From This Moment On Read online

  Considering that the Deerhurst cabaret-type review did not really conform to my natural style of singing, I think I adapted pretty well, musically speaking. Fitting in socially, however, posed a much harder challenge. I felt bullied by the other female lead vocalist, Sheila, right from the start. I was warned by other cast members upon joining the show that there had been other singers before me who’d come in one door and gone out the other after Sheila’s surly treatment. She apparently didn’t like sharing the spotlight. Now, professional competitiveness and cattiness are as much a part of show business as feather boas, but the resentment I felt from her, I was told, also stemmed from the fact that, apparently, I’d been hired at a higher salary than most of the other performers, some of whom had been there for some time. I say “apparently” because I had no way of knowing what anyone else was paid. Brian named a figure, and I took it.

  How did Sheila find out how much money I was earning in the first place, right? I’ll tell you: unbeknown to me, every payday, our paychecks would be left in an envelope at our spots in the dressing room. I’d rushed out after the show on paycheck night, and although I was expecting to be paid, I wasn’t aware that our checks were left on our spot each week. I guess I assumed we picked them up at the office, for example, so at the end of my first week, my check sat there unopened till the next show, when I realized how the pay routine worked. When I found my check sitting at my spot, the envelope had already been opened. I was told that Sheila helped herself to it, didn’t like what she saw, then shared it with everyone. When I walked into the dressing room the next show day, the atmosphere was thick and cold. I felt so alone, but I didn’t bother to say anything; they couldn’t have made it more apparent that I was not one of them.

  Here I was just months after my parents were killed, trying to make a new start for what was left of our family. I was in a strange town, surrounded by strangers, and trying to get a handle on a job that was very intimidating. I was pushing myself to the limit in every way. Frankly, I did not need this added complication to my already overburdened life. But I was too emotionally wrung out to react. My method of coping was to just get on with it and roll with the punches, because I needed to keep this job, plain and simple. I was in the middle of putting my family through a big change, and I needed to forge ahead, regardless of the mean-spirited nonsense Sheila was creating for me.

  She would humiliate me in small ways here and there over our time together in the show, and I would tolerate it through clenched teeth. To make matters worse, someone had started a rumor that I was having an affair with one of the resort owners. Aha! I suppose that would explain my handsome salary. It was humiliating to think that anyone might have believed this bald-faced lie, but, of course, there’s never any way for a person to defend herself against those types of whispered accusations, and so I didn’t even bother trying. It was such an immature attempt at sabotaging me, I just let it go. In fact, the person in question was always kind toward me and never made an advance—which would make him something of an anomaly in the entertainment world.

  The resort’s bar manager, on the other hand, was much more representative. At first, he, too, seemed like a nice guy. Around the time that my teenage brothers were to arrive from Timmins, I asked him if he would consider hiring them as busboys in the Four Winds on Friday and Saturday nights. I explained that there was no one at home to watch them while I was performing from seven o’clock until one in the morning. This way, they could earn some money, then we could all drive home together. The manager seemed very empathetic and said he would be happy to help.

  Everything was working out nicely. But just a few weeks later, he cornered me in the small, dark coatroom tucked away in the back at one end of the bar. I’d gone in there to hang up my jacket, and he’d followed me in, closing the door behind him. He pushed his body up against me, pinning me against the wall, forcing his weight on me. I shoved back and told him sharply, “Get off me!”

  “Aw, come on,” he said slyly. “I think I’ve been pretty good to you and your brothers. Don’t be such a bitch.” Then he threatened to fire them as quickly as he’d hired them. Again I demanded that he let me go and started to struggle physically with him. Finally, he backed off, but the sneer on his face told me that this was the kind of person who would exact revenge. It came as little surprise when both of my brothers were let go the following week. Incidents like this made me feel so alone that I wanted to cry, but I fought my tears and marched on, like I felt I had to. There was no time to break down when I had siblings relying on me, and no one for me to rely on in turn. I had to be strong against the Sheilas, the overwhelming burden of managing a family, and assaults from abusive men.

  I was never one to take personal relationships lightly, and casual affairs were not my style. Not to sound like a prude, but not only did I never sleep my way to anything, I very distinctly avoided it. I simply was not interested in flirting with men as a pastime or for any other reason other than to have a meaningful relationship. I’ve learned not to take such accusations to heart, since it is such a common tactic that jealous people use as a convenient way to hurt those they envy, but it still ticks me off. It’s cheap, trite, and just plain immature.

  One night after work, I pulled up to the bungalow, called out for Sadey, and waited the usual couple of minutes. Fifteen minutes went by, with me calling her name, and she still didn’t come. Between being upset that she might be lost, and feeling extremely vulnerable sitting there by myself in the darkness, my mind conjured up a frightening scenario in which my unhinged neighbor Norman—of course, he’d have to be named Norman, like Norman Bates in the movie Psycho—killed Sadey so that he could be waiting inside for me without any warning from the dog.

  No way was I even going to get out of my truck. I turned around and zoomed the hell out of there, heading for town. What am I going to do for the night? I thought. The only place I could think of was Pierre’s, the drummer for the house band; we’d had a little cast get-together at his house not long before, and I remembered his address. At three in the morning, there I was, knocking on his door. Thankfully, Pierre answered. He was a very nice, mild-tempered guy. I explained my situation, that I was afraid to stay in my bungalow, and could I please crash on his couch until morning. In his thick French accent, he invited me inside and set me up in a side room to sleep.

  The next day, I saw Pierre backstage. His face was scratched and his lip was cut, as if he’d been in a fight. “What happened to you?” I asked. He took me aside and explained tersely that another band member, who lived right next door, must have seen me either coming or going from Pierre’s house and spitefully shared the big news with the cast. Not surprisingly, the story that I’d spent the night there promptly found its way to the drummer’s girlfriend, who then got all upset, confronted Pierre, and freaked out on him. My first reaction was to chuckle, as I figured he either gave her an embellished story about why I stayed over—maybe in an attempt to make her jealous, and it backfired—or poor Pierre simply had a nutcase for a girlfriend. I did feel badly, though, as he had done me a favor, after all. The obvious bad intentions of the neighboring musician made me feel unwelcome and outcast. All this drama because my dog didn’t show up. It was a bit much trying to get my head around the stage cast mentality and its petty dramas. It was all just silly, really. Making the whole situation sillier still, when I returned to the bungalow in the morning, guess who was there waiting for me, happily wagging her tail? Sadey had probably been out chasing a deer the night before. Go figure!

  I decided to get Sadey a buddy, a big, beautiful six-month-old German shepherd that I named Roman. He had good instincts: from the get-go, he did not like my creepy neighbor. Anytime that Norman pulled up in the drive and climbed out of his truck, Roman would block him and bark incessantly.

  Carrie, Mark, and Darryl joined me midsummer. One hot summer morning, we heard a car skidding and sliding on the gravel road just out front of the house, then stop abruptly. It was the sudden sto
p of the car that caught my attention from inside the house. I ran out alarmed, as it was odd that a car barreling down the road would just suddenly brake. Norman had struck and killed Roman. I can’t say whether he hit him on purpose or if it was an accident. Accident or not, all I knew was that all the grief I’d suppressed over the past half year or so trying to keep everything and everyone, including myself, together came rushing back to me at that moment.

  I didn’t know what to say to Norman. I know I felt like kicking the shit out of him. I wanted to take all my anger out on his car, jump up and down on the hood till it caved in, smash his windshield with rocks, and spit in his face for killing my dog, frightening me with his creepy drop-ins, for being behind the wheel half cut after having one too many, and for being a menace. But all of this was just me fantasizing about what I wanted to express but couldn’t. It was locked inside me, all of this emotion. I didn’t know how to let it out without feeling anxious about losing control.

  I wanted Roman buried as soon as possible and called to my brothers to grab shovels and start digging. I was at the end of my rope and ready to snap, and they didn’t move as quickly as my patience allowed. “Get off your asses and dig that hole!” I yelled at them, clutching my pink robe tightly around me. “If you don’t get out there and dig that grave right now, I’m going to throw your damn hockey trophies out the door!”

  I was losing it on my brothers, and they made the mistake of not taking me seriously. I marched into the bungalow, snatched the trophies off the shelf, and proceeded to hurl them onto the front lawn one by one. That got their attention, and they started digging. I instantly felt terrible about breaking the trophies. I’d put my pent-up emotional energy into my throwing arm that day, and those trophies went flying, but much of it still remained unleashed. It was hard for me to find outlets for my feelings when I was so concerned about maintaining a level head as the “responsible one.”

  It was very sad hoisting Roman’s limp body into the grave. Only eight months before, we had watched our parents being lowered into the ground, and now another burial. This was too much for me, and I cried deeply at the sadness of love and loss, and at the brutal beating life seemed to be dishing out to us kids. I regretted freaking out on my poor brothers; they had only just met Roman, but I’m sure they must have felt the significance of what had happened and the reminder that grief was right there on the tips of their shovels. The death of our parents was still so fresh.

  Around this time, I wrote a sad song called “Hallelujah,” a song later finished with Mutt Lange and titled “God Bless the Child,” which I recorded on The Woman in Me. I was standing on the gravel road in front of my unfinished rental house in a numb, mourning kind of state, staring out into the forest hills, and I just started to cry and sing the words and melody. I was on my way back up to the house from the river when I heard the agonizing cries of a bear off in the distance. It carried on for so long, and my heart was breaking for him. Normally when this happens, it means either someone shot a bear and didn’t finish the job, and the bear managed to get away wounded and was now roaming in pain, or it was caught in a trap waiting in agony until it either bled to death or the trapper came back and finished it off. It always made me upset when people who had no skill with a gun shot at an animal, wounding it and then giving up on it. I say shoot to kill the animal the first time, or don’t hunt. I think hunters should have to go through annual courses before each hunting season to make sure that their shooting skills are up to snuff, as with the time lag between seasons, one’s marksmanship can get rusty and the “practice shooting” ends up being on live animals. That’s just barbaric, in my opinion.

  I did hunt with my dad and my grandparents growing up, and it was emphasized strongly that the goal was to always kill your prey swiftly to avoid as much pain as possible for the animal. It is very difficult to shoot any animal without actually causing it some pain, unless you are extremely accurate and kill it instantly with a direct shot to the heart or brain. I much prefer being a vegetarian and avoiding any association with this today, to be honest. We hunted our common Ontario forest foul, partridge, often on the tree plants, and as we didn’t always have a gun with us, we did this by hand. Partridge like to stay cool and close to the ground in low bushes—often several of them together—so if a couple of people pounced on the cluster at just the right moment, you could often grab two or three. A quick twist of the neck did the job even more swiftly than shooting them. I hated this hands-on method, and it was a skill I can’t say I acquired with any pleasure or pride, but it was quicker for the bird than bullets. I hunted partridge into my twenties, as they were easy to get just off the side of the road. I’d clean them right there and then, as it’s much easier to do when they’re still warm, by stepping on their wings with a foot on either side of the breast, pulling on the feet, and out slides a clean bird ready for the pan or freezer. There’s not much meat on a partridge, so once I had accumulated a handful, I’d make a meal with them.

  I don’t judge anyone who hunts or eats meat, as I believe it’s a very personal choice, but I have a hard time imagining that I ever killed and cleaned any animal with my own hands. This all seems like another lifetime to me now, as I haven’t eaten any animal parts in about twenty years, let alone killed any animals.

  The Deerhurst musical productions changed periodically. One of my favorites, from my third and last year there, was a spoof of the musical Cats, called—but of course—Dogs. I played a pink poodle that tiptoed around the stage, half singing, half acting, and mostly feeling silly the rest of the time. It was actually fun to do, on account of its queer sense of humor and the fact that it took me about as far away from my singer-songwriter background as you could go. I enjoyed the opportunity to stretch myself musically and viewed it all as part of an ongoing education.

  However, tackling every style under the sun except for my own began to slow my progress as a songwriter as well as my quest for a record deal. Sometimes a steady, stable gig can be detrimental to an artist; it’s nice to be comfortable, but not too comfortable.

  Beginning around 1990, when I turned twenty-five, I refocused my sights on my ultimate goal and began writing songs in earnest. The death of my parents prompted a song called “Send It with Love”:

  Whenever I think of you, it seems so unfair

  That I have to close my eyes, to see you there.

  I know I’m makin’ it now, but it’s tough.

  I can’t begin to tell you enough, the pain is too much.

  And I give my heart in a prayer, and send it with love.

  Obviously, that song was personal to me. I made a rough demo of “Send It with Love,” but I never got back to finishing it or making a proper recording of it. It was eventually released against my wishes by the producers involved during the demo stage once my career began to pick up.

  “No One Needs to Know” was another song I wrote during the Deerhurst period, but it was eventually finished and produced by my future husband, Mutt, and released on The Woman in Me album. There was a more playful, cheerful sentiment behind that song, which I often used in my writing in the immediate period after the loss of my parents in order to take myself out of my sadness and into a more make-believe world where things were happy and ideal.

  After shows at Deerhurst, in the wee hours of the morning, I got to work recording rough versions of my original material. The guys in the band were night owls, so I was able to enlist a couple of them for these demo sessions. The recordings were pretty basic—amateurish, I’d have to say—but, then, we were taping in a makeshift studio that a friend had set up in his basement or sometimes at the lodge venue after the audience left. The soundman John Noble recently reminded me of how we also once used the basement bathrooms below the lodge stage as singing booths. He ran cables from the mixing board to the lower level to get some sound separation for the voice. Maybe we thought the acoustics were good in there, or maybe that was me. I often find that bathrooms have great vocal room sound. Si
nging my heart out till four in the morning after a night of belting out songs onstage for two hours would have given me an interesting vocal sound, at any rate!

  Mary Bailey, my manager at this point, had arranged for a prominent music business attorney named Richard Frank to travel all the way to Huntsville from Nashville, Tennessee, to see me perform. Music lawyers were well connected with record company executives and producers. Knight, Frank and Lion, Richard Frank’s law firm, consisted of music attorneys who played matchmaker for promising artists. What’s funny is that the review we were putting on at Deerhurst at that time bore no resemblance whatsoever to the music that I was interested in making or that Mr. Frank was interested in hearing. Nevertheless, it served as my showcase for the recording industry.

  My big solo song was to be the dramatic ballad “Wind Beneath My Wings,” which Bette Midler had recorded for the soundtrack to the movie Beaches and took to number one in 1989. Under the circumstances, the song had a special resonance for me. Here I was on the verge of finally realizing the dream that my mother and I had chased since I was little, and she would not be in the wings nodding her approval. It was then and at other noteworthy moments in the future that her loss often hit me the hardest. I wished so badly that she was alive so she could have been able to bask in my success. Our success.

  Although I’d always imagined my mother dying young, I’d believed that it would be from something related to her abused, battered, and tattered life, or at the very least, from the effects of chain smoking. I prepared myself from a young age to lose my mother, but I never imagined I’d be robbed of her in such a common way. A car accident wasn’t worthy of taking my mother’s life, I thought.