by J. L. White
Chapter 20
His mother has known about us for some time, like my parents, but today is the first day I’ve joined Erik for his Sunday dinners with her. I was waiting for an invitation, not from him, but from her. After two months of dating her son, I finally got one.
Erik tried to warn me about his mother, Lydia’s, physical appearance. As I only remember the polished, coifed woman from my childhood, I’m unprepared for the change anyway.
The most glaring remnant of the accident that killed her husband is a series of broad scars on the right side of her face. Her right cheekbone is slightly lower than the other one, cracked during impact. Less visible, but no less lingering, are her internal injuries. Her back was so damaged she walks slightly hunched, deals with chronic pain, and still can’t lift her hands above her shoulders. Her right lung was so damaged she still has issues with it. She has had periods where she’s needed oxygen, but this is not one of those times. Still, her breathing is just a bit shallow and labored.
Just as striking is the overall change to her presence. She’s thinner and more frail in general. There’s barely a hint of the powerful woman who’d so intimidated me as a girl.
Lydia shakes my hand upon arrival and gives me a smile. We arrived early in the day so we could help her with some things she can’t take care of herself. Though she does have some help that comes in weekly, there are things she and Erik both seem to prefer he do for her himself.
We spend a few hours on various chores, I help Erik prepare dinner, and the conversation stays on safe topics: school, current events, movies.
At the conclusion of dinner, after so many hours in her home and in her presence, I’m glad I came. It wasn’t as bad as I feared it might be. I think I’ll start coming more often, if they want, so I can help out more.
When we’re about ready to go and Erik’s dismissed himself to the restroom, things take a subtle turn.
“I understand you’re competing against Erik in the Myra Hess Competition,” she says.
There’s a slightly hard tone to her voice—this, I remember—but it’s so slight I’m not sure it’s really there.
“Well, we’re both in the same competition,” I say calmly, “yes.”
“You beat him in the second round.” Now I’m more certain about the accusatory tone I hear.
“He beat me in the first,” I say, holding my ground.
She takes a sip of her gingerroot tea. She moves slowly, the cup trembling slightly. I feel guilty for a moment. It’s like I’m ready to go into battle with this frail, broken creature. What am I thinking?
“Did Erik tell you he almost quit music?” she asks, putting her cup down with a soft thud on the wooden table.
I nod. “I’m glad he didn’t. It would’ve been such a waste.”
“He had to come to grips with the kind of competition he faces at his level,” she says, looking at me meaningfully. I feel my cheeks growing warm. If I feel about to be pulled into battle with her, it’s not entirely my fault.
But in the next moment, her expression softens.
“It’s clear you care for my son,” she says. “But I’m not sure it’s wise for him to have this sort of competition in his personal life too.”
I take a soft, steadying breath. It wasn’t just the competition, it was the controlling way they raised him and him needing time to figure out his own mind. But, of course, I keep those thoughts to myself and address her comment instead. “We’re very supportive of one another.”
She nods, as if she agrees, but she shrugs one shoulder. “I hope it works out, Ashley. For both of your sakes. I just worry it might be too much for him.”
I look at her, not sure what to think. I can’t tell if she’s being the meddling woman she’s always been, or if she’s just expressing fears that, after all, I also have myself. Getting comfortable with a high-level of competition is not the same as wanting it in the middle of your intimate relationships, and most professional musicians don’t. But whether her concerns (and mine) are valid or not, I can’t help but feel resentful—for my sake, but even more for Erik’s. All he’s ever wanted is for his parents to have his back, the way my parents have mine.
“Well,” I say, gently but firmly, “I’m sure with the support of the people we love most, those challenges will be a lot easier to manage.”
She glances at me in surprise, then gives me a thoughtful look.
Erik returns to the kitchen then, and we take our leave without saying another word about it.
A mere week later we’re back stage at Lincoln Center. I’m torn between being in awe of where I am, and too focused and full of nerves to really appreciate it. Erik is by my side, holding my hand. We arrived in New York yesterday, and spent the evening at a romantic restaurant and going for a stroll.
It was a nice evening, but the closer we’ve come to the finals—this moment—the more I’ve felt we’re on the edge of something.
For the first time, there’s no certainty about which one of us will place higher. Not that either one of us are in a position to assume victory. As big as this competition is, we could both go home with our tails between our legs.
The musicians who have played before us are phenomenal. I don’t envy the judges their jobs.
But this isn’t just about the competition. Though I’ve tried to quiet my fears about it, there’s no denying it now. This is also about us, and about our future. Are we crazy for even trying this?
I take a deep breath and Erik squeezes my hand. I look at him to find his expression far away. His brows are furrowed in what I hope is just pre-performance concentration. He’s looking toward the stage but doesn’t seem to be seeing it.
I look away and take another breath. I need to stay focused too, and not feed my worries about how this may or may not affect our relationship. One step at a time. We can only do this one step at a time.
I start to mentally run through my piece—another one of my compositions, which I titled Top of the Bridge when I submitted it to the judges—and feel myself getting into a better frame of mind.
I want to win this competition. I want it so badly, I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep it together if Erik wins.
Though... if I’m going to lose to anyone...
But that’s not where my mind needs to be.
I need to think like a winner. So I do.
Erik goes first and captivates me with the magic of his music, like he always does. The audience responds well too, giving him a standing ovation. From the wings, I clap enthusiastically, equally proud of him, and terrified he just secured himself the victory.
When he comes back stage, he’s both beaming and holding back, like he doesn’t want to boast. I hug him tightly. “You’re so fucking good,” I say in his ear.
“We’ll see if it’s good enough,” he says, pulling back and giving me a kiss. “My biggest competition is about to go out. Are you ready?”
I nod and take a shaky breath. I don’t allow myself to analyze him, or us. Not now. I have to stay focused. Whatever happens, we’ll have to deal with it then. I try to ignore the part of me inside that’s shaking.
He releases me and says, “Good luck,” just as my name is announced.
I don’t answer. It takes all my concentration to walk out onto the stage of Lincoln Center like I belong there.
I must say, now that I’m out on this magnificent stage, the experience is divine. Exhausted as I am from worrying about Erik and me, I allow myself to get swept away by the wonder of what I’m doing. Lincoln Center. God.
As I bow gracefully and settle myself at the bench, I look at Erik backstage. He’s focused on his phone’s screen, holding it up like he’s going to take a picture or video of me. Just when I thought the experience of being in Lincoln Center couldn’t get any better, I begin to play.
And I’ve never played so well.
It’s pure rapture.
Gone are my doubts about playing my own music and really letting myself go. I’m al
l in now. This is what I was built for, right here. God willing, this is what I will spend my life living for.
When it’s over, I have no idea if my score will end up on top or not, but I know I’ve done my absolute best.
I look up to smile at Erik, but he’s not there.
Chapter 21
A chill drops through my heart. I face the audience, bow to their standing ovation, and resist the urge to check the wings. Surely he’ll be there. Surely he only moved a bit. I’ll see him when I get back there.
The audience is still clapping. I hold out one arm gracefully, bow again in gratitude, and make my way to the wings.
When I get back stage, he’s nowhere to be seen. I glance across the stage to see if he’s on the other side, but he’s not there either.
Ignoring my pounding heart, I start looking for him. By the time I confirm he’s nowhere in the backstage area, my panic increases and my mind begins to race. What happened to him? I consider, and reject, a series of possibilities. Maybe he had to go to the bathroom. But during my performance? Maybe he got a call? But why the hell would he answer a call then? Besides, I saw him silence his phone when we got here. Maybe he started to feel sick?
I exit into the rear hallway and start checking rooms. Most are locked, but the ones that aren’t are either empty or holding performers who aren’t him. Gathering my wits about me, I find my coat and pull my phone out of the inner pocket.
There are a few good-luck texts from the Firework Girls and my parents, but nothing from him. No missed calls. I don’t bother texting, but call instead. It goes straight to voicemail.
I send a text instead: Hey babe. Where’d you go?
I take a deep breath and try to calm down my heart. He’s here somewhere. He wouldn’t just disappear.
I wrap my arms around myself, pushing away the memory of the last time he suddenly disappeared on me.
He’s here.
I find the men’s room and wait outside. After fifteen minutes go by, I stop the next man about to go in and rather pitifully ask him to see if Erik’s in there. When he confirms what I already knew, I go back to my coat. I force myself to put away my phone—even though I’ve been compulsively checking it—and go back to the wings.
Maybe he’s back now anyway. Maybe I missed him before somehow. But he’s still not there and the last performer has had her say. The stage hands direct us onto the stage so we can receive the results. As instructed earlier, we all line up.
All but one.
The emcee is in front, holding a thick, cream card that I assume tells him who won. I glance to both sides of the stage, hoping to see Erik in the wings.
Nothing.
God, what on earth?
A cold chill drops through me. Something’s wrong. Erik wouldn’t miss this unless... unless...
The words of our parents hit me full force. His mom was worried he couldn’t handle this kind of competition in his personal life. Hell, even my dad has been worried about the same thing. I knew before Erik even came back into my life that moments just like this can be death to relationships. I’ve known it all along. Was I kidding myself that we could be the exception?
The audience bursts into applause and I look out in surprise. The emcee is smiling at me. The short woman next to me elbows me softly. “Go on,” she says.
My brain catches up to me. My name was called, but for what? Did I place? Did I win?
As I move forward, a woman comes from the wings—still no Erik on that side—and presents me with a bouquet of roses and a medallion, which she puts around my neck.
My god, I think I just won the whole thing. And Erik is still nowhere to be seen.
I’m smiling, and there’s this little underneath part of me that’s thrilled, but the rest of me is reeling. Somehow I manage to get through it and we all exit the stage and that’s that. The auditorium is filled with the low rumbling of an audience that’s just been dismissed.
I receive congratulations from my fellow performers, still wearing the mask of a smile on my face.
The full realization of his absence sinks into me. Indignation starts to bloom. Did Erik just leave me? Again? Fucking, just like that? What excuse could he possibly have for this?
But then I remember thinking once before that there was no excuse for what he’d done. Only there had been an excuse.
I take a deep breath and straighten, free from the well-wishers at last, and head for my coat. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know what’s happened. But I’ve decided to believe in him. I trust him.
I start checking with the stage hands and organizers to see if they know anything. I call the hotel to see if he’s there, but turn up empty. I exit the building and start checking the grounds. I go past the reflection pool and head toward the main plaza. Being nighttime, it looks different than the last time I was here, four months ago with my Firework Girls.
Erik was on my mind even then.
Keeping my fear at bay, I go all the way to Columbia Avenue, looking around for him.
He’s here. He’s somewhere. He hasn’t abandoned me.
I keep telling myself that, determined to believe it. And, strangely, I do. Maybe I’m a fool, but now that I’ve decided to trust him, I’m less fearful for myself and more fearful for him. What if something horrible happened?
I still can’t imagine what. What horrible thing could have happened in the wings of Lincoln Center?
But I know there has to be an explanation. I just need to find him.
Turning up empty in the plaza, I go back to the reflecting pool. I just need to stay put. For all I know, he’s looking for me too and we keep missing each other.
I check my phone again. Nothing. I sigh in frustration and put it away. Maybe his phone is dead. I don’t know.
I should reasonably wait by the entrance to Lincoln Center, but patrons are still slowly exiting the building and I’m too easily recognized. I’ve tucked the medallion into my bag but I’m still holding the bouquet of roses.
I decide to keep an eye on the building from a distance. I’d rather wait and worry in private.
I cross to the other side of the pool and approach the base of Illumination Lawn. I climb to the top, just as I did last summer, and when I get to the rail at the back, I take in the massive white building that is Juilliard. The lights within glow. It’s quite lovely. But the building doesn’t have that other-worldly aura it used to.
It used to represent this out-of-reach dream. It used to mean I wasn’t good enough, not really. But tonight I just proved there’s more than one path to success, and Juilliard doesn’t own it.
But Juilliard also represented Erik. It still does.
And that’s what finally gets my tears flowing. I can’t stop them. I’m terrified. I’m terrified for him and for me and for us.
But I won’t stop believing. He’s somewhere. He’ll come to me. He’s somewhere.
I scan the sidewalk below and all along Juilliard. I consider going across the street to see if he’s there, but if he’s looking for me too, it’ll be at Lincoln Center. I have to stay put.
Just before I turn back so I can check the crowd coming out of Lincoln Center again, I hear his voice from far away, calling me: “Ashley!”
My heart leaps into my throat and I spin, my eyes searching frantically. I hear him again—this time a little closer—“Ashley!” I see him! He’s running across the plaza, coming from Lincoln Center.
Heart pounding, I start running down the slope of the lawn, the cool air hitting he tears on my cheeks.
When we reach each other, I drop the flowers and he takes me into his arms, lifting me off my feet and clinging to me.
“Where have you been?” he asks. His voice is muffled in my neck.
“Me? Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you!”
He sets me down and we look at each other. He looks pale and worn and I instantly know something horrible did happen. He’s looking at me with concern.
“
I’m sorry honey,” he says, wiping the tears from my cheeks. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” His eyes glitter and he smiles at me through the weight of whatever’s happened. “You won. God, I’m so proud of you. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
Now I’m more confused than ever. “How do you even know that? Erik, what’s happened?”
His smile drops and he takes a shaky breath. “My mom’s in surgery.”
“What?!”
“She was having a hard time breathing. Well, harder than usual. Apparently her lungs were filling with fluid. They almost lost her in the ambulance.”
My head’s spinning not only from what he’s saying, but from wondering how he knows any of this.
“She’s in surgery now. Just before my phone died, I gave Margie your number to call when Mom gets out. Did she call you yet?”
I shake my head, still trying to get a handle on everything. “Who’s Margie?”
“Mom’s neighbor. She checks in on her from time to time. She found mom on the floor, trying to get to her phone to call 911. Once she called 911 with mom’s phone, she texted me with hers. It came in when I was recording you, otherwise who knows when I would’ve seen it. I saw it was an emergency and went into the hall to call. The paramedics weren’t even there yet. I was listening as Margie talked to 911, and then once they got there she kept me up on what was going on.”
“My god. Is she going to be okay?”
He nods and shrugs wearily. “I think so. Before she went in, the doctor told Margie she should come out of it all right.”
I shake my head. What timing, with us clear across the country and our flights not for a couple more days. “Are we flying back early?” I ask.
Now it was his turn for tears to come to his eyes.
“Oh, honey,” I whisper. Poor guy. It’s been a rough night for him, too.