“Are you running away, Mom?” Mark Crenshaw rubs his eyes awake. Behind his mother, he can see it’s 12:15 AM on the clock on the nightstand. He eyes her suspiciously, standing in her bedroom doorway of their modest home in the San Fernando Valley. 

“What?” Candace jumps from the sound of her eighteen-year-old son’s voice. Once again, her son manages to sneak up on her without her noticing. When he was younger, he did that a lot. She reasoned, without a father, he needed constant reassurance his only living relative was alright.  

Fortunately, for Mark’s sake, Candace Crenshaw has never given her son reason to worry until now. Her unshakeable self-confidence was shattered a few days earlier when one of her music students, a young boy, was a fatal school shooting victim. Since then, she is jumpy, anxious, and on edge. “Remain calm,” Candace tells herself. She isn’t ashamed of what he caught her doing as much as she is scared. After all, the weekend trip she is packing for isn’t for her, it’s for him. This is something she should have done a long time ago. 

Eighteen years earlier, the day after discovering she was pregnant, Candace cut off all ties with her past and ran away to Los Angeles. In quick succession, she needed to make things happen. Find an apartment in a good area. Enroll in college to get a music education degree. Join a church. Find a doctor. After Mark’s birth and with her degree in hand, she got a job teaching music at a public high school. Her passion for teaching caught the eyes of several administrators at nearby schools and she soon transferred to a school with a more extensive music program. The salary increase from switching jobs allowed her to purchase a small two-bedroom bungalow in the Valley where she and her son reside today. In those early days, she only had time to take care of her son, go to school, work odd jobs, and repeat it again the following day. She held firm to her goal to provide a safe, stable environment for her son. The pride she felt in the making over her life she held on to like a badge of honor.

Now her baby was this tall, self-assured young man standing before her. The dark clouds she saw reflected in his large brown eyes did not comfort her. She could see the wheels spinning in his head, questioning her actions. “What are you doing up?” she snaps back. She thought he was sleeping when she started to pack, but maybe her music was too loud. She always loses herself in Luther, especially listening to Dance With My Father. But the last thing she needs is for her son to start giving her the third degree. Her nerves are already shot from the tragedy. 

“Why don’t you tell me first.” He points to the mountain of clothes on top of her bed.

“If I’m running away, then I’d better get a bigger suitcase to pack your stuff too.” She lets out a  nervous laugh. Candace looks down at her suitcase struggling to remain calm. She fully intends to tell him about her trip after she returns. Right now isn’t the right time or place. She doesn’t know the outcome of her trip yet, so there’s no guarantee she can protect him. The thought of her son being vulnerable, like the boy who died, terrifies her. She has to steer their conversation in a different direction. The school counselors caution parents to explore rather than ignore their children’s random thoughts and questions using clear, concise communications. 

“I’m packing for the coping conference this weekend I told you about.” But when her son’s expression makes it clear he doesn’t buy her explanation, she attempts to turn the tables on him. “I know that look on your face. Should I guess what you’re thinking, or are you going to tell me?” 

“Destiny’s Mom doesn’t know about your conference,” he says with air quotes. “I asked her earlier. So what’s really going on?”

Her mother’s intuition warned her that Mark would ask Destiny’s mother, Sheila, the nurse at her school, about her trip. These days Mark spends most of his time at Destiny’s house. She gives him her prepared explanation. “It’s for teachers. The Board of Education has one for school nurses in a few weeks. Are you okay? You should be sleeping.”

His eyes soften as he looks at her. “The whole town feels like it’s in a daze.” He looks over to his Mom. “Starting with you.”

When Luther’s rendition of Superstar fills the room, Candace starts humming along as she debates to herself whether or not to pack a black cardigan sweater. Deep in thought, it takes a minute for her to realize Mark has stopped talking. She turns to look at him. 

“Sorry. Luther’s voice had me thinking about how love had the power to put people in a daze, not violence. People fell in love and celebrated love at Luther’s concerts. Even couples with problems got swept up in his music. Their troubles melted away as soon as he began to sing.”

“Can you feel something for someone you don’t even know?” 

“I think so.” Candace tries to keep her voice calm. 

“That’s how I feel.”

Candace nods in agreement. Every night since the shooting, she lies awake thinking about the potential dangers lurking outside her front door. She was lucky nothing happened to Mark. But what about next time? She shakes away the thought from her mind.

“Come here, and give me a hug.” 

Candace sighs and goes back to packing for her trip. From her bed, Mark watches his mother grab a plain understated business suit out from her closet. She looks at it, shakes her head, and puts it back. Unsure of what to pack for her trip, Candace keeps changing her mind about what she should pack. She takes out every item from her bag and starts over. Her actions make her son very nervous. Her graceful gestures, the ones honed for years from dance lessons, are gone. She appears clumsy and jittery at best. 

“I have a closet full of clothes but nothing to wear. How can that be possible?” Frustrated, she accidentally slams a dresser drawer shut, and it catches her finger. She screams in pain. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t go. We haven’t spent much time together lately.”

His mother’s behavior is so atypical. Usually, Candace is usually decisive, grounded and reserved. She is her son’s rock. 

“I’ve been busy. Here, let me help.” As Mark gets up to help her, a greeting card slips out of the pocket of his sweatpants. Mark picks it up, hands it to his mother. 

“This is for you, Mom.” 

Candace looks up from the envelope and smiles. Opening the envelope slowly, she finds a Father’s Day card inside. Her shoulders relax. She grabs her reading glasses off the nearby dresser, then gently pulls out the card and opens it. Candace reads aloud the message inside. Her son writes: 

To the best Dad, a son can have. I love you, Mom! Mark.

Candace pushes clothes aside and scoots beside her son on the bed. She feels a lump in her throat as they glimpse at the muted TV screen. There’s a news flash of the shooting in front of their eyes. She turns to Mark. 

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned this week, it’s that life is precious. Promise me – do the things that make your heart sing. Don’t let yourself settle for less.”

“Like the way you did when you toured with Luther?”

“This moment right now is what makes my heart sing.” 

Yesterday she offered words of comfort to the victims’ parents and classmates. Who would comfort her if something happened to Mark? Or what if something happened to her? How would her son cope with the loss? She is both his mother and father. They are each other’s worlds. 

“I heard you singing to the Power Of Love (Love Power) when I was at your door.” 

 “Did I sound like my touring days were a long, long time ago?”

“Nah, You still sound just like you do on the record, Dad.” 

The word ‘Dad’ sticks in his throat. Deep down in his heart, Mark’s burning desire is to know who his father is or was. 

“Doesn’t the guy pictured on your card look like Luther?”

 At the mention of Luther’s name, Candace presses Mark’s card against her chest. She comments, “Both of you have such beautiful penmanship. Your swirls and curves are just like Luther’s.”  

“So, I take after my father?”

 Candace looks up from the card. “There you go again, talking nonsense.”

“Why else did you teach me his songs when I was growing up? It has to be him.” Mark looks at her intently. He wants his mother to confirm what he is sure he already knows. The legendary R & B icon Luther Vandross is his father. The father he has never met. She constantly compares the two, like she just did. Why can’t she just admit it? 

“Stop saying that! People will get the wrong impression.” 

“Then, why don’t you tell me who he is?”

“According to you, I am.” She points to the card. “You said so yourself. Now, move your behind so your father can finish packing her clothes and go to sleep.” 

“You always say his music is responsible for making babies. I must be one of those babies, right?”

TO BE CONTINUED …

Read Last Dance With My Father Part 2 

Read Last Dance With My Father Part 3