Chapter

33

Dad came home on Sunday, and it was like an early Christmas. The trip home made him tired, but he still smiled beautifully at the “Welcome home” signs that we had all made for him. He hugged each one of us before making his way slowly up the stairs with Mom on one side and me on the other. By the time we got him settled he was exhausted, but he sighed with satisfaction at being home in his own bed before he fell asleep.

I was so glad to have him home. I had never quite recovered from my talk, or argument, or breakup, or whatever it was with Sam on Thanksgiving, and I had spent far too much time alone thinking about it and replaying every little nuance in his expression, every word that either of us had spoken. I was just as sad to have broken his heart—broken mine in the process, too—as I had been that night, but I had found a measure of comfort in knowing that I had made the right choice. That comfort was small, though, knowing that I would be seeing him at the concert the next day. I’d been worrying about it since I woke up, and I was grateful for the distraction of helping Mom to take care of Dad.

Dad was too perceptive nowadays, though. When I checked on him later in the afternoon, he was awake and hungry. I brought him up some low-fat, low-sodium soup, which he grimaced at but ate dutifully. While he ate he studied my face. I tried to make small talk about the things that had happened while he was gone, but I was not doing a very good job.

“You’ve been worrying again, haven’t you, baby cakes?” Dad asked.

“Just about the concert tomorrow night. The sonata that Sam and I are playing is really difficult. I keep worrying that I’ll mess it up and ruin his chance for a scholarship,” I said. I managed to keep my voice even when I said his name. I was only partially lying. I really was worried about the scholarship for Sam. It’s just that I was worrying about a lot more than that, too.

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine, Annie,” Dad said. It startled me a little that he didn’t call me by my nickname, and I looked at his face more closely. His eyes were filled with compassion and interest. It struck me then just how blessed I was to have such wonderful parents. Even though Mom and I fought sometimes and didn’t get along much when I got older, I never had to doubt that they would be there if I really needed them. Since I had been home I felt closer than ever to both my parents, but to Dad especially.

“Dad, can I ask you something?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Do you remember a few years back when Brother Sharp came to church drunk and Sister Sharp wasn’t wearing any shoes?”

“That’s a strange thing to remember. I didn’t even know you’d noticed what was going on. What brought that up?”

“I was just thinking about it the other day. I don’t remember what you said, but I think you kind of threatened him or something. Why was that?” Dad gave me a small smile, and there was a twinkle in his eye.

“Some people are bullies. Usually they’re just afraid, and they take it out on people who are weaker than themselves. In my experience, the best way to deal with a bully is to make sure he knows that what he does is not going unobserved. I don’t remember threatening him, but he might have taken it that way. That was fine by me.” I smiled at the description. It was true—people listened to my dad and respected him.

“So you just implied that he would be in big trouble if he hurt her again and left it at that?”

“Well—not exactly.” He seemed to be embarrassed for some reason.

“What else?”

“I figured that with Leonard it wouldn’t be enough to just imply. He was probably drunk enough that he’d talk himself out of the whole thing as soon as he sobered up and be right back to his old behaviors. So, every once in a while I check in on them. I look for excuses to stop by—a message from the bishop or a delivery of some of your mom’s homemade bread. Little things, just so he knows that I’m still watching. I don’t know if it’s made a difference or not.” He shrugged and waved his hand.

“Are you blushing, Dad?” I laughed.

“Are you kidding?” he said. He smiled again. “What brought this up, anyway? That was years ago.”

“I was talking to Sam the other day, and he mentioned it. It really meant a lot to him that you would stand up for him and his mom. He still remembers it. I think it has made a difference.”

“Wow, I didn’t even remember that he was in earshot of the whole thing.” The subject obviously made Dad uncomfortable. He always taught us to do good but to try to do it quietly, anonymously if possible, and recognition was definitely not the goal. I dropped the subject, making just one last comment.

“Thanks for doing that, Dad. It means a lot to me too.” I gave him a hug, kissing his cheek, and then walked toward the door.

“Annie Bell, you’ll do great tomorrow. You just remember that you are not alone. I’ll be listening from here.” Dad smiled at me, and I felt encouraged. His warm smile lodged somewhere in my chest, and I knew that I could make it through.

I needed that smile with me as I faced school the next day. Everyone involved in the music program was nervous and wired. We were excused from our morning classes to set up the stage and put the last-minute preparations on our program. The Winterfest was the kickoff for the Christmas season, not just for the school but for much of the town, and we put a lot of work into it. We prepared Christmas music as well as a sampling of the types of pieces that the students had worked on through the first half of the year.

I was participating in seven numbers in addition to the sonata, three with the orchestra and four with the a cappella choir. For me it meant three different outfits and very precise timing to make it from each set to the next. Usually this was the type of thing I craved. Performing was invigorating to me, and the day of a performance usually found me as energized as the rest of my classmates.

Not today.

Today was an ending. I discovered just how stark an ending it was going to be when Sam and I did our last run-through during first period. We were in one of the practice rooms off the orchestra room, a tiny little place with a spinet piano and a chair and little space for anything else. We were crammed in tightly, and it was awkward as we carefully avoided bumping each other. There was a restraint in our conversation that hailed back to a couple of years before when we hadn’t known each other very well. We were each trying to make it easier for the other, and we were both failing.

“You’ve got to get that downbeat,” Sam blurted after I missed the opening cadence for the third time in a row. He counted it out, slapping his leg in time with the rhythm.

“I know, Sam. I’m not an idiot,” I snapped. “I just can’t seem to get it. I can hear it in my head, but I just can’t seem to make my fingers get there in time. I’m doing the best I can, okay?” I was instantly sorry. It wasn’t his fault that I was so much slower than he was.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sweeping a hand through his hair. “Just try a one, three, four fingering instead, and it might help.” His tone was much softer. “Sorry I snapped.”

“Yeah, me, too. It’s my fault anyway. Let’s try it again.” He nodded, and we went through it a couple more times. His tip about the fingering helped, and I didn’t miss my entrance again.

“You’ve got it,” he said finally.

“Thanks. You sound great, of course. I’m sure that this will be a huge step toward that scholarship,” I said.

“I’m not going for the scholarship. I’m going to my dad’s.” My heart plummeted to my shoes.

“When? Why?” I asked. I already knew the answer to the second question, though.

He smiled sadly, acknowledging the same thought. “Tomorrow, actually. In the morning.” He laid his cello carefully on its side and crouched down, packing up his things.

“Why the rush?” My voice sounded hollow.

“Come on, Annie, you know why. I just can’t do this. It’ll be better to get away from Leonard, anyway, and spend some time with my dad. It’s been years, after all.” He looked up. “There’s nothing more to keep me here.”

I replayed that moment again and again as I helped to set up risers and sorted through my music, making sure everything was in order. There had been just the hint of challenge in his eyes. Give me a reason to stay, they had said. He knew I couldn’t, but he was like me, desperate for a better way to get through this.

But there was no better way. This was the only way, and it was probably best that he go to his dad’s. He’d done it the first time around, after all. Only this time I wouldn’t be writing to him, interfering with his girlfriend. That thought blistered through my mind, and I slammed my binder of music down a little too forcefully on the piano lid.

“Mallory. Jenna. James,” I muttered under my breath. They were the reason I was doing this. I just had to hold tight to them in my mind, and I would get through this. “Mitch,” I added, even more quietly. It hurt to know that I had been feeling more distant from him with all of the upheaval about Sam. Mitch, too. He was also the reason.

Their names were a silent chant in my head for the rest of the day. My last day seeing Sam. Every time we passed in the hall or backstage, moving things around, I knew it was one of the last moments I would see him. Time seemed to play tricks on me, leaping forward every time our paths crossed, so that it sped by in lightning-like flashes, and then slowing down to a snail’s pace when he wasn’t around.

At least I hadn’t had to go to therapy today. With Dad’s illness I’d managed to get out of it the week before, but Mom had been adamant that I not miss two weeks in a row. I had Dad’s interference to thank for my reprieve. Mom’s look of shock when he had bellowed, “Mary, enough! She’s not going today!” had been hilarious. Even funnier was the fact that she actually seemed to have liked his forcefulness.

The bell signaling the end of the school day brought my head up in a disoriented panic.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Relax, Annie, it’s just the last bell,” Corrie said. She’d been eyeing me strangely all day, and I finally decided I had to tell her something at least.

“Sam is moving to California to live with his dad in the morning,” I blurted.

Her mouth formed a little round “o,” and her eyes went wide. “Wow, that . . . that really stinks,” she said. It was so straightforward. The perfect description.

“Yeah. Totally,” I said, sounding exactly like my original sixteen-year-old self. From that moment on, she became overly sympathetic, eyeing me with compassion that bordered on the melodramatic.

Before I knew it we were changing into our dresses for A Cappella and lining up outside the door to the stage. I could hear the hum of the audience as the families of the students and other members of the community rushed in to find their seats. Normally I would have been feeling the exhilaration of adrenaline pumping through my veins. Instead I only felt vaguely dizzy and a little nauseated.

“Are you okay?” Samantha, the alto next to me in line, asked. “You look a little green.”

“I think so,” I said. She looked like she was going to question me further, but the noise from the crowd died down, and we heard Miss Lund announcing us. The choir filed out, we took our place on the risers, and the performance began.