Even so, Theo wants to reach for India and an ending like one of the many romantic comedies she insisted they watch together. While Theo objected, he enjoyed the date-night movies a great deal. Maybe he should have told India he loved them. Standing on the sidewalk, Theo still imagines they’re living in one. India’s mouth is slightly agape, like she’s so very close to saying something perfect and personal. Theo is getting even more personal, as the mere presence of India is causing an unexpected physical reaction. But instead of reaching for India, Theo shoves his hand in his coat pockets. He’s no longer reeling from the pain of losing India. He has grown accustomed to that—a wound that won’t heal. This feels more like contempt for her vague glassy gaze. He is pissed off at a hard-on that will be resolved by way of a cold shower or some pathetic fantasy. Theo knots his hands. He’s angry and yet he wants to throw his arms around her.
India crushes the garment bag tight to her. “I’d better get going. The dress will be a wrinkled mess.”
“What color is it?” Claire asks.
And now Theo is angry at his mother for perpetuating small talk. India’s gaze travels from Theo to Claire, looking as if she has asked her to solve a polynomial equation. A swallow rolls through India’s silken throat, porcelain skin that Theo can still smell and taste and feel. He focuses on her hands. It doesn’t help. Her small fingers are crunched around the bag, and Theo can only think of the diamond she wore, tucked in the cedar box on his dresser. On India’s finger now is an amethyst ring he doesn’t recognize. Theo wonders where it came from—if perhaps India has a new boyfriend to go with her new life.
“Lavender.” India looks past Theo and his mother. He knows he sees tears. “I have to get going. I flew up to Boston. My flight was late, and I’m the last one to pick up my dress. The rehearsal dinner is in an hour.”
“Enjoy the wedding,” Claire says. India doesn’t reply, but pushes past them. Theo twists around to watch as she vanishes into the crowd of shoppers and sightseers. Theo jams his fists harder into his pockets. Claire loops her arm through his. “You know, I think we’ve done enough shopping for one day.” Theo turns back, allowing himself to be guided down Newbury Street.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Olivia
I return to Theo’s classroom with increasing guilt. It’s one thing to be curious about a twenty-six-year-old question, to wonder about the human being you gave away. It’s quite another to perpetuate a relationship based on facts about which only one of you is aware.
A reputable attorney handled the adoption, providing dossiers on a dozen potential parents—I only had to make the final selection. How wrong could I go? Someone else narrowed the choices. According to the attorney, every couple was wholly deserving of a child. But when I saw the McAdamses’ suburban Boston address, I found reasons to eliminate all other candidates. Before 9-11 and Shep Stewart, I had the consolation of knowing the baby I gave away lived within a twenty-mile radius. And, I admit, this fact sometimes led to fantasies about bumping into Theo in a restaurant or a shopping mall.
Once, however, in a movie theater line with Sasha, a rowdy group of teenagers drew my attention. One boy was the perfect mix of Sam and me; he strongly resembled the grainy Theo photos in Shep’s stories. He was popular. Throngs of kids flocked to him like they did Sam. I didn’t eavesdrop; their boisterous chatter was impossible not to hear. I tuned in tighter as the Theo boy talked about baseball. He was a pitcher, just like Sam. Another boy taunted him about continuing with band, a not-so-cool activity. The Theo boy defended his love of both things. My heart swelled. Then it deflated like a Macy’s Day Parade balloon, smacked into a live wire. The same teenager called the boy “Dan.” Theo. By then, thanks to Shep, I knew my son’s name was Theo.
Sasha and I proceeded into the theatre. I was relieved to sit in the dark with an excuse not to speak with her for the next two hours. Otherwise, who knows what I might have confided. Back then, it was all so clear. But now—is Theo still part of my past I’ve chosen to keep private? Or has he become a certifiable secret, or worse, a lie? By not telling Sasha or Rob about Theo, I avoided answering for choices I made at twenty-one.
Going forward now, I resolve to make sounder decisions. As the weeks move forward, I continue to play my part at Braemore: a classical violinist, here to bring a dose of court-ordered culture to the students. They’re the focus, not Theo. For a short time, it works. Organized chaos and varying degrees of outbursts is a staple among these at-risk kids, enough so that one is kept busy from the beginning to the end of each class.
I work three days a week in Theo’s classroom, for a total of eight hours a week, meaning I should complete my community service by the time Braemore breaks for the December holiday. I both dread and look forward to the date. Once it sinks in that observing Theo’s class will not count as participation, I attempt to dive in. While I’m wholly dedicated to supporting school music programs, there’s a reason I’m not a hands-on participant. My effort goes about as well as a thirty-foot leap into three feet of water, concrete bottom. We start with small teacher tasks, me overseeing students who showed an interest in string instruments. To be honest, my proclivity for music allowed me to dart past a yawning learning curve a lifetime ago. Conversely, it doesn’t take long for all of us to discover my low tolerance for students with a desire to learn but little aptitude. I struggle for patience while truly trying to teach a girl named Eden a one-octave, C major scale. Later in the week, I work with Tyler, a boy with slightly more promise. But as I remark, “Why can’t you follow what I’m saying? The sound needs to emanate organically, as opposed to what you’re doing, which is just so . . .” I suck in a huge breath, blurting out the word mechanical. It takes a moment to realize Theo’s grimace is directed at me, not his student.
Nearly a month into my educational efforts, Theo suggests I stick to demonstrating various musical techniques, like rhythm, pitch matching, and vibrato. There isn’t much margin for error or interaction. It keeps me at a distance and us in a group setting where Theo remains the teacher in charge. Not only have I come to respect Theo’s gift for music education, I feel thoroughly guilty about the many teachers whose patience and dedication I’ve trampled.
In addition to menial tasks, Theo gently steers me to a back corner of the room, putting me in charge of string maintenance. Mercifully, he says he’ll tend to the woodwind and brass instruments, which includes things like water keys. My in-depth inventory of the string instruments leaves me appalled—warped violins and violas, brightly colored ones no less—a horrible fate for any string instrument. The cellos, of which there are two, look like perhaps they survived the Titanic. Bows are in no better shape, black and tattered beyond belief. I determine that the most beneficial solution for all the string instruments would be a bonfire.
Despite the defective instruments and unpredictability of the room, Theo continues to navigate with a steady hand. One particularly raucous afternoon, he employs the finesse of a UN diplomat. He introduces his music appreciation class to the Jazz Age, and I am mesmerized as he makes the cultural and social struggles of the time relevant to this room’s populace. When he tells the students about Earl Hines and Dizzy Gillespie, he captures them. For once, the music is the only sound in the room. They are involved and intrigued, swayed, if only temporarily, from their everyday fates. But as the class absorbs the period’s music, it’s Theo’s soft remark that seizes my attention: “I must have inherited the art of persuasion from my dad.” He whispers this to me, observing the rapt faces of his students. “If there’s one thing I know about my father, David McAdams could get anybody to listen.”
After class, Theo goes on to stack chairs; I stand, stunned. In the Jazz Age, a person could live their whole life and not know they were adopted. Like other societal prejudices, adoption came with a stigma. But surely not now, not today. Is it possible? Could Theo be unaware Claire and David McAdams are not his biological parents? My face flushes and my pulse hammers—covetous and confused. I
want to ask him while fighting an urge to say: “Your ability to captivate a crowd is inherent, Theo—just not from the man you’re thinking of . . .”
The unlikely moment dips deep into Sam Nash history. Something I deftly avoid, memories of those distant days in North Carolina. But hearing Theo’s misguided thought, his voice so like Sam’s, it unearths the past. Theo is the result of everything I felt for the man from Tennessee. My tender, disfigured memories should come by way of yellowed love letters or a crushed corsage, not a living, breathing person. And yet, there he stands.
My next visit to Braemore is out of order, more so than usual. Theo has asked me to come by and observe Antonio Graham’s private music lesson on an October Friday. Among Braemore’s music students, he is the standout—a gift far beyond Octavious’s ear for rhythm. He’s never applied to the city-wide orchestra, but I understand why. A recent arrest record is an automatic disqualification. Unfortunately, Antonio fits this profile. Standing in the music room doorway, I raise a brow, guessing the same could be said for me. Perhaps we should look at that rule on a student-by-student basis. I’m a few minutes late. Antonio is playing Bach’s “Gavotte en Rondeau” in E major. Even with a dime store instrument, the music filters out with amazing promise.
Antonio is lost in the music as Theo spies me. He cocks his head, a silent invitation to come inside. My stare lingers on Theo’s profile. His arms are folded and his frame is lean and defined. I feel like I’m looking at old photos. Yesteryear rushes me, clobbering me, intense and disturbingly unexpected. A flutter of emotion invades, but I force my focus on Antonio.
An unusually peaceful expression fills the boy’s face. I have never seen Antonio’s features display anything but discontent. He still doesn’t look like a violinist, but I have learned not to judge these kids based on appearance. Truthfully, at best, most will end up with mediocre lives; some will end up in jail. But there are glimmers of hope, and Antonio is the brightest. You could tour every high school in the state and not come across a gift like his.
Antonio continues with Bach’s “Gavotte”—the first masterful piece most violin students learn. Before he gets to it, I anticipate the snag. Theo and I trade a glance. He knows the same thing as two measures of double stops approach. They are sticky widgets of music that take time and practice. The blunder is to be expected. I accomplished the piece at ten, but I faltered just as Antonio has. He hears it too. He stops playing. Peacefulness drains.
I know a little about Antonio—he stole his mother’s car and went joyriding without a driver’s license. More troubling, he’s been caught with meth and prescription drugs, trying to sell them to an undercover cop. In between, Antonio has paid some attention to his talent—enough to read fairly complex music, which only emphasizes the depth of his ability. I don’t get the drugs part, but I understand how Antonio feels about playing the violin. We see it the same way, even though we’ve never had a conversation about it. Antonio is like me; music is an undeniable piece of his brain. Although he’s not sure, given a choice, he’d want it that way.
“Antonio,” I say. “You are doing beautifully. Mastering those measures is the kind of challenge that will only make you better. Trust me.” I remember this line of encouragement (which I labeled bullshit at the time) from many an instructor. I glance at Theo, who appears surprised by my benevolent reaction. Twice Theo has asked me to play for them, music beyond basic technique and theory. Polite is an abstract concept at Braemore, so I knew they were honestly impressed when I played. But I am too old and too removed from their world to be more than a three-minute fascination with a fiddle.
Antonio’s expression turns more fretful—frustrated. For as much as playing can be a gift, it can also make you want to tear out your hair. Repetitive errors like this can be a cliff-diving scenario for someone like Antonio. If exasperated enough, he may leave here and rob a liquor store or ingest enough drugs to land him in the morgue. Theo will take it personally. It’s his encouragement that got Antonio this far. I won’t allow it. I move closer to the teacher and his student. Theo attempts to verbally convey the difficulty of measures 72 and 73 in Bach’s piece. The violin is not like a piano where mistakes can be hidden by a clever hand.
Antonio shakes his head. “This is a fucking waste of time. Even if I get it, what’s the point? Why should I even bother to try?”
His attitude is one of the more exasperating obstacles at Braemore: the loud impatience of these kids’ lives. They flail about, grabbing at things which they think they are owed, unable to grasp what it is they’ve earned—which in most cases is nothing. On the other hand, if a kid like Antonio could focus, stick with it, he might achieve something to which he is entitled—a life far away from this one.
Theo looks at me. “Hang on, Antonio. Why don’t we let Miss Klein take a run at it? I know the measures seem impossible. But I just want you to listen—listen to how the piece should sound. You’re so good at interpreting music. It’s how it will sound if you give it time.”
Antonio and I pass a look between each other—it’s the solidarity of understanding my lack of influence. Theo takes the violin from Antonio and holds it out to me. I shake my head and push it back toward him. “I think it would be better if you showed him.” Theo gives me a queer look. He is a high school music teacher. I am a violinist with the renowned New England Symphony. Only in this room are our credentials irrelevant. Stressing my point, I back up and sit in one of the student seats. Antonio is quiet, as if waiting to see if Mr. McAdams will rise to the challenge. Theo is smart enough to get my point—even an average interpretation of Bach’s “Gavotte” from him is more likely to resonate than any notes I might offer.
Theo begins to play. Antonio listens. For a moment, I do the same. It occurs to me that I have heard Theo talk about playing the violin, but in my time at Braemore I have not experienced it. I don’t know what I’m expecting, but a few measures in and I hear so much more than music. Everything in the room fades to a backdrop. I become the backdrop. My presence as a wayward violinist, committed to community service hours breaks down. The intricate melody plays on, serving as a lovely underscore to the banned emotion inside me. The splendor of Bach’s “Gavotte” winds through. It’s like the tail of a kite string I’ve been chasing my entire life. One measure after another, Theo’s ability comes clear, matching the music—or more precisely, the musician. At first he focuses on sheet music. Then Theo closes his eyes, sinking into the grandeur of the composition. There’s an inherent unmistakable gait to what he’s doing, an authenticity that is utterly organic. I press my fingers to my mouth like a prayer. I’ve seen my father do it in old home movies, ones he could never bear to watch. I experienced it with my grandfather before he passed away. On Sunday afternoons we would play together—call and response. He would play a musical phrase, I would mimic it, and for finite bits of time, music was good. The four of us—me, my grandfather, his son, and now his great grandson—we hear and translate and play with exactly the same gift.
Antonio and I trade an awestruck glance as I attempt to make my eyelashes soak up tears. The music weaves on, perfectly executed peaks and valleys of connected notes that make the most beautiful sound. Theo masterfully handles the troubling double stops as if they are grace notes. My God, he’s better than me, and I realize why: Theo possesses all the passion I lack. For the first time in my life, I see why my gift with hands and instrument, ear and melody exists. It exists so it can belong to Theo McAdams.
The “Gavotte” comes to its understated melodic close, a relief from all the angst its interior measures deliver. The sudden silence is piercing. Antonio and I stare. Theo shrugs at the music stand. “Maybe not too bad for an amateur.”
I am practiced enough to keep my reaction composed. Not a mother who has just heard her son execute a stunning rendition of a complex piece of music, something he has achieved, not because of Claire’s good mothering or his adopted father’s admirable talents, but by way of a gift he has inherited from me
—only me. But I know my place. I won’t lose sight of it. After Antonio packs up, leaving with renewed hope and the promise of practicing this weekend, Theo asks if I want to grab a cup of coffee. I succumb to the impulses that have driven so much of my life. I say yes.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Olivia
The café down the street from Braemore is cozier than Starbucks, and I fear more intimate. We order coffee. Theo was oddly quiet on the walk over; a nervous vibe wafts off him. It fills me with paranoia. Maybe he’s figured it out. But then I remember I’m not sure if Theo knows he’s adopted. He smiles at me, and I smile back. Damn, if it’s not the same smile. Could Theo have figured it out from that—a mirroring smile? I run the rationale through the spin cycle that is my brain. Would you approach someone who is no more than a friendly acquaintance and say, “Gosh, I’ve noticed we favor a bit—could you possibly be the mother who gave me away twenty-six years ago?” I look out the window into a snarl of traffic. It doesn’t begin to reflect this mess.
“Olivia? Are you all right?”
My gaze flicks to his. “Perfectly fine. Why?”
“You look startled, which is kind of funny, because I’m the one who has the nervous question to ask.”
“Oh?” For once a waitress has impeccable timing. She delivers coffee. I busy myself with artificial sweetener and a spoon. I don’t look at Theo; it doesn’t matter. He reaches across, and in a surprising gesture clasps my shaking hand.
“My gosh. Tell me what’s wrong? You seemed fine until I played Bach’s ‘Gavotte.’ Was it that awful?” He grins as if it’s a proper joke.
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