Mom has appeared on online sites most days. She is more than pleasant to look at and refuses to have a bad day, so they keep coming back for more, her wardrobes being analyzed daily, with captions under the photos of how Summer North “shows off” her long legs, “displays” her slender body. I understand that, for the media, shows off and displays merely mean has. They also describe her clothes as “snug” and “tight-fitting,” and if she ever wears a trouser suit, they say she is “covering up,” like women who don’t reveal their entire figures are trying to hide something.
There is a stunned pause as the press all look at me, and I take advantage of the element of surprise and take off down the driveway. Finally, they remember what it is they’re doing camped out in front of our house and fumble for their cameras and microphones to chase me. I cross the street, but they catch up to me. Now I’m surrounded, finding it difficult to know where to walk as their flashes blind me and they block my path. Their cameras bump into me as they push and pull one another for the best shots. I have to push through them as though they’re not there. Some are shouting, “Give her space!” while another man shouts at me to blow him a kiss. I try not to react. I know that’s just what they’re looking for. I keep my eyes down, focused on the ground that I can see, knowing that if the line in front of me trips, then I will trip. I pass the FOR SALE sign in the Tinders’ yard, and the media must stay outside their grounds. I go straight up their driveway and ring the doorbell.
Bob Tinder answers. He looks much older than the last time I saw him a few weeks ago. Grayer. Exhausted. He looks past me and sees the media at his gate and lets me in immediately. I can almost hear their disappointed sighs as I close the door behind me.
“Celestine,” he says, not looking too ecstatic to see me with what I’ve brought to his front door. “Colleen is out.”
“I’m not here to see Colleen.” The fact that she and I have never called each other has obviously not registered with him. “I’m here for my piano lesson.”
He frowns.
“It’s Thursday,” I explain. “I always have piano lessons on Thursdays.”
“She hasn’t…” He swallows, his voice cracking. “She hasn’t played since…”
“She should.”
“She thinks it’s damaged her hands. That she can’t play anymore.”
“Can you tell her I’m here?”
He thinks about it. “You can wait in the music room.”
I walk down the corridor and turn left into the music room. I haven’t been here since my life has changed. The room hasn’t changed, and yet everything seems different. I go inside. I sit at the piano. I wait.
I lift the lid and run my fingers over the tops of the keys. I’m waiting a long time. I can hear the rise and fall of Bob’s and Angelina’s tones as they talk down the corridor. She doesn’t want to come in. I will make her.
I begin by playing the most recent piece she taught me, and my favorite. “Nocturne Carceris,” a haunting piece. I play it better than I’ve ever played it before. And I play it from memory. I never liked piano class. It was always something that stopped me from seeing my friends, and then practice was something that stopped me from watching TV or going out. It was always an obstruction. At gatherings, I was always asked to play for everyone, and that, too, used to bother me because I’m a perfectionist, or at least I was, and I wouldn’t be able to relax the entire evening until my party piece was over. And if I made a mistake, it would play on my mind for a week. Piano always seemed to stress me out. I played it for other people. I played it for Angelina in class, I played it for my parents when I practiced, and I played it for guests at parties. I never played for myself. I never had the opportunity. But that all changes in this moment. I play for myself. I play better than I have ever played before, getting lost in my head as my fingers glide over the keys.
When I was a child, I always thought that to run away, you had to physically get up and run, as the kids did in the movies. A hateful shout, a slam of a door, then run. I’ve learned that lots of people run away without even going anywhere. I see it in Mom’s newly polished face, I see it when Dad disappears into his head at the dinner table, I see it when Ewan gets down on the ground and really focuses on his cars and helicopters. Juniper does it when she puts on her headphones and blares her music with her back to the world. I’ve never known how to do it before. But now I do. I’m running and running and running in my mind, through endless nothing but feeling free. When I open my eyes, I see Angelina Tinder standing at the open door, her head-to-toe black a stark contrast to the fresh white walls. She stands at the door listening, so I continue to play. Then she slowly nears me. I feel her beside me, behind me, and then she sits beside me. I’m afraid to look at her in case I scare her away. Bob stands at the door with a smile on his face. Happy and sad at the same time. Then he closes the door gently on us both.
When I’m finished, I look at her, the room in total silence. Tears stream down her face.
“You play,” I whisper.