August 1st, 1970

    Amoeba finished the English tour in fine form; after the last date in Brighton, we spent the nine-day break at Geoff's summer home in Eastbourne. We flew from Gatwick to the Lille airport two days ago, the band had been quite happy that I was able to communicate with the customs agents. Having spent all but the last ten weeks of my life in a province where the majority of people were French-speaking, and learning to speak the language by writing it, had given me the ability to simply modify my accent and be very well understood by most Frenchman.
    The day after arriving, the band performed at a club in Lille, where the owner became very happy to meet me once he realized that none of the band’s members or crew could speak any more of his language than a simple “bonjour” and “bon soir” in greeting. 
    Tonight, we were playing in a concert hall in Reims that held just over one thousand people. We weren’t expecting a full house, but had sold a good amount of tickets in advance regardless.
    As the Amoeba’s soundcheck ended, I was sitting with Sylvia trying to teach her a few common phrases she could easily repeat to help her along. Before Cameron approached me, Dale did.
    “Emily, would you mind if I spoke with you for a moment?” he asked.
    I excused myself from Sylvia’s company and followed Dale to one of the tables nearby.
    “What’s up?” I asked him.
    “Do you remember how I told you my sister lives in France?” he asked tentatively.
    I nodded. “Yes, of course I do. Does she live here? In Reims?”
    He shook his head. “No.” Dale shifted in the chair and pulled a small envelope out of his pack jeans pocket. “I’ve just read this,” he said, handing me the envelope. “It’s the letter I received when we were in Eastbourne. Forwarded to me.”
    Before I could ask what it contained, he urged me to read it.

    Dale,
    I am delighted to hear that you will be in Paris. I am looking forward to our reunion, it has been quite some time since we last spoke. I have news to bear, however. Philippe is imprisoned, I am no longer with him. And Isabelle is no longer with me. I will come to the Salle and speak with you there. I hope all is well for you, my brother.
    Love, Sandra

    I replaced the letter within the envelope and handed it back to Dale, seeing the fright and concern in his eyes. As if to answer my unspoken question, he began to speak.
    “Isabelle is- was my niece.”
    “Oh Dale, I’m so sorry,” I spoke softly.
    “I didn’t know her other than in photographs, but she was such a sweet little girl.” He pulled a photo out of his wallet and showed it to me, nearly making me cry. “Sandra’s husband… well, he was always a bastard.”
    “I don’t know what to say, other than I’m sorry,” I whispered.
    “I just needed to tell someone,” Dale admitted. “I haven’t shown this to anyone yet. I figured… Cameron told me your father was a bastard too and I thought you’d understand.”
    “I do,” I told Dale, putting my hand on his arm and squeezing gently.
    He looked away from me but didn’t move his arm. “I don’t know what I’m going to do tomorrow, when I see her.”
    “Try not to let it eat you up,” I told him. “You’ll speak with her tomorrow and find out what happened.”
    Dale thanked me and stood, trying but failing to discreetly wipe his wet eyes with his sleeve. He walked away then, heading to the drinks table, and I shed a tear for him. Violence wasn’t fair on anyone, let alone children.
    I didn’t know what to do with the information he had given me. I wondered if I should tell Cameron, but when he walked up to me moments later, I kept my mouth shut and let him speak first.
    “You look worried,” he noted.
    “I’m just a little tired,” I falsely explained.
    “Why don’t you nap in the bus? I’m sure Claude’s at a pub, and we don’t need your help with French right now,” he suggested.
    “Maybe that’s a good idea.”


    I was woken eventually by the thrashing sound of loud music; the show had begun with me still asleep in the tour bus. I walked into the backstage area and found it empty save for the opening bands, all of whom I decided to ignore. After all, they hadn’t tried to be friendly either. I made my way to what I liked to call the girlfriend’s viewing area and was surprised by what I saw.
    Tears were streaming down Dale’s face as he sang with so much raw emotion I thought he’d break down right there on stage. He didn’t, though, rather using the sorrow of his misery and his sister’s loss to drive the performance. It brought me to tears, standing there watching him, and for the first time ever I didn’t watch Cameron perform.
    The show ended with a wail and a screech of the guitar, and then everyone was off of the stage. Dale immediately bypassed the entire backstage area, heading into a separate dressing room to be in private with his thoughts. I left him be, but decided to see if Cameron had noticed what I’d seen.
    “He was crying?” he asked me in a quiet voice.
    I nodded.
    Cameron frowned and told me that he had remarked the emotion Dale conveyed in the lyrics, but not seen the tears. “Do you know if something has happened?”
    I nodded again, and described the letter Dale had shown me earlier. Without hesitating, Cameron walked with me to the door of the dressing room that Dale had locked himself in.
    “Dale,” he said, knocking once. “It’s Cameron.”
    After a moment, a stern voice came from the other side. “Leave me be.”
    “It’s only Emily and me,” Cameron assured him. “Come on, let me in, man. It’s just me.”
    We stood in silence for nearly a minute before we heard the dull thud as the door unlocked. Cameron gave me a look of reassurance and opened the door just enough to enter the room. The door closed behind him and I was left alone in the corridor, wringing my hands.