That Secret You Keep

by Brenda Benny

  Can’t he see how fiercely I’m avoiding this? I don’t want to talk about it. I squirm in my seat, my hands tucked underneath my thighs on either side. The glittering box has reappeared on the table between us today, its ostentatious red bow calling out to him to be untied. Its promise tempts like fool’s gold.

  He levels his gaze at me for several interminable seconds. “But for today, I’d like to hear about more positives.”

  More positives? Have we not covered this? He strikes a pose, with his index finger crooked over his chin, tilting his head. “What about Don? Did anything ever come of your meeting with him?”

  Who? Does he have me confused with another patient? I search my memory for what he can possibly be talking about when it finally hits me. Don: he means Max. I never corrected this.

  “Oh! Don. Right. Well, yeah. We’ve become friends.”

  “That’s good. Does that mean that you’re getting out socially more often?”

  He seems to be smiling at me more today – and not in that sad “How are you?” way, or that attempt at encouragement “I’m here for you” way. Still, it feels like I’m on a game show – the kind where they don’t tell if your answers are the right ones; at least, not until you reach the ultimate jackpot question that finally gets you released from therapy.

  “Socially?” I weigh this idea in my mind. I went out with Max – I mean, I guess I technically went on a date with him. Will I win points for this? “Actually, I went on a date with him on Friday.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful, Serena. As you begin to see the new landscape of your life, it’s important that we keep in mind the goal for you is to not only survive this event, but also to thrive as you were prior to it.”

  His goal seems unfathomable. My life prior to this? It feels lost and buried like a forgotten treasure. And I’m not so sure I deserve to be thriving: my mom isn’t thriving. Still, deep down, I know that my therapist isn’t a bad guy. He seems to truly care about me improving. I decide to give him something he probably wants to hear.

  “Maybe one step at a time,” I say.

  He gives me the type of proud look I might expect from my own father.

  “Exactly what I would have suggested, Serena.”

  * * *

  I’ve told my dad he doesn’t need to pick me up from my session today because I’m meeting some friends. I know he’s a little annoyed with the lost opportunity to be in the car with him. I make so few chances for this, and he considers this part of my therapy.

  The music store that Max works at isn’t far from my appointment, so I walk over there afterwards. I’ve been inside this store before, but it was a long time ago. I forgot how amazing the instruments look, lined up artfully along the walls like musical trophies. At the front of the store are the rows of brass instruments, arranged in sizes from largest to smallest: trumpets, saxophones, trombones, French horns, and tubas. There are string instruments along the opposite wall, and then towards the back of the room, where the cool kids sit, there are the electric guitars and basses.

  It doesn’t take me long to find Max, towering above the drum kits in the far corner. He’s talking to a younger boy and the boy’s father, and he appears to be explaining which cymbals come with the kit, and which are extra. He hasn’t noticed me, and I take the chance to watch the way he stands tall to his waist, but then stoops over at his shoulders, like he’s wary of his height appearing threatening. Max alternately grins at the boy, who is bug-eyed over the drums, and nods his head in serious contemplation of the dad’s questions. With an amused expression, Max bends to the boy’s eye level to hand him a pair of sticks, daring the boy to give them a try. The boy snatches them with obvious wonder spread across his face for this strange adult inviting him to make some serious noise.

  When Max stands up, he finally sees me. His eyes grow wide, and his grin even wider. I give him a small wave but don’t approach, waiting for him to be finished with his customers. The boy begins crashing around on the drums like Animal from The Muppets. Max leans in to the father to say something, and I can see the dad gesture with his hand, like he’s fine for the moment, absorbed in his kid’s musical enthusiasm.

  Max jogs over to the brass section where I stand waiting.

  “Hey,” he exhales.

  “Looks like a future percussionist in our midst. What do you think? Will he be a Buddy Rich or a Neil Peart?”

  Max’s eyebrows shoot up. “Impressive. You do know your percussion greats, don’t you?”

  I shrug, playing it cool. “You’re not the only one familiar with musical geniuses, you know,” I admonish him.

  Max scans over his shoulder at the father who is still listening intently to his kid, and then in the other direction, like he’s looking for someone.

  “I haven’t gone on my break yet. Do you still feel like grabbing a coffee? There’s a Starbucks on the corner.”

  I have to laugh at that. “Max, it’s Vancouver. There’s a Starbucks on every corner.”

  He grins in response, and then motions across to the cash register area. “Finn! I’m heading out for break. You good with the sticks at the back there?”

  There are only two other people in the store: an older man who’s been sitting in an alcove playing a six string acoustic since I arrived, and a woman leafing through piano music books near the cash.

  The ruddy Irishman beams a grin in my direction. “Miss Serena! Lovely of you to drop by to see our little Max here, it is. You’ll be off for a quickie down the way then, will ya? Well, maybe not that kind of quickie.” Max looks like he’s going to expire on the spot. Finnegan winks in return. “What I mean is, you’ll be, the two of you, taking yourselves for a right bit of liquid refreshments. Well, enjoy yourselves! And do come back to us, dear Max, r’else I’ll be telling the owner about your shyster work ethic, ya bum!”

  It’s hard to forget Finnegan.

  “Back in twenty, Finn!” Max calls over his shoulder, taking my arm and leading me towards the door in a hurry.

  When we pass through the front doors, a tall, slender man with light-coloured hair approaches. He’s wearing a navy pea coat and carrying a newspaper under his arm.

  “Well, fancy meeting you here, Max.”

  Max looks genuinely surprised. “Oh. Hey, Peter.”

  “I was just going to stop by the store on my way out.” The man’s blue eyes flash to mine, briefly, then back to Max. “We’re going to see a movie tonight. Your nana said she was too tired to come along, and insisted we go without her so that she could finally have an evening to rest.”

  Max smiles at this and shakes his head. “I’ll head straight home after work. I bought her some more of that herbal tea she likes so much. She said that it helps her arthritis.”

  The man beams at him in response, but his sideways glance moves to me again and rests there until Max finally notices.

  “Oh! Sorry. Dad, this is Serena – from school,” he adds in haste. “We were just grabbing a quick coffee. Serena, this is my dad, Peter.”

  The man stretches his hand forward, and I feel his long fingers curl around mine in a handshake that feels familiar in its breadth. “Nice to meet you, Serena.”

  “You too, Mr. O’Sullivan.”

  “Call me Peter.” He laughs. “Max does.”

  He turns back to Max, patting him on the shoulder twice. “Before I forget, Max, can you look for that memory stick I lent you when you get home later tonight? I need it for work this week.”

  I can see Max hesitate before he answers. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Well, I better run. Enjoy coffee, you two.”

  His dad walks away, and Max closes his eyes and grimaces.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Yup,” he says, pulling his jacket tightly around him. “Just enjoying the irony of forgetting where I left the memory stick, that’s all.”

  The sun set an hour ago, and the November wind has us both burying our chins in our collars, even for the short walk to the corner. I
t’s a welcome burst of warm, coffee-roasted air that hits us when we hurry inside the door. We avoid the gingerbread and candy cane flavoured lattes recommended by the baristas already wearing their Christmas flair and settle for straight-up coffee: his, dark roast and mine, medium. We sit down at an empty table, wrapping our hands around our full mugs to heat them up.

  “So, that was your dad,” I say, making conversation.

  “Yeah. Peter is one of my dads.”

  One of his dads? Does he have a step-dad, too? “Are your parents divorced?”

  “No.” He shakes his head, laughing. “In fact, they just celebrated their anniversary on the weekend.”

  I still don’t get it. Had he been in foster care? It finally hits me. “Oh! Were you adopted, then?”

  “Uh, yeah.” He looks amused. “I thought you knew that. Obviously.”

  He’s never mentioned it before, and it doesn’t seem that obvious to me. “Huh. That’s funny. You look a lot like him. I wouldn’t have thought that.”

  He looks at me with a confused expression for a few seconds before he seems to realize something. “Oh! I mean, no, they didn’t do any of that surrogate stuff, or anything.”

  Now I’m confused. “Are you adopted if your parents use a surrogate?” I ask.

  I imagine we are wearing similar puzzled expressions.

  “Um. I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about that.” Max shakes his head slightly.

  “So, then… do you know who your real parents are?”

  “You mean my birth parents?” he asks, and I nod. “No idea.” He takes a sip from his mug and frowns. “I don’t think I’m supposed to know anything about them. I mean – it’s no secret that I was adopted, but it’s something I haven’t asked a lot about, either.”

  “Why not?”

  He looks up to the side like he’s searching for something. “When I was about seven, I overheard Peter talking to my nana about it. I’m not sure if he knows something about my birth mom because he’s a doctor at the hospital. But I’ll never forget how silent the room became when I walked into the kitchen, hoping for some cookies.”

  “And your birth dad?”

  “I know even less about him.”

  When I think about it, I realize I have lots of friends with divorced parents, blended families, and single parents – but other than a few kids in middle school that I remember, I can’t think of a single friend I have now that was adopted. What is it like not knowing who your birth parents are? What if you have a whole other family you don’t even know about? Will you always wonder what life would have been like if you’d grown up in that different family? I wonder if Max thinks about these things.

  “Is that weird? Not knowing where you came from?”

  He looks cautious about answering this. “Sometimes.”

  Max spins his coffee mug in careful half turns on the tabletop.

  “Do you think you want to find out someday?”

  “I’m not sure, yet – if I’ll do that to them.” He winces.

  I begin to think I’m pressing him too hard on this subject. And God knows, I’m all too familiar with that feeling. I stop short of asking him anything further.

  Taking a sip of my coffee, I decide to change the subject, entirely. “Tomorrow’s the first day of Christmas concert rehearsals for stage band and vocals together.”

  Max nods, and it seems like his shoulders relax a bit. “Have you guys started on your parts yet?”

  “Vanessa worked on hers all weekend. I did a little bit, but my parts aren’t quite so big. What about you?”

  “We did a bit of it in class yesterday and today. I’m sure it will all come together in the weeks ahead.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” I reply.

  Max takes a last swig of his coffee before setting the empty mug on the table. He looks over at me with an apologetic expression.

  “I better get back to see if that kid’s going to get those drums tonight.”

  I nod. “And you probably don’t want Finnegan getting you fired, either.”

  Max laughs. “I think he’s the one that should be worried about that, not me. He’s constantly screwing around with the instruments instead of doing his job. But it’s hard to fire a leprechaun, you know. Testing your luck, and all, with that.”

  I laugh at his joke. It hits me that I really want to see Max again this week.

  “Listen, did you want to – I don’t know – maybe go out on Friday?”

  Max looks stunned for a good number of seconds. Then he busts out a grin that puts me at ease for being so forward – for once.

  “Yeah! Oh, but wait. No.” He shakes his head. “Crap! We’re going out with Hayden and his parents for dinner then.”

  “Maybe we could do something on Saturday?”

  “For sure!”

  “How about we talk about it tomorrow at rehearsal?”

  “Sounds good. Hey, how are you getting home? Do you want to stick around and I’ll give you a ride?”

  I’m ready to spend more time with Max. I like him. He seems like a good guy. I mean, what teenage boy buys herbal tea for his grandma, and then heads home to check on her? I am not ready to get in his car, though.

  “No, I’m good. I’ve got a ride. Thanks, Max.”

  I lean in and give him a quick hug before he turns to head out the coffee shop doors.

  * * *

  First rehearsals are only the second-worst type of rehearsal. During the first rehearsal, no one knows their part very well, and the entire musical performance sounds a lot like a Manhattan traffic jam.

  We were supposed to have independently learned one of the full orchestra songs over the weekend. It’s an adapted finale piece from the musical RENT. Clearly, some had learned it better than others.

  Mr. Yankov is tapping his conductor’s wand rapidly on the music stand – and not to the beat. His hand streaks through the air in front of him, his fingers snapping to his thumb in a motion that resembles “shut your mouth” to the average person. It’s essentially the same thing directed at musicians.

  “Well! That was interesting.” He is craning his neck like a turtle, his head straining from the shell of his too tight turtleneck, and there is a sheen of sweat around his smooth, bald temples already. “Percussion: you’re late on the entry to bar twenty-five every time. Brass: tighter! Those fingers need to mover faster over those triplets. And bass: milk those notes so we can hear them.”

  I look over at Max, who has the same sheepish expression on his face as the rest of the band. There are no easy breaks given at our school. You are expected to work hard and to produce quickly.

  Our orchestra director then turns his attention to his colleague. “Mrs. Alonso?”

  It’s our turn for critique. Mrs. Alonso has been quieter than usual during this hour after school, but seems to have replaced her words with a multitude of throat clearing, lip chewing, and touching two fingers to her temple every few minutes.

  “Vanessa, you need to work on the grittiness of your vibrato there. Hayden, well, that was excellent, frankly.”

  She levels her eyes on the chorus. Beside me, stands Grace, chewing the nails on her slim, delicate fingers. I could hear that she knew her alto part quite well, in contrast to Emily, beside her, who flubbed a few sections of the song. There’s an overlay of call and response to these pieces, providing an opportunity for not only solos, but also groups of the chorus to stand out during different sections.

  “Timing. Watch your timing,” she tells everyone.

  And then, her eyes fall on me.

  “The passion of this piece: I’m not hearing it. It’s about remembering the ones you love and moving forward with them in your heart – grabbing life – excuse my French, but – grabbing life by the balls, and embracing all the joys and the heartache. That’s what this piece needs. Find it!”

  She’s speaking to me – I’m sure of it. It tears into me like fresh wounds all over again. My lip begins to tremble, and I
have to forcibly hold my breath to keep down the sob that is rising in my throat.

  Mrs. Alonso’s eyes finally leave mine and she looks over to Mr. Yankov. “Let’s take fifteen minutes here to shake it out and re-group, shall we?”

  There is an immediate commotion of grumbling voices, instruments being set aside, and chairs scraping against the floor. Before looking over, I can feel Max’s eyes on me. He has set down his monstrous bass and is gazing my way with obvious concern. I concentrate on not blinking to avoid the tears breaking over their levees.

  “God, Serena. Can you believe that?”

  Vanessa has come up behind me with Grace, quiet as usual, at her side. I take a big breath and blow it slowly upwards, willing my eyes to dry up the moisture there. I was truly hoping only I noticed the words hurled at me, marking my shame like red paint across my chest.

  “Vanessa, I don’t really want to talk about it right now.”

  The look on her face grows even more disgusted, then. “What do you mean ‘you don’t want to talk about it’? How do you think I feel having her call me out like that in front of everyone?”

  I stare at her as a wave of incredulity washes over me, followed quickly by a trough of relief. Vanessa is talking about herself.

  Clearing my throat of the emotional web sticking there, I stammer through my reaction, “Oh. That. Listen, Ness, you were great,” I squeeze out. “Mrs. Alonso always has something for us to work on. You just have to expect that.”

  She shrugs and lets out an exaggerated sigh, resigning herself to this path of unrelenting critique in the pursuit of perfection we’ve chosen. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. Maybe I do need to work on that vibrato.” She immediately perks up, clutching my arm and trying to drag me towards the hallway as she insists, “You’ll help me with practice this week, right? Just like we always did at your house?”

  Practice together – just like we always did – with my mom.

  I hold my ground, trying to shake loose from her grip, now desperate to move away, to regain my steady breathing. “I think I… I’m going to get some fresh air – just for a minute.”