I sleep late the next morning. When I open my eyes, my clock radio is stuck at 5:15 but bright light is streaming through the blinds. I can hear Sarah bellowing instructions out the back door to Dad. For a second it’s hard to tell what year it is. I climb out of bed and look out the window. The view hasn’t changed. The park is busy, getting towards the Christmas rush. I watch a little girl in frilly bathers run across the grass with a bucket, slopping water down the sides. Between the palms that line our property I can see Justin’s house.
I bury myself under a wide straw hat and sunglasses then, feeling sufficiently disguised, wander to the beach. I pass Sarah in the park and she looks the other way. The late morning is overcast and dark behind my glasses, but the air is hot syrup.
I sit cross-legged on the sand. A few tourists are scattered across the beach. Some are stretched out on towels, others splashing in the shallows. A breeze ripples the sea. A couple of charter yachts sail slowly towards the islands. I lie on my back and cover my face with my hat. The straw glows red where the pale sun shines through. I close my eyes and listen to the noises surrounding me. Water sighs against the sand and gulls babble above my head. I let out a long breath. For the first time in months, the tension in my shoulders is gone. For the first time in months, I don’t feel guilty for not having practised enough. A shriek of laughter from the rock pool. I think of Justin.
‘I just want to be with you’.
We had spent so many years willing each other to say it. And now here it is, laid out in the open. Simple and honest. I feel an ache of desire that once followed me everywhere. The desire to finish what we so long ago started.
I let myself back into the house. The back door groans on rusty hinges. A dripping tap plops into the sink. And the sound of my violin floats down from the top storey.
I follow the music upstairs and stop at the door to my mother’s bedroom. The melody sways from the resonating low register to its soaring climax. Sarah turns with the motion of the music and notices me in the doorway. My violin falls from her shoulder. She throws it back in the case like it’s poison.
“It’s your violin, isn’t it,” I say. “It was you who put it in my bedroom that day.”
“Of course it was me. Did you really think I would have left you without an instrument?” She slams the lid.
“Don’t,” I say hurriedly.
She looks at me in surprise.
“I mean, keep playing.”
“I don’t play anymore,” she says.
“That’s not what it looks like to me.”
“Don’t be smart.”
“You’re very good,” I tell her, nibbling my thumbnail. “But you know that, don’t you.”
“Stop biting your nails,” she says sharply.
“Why did you stop playing?”
“It’s none of your business.” She hurries into the hall.
“Mum-” My hand darts out on impulse and grabs her wrist. I drop it quickly as her surprised eyes meet mine. We stand motionless in the doorway. There are deep folds in Sarah’s brow.
“It’s something I don’t talk about, Abigail. You should respect that.”
I follow her downstairs and into the kitchen. “Don’t you think I have a right to know? So I at least know why you tried to keep me from playing for all those years?”
She shoves the plug into the sink and throws the taps on. Water drums into the basin. She hurls the dishes into the water and they crash against each other. Finally, she turns off the taps. The single drip bounces into the soapsuds. Sarah shoves a sponge inside a glass and it gurgles noisily. After a moment, she puts it on the drying rack and sighs.
“My parents wanted me to play.” Her eyes don’t leave the frothy water. “They paid for me to leave Acacia Beach and study overseas.”
I frown. “Did you go?”
“The Julliard,” says Sarah. “New York.”
I stare at her. “You got into the Julliard? Are you serious? Why did you stop?”
“When I was twenty, I came home because my dad was dying of cancer. I took a year off studying to be with my mother after he died. Then, just before I was about to go back to school, I found out his disease could have been treated.”
“What does that have to do with your music?”
Sarah swallows heavily. “My dad refused treatment because they couldn’t have afforded to keep me in America.” She looks up at me. “He died because of me, Abigail. Because of my stupid need to play music.” Her voice becomes stifled. “When I found that out, I couldn’t play anymore. I had to give it away.” She runs the sponge around the rim of a plate. I stand in silence at her shoulder.
“But you giving up music,” I say finally. “That means your dad died for nothing.”
Sarah throws another plate into the sink. “You’re saying things you have no idea about,” she says coldly.
“That’s right,” I snap. “I have no idea what it’s like to have your parents support you.”
She opens her mouth to reply, but stops. She sits the plate on the drying rack and watches a trail of bubbles slither down the side.
“Why didn’t you let me go to the city? I would have been out of your way then.”
“It’s always about you, isn’t it, Abigail,” Sarah cries, a waver in her voice. “You are so damn self-centred!”
“But if you’d just let me go, you would never have had to listen to my playing again!”
Sarah’s grey hair falls over her face. “And lose you to music as well as my father?” She turns back to the sink. “I thought if you stayed here long enough you would forget about the Conservatorium eventually. I hated Andrew for putting the thought in your head.”
“I would have though of it myself.”
Sarah washes in silence. After a moment, she mumbles: “I’m sorry.”
“No you’re not! You’d do the same all over again! I know you would!”
She throws down the sponge and glares at me. “You don’t understand what it was like for me. To feel that guilt all over again every time I heard you play! And to feel twice as bad for stopping you from doing what you loved! Do you really think I enjoyed that? Don’t you think I wanted you to succeed just as much as I used to want to?”
I let out my breath in disbelief.
“It’s true!” she cries. “I just couldn’t do it. I wasn’t strong enough to support you.” She dries her hands and sinks into a chair at the kitchen table. “Do you know what it’s like to hear music and have every note cut into you like a knife? To not be able to touch your instrument because of the memories it digs up?”
I don’t look at her. I do know. I know exactly what it’s like, but I don’t tell her.
She sighs. “And you play so beautifully, Abigail. All I wanted to do was listen to you, but I couldn’t. It was too hard.” She picks up a serviette and wrings it between her fingers. “You are the only person I’ve ever told this to. I’ve never even told your father. I suppose I thought you might understand.”
“Your dad wanted you to be a musician,” I say bitterly.
Sarah tears the serviette to shreds and lays them out on the table. “I couldn’t go back to playing, Abby. Surely you can understand that.”
“But you do play. I saw you.”
She sighs. “I wish I didn’t have to. But you know how it is; the passion never really leaves you. No matter how much you want it to.”
I sit opposite my mother at the table. In a strange sort of way, nothing she has told me surprises me.
“I’m not going back to the Con,” I say finally.
“I’m glad.” There is a slight gleam in her eyes. She reaches out and covers my hand with hers. My fingers tense. The touch of my mother’s hand is something I remember only from childhood. It had become more leathery. Colder. She squeezes my fingers. I can’t bring myself to squeeze back. She gives a tiny smile.
“I’m glad we can both put music behind us.”