Mr Mouthful

by Ian O Lewis

  He was right, and despite what was happening with Mom there was no reason for me to miss my conducting debut. She was receiving the best care possible, and since it was probably Parkinson’s disease, it was treatable. I glanced around Mr. Cooper’s office. The walls were full of photos of his famous pupils, all successful musicians who’d won awards and honors thanks to this man’s skills as an educator.

  My picture would join theirs, and nothing would stop me.

  “Sir, I wouldn’t miss this opportunity for anything. Of course I’ll be able to honor my commitment.” I murmured, then sat up straighter in the chair. “My mother would never speak to me again if I didn’t conduct this performance.”

  “Trust me son, this too will pass.” He patted me on the shoulder. “It pains me to see you go through this, especially during such an important time for your career. I predict great things for your future. Keep your eyes on the prize, and soon this bump in the road will be a distant memory.”

  I sat in the small chair by the window of my room. I lived in the residence hall with the other hundred or so students, and I could hear many of them practicing their instruments. I glanced over at the Steinway grand piano which took up almost half of the small space. I hadn’t touched it since I’d returned from New York and Mom’s sudden downturn.

  Everything was provided by the Institute, tuition and lodging I could never have afforded on my own, and I was terrified of it all going to waste as I worried about Mom and Aunt Svetta. I wasn’t kidding when I told Mr. Cooper that Mom would kill me if I didn’t conduct that performance. Her entire life had been centered on me and my music. I barely remembered our lives in St. Petersburg, but I did remember the piano lessons I’d taken as a small boy in the basement of the cathedral.

  I wanted to sing in the choir, but my father insisted on the piano. When he was murdered by the Bratva, right after the fall of the Soviet Union, Mom and Aunt Svetta and I had been whisked away to Belarus for safety. Even though we’d been reassured that the gangsters had no interest in our family, Mom had somehow managed to get us to New York, as far away from them as possible. And during this upheaval, she’d never allowed me to quit my music, finding teachers in Belarus and in London where we stayed briefly. She’d worked too hard for me to collapse now, right when all the work I’d done was finally paying off.

  I glared at the piano, at the pile of sheet music gathering dust on the bench in front of it. The last thing I wanted to do was play it. I’d spent thousands of hours perfecting my craft, on the piano and other instruments in order to be an excellent conductor. I wanted to be with Mom, not here. But the thought of disappointing her hurt more than anything else. My success was due to her diligence, her care, and if I messed up this incredible opportunity, she’d never forgive me.

  I pushed myself out of the chair and stood in front of the piano, letting my fingers flit over the keys without making a sound.

  “Come on Serge.” I muttered, then as I went to lift the sheet music from the bench so I could sit, the phone rang. It rarely did since I didn’t have time for friends. The only people who called were my family or my boyfriend, Grant. I prayed it was him.

  “Hello.”

  “May I speak with Sergei Kuznetsov?” A man’s voice asked. Damn it, no one used my full name unless it was bad news.

  “This is he.”

  “This is Dr. Keller. I’m one of the physicians treating your mother.” The man’s voice was soft, neutral.

  “How is she? Is something wrong?” I asked, then felt a wave of dizziness pass through me. I sat on the edge of the bed and waited for the man to reply. Several seconds passed then I heard him inhale.

  “We’ve run several tests, and... we need to give you the results.” I could hear reluctance in his voice, which only made the dizziness worse.

  “Well sure, go ahead. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I was told you are in Philadelphia. We need to discuss the test results in person, with you, your Mother and your Aunt all present. How soon can you get here?”

  9

  Josh

  “If you don’t mind, I need to make one little stop before we hit the road.” Serge said as he opened the door of his steel gray Jaguar for me. I’d never been inside of one before, and it was incredibly luxurious.

  “Sure.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment, enjoying the feel of the soft leather when suddenly the sound of grinding electric guitars blaring through the speakers caused me to jump.

  “Whoa! What are you listening to?” I muttered, then turned to see a devilish glint in Serge’s eyes.

  “Metallica.” He turned down the music. “I love driving to them. Head banging music is awesome.” Serge pulled out into traffic, his fingers tapping to the beat.

  “I guess I never expected you to listen to this kind of music.” I said. Personally, heavy metal wasn’t my preference. It made me tense. Though I’d watched a tv special of some sort about it a few years back and it was much more complex than most people knew.

  “Not your cup of tea, eh?” Serge said. “Don’t tell me you only listen to classical music.”

  “No, of course not. You might find a K-Pop tune or two on my Spotify playlists.” I blushed, kind of embarrassed to admit it. K-Pop was my guilty pleasure, perfect for working out at the gym.

  “Let me play something a little less, um, raw.” Serge reached out and tapped a button. A steady beat with keyboards replaced the electric guitars. I couldn’t remember who it was, but it was very poppy sounding, like the music I listened to when I was in high school.

  “Who’s this?” I asked.

  “Ace of Base. It’s called ‘Beautiful Life.’ I love this song.” Over the next couple of blocks he wove in and out of traffic, and when we got to Belvidere, he ran the light.

  “Shit!” I exclaimed, my pulse racing while a car who had the right of way screeched to a halt and laid a heavy hand on its horn.

  “What the hell are you doing?!” I shouted.

  “What are you talking about Joshua?” He looked at me with a genuine look of concern on his face, all the while the car in front of us loomed closer in my vision.

  “Oh my God, please Serge, pay attention to the road!”

  He pressed down on the brake and my body strained against the safety belt.

  We were going to die.

  “God Joshua, you are such a wimp.” After blowing through another traffic light he turned on to 95 heading north.

  Mr. Mouthful was a bundle of contradictions. I’d never have taken him for a lover of head banging music, nor the sugary pop tune his baritone was currently singing to. Of course, he had an amazing voice, could probably perform in any opera production with minimal training. I stared at him out of the corner of my eye, wondering who he really was. On the one hand he was a terrifying man who demanded perfection from everyone around him. On the other, he put a smile on Suzi’s face and loved to rock out while ignoring the rules of the road. The reality was probably somewhere in the middle.

  Serge suddenly crossed over three lanes, with the sounds of screeching tires and car horns blaring behind us. Seconds later he was getting off at the Brook Rd. exit, my foot jammed to the floor on the imaginary brakes.

  The man might be a musical genius, but he had to be the worst driver I’d ever seen.

  “Um, wow. Like, you almost got us killed I think.” I muttered.

  “Relax, I’ve never been in an accident before.” Serge laughed, then he made a sharp left without using a turn signal. An elderly woman had been about to cross the street. She clutched her chest and in the rear-view mirror I could see her mouth forming curse words.

  “Jesus Serge! You almost ran that woman over.” I gasped.

  “What woman?”

  Seconds later he turned into a parking spot and the car abruptly stopped.

  “So, how long have you been driving for?” I asked breathlessly.

  “Wow, you are really that scared of my driving?” He squeezed my leg then hopp
ed out of the car. My hand shook as I opened the door.

  “Yes.”

  “I got my license when I moved here a few weeks ago.” Serge said, then doubled over laughing. “Oh my God, the look on your face!” He leaned against the car holding his sides while I stared at him aghast.

  “How, I mean, you... how have you never driven before?” I walked over to his side of the car and stood next to him.

  “I never lived in a city where I needed a car before. I thought it would be fun to learn how to drive. Here.” Serge held the keys out to me. “You drive if it makes you feel safer. Now come on, this will only take a few minutes.” He strolled toward the group of buildings in front of us. It looked like an apartment complex.

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  “Westminster Canterbury. It’s an assisted living facility. I have to pop in and say hi to my aunt. She doesn’t get out much, so I try to visit at least once a week.”

  By this time we were at the main entrance. He held the door open for me, then led us toward the right. Whenever we passed anyone, they would smile and say hi to Serge, a few even called him by name.

  “So how did you get so popular?” I asked. We were passing by a set of double doors. He stopped and opened one.

  “This is how.” The room was a nice sized auditorium with a small stage and a grand piano on it. “Aunt Svetta forced me to give a little concert for her and the residents when I first got into town. If you’re smart, don’t tell my aunt you play the cello. She’ll have both of us on stage in no time flat.” He shut the door, and we kept on walking.

  I was shocked he wanted me to visit his aunt with him, but then again, he was hardly a conventional person. From what I had gathered so far, he preferred to terrorize 99% of the population by any means possible, even if that involved potentially fatal car accidents. But, he seemed to have a soft spot for kids and old people.

  Oh, and me. Why? I had no idea.

  “Here we are. Now, before we go in, let me warn you not to act surprised by anything you see.” Serge whispered.

  “Why?”

  “Just... trust me. She has some movement and speech issues, which is why she’s here. My aunt is only in her 50s, but she can’t live alone.”

  I was about to ask him more about her condition, but he’d already rung the doorbell to her apartment and I heard quick footsteps coming to the door.

  “Hello, Mr. Kuznetsov. Come on in.” A tall blonde woman wearing a white nurses uniform let us into the apartment. It was spacious and filled with antiques and little knick-knacks. The walls were covered in a bright red and gold patterned wallpaper and had pictures of ancient men with huge bushy beards hanging everywhere. It was very European, with an eastern influence I’d never seen before.

  “Is it a good day or a bad day?” Serge whispered to the nurse. She mouthed the word ‘good.’

  “Where’s Aunt Svetta?” Serge asked loudly, then a thin tremulous voice came from the other room.

  “Coming, happy boy.”

  Moments later a tiny, bird like woman using a walker appeared in the doorway. She had short gray hair and huge dark eyes like her nephew. Serge embraced her and kissed her on each cheek.

  “Aunt Svetta, this is my friend Joshua.” He gestured in my direction. I could see a twinkle in her eyes, yet when she tried to smile her mouth would move up and then her lips would draw back to its neutral position. She did this several times, then spoke with a shaky, accented voice.

  “It is nice to meet you.”

  Serge drew away from her and then sat on a red and white striped antique couch. His aunt, using her walker, slowly made her way to his side. Her entire body would move then come to an abrupt, shaky stop over and over, which made her progress across the room painfully slow, her arms shaking as she maneuvered the walker. My nurse’s eye said this had to be Parkinson’s, or some other neurodegenerative disease like it. I glanced over to Serge who looked away. When she finally sat next to him, one of her legs kicked out and jarred the coffee table in front of them. Again, her lips tried to smile but kept reverting back to that neutral position again and again.

  I was standing next to the blonde nurse, and was tempted to ask her what was wrong with Serge’s aunt, but knew that would overstep a boundary. He would have to tell me himself.

  “So, Joshua and I are going to see the opera in Washington D.C. today. Do you remember the last opera I took you to see?” Serge asked his aunt. She thought for a moment, then spoke.

  “Carmen.”

  “Yes! You remembered. Carmen at the Metropolitan Opera in New York. Would you like to come to the Virginia Opera for one of our performances this season? We’re putting on Madame Butterfly, your favorite.”

  For the next few minutes Serge focused his attention exclusively on his aunt, who didn’t say much, but truly didn’t have to. They seemed to have a way of communicating using half words and hand gestures. While they enjoyed each other’s visit, I went to the kitchen with the nurse and helped make a pot of tea and cucumber sandwiches. “Mr. Kuznetsov’s favorite.” The nurse said. As I prepared the sandwiches, she pulled a blender from the cabinet and prepared a puree for her patient.

  “What do you put in that?” I asked.

  “Protein powder with soy milk, along with an apple and some greens. She has a difficult time swallowing now, so it has to be very nutritious. Oh, would you reach up there and grab a jar of peanut butter?” The nurse pointed at the cabinet in front of me. When I opened it every shelf was filled with peanut butter. I grabbed one out and handed it to her.

  “Miss Pavlova has high caloric requirements, so we add nut butters to almost everything.” She scooped a tablespoon out of the jar, added it to the blender and then turned it on for a few seconds. When she switched it off, she looked at me and grinned. “It actually tastes pretty good.”

  I finished preparing the tea and sandwiches and carried them to the living room, where Serge was saying something to his aunt in Russian, or at least that’s what I thought it was. The older woman laughed, then looked at me with warmth in her eyes and spoke very slowly.

  “Grant, Sergei can’t speak Russian anymore. I don’t understand him.”

  I smiled at her then met Serge’s gaze. He flushed, glanced away and then patted his aunt’s hand.

  “This is Joshua, not Grant, Aunt Svetta. Now, let’s eat lunch. I’m starving.”

  10

  Serge- 18 Years Ago

  “Mom, when did you actually start getting symptoms? And don’t say it just started recently.” I glanced over at my aunt who was standing in the doorway of the living room wringing her hands. “I know she hates that I’m ratting her out, but Aunt Svetta has been worried about you for quite some time.”

  “What does it matter? Parkinson’s is treatable. I didn’t want to worry you while you are off becoming a famous conductor. You shouldn’t even be here, not with your debut in a few days.” Mom sighed and picked at one of the bandages on her arms. “And stop pacing, you will wear a hole in the rug.”

  They’d run many tests on her over the last few days, and I had a feeling her doctor would not have asked me to come to the city if it was just Parkinson’s. We needed to be leaving for our appointment soon. I hadn’t been able to eat or sleep since I’d gotten the phone call from Dr. Keller, and I felt both on edge and weak.

  “Natalya, I’ve, damn, what’s the word? Resisted? Yes, resisted telling you what to do because it’s your choice about getting treatment, but I’ve noticed a tremor in your hands for a long time now. You must stop pretending like nothing is wrong.” Aunt Svetta’s voice was unusually firm. Normally she was the meek, fun loving younger sister. Mom glared at her, and instead of hanging her head, Aunt Svetta glared back.

  “Maybe I don’t want to know what’s wrong. I mean, if I have Parkinson’s there is nothing they can do about it except give me some pills. There’s no cure.” Mom glanced at her watch. “Let’s get this appointment over with. If we don’t hurry, we’ll miss our train.”
>
  I helped Mom from her chair while my aunt got their coats from the closet. As Aunt Svetta helped Mom put her coat on, I noticed Mom’s face was paler than normal, and a sheen of dampness covered her forehead. She was frightened, and for the first time in my life I felt our roles had reversed. Now she was the child, and I was the protective parent who would do anything to save her.

  “Thank you all for coming. I know this might seem unusual bringing you all here together, but I have my reasons.” Doctor Keller was a big man with steel gray hair, cut short, and a pair of old-fashioned black-framed glasses. “Normally we would only speak to the patient about her diagnosis. Unfortunately, this could affect all of you.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a folder.

  “Mrs. Kuznetsova, while some of your symptoms share similarities with Parkinson’s Disease, you do not have it.”

  “Oh, thank God.” She smiled with relief, but it faded when she saw the look on Dr. Keller’s face. “But, my father, he had Parkinson’s. I’d swear that I have the same illness he had.” She looked toward Aunt Svetta, who’d turned noticeably pale. Then she patted my hand, took a deep breath and turned back to Dr. Keller. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

  “It’s definitely not Parkinson’s. You had a seizure, and while there is comorbidity between Parkinson’s and epilepsy…”

  “So I have epilepsy?” Mom interrupted.

  “No, Mrs. Kuznetsova, you are not epileptic. When you told me about the issues you’d been having, and then when you discussed your father’s illness, coupled with the seizure and I knew it must be something else.” He sighed and took off his glasses.

  “Spit it out, just tell me what the hell is wrong with me.” Mom rarely cursed, but it was still a lot cleaner than what I wanted to say to the man.