by Ava Danielle
“I talked to Mrs. Ugh, I can never remember her name.”
“Mrs. Harper,” she states.
“Yes, Mrs. Harper. You took dad to the hospital yourself since the ambulance took too long?”
“Melody, you know I’m impatient. When I need something done it better get done then,” she smiles.
Rosa is the most beautiful Latina you’ve ever met. She’s a mix between Salma Hayek and Eva Longoria. Tall. Skinny. Her dark brown eyes complimenting her dark brown hair. A stunning and beautiful woman. Little to none of an accent as she speaks. Often I had tried to hook my father up with her, to get them to date, but he said he would never replace mom no matter how tempting. He would rather live life alone than to break the promise he had made my mother, even if she’s passed away and it’s been over two decades. It will take a special kind of woman to make him live life to the fullest allowing himself to love again. But for now, it’s just his career.
“How is he?” mentally preparing for the worst news.
“He’s better now. He had a heart attack and we got him to the hospital just in time. He is hooked up to a lot of machines though, just so you’re aware. I wouldn’t worry too much though, you know your father, he’s a fighter.”
“Just like mom,” I whispered.
“And you, honey. All you Clark’s.”
I despise hospitals. They’re sterile. Clean. Unfriendly. And cold. I avoid them like the plaque. You have to be some kind of special for me to visit you in this clinical situation. I’d much rather visit you at home in your comfort zone, but this is my father we’re talking about. I couldn’t not see him, no matter how uninviting this place may be or how rude and standoffish some of the staff is. Could all just be in my mind, though.
“Daddy,” I knew she said to be prepared for lots of machines, but this.
The drive on I-81 feels longer than usual today. I’ve thought about Samantha a lot wondering what I could’ve done for our relationship not to escalate as it did. I never expected her to cheat on me, in my own bed nonetheless. She was, what I always thought, the perfect person by my side. We had good times. I admit though, we barely did anything together. I was focused on playing the piano as she was focused on dance. She spent more time in the studio choreographing new moves as I was composing new music for my YouTube channel. So many people covered top pop and rock songs, as to me I would compose my own music, creating notes that aren’t supposed to be played at the same time. I always thought outside of the box because I’d rather be known as someone that went above and beyond than copied something for the hundredth time.
Often, I would suggest we collaborate in something. I could play on the piano as she would choreograph a dance to match the sound, but her words, not mine, “your music is too slow for what I do,” and that would be the end of it. Thinking back, she never supported my musical path as I promised to always support her. I attended all her shows for school, she came to one of mine, only because it was down from where her time ended and she had to walk by and endure my music.
“You do you, I do me,” she would say as I asked her over and over to come listen to me play. I would assume I wasn’t as good as I thought of myself. She would argue it and make me believe I was good enough. But not good enough for her?
Samantha is on my mind five hours of my trip. The other hour I wonder how this audition would go. Doubting my skills, I contemplate even going. I might just give up on the musical career feeling like I have a bazillion other musicians trying to make it big in the world. Maybe it’s just not my calling?
At a rest stop, after I’ve released from drinking so much soda along the way, I change from some sweats into shorts, my favorite jeans shorts. Funny story, I wash them everyday just so I know they’ll be clean for the next day. I don’t know why I take care of them better than I did my relationship. Truthfully, it was easier and less work. When Samantha and I would be together, it was a lot of sex and barely any talking. I just didn’t realize it wasn’t enough sex for her if she had to go and find someone else to pass the time with.
It’s noon when I arrive at my mom’s house an hour from Manhattan. It’s a beautiful sunny day. My stomach is growling and I look forward to my Mothers cooking. She’s had this obsession about cooking since she was young. I often told her to open her own restaurant, but she said she didn’t have the business brain. Instead, she has worked in the same local restaurant as a chef for the past ten years. She loves it since her boss is her best friend, so it’s friendlier than a job. And when she’s not preparing five course meals at the restaurant, she is cheffing it up at home with new ideas and recipes.
“Mom, I’m home,” I swing open the big green front door and walk into her home as if I own the place.
“Elliot,” gleaming she runs down the stairs and welcomes me with a warm embrace.
“I’m starving,” I admit not having much on the road trip besides soda.
“Sit down, I’ve made vegetable lasagna,” she beams but I’m anything but excited.
“Got anything with meat?”
“Eat a beef jerky to hold you over, but you will try this lasagna,” she demands.
Mother’s orders. You do what she says.
My father, biggest douche of all, left my mother a few years back for a younger woman. It took her a while to get over it, stopped work, and sat in her bedroom day in and day out. She lost faith in herself. She hadn’t dated in years, I don’t think she ever dated after he left her. I of course stood by her side, but it hasn’t been easy. When the heartbreak subsided and she realized there’s more to life than just her broken marriage, the old mom came back. The life of the party. The lady you would respect but could have sarcastic conversations with no hurt feelings. She’s always been my role model. More than my father ever tried to be, even before they divorced.
The day their divorce was finalized was the last day I saw my father. I was only a teenager, but even then I knew he wasn’t much of a man and not anything I would ever wanted to resemble. I’ve grown to despise him more than my mother ever could.
“How was the trip?” she asked as she prepared our lunch.
Sitting at her kitchen bar watching her, “it wasn’t half bad today.”
“How’s Samantha?”
“I don’t know.” I debate whether to start telling her everything now or after we eat.
“How do you not know? You didn’t see her when you left this morning?”
“Actually mom, we’re broken up,” I ease into the conversation.
“What?” she’s shocked as she stops mid room before handing me my plate, “what do you mean broken up? You two were so good together.”
“Yeah, the five minutes we would see each other,” I snort, “but that’s not the only reason.”
“There’s more?”
“She cheated on me,” I’m blunt.
“How do you know that?” you can tell she doesn’t believe it.
“I caught her,” I spare her the details of that image.
“Caught her?” she seems clueless.
“Mom! You know when you catch two people naked in bed together, doing the you know what, pretty good indication she’s cheating on you.”
“Honey, I’m so sorry,” she places her hand on mine, “I had no idea she was that type.”
“Neither did I mom, neither did I,” I roll my eyes as I take the first bite.
“So, what do you think?” she’s making me uncomfortable watching me eat.
“About Samantha?”
“No silly, the lasagna,” she laughs.
“It’s not bad.”
“Not bad? You kidding me? It’s delicious,” she beams.
“It’s delicious Mom,” I say as I kiss her cheek and remind her what a great cook she is. She loves compliments.
“There’s something else, ma,” nerves are starting to get the best of me.
“Oh no, what else?” she’s prepared for the worst.
“I, um, “I,” I stutter, “I have an audit
ion,” I take a long pause as her eyes are getting bigger and bigger, “an audition for the New York Philharmonic,” I wait for a reply on her part.
“I need you to repeat that,” she’s smiling.
“I can’t. I still don’t believe it myself,” I admit.
“Elliot! Elliot! Oh my god, I’m so proud of you,” she drops her forks and leans in for a hug, “I’m so fucking proud of you.”
“Mom! Since when do you curse?”
“Since I’m so fucking proud of my son, that’s when,” we both laugh.
I wouldn’t say I’m a momma’s boy, but I do try to make her proud and take care of her. I admire her smile. Her devotion. And most of all, her strength. She’s been there for me over the years no matter where she had to drag me to, what horrible sounds she had to endure while I learned the piano, but she was always by my side supporting and pushing me. Not once did she give up on me even though I had given up on myself.
As my cell phone rings with the call I’d been expecting all day, I’m pacing the living room debating whether I should answer or not. It’s now or never.
Once upon a time there was a little girl who grew up with only her father. Her father meant everything to her. He was her sidekick when she endeavored new things. He was her hero in every way. He was the one that would make her feel better. He was the one raising her and made sure she was exactly the woman her mother wanted her to be and always dreamed of. She would follow in her mother’s footsteps and learn the most intriguing instrument. She’s nothing but simple. The moment she held the Violin under her chin was the moment she knew, this was meant for her.
She is me.
Thinking back on my life, even if I didn’t have a mother to raise me, I’ve had a great Life. Love never lacked our home. My dad would talk about my mother every day. I know everything about her. Even her deepest darkest secrets he revealed to me. I know it wasn’t a substitute but it was better than nothing. I remind him every day of her, which makes it so much easier on him to go on without her. She’s in me. She guides me.
My father is back home from the hospital. He’s on doctor’s orders to take it easy and the only way they allowed him to leave was for me to be there the first couple days to care for him. I signed up within a heartbeat. He’s my father. My dad. He was there for me through sickness, breakups, loss of friends, of course I would care for him.
“How’s this?” I ask my father as I adjust his pillow on the couch handing him the remote.
“Actually,” he hands me back the remote, “I’d like to listen to you play,” his pleading eyes staring at me.
“Right now?”
“Yes, right now,” he begs, “please?”
I could never tell my dad no. When I was eight and played the first full song I could compose on my own he would ask me to play that song anytime he felt the need to be close to my mother.
“Okay,” I agree as I get my violin from the case.
Placing the violin on my shoulder, my chin on the chin rest, clamp the violin between my two fingers, and start to bow. The smooth and soothing deep sound naturally falls from my fingers as I watch my dad close his eyes and relax listening to me play. The patio door is opening allowing the wind flowing through, I feel myself dance with the wind as I play his favorite tune. This moment only for us
“What’s that sound?” I’m stunned to hear such a tune.
“I’m not sure,” my mom says as we both sit on the back patio talking about my audition.
“It’s beautiful,” I’m completely distracted.
“He usually doesn’t have music playing,” mom is confused.
“He? And that’s an instrument, I doubt it’s off the radio,” I know a thing or two.
“Yeah, a widow, he’s lived there for a few years now. I hadn’t officially introduced myself.”
“Why mom? A single man? You’re a single woman.” I remind her.
“Not really in the mood to get hurt again, Elliot,” she reminds me.
“Mom! That was a decade ago, I think it’s time you let someone in again,” I don’t want to see my mom lonely forever.
“That is a beautiful sound though.”
The audition went well. I played my favorite piece from Bach to introduce my classic style, and then a cover I had come across on YouTube not many have heard of. It was more of a pop classic. They seemed to like it, but with the long list of pianist they had sitting out in front of the theater showed me, I might not have much of a chance and shouldn’t get my hopes up too much. If this doesn’t pan out, I might need to consider a plan b.
“Would you mind cutting the grass for me, honey?” Mom asks as she makes her way to work.
“Of course, I have nothing else going on,” I happily throw on a pair of jeans and plan to cut the grass with the riding lawn mower I had purchased for her a few years back. I live in a small apartment in Rochester and don’t get the chance very often to enjoy yard work. In fact, this is always the best part of summer breaks at home.
Swinging my right leg over the seat of the John Deere, the headphones jammed into my ear, I’m ready to rock and roll, but in the back of my mind, still thinking of the tunes I heard coming from the house next door. I’m certain it wasn’t the radio. It felt too real. And I’ve never listened to anyone play such an instrument as I did, it was so distinct I couldn’t even make out what instrument exactly I was listening to.
Staring at the house, I wonder what the widowed man is like. If he plays the instrument with such love it’s a wasted talent. Some people, when they have the skills, don’t pursue them and it actually upsets me. Get out. Do something with your talent and show the rest of the world what joy an instrument and music can bring. Most people can tell you their favorite TV shows and movies, I can tell you all about my fascination with Bach, Chester See, and even John Legend. Although, Frank Sinatra will always be my favorite.
Up and down the hill. To the side of the house. The front yard. Even the edges of the house. I have it all cleaned up. As I pull the lawn mower into the yard I hear a female with a loud and explicit, “Shit!” I wonder if everything is okay.
A beautiful curly haired brunette is battling with about ten bags on the ground behind the car she’s attempting to unload. “Shit! Shit! Just my luck,” she complains and I feel myself helping her.
“Oh my gosh, thank you so much,” she’s friendly, but clearly annoyed.
“No problem,” I pick up the vegetables that had rolled out of the grocery bags and try to place them into the broken bags, “it’s probably easier if I just carried them in like this,” I laugh as I fight trying to keep the bag from blowing away with the wind.
“Looks like there’s a storm coming,” she states the obvious as we feel some sprinkles from the sky.
“Let’s hurry and get these in the house before you get soaked,” I pick up the rest of the bags and items that had rolled out and hand them to her on her front porch.
“Thank you so much,” she smiles and for a minute I’m smitten by her beauty.
“You’re very welcome. My name is Elliot,” I reach out to shake her hand.
She giggles, “sorry, I kind of can’t,” she looks to her filled hands making it known it’s a little difficult to shake hands, “Melody,” she smiles.
What a beautiful name, I think as I stare at her.
“Well, thanks,” she raises her eyebrows while I stand and gawk at her beauty like a complete fool.
“Right!” I laugh. “Nice meeting you.”
I walk away, but something is keeping me from going. Stopping mid yard, I take one last look back at her and notice she’s still standing staring. It’s awkward. So I just smile at her, give her a friendly nod, and continue to walk home.
When I was thirteen, all the money my parents had settled on during the divorce went towards one thing mom always wanted to buy me but dad was hail bent against since he said it would be a waste of a purchase and most likely I would lose interest. It was a Wertheim, one of the top notches of
my choosing. She spoiled me after the divorce. Anything with music she supported 100%. She bought me any equipment required to keep the YouTube channel up float to build me an audience. Although the competition is high.
With my fingers adjusted on the keys of the piano, I slowly ease into a song. I sing a tune, can’t say I have the best singing voice in my opinion, but I hum and create. Writing songs has always been a passion of mine. All the windows and the patio door is open just so I can fill the sound of the room with additional sounds, especially the howling of the wind from the storm. The thunder rolling in makes for a great backdrop of the song I’m creating. But it’s not the only sound following my tune. There’s another soothing sound matching my composition well. It’s as if the person is purposely trying to match it. We’re playing a song together. But the unknown creator is either in my head or outside of my door. So I play louder. And they play louder and faster. We’re in sync, one complete song of perfection of only notes. We’re creating. The unknown feels the music just as much as I do.
I’ve stopped. So, have they. Complete silence fills the room and for a split second I contemplate running outside to see where I was hearing the sound coming from. But I’m stuck to the chair curious if another sound fills the air. The thunder rolls. The rain pours. And I’m certain the sound coming from outside was a violin. Someone with massive skills. My fingers plunking the piano silently, but there’s no additional sound. It felt as if music had just made love. Slow, strong, and passionate love.
Where words fail, music always speaks. If it doesn’t speak in so many words, it speaks in feelings. Feelings you can’t describe because the music takes you there. After I had tuned my violin from playing earlier, I heard the sound of the piano in the far distance. I couldn’t resist playing along. As I got louder and more fervent, so did the sound of the piano. It’s as if we created a dance, but not actually dancing together. Only in the far distance between us. Honestly though, I feel as I just had an orgasm and need a minute to breathe. Unsure where the sound came from, I look forward to playing with mystery person again. The welcoming sound had me hooked. It’s as if we made love with our music.