Free Your Song by Gina Elle Page B

love hot chorizo sausage. She knew I was going to come by today.
    “So, wher e are you travelling to next?” my dad asks while we are eating. He pours me a small glass of red wine first and then pours one for my mother and himself.
    “I have one night in Ottawa this week and then next Tuesday I leave for three days in Vancouver,” I say.
    “Don’t you ever get tired of living out a suitcase?” my mother asks. Here we go again, the suitcase question. After all these years of traveling for my company, my mother still can’t get over the fact that my business trips are long enough to not come home at the end of the day but too short to unpack your suitcase in your hotel room.
    “I mean you’re here and then you leave again, never staying long enough to get settled. Don’t you wish you coul d just stay home for a while?” she asks, for what feels like the sixtieth time. The truth is that although I do get tired of the different night, different bed routine, sometimes, I look forward to the diversion. No two-work weeks ever look the same for me. I meet new people; I travel to different places and never feel confined to the four walls of my office.
    There is nothing I enjoy more than arriving in a new city and walking around to explore it by myself. Entering into the peace and quiet of a hotel room at the end of a day of meetings is priceless. I’m used to being alone and love my solitude. Business travel allows me to have both time alone and company to be with, if I choose. Besides, if I weren’t travelling back home last Monday, I never would have met Sweet Caroline.
    “But what do you do all alone at night after your meetings are all done for the day . . . aren’t you lonely?” my mother asks. Elvis Presley’s ‘Burning Love’ hit is playing in the background.
    “Oh, I find things to do. I’m rarely bored.” I answer her as truthfully as I can. And then I change the subject as quickly as I can.
    “So, are you guys ready for me convert all of your music onto an iPod yet and get rid of these CDs and tapes?” I ask full well knowing they will say no, but I ask anyway.
    “What for? We don’t need an iPad or iPod or whatever it is you call it. We’re fine with our CDs,” my father answers predictably. Who am I to blame them for not wanting to change? I help clear away our dirty plates while my mother prepares the espresso maker to put on the stove. I stand at the sink and begin washing the dishes looking out the kitchen window in full view of the Callahan’s driveway. I notice Lara’s truck is parked there.
    After the three of us have finished our coffees, I leave my parents’ place and make my way over to visit Mr. Callahan. I get that familiar knot in my stomach feeling every time I go there. The memories of our childhood, Danny’s and mine, playing in his house or on his driveway come flooding back to me the minute I step in the threshold. It still makes me queasy and leaves me short of breath.
    Mrs. Callahan opens the door. She looks exhausted. I give her a hug and a kiss on both cheeks and follow her into the living room where Mr. Callahan’s hospital bed has been set up. Maybe it is the antiseptic, hospital odor that I smell or it’s seeing how frail and shrunken Mr. Callahan has become, but a wave of nausea overcomes me. I brush it aside and make my way over to him, sit on the edge of his bed and give him a long hug.
    “Three years, Eric,” is all he manages to say, barely in a whisper. Mrs. Callahan, standing by the bed beside us, begins to sob. I get up from the bed and hug her. I know that every time the Callahans see me, the pain of losing Danny hits them tenfold. My presence accentuates his absence because for twenty years the two of us were inseparable. All they have left are the memories and I know that I play a big part in them. I want to cry alongside them but at this moment, tears run dry.
    Lara walks into the living room. We give each other a slight smile. I haven’t seen Lara in