Never a Hero

by Marie Sexton

  I can do this. But even in my mind, I balked, so I said the words out loud. “I can do this.” It helped.

  A little.

  Nick had driven, and so of course he’d beaten me to the church. I found him waiting for me by the door. I stopped in front of him, still angry, still confused, but also scared and badly in need of reassurance.

  He smiled as he held the door open for me, although the happiness of it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ll do fine.”

  “Where have you guys been?” June said when we walked in. She was a twitchy bundle of nerves. It didn’t help soothe my own growing anxiety.

  “Just running late,” I said.

  “Well, come on! They’ll be starting any minute!”

  I glanced around as we found our seats. My mother was nowhere to be seen. I’d expected that, but I didn’t see my father either. Nathan was there, though, waving at me from the back of the room. It made me nervous, having him there, but it felt great too, knowing he’d come just to support me.

  June, Nick, and I found an open space big enough for the three of us on one of the cold, hard pews. I sat with Nick on my left and June on my right. I looked up at the piano sitting at the front of the room. I looked around at the many, many faces. All the people who would see me walk to the front of the room, amputated arm and all. All the people who would hear me play.

  Maybe my mother was right. Maybe I should quit.

  No. Not now. You can do this.

  Beginning students went first, which should have worked to our advantage, but Amelia had decided to put all the duets later in the program, before the more advanced students played their pieces. Three other students played “Ode to Joy.” All three were kids. All fumbled, but not terribly, and I noticed that the audience clapped for them just the same. June reached out and took hold of my hand.

  As our turn drew near, the nerves that had taken root began to feel like something much bigger. Something so real and alive it might swallow me whole. What if we messed up? What if I forgot the notes? What if, when we finished the piece, nobody clapped at all?

  What if they laughed?

  “These next students have only been with me for two and half months now,” Amelia said, and I knew it was our turn. “Their progress has been remarkable, all the more so because of their unique special circumstances.” I winced, unsure how I felt about her introduction. I looked to gauge June’s reaction, but before I could, I felt Nick’s strong, warm hand on my shoulder.

  I turned to face him. I wanted to say so many things to him, but this wasn’t the time. He still looked guilty. He still looked sad. But he offered me a smile. “I’m proud of you, no matter what. You’re going to do great.”

  Twenty minutes ago, I’d wanted to strangle him. Now all I wanted was to hear him say those words again.

  I’d missed the next bit of Amelia’s introduction. I tuned in again in time to hear her say, “June Reynolds and Owen Meade.”

  I rose on unsteady legs, and June and I walked hand in hand toward the front of the auditorium. The crowd seemed to draw breath as one, and then a quiet wave of whispers washed over them.

  They’re talking about us. The two one-armed piano players.

  “Mommy,” some kid said, her theatrical whisper far too loud in the quiet room, “what happened to their arms?”

  I heard the sharp hiss of her mother trying to hush her. “We don’t ask questions like that, Annabelle!” I felt the discomfort of the crowd. Leave it to a child to point to the elephant in the room.

  I thought about stopping. I thought about turning to the audience, about searching for Annabelle, about telling her mom, “It’s okay.” But there was no time, and I wasn’t that brave.

  We took our seat at the piano, and we played.

  It was both horrifying and exhilarating. My fingers seemed to move on their own. My foot worked the pedal. Next to me, June watched her fingers with unwavering concentration. I fumbled once, and so did she, but both mistakes were quick, and we recovered easily.

  It felt good. “Ode to Joy,” I thought, and I found myself smiling. This was joy, creating music from nothing. Sitting next to June. Knowing Nathan was here for me and Nick was waiting for me, one way or another, as a lover or a friend. I had no idea what was going to happen between us. I only knew that I wanted more of this feeling—joy. I’d been missing it my whole life, and now, having lived with it for a moment or two, I never wanted to let it go.

  But almost as quickly as it had begun, the song ended.

  June and I sat in the sudden silence, staring at the mute keys.

  “We did it!” I said.

  June smiled at me, but whatever she was about to say was lost to the deafening sound of applause. We turned as one to face the crowd, and my jaw dropped.

  They’d clapped for everybody, but this time they were on their feet. They were cheering and shouting. Did we deserve this extra attention just because of our arms? Part of me wanted to say no, but then June pulled me to my feet. We faced the crowd, and she bowed as if this were Carnegie Hall. As if we really were stars. Or heroes.

  And all I could do was laugh.

  THE LAST half of the recital went by in a blur. I barely heard the advanced students as they played their pieces. I leaned close to Nick. He reached across my lap to hold my hand.

  Joy.

  When it was over, everybody gathered in the foyer, smiling and congratulating each other.

  “Absolutely brilliant!” Nathan raved, pounding me on the back.

  An obvious exaggeration, but I didn’t mind. My dad found me shortly afterward and pulled me into a tight hug. “You were amazing, son.”

  “I didn’t know you were here. Did you hear me play?”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it.”

  He let me go and I looked around for my mom, but I already knew what I’d find.

  “We need to talk,” my dad said, suddenly somber. “How about if I give you a lift? We can have a heart-to-heart at your place over some hot chocolate?”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  I couldn’t tell if Nick was disappointed or relieved when I told him I had a ride home. I had a feeling he wasn’t sure either. I waved goodbye to Nathan and June and headed for the door with my father. We were halfway there when a red-faced woman ushered her pigtailed daughter up to me.

  “I want to apologize,” she said. “Annabelle didn’t mean—”

  “It’s fine,” I said, and I was surprised to realize it was true. I didn’t mind. “It’s normal for kids to be curious.” I looked down at the girl. She couldn’t have been more than four. How could she understand? I crouched down to face her. “You can ask,” I said.

  She glanced up at her mom, unsure. The mother was clearly uncomfortable, but she nodded. Annabelle looked back at me. “Where’s your arm?” Blunt, just like Nick. It made me smile.

  “I’ve never had one. When I was in my mommy’s tummy, something went wrong, and my arm never grew.” Not exactly correct, but close enough for somebody as young as her.

  “What went wrong?”

  “It’s called an amniotic band.”

  “Like a rubber band?”

  “Yes, actually. Similar to a rubber band.”

  “Did your mom swallow one?”

  “Well, no—”

  “One time I put a rubber band around my finger, and it started to turn blue, and Mommy said don’t do that ’cause of circle nation.”

  She was so solemn. I did my best not to laugh. “Circulation?”

  “Circle-ation.”

  “That’s exactly right. That’s what happened, but when I was still in my mom’s tummy.”

  She looked with unabashed curiosity at my stump. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Can I touch it?”

  “If you want.”

  She reached out and pinched the rounded end of my arm. Whatever she’d been curious about, she nodded, obviously satisfied. “Good. Tell your mommy, don’t swallow rubber bands
.”

  This time, I really did laugh. “I will.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  WE WERE halfway home before the heat started to work in my dad’s car. He cleared his throat a lot as he drove, which told me that whatever he wanted to talk about, it made him nervous.

  “I can’t believe Mom didn’t come,” I said. It was a bit of a lie, but it seemed like the right thing to say.

  My father winced. “I can’t believe a lot of the things your mother does.”

  I’d never heard my dad say anything negative about my mom, and yet when I thought back, I realized I’d never really heard him defend her either. Whenever she tossed one of her thoughtless comments my way, my dad had been there, patting me on the back, offering to take me out for ice cream.

  You’ll make him fat, my mom had said on more than one occasion.

  But not once did my dad heed her.

  Back at my place, I put a pan on the stove and filled it with milk. I stirred it until it frothed around the edges. I got out the mugs and the mix, and the entire time, I thought about my childhood. I thought about how I’d spent so many years trying to please my mom, and all along my dad had watched in silence, bringing me little gifts behind her back.

  My dad took his cocoa, and I took mine, and we sat at the dinner table. My dad cupped his mug between his palms, letting the heat warm them. I thought about June saying it was the only thing she’d ever missed about not having a right hand. I thought about all the times I’d seen my father do it, bending over his mug to let the steam tickle his nose.

  “We used to do this when I was a kid,” I said at last, breaking the silence. “And Mom always said, ‘You’ll ruin his dinner.’”

  He nodded. “Or, if it was after dinner, she’d say, ‘You’ll make him wet the bed.’”

  “What? I never wet the bed!”

  “I know.” He took a sip of his cocoa and set it down carefully, as if it were easier to concentrate on not spilling than on facing me. “I’ve asked your mother for a divorce.”

  “What? When?”

  “This afternoon, after we got back to our hotel. I know it probably comes as a shock, but only because we’ve kept so many things from you.” He shook his head. “I owe you an apology, Owen. And an explanation.”

  “For what?”

  “For everything.” He took a deep breath. I could tell he was gearing up to tell me everything, so I waited until he was ready. “I didn’t date your mother very long before we got married. Even when she was young, she wasn’t a pleasant person. I’d actually already broken things off with her when she told me she was pregnant.”

  “So you married her.”

  “Back then, that was what you did.”

  “But….” I thought back to what I knew. “You guys were together several years before I was born.”

  He nodded. “She lost the baby six months later. Went into labor early and delivered, but the baby was dead.” He shook his head. “It was awful. Even then, I don’t think I loved your mother much, but I’d already learned to love that baby, and then to have her die, it was devastating for both of us.”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “I wish our grief had driven us closer together, but it didn’t. It only drove us apart. And a couple of years later, I had an affair.” He looked up at me, his eyes full of guilt. “With a man.”

  Just when I thought he couldn’t shock me more than he already had. “You’re gay?”

  “No.” He sighed and put his head in his hands. “Bisexual, maybe. I don’t know.”

  “How can you not know?”

  “It was different then. There was no such thing as ‘out and proud.’ Not in our town, at any rate.”

  “Did you love him?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Who was he?”

  He dropped his hands from his face, but he didn’t meet my eyes. He rubbed his thumb over a water stain on my tabletop. “The father of one of my students. He was married too. It was wrong no matter how you look at it. When your mom found out, she lost it. She was furious. I halfway hoped she’d want a divorce, but she cared more about our reputation than anything else.”

  “You could have left her.”

  “That’s probably how it seems, but that’s not how it felt. She threatened to out me, and to out him. He was a doctor.” He stopped to take a sip of his cocoa. “We would have both lost our jobs. We would have lost everything. He chose to go back to his wife, and so did I.”

  “What happened?”

  “After that, I did my best to behave… well, the way she expected me to, if you know what I mean. To be a, umm”—he blushed—“an attentive husband. But I kept thinking about how miserable I was with her, wondering if I could leave her. If I could stand to leave town and go someplace new and start over on my own. But a few months later your mom was pregnant again. With you.”

  “And you were trapped.”

  He shook his head, but I could see the truth in his eyes.

  “You must have hated me.”

  “No!” His tone was strong, and he finally met my gaze again. “I may have resented you a bit when you were still in her womb, but once you were born….” He smiled at me. “How could I do anything but love you? And especially when I saw the way your mom acted, the way she seemed to blame you for not being born perfect.” He shook his head. “I think she was punishing you for being my son more than anything. I’d hurt her, and she wanted to hurt me back however she could. So I knew I had to stay. I had to protect you. I wanted to protect you. The thing is, I’m not sure I did a very good job.”

  “You know, up until today, I actually thought it was only me she was awful to.”

  He laughed. “Oh, it’s not just you, believe me. Your mom hates everything. She’s an angry, bitter woman. She always has been. I don’t know what happened to make her that way, but I know better than anybody. She thrives on putting others down so she can lift herself up.”

  “I always thought I could fix it, like, ‘if I get good grades, if I can just stop stuttering, if I only had both arms.’”

  “You and me both. For me it was, ‘if I buy her a new dress, a new car, a new house.’ I wish I knew why. I wish I knew what happened to make her so angry. I know it wasn’t easy for her growing up. Her parents fought a lot. Still, it’s hard to imagine how anybody can be so bitter all the time. But after thirty-five years of marriage, I’ve finally learned that she will never be happy, no matter what I do. Nothing’s ever good enough.” He’d been speaking cautiously before, but now, he was winding up, speaking faster and louder, giving voice to his anger for the first time. “She hated the old house, so I bought her a new one. But right away she started complaining. It’s too hot upstairs and too cold down. We can’t open the windows because it’ll aggravate her allergies, but the air conditioner gives her a headache. We have this great little breakfast nook, and I’d sit there in the morning and read the paper while I drank my coffee, and I’d watch the rabbits run around the backyard. But then she realized I was actually enjoying it, so she bought heavy drapes for that room, and I’m not allowed to open them because the wallpaper will fade. I don’t dress right. I don’t eat right. I don’t talk right. We haven’t slept in the same room for nearly ten years, and she still complains about my snoring. She hates every. Single. Thing. She got some kid fired from the grocery store last week because she didn’t like the way the poor girl bagged her groceries, for God’s sake. She’s a miserable person, Owen. She’s not happy unless she’s unhappy. I’ve had people say, ‘I can’t believe anybody could truly be that negative,’ and I want to invite them to walk a mile in my shoes just to show them it’s true. I want to tell them to spend five minutes on Twitter, and they’ll realize the world is full of horrible, petty people like her. The difference is, I can’t just mute her or unfollow. I have to live with her day after day after day.”

  I almost laughed. “Wow, Dad. Tell me how you really feel.”

  He gave me a reluctant chuckle, but his amusem
ent didn’t last. He began to worry at the stain on my table again rather than meet my eyes. “The thing is, I should have done more to shield you from her when you were growing up. Once, when you were ten, I talked to a divorce attorney, but he told me I’d never be awarded custody. I was working fifty-hour weeks, and your mom was home. The courts almost always gave custody to the mothers back then, and unless I could prove she physically abused you, divorcing her would have meant leaving you with her.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Jesus, Owen, don’t feel bad for me, please. I can’t stand that. I’ve failed you. Over and over again, I failed you. I saw the way she berated you. The way she hurt you. The way she made your stutter worse by hounding you and humiliating you, and every time I tried to defend you, she’d get angrier and more hateful. Sometimes I wondered if my leaving would actually help. Maybe then she’d start seeing you as her son instead of mine, but I didn’t want to leave you. And after that incident in high school with the Brewer boy.” He shook his head. “If I had it to do over, I’d have taken you. I’d have kidnapped my own son and snuck away in the night, but I—” His voice broke, and his words fell away. He took a ragged breath. “I was a coward. And I’m sorry.”

  I thought about it all—about how he’d wanted to help but not known how. About how miserable I’d been. And yet now, I wasn’t sure it mattered.

  I looked around my apartment.

  My apartment.

  I’d finished school. I’d beaten my stutter. I’d finally beaten my mother too. I’d escaped. And although I’d wasted more of my adult years than I liked to admit trying to find a way to please her, it was over now. I had a life that was in no way dependent upon her or her approval.