We made our way down to the piano. When he had settled himself down on the bench, I sat next to him. I trained my eyes on his hands, hovering above the black and white keys. “Don’t they hurt?”
“They’re ffffine,” he answered slowly.
His thumb pressed down and a soft note floated out. “This is hhhhow I ffffeel w-when I think ab-bout you.”
His fingers moved as if they were in perfect condition. The melody was so beautiful and moving, but knowing this was some kind of expression of how he felt about me was completely overwhelming. It was a grand, sweeping piece. It wasn’t something you fell asleep to. It was something that made you feel alive. My body wanted to move with it even though my heart hurt listening to it. I ached from the power of it all.
I didn’t know why Elliott liked me, but I knew that he shouldn’t. I was all wrong for him. I was bad when he was good. He was light and I was dark. I was dirty and he was clean. I brought pain and darkness and he brought hope and light.
Why was this so hard?
Somewhere inside of me, there was this little tiny piece. It was like a garden. There had been no sunshine and no life-sustaining rain. No one had loved it in a long time and suddenly, I could feel this small little sprout poking up between the cracks of the dry, blistered earth. It wound around and twisted through the dead and decayed foliage of long ago.
When I looked at Elliott, his eyes focused on his hands as he played my song, that little sprout opened up and bloomed.
“Elliott,” Dr. Emmanuel began. “I’d like to talk about music again.” He was my new therapist since Robin felt she couldn’t fulfill that role now that she was officially in a relationship with my adopted father, Stephen. This was only my second session with him.
“O-okay.”
“Music fascinates me, but not as much as the stories behind the music. When I listen to certain pieces, I always find myself preoccupied with what I know of the musicians. Beethoven wasn’t a well-liked man. He was incredibly mean to people and yet he managed to compose some of the most well-loved melodies of all time. How does that happen?”
I didn’t know if he had a point or if this was all just mindless chit-chat in an attempt to make me speak. I was sure that his question was rhetorical, so I stayed silent.
“How much of himself does a musician put into his music? Think about his Moonlight Sonata. What frame of mind was he in when he wrote that? Compare it to Ode to Joy. One is completely dark and the other is so light.”
I shook my head.
“What?” He brought one leg up and rested the ankle on the opposite knee. “What are your thoughts?”
“Ode to J-J-Joy is ab-bout the j-j-joy that he lllllost. It’s n-not hhhhappy. I-it’s ab-bout how sharp the llllloss of j-j-j-j …” I stopped and took a breath, “joy is. It’s a celebration of its r-r-remembrance, but it’s ssssstill g-g-gone. It’s an e-exhhhhha … p-p-praise of sssssssomething he m-misses.” At least that’s what I thought about it.
I looked up. Dr. Emmanuel had one eyebrow raised. He was waiting for the rest. “And hhhhis SSSSonata N-Number Ffffourteen isn’t sssssad.” Beyond the title, it certainly wasn’t dark either. I didn’t understand why people had this interpretation. Granted, I had no idea what Beethoven was thinking when he wrote it, but to me it was calm and peaceful. It was about the night and all of the quiet things that come alive once the world goes to sleep.
“Do you think that Beethoven’s growing disability can be perceived in his music?”
“P-p-probably.”
“If his Ninth Symphony was a reflection of how great his joy was, or at least how he remembered it after having lost it, do you think that he could have written something so brilliant if he’d never known true sorrow?”
I knew what he was trying to say, but I didn’t want to answer him. There was no way to quantify sorrow and joy and to compare them. Was the joy worth it if it meant having to be tortured to understand the depths of that joy? How could one know true joy without true sadness?
“W-w-what does it mmmmatter? N-no one liiiiked it w-when he p-played it for them anyw-way. They didn’t c-c-care that he could hhhhardly hhhhear at that p-p-point. M-m-m-mmaybe they didn’t even kn-know.”
“But now that we know he was deaf, does it make the song that much better because we’re aware of the adversity he overcame to write it?”
Again, I considered it rhetorical and did not answer.
“Back to the question of how much of the composer’s feelings can be contained within a piece,” he said after readjusting himself in the chair. “I was told that you write music. How much of yourself do you reveal in those compositions? Do they come from some thought you have; some observation you might be pondering at the time? If not, how are they created? Do you use it to express certain thoughts or emotions that are either physically or emotionally impossible to express through mere words?”
I shook my head. Even if I wanted to tell him about how music filled my brain and spoke in the only language that felt right to me, I wouldn’t have been able to find the words to answer so many questions at once.
“When you were young, you didn’t listen to music. You didn’t play music. You are naturally gifted, but didn’t discover it until you were twelve. Did you feel like there was a void then?”
I felt like I had found the missing piece of myself when I found music, but I hadn’t really known about it before, so I hadn’t actively missed it. I shook my head.
“You said last time that your mother sang to you, but only one song. Other than that, you were able to listen to a few songs, but only once a year. Why was your exposure to music so limited when you were a child, Elliott?”
I felt my body deflate and sort of sink in on itself. I wished I could just not answer the question, but he had asked me directly and it would have been wrong not to answer him, if only partially. Also, he would have read about everything in my past anyway.
He already knew and was trying to get me to say it.
“Mmmmy fffather w-w-w-wouldn’t allow m-mm-mmm-mmmusic.”
“So when you were twelve, you sat down at the piano and discovered you could play?”
I shook my head. “The g-g-guitar.”
“What did it feel like to discover something like that?” I looked up at him and his eyes showed excitement. “I’ve heard you’re quite talented. I’m very interested to know how someone who has had no training at all can play so well.”
It was hard for me not to catch his excitement and run with it. No one had ever questioned me about music in this way. They never asked me why I thought I could play or how it felt to have the ability to make music. I found myself wishing I had the words to tell him. “It j-j-just mmmmakes sense.”
I tried to think of a way I could explain how easily music came to me, but there seemed to be no adequate words.
“You can read music, yes?”
“Yes, sssir.”
“Who taught you?”
“I t-t-taught m-m-mmyself.”
“How?”
It had been fairly easy once Stephen bought me sheet music. All I had to do was look at the symbols and listen to the music at the same time. He got me a finger board and once I understood that notes and chords were associated with letters, everything clicked and I was not only able to play, but I could read and write music, too.
But reading music meant little to me. I could listen to pieces by Chopin, Mozart, Rachmaninoff, Debussy, Schubert or Liszt and be able to play any one of them on the piano almost perfectly within hours. It was incredibly easy to translate any modern song into a guitar, piano or violin piece, and creating original music sometimes took no thought at all.
Dr. Emmanuel was waiting for an answer. “I l-looked at the ssssheet music and lllllistened.”
“Where do you think your gift for music comes from? Y
our mother?”
Intellectually I knew that he was using my musical inclination to get me to talk about things that I didn’t want to talk about. For some reason, I let myself answer him.
“My mmmmom sang to me, but she w-w-wouldn’t let me sing w-with her.”
“Why was that?”
“My d-d-d,” I stopped and sighed. “My ffffather w-would have p-p-p-punished me.”
“May I be honest with you, Elliott?”
In truth, his question scared me. I was all for honesty, but I did not know this man. Perhaps his honesty would be too much. “Y-yes, sssssir,” I answered, and braced myself.
“I know that your father was a religious man, but I don’t quite understand with what kind of religion he was affiliated. I know that he was ‘Christian,’ but … The Bible mentions music in a positive light. Both David and Solomon were musicians. In Acts, Paul and Silas were imprisoned and their only comforts were the songs of praise they sang. Hell, there’s an entire book of Psalms.”
It was difficult for me to concentrate on what Dr. Emmanuel was saying. My mind was quick to latch onto the names he dropped as if they were nothing. David, Solomon, Paul, Silas. It quickly supplied every fact and story I knew surrounding them
He’d also said “Hell” in the same sentence as “Psalms.” But right now I had to put that aside and answer his question.
“Mmmusic is for those w-who are w-w-w-w-worthy. The D-D-Devil and his d-d-demons use it to attract the w-weak.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off this new doctor as he removed his glasses and rested them on his thigh. His fingers laced together as his mouth set into a line. He had brown eyes. They were calculating and manipulative, like Robin’s.
He was making me as nervous as the topic.
My mouth spoke without my conscious mind giving it leave. “And I heard a sound from Heaven like the roar of rushing waters and like a loud peal of thunder. The sound I heard was like that of harpists playing their harps. And they sang a new song before the throne and before four living creatures and the elders. No one could learn the song except the hundred and forty-four thousand who had been redeemed from the earth.”
“Hmmm.”
What was “hmmm” supposed to mean?
“So he was a Revelationist, and you were not among the hundred and forty-four thousand that would be saved in the Rapture?”
I didn’t know exactly what my father was, but I knew that he did not believe I was among the saved. I shrugged at the doctor. I wished we were still talking about Beethoven.
“Was he among the hundred and forty-four thousand?”
I shrugged again.
“So, help me understand, Elliott. The music of the Rapture was for the hundred and forty-four thousand alone and yet there are countless verses in the Bible in which music is used as an exaltation of God. Your father’s ban on music was his way of preparing for the end-times?”
Scripture ran quickly through my mind. It filled me. These past few weeks had been the most clouded my mind had been since first leaving my father’s house. It was a jumble in my head. Just because I heard them in my mind, didn’t mean I could make sense of any of it.
It was amidst the backdrop of Scripture that my father’s words dug sharp talons into me. He would lecture that the Devil would use pretty things to corrupt us. Music ate at the very righteousness of our souls. Who were we to think so highly of ourselves that we should offer up music to God?
There were many ways to respond to Dr. Emmanuel’s question, but I decided to repeat my father’s words. “M-mmmmusic is vvvvain and vvvvanity is sssinful.”
I couldn’t stop the verse in my head from bubbling over and spilling out. “He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart; who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity, nor sworn deceitfully. He shall receive the blessing from the Lord, and righteousness from the God of his salvation.”
“But that is from the book of Psalms, is it not?”
I nodded.
“Then how can it be a justification for why music is not righteous? Psalms is a book of poetry, a book of songs.”
My fingers curled.
Create in me a new, clean heart, O God, filled with clean thoughts and right desires.
“If I were to read the Bible, how many times would it tell me to rejoice in God by means of song and music?”
My chest rose and fell rapidly.
“That’s …” I began to speak, but my words fell short when I could not make sense of what was in my mind.
My thoughts were rapid, making my head hurt. Even though I was in the presence of a man I did not know well, my eyes shut tight and I covered my head with my arms.
“Elliott?”
I concentrated on breathing.
“Elliott?”
Finally, after long minutes, my arms unwrapped and fell limply into my lap. I looked at him. “That’s n-n-n-not w-w-w-what m-my fffffather believed.”
“What did he believe?”
“Mmmmusic is vvvvain. Vvvanity is sssssinful. Ssssin is unclean. Being unc-c-clean is a t-t-t-transggggresssssion against G-G-God. Abstaining ffffrom ind-d-dulgence is the only w-w-way to ssssalvation.”
“So you being so gifted musically would have been offensive to him? Is it difficult for you to rectify the desire to express yourself through music with the dogma of your father’s personal religion?”
“I d-d-don’t b-b-believe everything mmmy fffffather t-taught me.”
“But you believe some of it. It must be somewhat debilitating to think that something innate, such as your passion for music, goes against what God wants from you.”
He paused and I was thankful for the brief respite from his onslaught.
“So when your mother sang to you, she told you not to sing with her?”
Slowly, I nodded.
“Your mother accepted the risk of being punished for the music she felt within her, but was unwilling to allow you to take the risk yourself?”
I remained silent.
“So is expressing yourself, in any manner, something that is difficult because you fear punishment?”
I felt so tired. I felt like I could sleep for days and it would still not be enough. Even though this time I knew better, I treated his question as rhetorical and did not answer.
Sophie looked as tired as I felt after her time with Robin, so we lay together listening to music. I didn’t know what she was thinking about, but I couldn’t help but replay and analyze my conversation with Dr. Emmanuel.
I had never taken part in any in-depth conversations about my father and his version of God.
Of course, I didn’t believe half of what my father taught me, even while the leather strap was splitting my skin. However, I was smart enough to never express my thoughts.
The doctor was correct in his assumption; I did believe there were things my father said that were correct.
I thought for a while about music and emotion. Robin thought my emotions were repressed, locked up, and Dr. Emmanuel pointed out that most of the composers I listened to used music as their basic expression.
I thought about all the things I couldn’t express due to my lack of bravery and verbal competence.
Sophie felt really good to me as her head lay upon my chest.
After a while, we went downstairs to play the piano. She’d reminded me that there were others down there, but I told her I didn’t care. At least for the most part, I didn’t. I just wanted her to hear the song that echoed every time I thought of her.
It was slightly nerve-wracking to sit down on the piano bench with her. While we’d been here before, I hadn’t played anything I’d written for her. I didn’t panic, but instead forced myself to remember that I was the one wanting to share it with her. If I didn’t want to, I didn’t have to.
She proved that she wanted to know me. She wasn’t going to make fun of me. She wasn’t going to think the song was stupid or that I was stupid for playing it.
I told her it was for her and she sat there and listened.
I was very aware of her eyes on me while I played and I thought about my conversation with Dr. Emmanuel. I hoped that the listener would be able to gather a little something about me through this song.
I’d written quite a few songs at various times in the past and I thought the emotion I had while writing them was evident. I’d been afraid. I was tired of being afraid. My father was a long way away and couldn’t hear the music I made. Even if he found out, I knew that there were enough people here who would protect me from him. I was far enough removed to feel a little bit of peace.
While I was nervous playing this for Sophie, I felt no fear.
As I finished, she smiled at me. Fatigue was evident, but when I suggested getting up, she shook her head. I played more for her; not my songs, but Chopin’s. I’d been particularly preoccupied with his Raindrop Prelude for weeks now, listening to it every chance I got, the melody dancing along in my head while doing my daily activities.
After that, I played his Nocturne, and a more modern piece I’d heard playing in the grocery store a few weeks ago. I didn’t know who it was by and I didn’t play it exactly how I remembered it.
My fingers and hands didn’t hurt. My bones felt solid and the skin above them was scabbed over, making it tight when I moved them, but I felt no pain.
I was thankful to have this time to play the piano for Sophie, for my mom, and for myself.
My mom would have been happy that I could play music like this.
Sophie probably could have listened to me all night and had I not been so tired, I would have kept going all night, but after a while, I stood up and closed the lid. I took her hand and she rose up to meet me, leaning forward into my chest for just a moment before straightening.
I led her back upstairs and together we lay down on my bed.
With her head pillowed on my bicep as we lay facing each other, she was asleep in a few short minutes.
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