“Hey, guys,” Joey says. Bill stands next to him. They both look about as uncomfortable as any two men could look. Neither of them makes a move to come in. They are frozen in the doorway.
When Vance doesn’t greet them, I pop up off the couch and usher them in. I’m about to tell my brother how rude he is, but he’s sound asleep in the recliner.
Bill and Joey exchange a nervous look. Bill whispers, “Should we come back later?”
Joey has his eyes fixed on my father, clear shock registering all over his face. He shakes his head. “No, Bill, there won’t be a later.” He smacks Bill’s arm.
“Aw, hell,” Bill says.
The three of us stare at my father’s face for quite a while. No one speaks. We all just gaze upon the face of death before us.
Joey clears his throat. “My grandpop had that same face. Damn, I remember it.”
Bill bites his nails, a habit he’s had since the day I met him. “They’re sure he isn’t going to wake up? I mean, he’s a real strong guy. I saw him level a drunk guy who was pushing his wife around at the lounge just last year. Dropped him in one punch.”
I don’t want him to wake up.
I wince at my thought. It’s the worst thought a son could have about his father. My hands tighten into fists. The reasons and memories behind my feelings are many and painful. Watching Dad sink deeper and deeper into alcoholism after Mom’s death wasn’t easy.
Vance yawns and says hello. Everyone is drained. Everyone is lost.
I ask if they’d like some privacy to say good-bye. Both men’s eyes go glassy with pain. They nod, and Vance and I walk to the Common Room in silence. The Common Room is actually a large living-room-type room with overstuffed sofas, two recliners, a huge dining room table and chairs, built-in bookshelves made of dark wood and filled with hundreds of books, fresh flowers on every table, massive framed photographs of various beaches, and a shiny black piano. I’ve never sat in the room, only passed it on my way out.
We each take a sofa and sit. In silence.
Marnie appears with her gentle smile and big blue eyes. “Either of you play the piano?”
Vance shakes his head, and I’m about to do the same when he says, “He used to.”
“Ooooh, honey, play something. Everyone loves it when we have a player on the floor. We all swear it brings peace to the patients.”
I shift in my seat and give Vance the death stare before speaking. “I haven’t played since fourth grade. I’m sorry.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Oh, come on. I’ll bet if you sat down and tried, it’d all come back to you. We don’t care if you play “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” We just like it when this thing gets used.” She pats the top of the piano. “Go on, give it a go. Trust me, no one will notice if you hit the wrong keys.” A grin spreads across her face.
Vance is lost in his phone so he doesn’t give a damn one way or the other. I purse my lips and rack my brain for a song I could play.
“There’s a bunch of piano books in the bench,” she says.
She’s being so nice to me. I stand up and walk over. Marnie’s got the bench open, and she’s rustling through the books. “People donated these. All those too.” She points to the shelves lining the wall behind me.
My stomach flips when I spot a familiar cover on one of the piano books. It’s the Bela Bartok book my old piano teacher, Mrs. Gramble, used during my last year of lessons. Not the book, but a book exactly like it. I pick it up and thumb through the pages. “It’s even Volume Two,” I say to myself.
“You know it?” Marnie’s eyebrows raise in anticipation.
“Yes, but I don’t think I remember how to play anything. Practicing wasn’t exactly my thing.”
Mrs. Gramble introduced me to classical music in first grade, and it was unintentional. It happened in the hall outside her studio office. My mother would drop me off, and I’d sit out there clutching my Hal Leonard Easiest Piano Course book and listen to the music coming from a small CD player underneath one of the chairs.
The first time, I found the music kind of scary. I’d never heard anything like it. But the second time, it seeped into my little six-year-old soul. I ended up moving to the seat directly over the CD player. I remember wanting to get closer to the sound. When, months into our lessons, Mrs. Gramble found me lying on the floor with my head underneath her chair and my ear pressed up against the speaker, she was startled at first, but then she knew. She knew I’d fallen in love with the music.
Poor Mrs. Gramble tried to teach me how to become a classical pianist for three out of the four years. It didn’t work. She blamed my slow finger movement, but I knew it was because I never practiced. Ever. I only wanted to hear the music, not play it, apparently.
However, the music became deeply personal to me. Part of my identity. The concertos, requiems, and symphonies grew roots inside me. The music was where I went—where I go—when I needed to put myself back together. Note by note. Especially when I was drawing. It was as if the music itself breathed life into my sketches, each lift and sway of the instruments, each bit of intensity or gentleness guided my hands. Those moments brought me happiness.
I stop flipping pages. No. 38. Winter Solstice Song (Molto vivace) stares back up at me.
Marnie says, “Go on. Give it a go.”
I try another angle to get out of it. “But it’s almost nine. Won’t that disturb people?”
“Honey, trust me. When music fills these halls, the darkness lifts.”
I wish I could run through it a few times in a private space, just so I could work out the kinks and not sound like a mess.
Who am I kidding?
This one piece I could play with my eyes closed. It’s the only one I ever truly liked in my four years of lessons. The one that came so naturally while learning to play it that it frightened me a little—it was as if I’d already known where my fingers should go.
It was the only one that ever made me cry.
It was my secret. I never even told Mrs. Gramble. During my lessons I’d intentionally mess up and have to start over. I tested that woman’s patience weekly.
In fourth grade I was two years into my “let’s keep things that make Oscar happy a secret” way of thinking. I didn’t want my father or Vance to know how that song made me feel, how it was practically a part of me. My stomach would knot each time I pictured either of them finding out. They would find a way to ruin it. I knew they would.
Marnie gives me a little nod and a smile. I look over to Vance. He’s gone. Maybe he went for another walk. My stomach flips with relief. Playing in front of him is the last thing I want to do. My brother is a contributing factor in why I chose to stop playing.
He had a lacrosse practice at the same time as my fourth grade recital. At first my mother said it was just practice so they’d all be there to cheer me on. Vance had a little hissy fit at the kitchen table. I overheard Vance begging Dad to not make him go to my “stupid piano thing.” My father chose to take him to practice, and they both missed hearing me play.
Now that I’m seventeen, I kind of get it. Those recitals were painful to sit through. But then I contemplate—isn’t that part of a family’s duty? To support each other? Maybe that kind of stuff only happens on television.
I take a seat and spread the book wide. A musty smell wafts up, and I wonder when this book was last opened. My recital was eight years ago, and I haven’t played since. Not even once. I stare at the notes, hoping something other than the piece’s title will look familiar. My hands travel by instinct or muscle memory or magic. I’m not entirely sure which—but I’m playing.
The room fills with familiar sounds. My heart flutters. The music is satisfying. Welcoming even. The familiarity of the notes feels like safety, like home, like happiness.
As my fingers press keys, Mom’s smiling face fills my head, her beaming from the audience during that last performance. The way she clapped when I stopped playing, her whispering, “Good job, honey,” in my ear when I took my seat. All of it.
The piece is only a handful of minutes, three maybe, so I’m finished rather quickly. My memory slams shut.
I look up to see Marnie clapping and beaming, and the image jabs at my heart. More applause comes from behind, and I wince before turning around. I don’t like attention all that much. A few more nurses, a female doctor, and random family members of other patients are gathered. Everyone’s smiling. The doctor asks me to play something else. I tell her I can’t. She doesn’t press me.
The small crowd disperses with a few more thank-you’s tossed my way. Marnie pats my back. “It feels brighter in here already, hon. Thank you for sharing your talent.”
My cheeks flush with awkwardness as I put back the book. “You’re welcome.”
I’m unsure if I should return to my father’s room. Joey and Bill haven’t come out yet, so my instincts are telling me to stay put and let them have their time. I take a seat on the sofa again and stare at the wall of books. I fiddle with my phone, trying to find the perfect concerto in which to lose myself.
Someone says, “I had Mrs. Gramble too.”
My gaze jumps to the piano. Jacque Beaufort sits on the bench, and she’s stroking the keys, petting them like a cat. “You probably don’t remember, but I saw you once at her studio. I was coming out, and you were coming in. I was in second grade. You were in first.”
I’m mesmerized by her voice, the fact that she’s directly addressing me. I look around the room just to make sure she’s not speaking to Vance. But I shake my head. Vance never took piano lessons. Vance has always been in the same grade as her.
She is talking to me.