly as developed as it is today. The centerpiece of the complex was a charmingly rustic main lodge (which is still there but modified), set amid rolling acres of greenery. The stage featuring the resort’s musical production
Viva Vegas
was in the lodge showroom, which at the time was the property’s original, main reception building. Quite a few condominiums surrounded the main lodge, though only a third of what is there now. I was impressed with the place—my perception of the resort was that it was an exclusive rich man’s retreat. Way out of my price range, that was for sure.

Mary and I met with Brian Ayers, the producer of
Viva Vegas,
which ran there six nights a week. Brian was tall, soft-spoken, and friendly, and he explained a little bit about the small production and suggested that I stay to watch it that night to see if I felt it would be the right fit for me, and vice versa. He also gave me an impromptu audition in the piano lounge. I was nervous, to tell you the truth, but
I must have acquitted myself well, because after just a few songs, Brian offered me a role as a lead singer in the main show. I was flattered but didn’t really know what this meant. I had never been in a produced stage show before.

The
Viva Vegas
production had me squirming in my seat and sweating at the prospect of becoming a cast member. It bore little resemblance to rock or country bar stage setups and was patterned after the type of show most commonly seen on the Vegas strip, or a mini version of Le Moulin Rouge, with topless dancers in rhinestone bikini-type costumes and fishnet stockings. (Only this was Canada, and topless dancers were restricted to performing exclusively in licensed strip clubs.) A six-piece band that included a small horn section backed two lead singers: a handsome gentleman in his fifties named Sam, who looked years younger than his age, and a tall, wiry-haired woman with a wide smile. I’ll call her Sheila.

Sam was a great entertainer and sang beautifully. I always enjoyed watching him perform. He was very cool and charming onstage—an old crooner type, in the manner of Dean Martin, with a voice incredibly similar to Johnny Mathis’s. A second man, Frankie Vogol, served as the show’s emcee. Also a very smooth and fluid entertainer; you knew right away that he had been doing this for years.

Sheila, with big, lashy eyes and a round, pretty face, was also very talented. Her voice had a lot of power and range; she was a fine comedienne and a reasonably good dancer. She projected confidence with a dynamic stage presence. It was intimidating for me to imagine that I was going to share the stage with such an all-rounder. She reminded me of one of those versatile entertainers who’d just walked out of a performing-arts academy à la the movie
Fame.
In fact, all the younger members of the cast gave me that impression. In contrast, my musical education consisted mainly of learning as I was earning, singing in bars, community centers, old-age homes—pretty much anyplace that would have me. My only formal training, with Ian Garrett, amounted to but a fraction of what these performers obviously had under their belts.