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AT LAST, SHE OPENED her eyes, the sound of her voice still ringing around her.
During her life, she had created a set of core musical memories, moments that were forever etched into her mind, both good and bad.
That time she lost her place at her fifth-grade violin recital, only instead of punishing her, her mother told her she should just work harder so the next year the audience would be even more impressed.
Her first experience with musical theater, playing Bring Him Home along with her high school’s somewhat unlikely choice for Jean Valjean. In a moment of pity, Katrina had decided to pour as much of her soul as she could into the solo, so that even the local arts reporter who reviewed their show recognized that it was the music from the pit and not from the singer that moved nearly half the audience to tears.
Then there was the night before her audition for the Long Beach Symphony when Katrina had run through the Sibelius concerto she had prepared in the privacy of her teacher’s studio. “I don’t care what happens at your audition,” her teacher said. “You’ve just played with a power and intensity I’ve never heard from you before, and no matter what happens tomorrow, I’m never going to forget this performance tonight.”
Katrina wouldn’t forget either, although now she had another memory to add to her mental repertoire. The memory of singing in this empty sanctuary, of discovering that what her mother told her all these years about her voice was a lie.
She stepped down from the stage, the euphoria of her musical high so strong that she didn’t notice Greg standing in the back of the room until he spoke.
“I’ve never heard anything like that.”
She stood where she was, blinking at her husband. “How long have you been there?” It was her same old mousy voice that came squeaking out, not the one that had just filled the entire church.
“I got here a few minutes before your string broke.” He stepped into the sanctuary, looking almost apologetic. “I honestly had no idea you could sing like that.”
She was trembling, although she couldn’t explain why. This was her husband. Even if he’d intruded on such a private moment, there was no reason to be nervous or uneasy.
“I didn’t know anybody was here. You should have said something.”
“I thought about it, but you were in your little music zone. It was more intense than I’ve ever seen you. An earthquake could have taken down the building, and you would have gone right on singing.” He was just a few feet away now, holding out his arms. “But I’m sorry to make you feel self-conscious. I’ve always known what a gifted violinist you are, but I had no idea you could make your voice do something like that. Where did that come from?” He glanced around the sanctuary as if the answer might be located in the pews.
She didn’t know what to say. The last time she had tried to talk to him about her lessons, they ended up fighting.
Greg shrugged. “Well, if your teacher could get you to sound like that, I’ll never make fun of those warmups again,” He shuffled his weight from one foot to the other and stared at the violin Katrina still held in her arms. “And speaking of the warmups, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings earlier tonight. I guess what I said about your lessons was a little insensitive.”
“It’s ok.” Katrina replaced her broken string before tucking Dmitry into his velvet bed. Loosening her bow, she hoped her husband wouldn’t notice the way her fingers still trembled.
“Well,” Greg said, “it’s getting late. Are you ready to head home?”
She nodded. After a performance like this, she was emotionally exhausted. Some of her orchestra friends talked about how music filled them up and gave them energy, but in Katrina’s case, it was this sense of being completely dried out that let her know she had inserted her entire soul into her music. She didn’t argue or protest when Greg took her violin case and slipped his arm around her waist, leaving the echoes of the song she’d created behind.