Composing Amelia

by Alison Strobel

  The pause before she spoke confirmed his fears. “Accident is a terrible word for it, Marcus,” she said in a weary voice.

  “That’s how Dad sees it, though, right?”

  “Oh, sweetheart. What did he say to you?”

  Marcus read the email to her, wishing he could hold out just a sliver of hope that he’d misinterpreted the entire thing. But the meaning was clear, he knew. Now he just wanted to find out what had happened.

  “Money was always tight,” she finally said, “and I had a hard time balancing my volunteer time at church with taking care of your brothers. Your father said we were done, but … I wasn’t, not in my heart, even with all that was going on. And I prayed God would make me content with just John and Eddie, but He didn’t. Your father wanted me to get my tubes tied, so I told God I was willing to have another baby, even if your father wasn’t, but that I didn’t want to argue with him over the procedure, and that God should just get me pregnant before I had it done if He really wanted us to have another baby.” She sighed, but it sounded like a happy one. “Lo and behold, a month later I was pregnant with you.”

  Knowing the backstory didn’t make it any easier to handle. “So he just … what, decided to write me off entirely?”

  “Your father is a complicated man, Marcus. Sometimes it’s difficult to understand his motives.” It was the closest thing to criticism he’d ever heard his mother utter against his father. “It’s always hurt me to see how he treats you, and to see how hard you’ve tried to win his affection without success. I wish I could have fixed it for you somehow, but a boy’s relationship with his father—it’s so different than with his mother. I know my praise has never meant as much as the same words would mean from him. But please know that I did my best to make up for the lack of them.”

  He appreciated her words, but just like she said, they did nothing to soothe his wounds. “Thanks, Mom,” he managed. They said good-bye, and Marcus hung up the phone and stared again at the email on his screen. No wonder the harder he strove for his father’s attention the harder his father pushed back. Who wants someone they don’t love hounding them all the time?

  He felt foolish. Angry. Embarrassed. Why couldn’t he have figured this out on his own? How could he have been so blind? The signs were right there.

  He wondered if his brothers knew. He hoped not. The thought made him ill.

  Marcus shut down his computer and locked the door behind him as he left his office without his work. “I need to, um, leave early,” he told the secretary.

  “You have a four o’clock with Pastor Cort from Wheatridge Baptist. Shall I reschedule?”

  “Yes. Thanks. Tomorrow’s appointments, too; I’m not sure if I’ll be in.”

  He walked halfway to his car, intending to pull out his spare outfit for jogging so he could hit the streets like he always did when he was stressed, but then stopped. He didn’t want to jog. Not just right now—he wanted to give up the hobby entirely. He’d only started because his father valued his brothers’ athleticism, and it was the only thing he could do remotely well in the sports arena. He didn’t know what else to do, though, so he stood for a moment in the parking lot as though he’d lost the car that sat less than twenty feet away. How else could he preoccupy himself while he processed? Nothing came to mind. At a loss for other options, he set out for the sidewalk at a comfortable pace.

  The pleasant spring day was at total odds with the tumult in his mind and soul. Everything he’d done since he was five years old had been for naught. It had never mattered what he did, how hard he tried; his father would never give Marcus the affirmation he needed. But now that he knew that, he found himself in a life that was driven, if he was going to be truly honest, by pointless ambition. Why else had he gone to seminary? Or taken the job that pulled him from his wife? Nearly everything he had done was in question. Nothing mattered now as it once had.

  Which parts of his life had he actually wanted, and which parts had he chosen just to please his father?

  One realization after another burst through his thoughts. He’d never questioned Christianity, but had accepted it as truth because his father said it was so. What if it wasn’t? He’d never prayed that God would show him what to do with his life—he’d simply assumed that God would want him in ministry. Why wouldn’t He? Wasn’t ministry the highest calling, the most important thing a person could do with his life? But—what if it wasn’t? What if there was something else he could—should—have done, something he could have done better, would have enjoyed more? What if he’d been meant to marry someone else, live somewhere else …?

  Marcus walked, head down, through the oak-lined residential streets of Wheatridge for two hours. When his stomach rumbled for the lunch he’d missed, he turned back toward the church and forced himself to shelve the emotions that were churning. Regardless of whether he was meant to be or not, he was a pastor now, and he had a job to do. A breakdown would have to wait for later.

  Amelia picked at the spaghetti she’d made for dinner and tried to watch Marcus without him feeling her stare. Something was wrong. The last three days he’d been quiet, and Marcus was never quiet, not like that. No joking, no animation in his gestures … He looked the way Amelia had felt when her depression had first started. The fact that he’d quit tutoring the college students didn’t bode well, either. Marcus wasn’t the kind of guy who liked a lot of downtime.

  Her own depression had been getting better over the last couple weeks, despite learning about the baby. Contrary to what she’d told Marcus, she hadn’t started taking the antidepressant yet, because she’d wanted to see if the slow but steady improvement she’d noticed right before she’d moved would continue on its own. Sure, she still had angry thoughts, and still felt sad, but nothing like she felt in LA. But she wasn’t ready for Marcus to have the same problems. She was still trying to figure out how to take care of herself and keep her mood on an upward swing. She couldn’t handle Marcus being depressed too.

  What isn’t he telling me? Marcus was a talker, a sharer. The fact that he wasn’t sharing now must mean she was the source of his stress. Why else wouldn’t he do what he always did: process aloud, bounce things off her, ask for her insight?

  But what had she done?

  Unfortunately, once she asked herself that question the possible answers came in hordes. He was turned off by her because she was pregnant. He no longer wanted the baby either. He was angry at her for not being more excited about the baby. He was mad at himself for insisting she move out to Nebraska. He was angry at her for being depressed. There really was something going on with Karis.

  Honestly, she hoped it had something to do with her, rather than the baby or Karis. It was only his enthusiasm for the pregnancy that kept her from truly resenting it. Without his support and excitement, she’d never make it to October.

  She shook her head as her thoughts became more jumbled and twisted, trying to dislodge them so they didn’t start taking deeper root. She couldn’t afford to add that negativity to the stockpile she already had.

  And that meant she was back to square one. She had to be here in Wheatridge. And she had to figure out how to make Marcus glad that she was.

  She analyzed the past two weeks since she’d arrived. What had she done, other than sleep, eat, and sit around? Nothing. No wonder he’s angry.

  She had to make some changes. She had to show Marcus she really did want to be with him, that she did love him, that she wasn’t going to be a total drain on him. She had to keep the depression from worsening again—and sitting around moping was not the way to do it. She needed to start living a real life here in Wheatridge.

  “I was thinking about looking for a job,” she blurted over a forkful of pasta. She hadn’t, really, but now that she said it, she knew she should.

  He looked up at her, confusion on his face. “Huh?”

  “I’m going to look for a job.”

  “Oh—that’s great.”

  “Yeah. I thought, um … maybe
I can look into teaching lessons at Blue Note, like you suggested, and maybe subbing in the schools. I could stop subbing when the baby comes and just take a little break from lessons.”

  “Sure. Sounds good.”

  “And … I think I still have that bulletin from Easter, with those women’s info on it. Maybe I’ll give them a call.”

  “Great.”

  Why were his responses so apathetic? Maybe because he had no reason to believe her. She cut the conversation off, already feeling overwhelmed by what she’d claimed to be planning, and decided to apply herself to those initial steps and see how they went. Maybe once he saw she was following through he’d be more enthusiastic.

  The next morning, Amelia showered and dressed with more care than usual, then set out for Blue Note at a slow pace that accommodated a body that had grown unused to exercise. By the time she reached the shop, her legs and back ached, but mentally she felt better than she had in a long time. The manager gave her an application to teach piano, which she filled out on the spot. He assured her they were in fact looking for piano teachers and promised she’d at least get an interview. The news made her feel better than she’d expected. In fact, if she felt like being liberal with the definition, she might even say it made her feel happy.

  She was on her way out when the sight of the baby grand that sat in the front window arrested her. She hadn’t touched her keyboard since moving, and how long had it been since she’d played on the real deal? She went back to the manager, feeling uncharacteristically shy. “I was wondering … would you mind if I played on the baby grand for a minute?”

  “Sure, help yourself,” he said. “I’d like to hear you play.”

  “It’s been a while,” she said quickly. “I just moved and haven’t had the chance to practice in a while.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said with a smile. “I won’t count it as an audition.”

  She sat down on the quilted bench and ran her hands over the keys. She wasn’t really dying to play; it was more a feeling of not wanting to miss what was usually a rare opportunity. She played a couple chords, reacquainting herself with the feel of real keys, then began to play Mozart’s Piano Sonata no. 15 in C. Her fingers fumbled a bit here and there, and she played more slowly than the proper tempo, but just as with riding a bicycle, muscle memory carried her through the song with relative ease despite not having played it in over a year. Satisfied with the impromptu performance, she started in on Kirby’s “Dance of the Antilles,” a piece she hadn’t played nearly as much as Mozart’s but which she had greatly enjoyed during the short time she’d worked on it. It felt good to be playing again, even though her fingers were awkward and her speed was gone. At least she knew what she had to work on before she auditioned for teaching lessons.

  She stopped at the coffee shop next, just to relax before she walked back to the apartment. She felt bad spending money on herself—she didn’t deserve it after being so lazy and dependent on Marcus—but she had forgotten her water bottle at home and knew she had to stay hydrated for the baby’s sake, if not her own. She purchased a bottled water and sat by the window, taking in the shops along the street that she hadn’t yet paid much attention to.

  After a few minutes, she was vaguely aware that someone was watching her. She glanced to the side and saw one of the women she’d met at church—what was her name?

  The woman snapped her fingers and smiled. “I thought that was you. Amelia, right?”

  Amelia smiled, embarrassed. “Um, yes, hi—but I’m afraid I don’t remember your name.”

  “Holly,” she said, standing and shifting her chair over to Amelia’s table. “The others were Lauren and Connie. In fact, they should be here—we do this every week—but Lauren’s daughter has chicken pox and Connie is volunteering at some activity day at her sons’ school. But since I’m a creature of habit I thought I’d come anyway. I’m glad I did.” Her smile was genuine, and even though her look was stuck in the ’90s, Amelia had to admit she was friendly. She remembered Marcus’s indictment against her for being judgmental toward the people of Wheatridge, and she vowed not to let her California sensibilities stand in the way of getting to know people who might make life in this little town more bearable.

  It had been a while since Amelia had tried to make new friends, but Holly made it easy. She was chatty enough to keep the conversation going but didn’t dominate it. And she blew away Amelia’s presuppositions about small-town people. Not only had she grown up in a city (well—in Lincoln), but she’d traveled abroad in college and graduated with a double major. She’d met her husband in college and they decided together to move to Wheatridge when they wanted to start having children. “We were living in Omaha before this, and sometimes I miss city stuff—the restaurants, the entertainment—but I love the pace of life here and how friendly people are.” She’d motioned to Amelia with her iced mocha. “What about you? What do you think of Wheatridge so far?”

  Amelia aimed for diplomacy and hoped she’d hit the target. “It’s not where I expected to end up,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I have to be honest and say I miss LA. But … I can’t complain about the cost of living. And you’re right, people are friendly.” Friendlier than she’d allowed herself to believe.

  They talked for an hour before Holly had to leave to pick up her daughter from preschool. “I’m so glad we met up,” she said as she shouldered a clunky faux-leather purse. “Now you know when and where we meet; please just come join us whenever you want.”

  “I will,” Amelia said. She was drained from the interaction, but pleased that she’d been able to handle it at all. “Thanks for the invitation. You all seem really nice.”

  Holly chuckled. “Thanks. I think we are. And you’re sweet too. I think you’ll fit right in.” She waved and left, and Amelia headed for home.

  As the week progressed, Amelia found herself feeling better and better. Her energy returned, her thoughts cleared, and for the first time she finally felt excited about the baby. She met Holly and the others at the coffee shop the next week, applied to substitute teach at the schools, and auditioned for—and was offered—the position at the Blue Note. She finally called Jill and caught her up on everything that had happened since she’d moved. And when she went to church with Marcus, she socialized, remembered people’s names, and did what she could to make Marcus proud to have her there.

  Unfortunately, none of it seemed to have any effect on Marcus at all.

  She was agitated at his lack of reaction. Didn’t he see how hard she was trying? Heck, not just trying—didn’t he see how she was succeeding? Getting jobs, finding friends—what else did he want from her? She wanted to lay it all out for him, outline exactly how much she had improved and demand that he give her some recognition, but her pride stopped her from being so bold. Besides, it wouldn’t mean as much as him actually noticing. Usually he was a lot better about that sort of thing.

  Usually he was a lot better about sharing what was on his mind, too. So the fact that he was obviously troubled but unwilling to share why when she had asked him—he had given the passive “nothing” and changed the subject—fueled her imagination and sent it in all sorts of frightening directions.

  Her thoughts grew more and more irritated and angry as the days passed without Marcus showing any recognition of her effort or revealing why he was upset. Her mind began to race as it had when she’d been depressed, except now her thoughts birthed an electric-like current that kept her body humming day and night. She stopped sleeping again, this time because she couldn’t settle down enough. She stopped eating again too, mostly because she was so busy with other things she just didn’t think to. When she did eat, it was in huge quantities that made up for lost time and left her feeling sick.

  She started trying to pick fights with Marcus, just to get him to engage. He shrugged her off most of the time, but twice he fought back, and the sparks flew like fireworks. Amelia slammed doors and Marcus yelled; the next day they received a letter of
reprimand from the management saying complaints had been filed for the noise, and Marcus went back to being sullen.

  Amelia started staying out of the house when he was home. First she spent her time at Blue Note, where she played the baby grand for hours on end. Then she started taking the car to the mall once Marcus had come home from work, both because it was too far to walk and because she knew it stranded him at the apartment, and after how petulant he’d been acting, she spitefully enjoyed the thought of him wallowing alone. Whether or not he was willing to open up to her, which she had requested of him more than once, she was going to make progress.

  On one such trip to the mall, she had been drawn to the baby store, and in the end spent hundreds of dollars on gear and clothes, despite not knowing the baby’s gender. Two employees hauled the purchases to her car and packed them into the trunk and backseat, and the look on Marcus’s face was priceless when he saw her dragging two giant bags behind her as she entered the apartment.

  Unfortunately, as her energy spurt continued on into its second week, Amelia’s irritation began to spread from Marcus to other areas of her life. She had a craving for sushi and nowhere to go, and it renewed her distaste for Wheatridge with a passion. Holly and the others annoyed her with their lack of culture and small-town mind-sets. Their clothes were lame, their lives were boring, and their conversation dull. They couldn’t keep up with Amelia’s intelligence. She couldn’t help rolling her eyes at them, and started skipping out of their meetings after just half an hour.

  And the church. That stupid, backward church. The only thing they had going for them was Marcus. She hated to admit it, since she was always so annoyed when he turned on the preacher mode when talking to her, but the man really could teach. Seeing the congregation in rapt attention when he paced the platform and exposited a passage always awoke a burst of pride in her. And even though it meant having to wait even longer to get home, she was pleased to see how many people stopped on their way out to compliment him on his sermons.