Unstrung

by Laura Spinella

  “But Sam was also honest. And I don’t mean that in a selfless way. He just made no apologies for who he was. And that seemed like the thing sorely lacking from my life.”

  “But you didn’t end up together.”

  “No. We didn’t. Shortly before our climactic end, Sam was recruited by a major league team on the West Coast. I’d already been dismissed from the Boston Conservatory . . . and MSM. UNC for the Arts was my last stop. In my parents’ minds, it was their last hope for success.”

  “So no pressure,” Theo says.

  I laugh. “Let’s not forget why it is I’m in your classroom in the first place. Failing at what should be an obvious expectation is my real talent.”

  “I take it your dismissal from all those schools had nothing to do with your ability as a musician.”

  I squint toward the ceiling, thinking about what light I’d like to paint myself in. Michelangelo would be perplexed. I go with the truth. “After my grandfather died, acting up, acting out, became my focus. Pressure from my parents increased and bad behaviors ranged.” Theo awaits examples. “Surely my teenage years make the highlight reel—showing up to practice wasted was a favorite. Running away from home was also a go-to resource.” Theo’s face sobers. “I’m lucky I didn’t end up like India’s sister. But in my case, Sam turned into my addiction.”

  “And your parents disapproved.”

  “He baffled them. They despised him for a variety of reasons.”

  “Like what?”

  I weigh my reply. “Sam wasn’t a bottle of booze that could be dumped or the shock of my smart mouth. He even exceeded the terrors of having a runaway daughter. Disturbing as these things were, my parents saw them as . . . controllable, to a point. Sam, on the other hand, was a strong-willed human being they suddenly had to deal with.”

  “And someone who had more influence.”

  “Exactly. Trying to take Sam away would have been like taking air out of my lungs.”

  “Were they right about him? Was he a bad person?”

  “No . . . Nothing so black and white. In lots of ways, Sam was as mixed up as me—all the talent in the world and a horrendous starting point. We, um . . .” I stop and regroup. The point is Theo’s loss. “You couldn’t pin Sam down—even when it came to me. ‘Hey, Livy’”—I say, employing the twang seared to my brain—“‘let’s take a road trip to Memphis, and bring your fiddle.’ What for, I’d ask? ‘Because we’re going to Graceland. I think Elvis would love to hear you play.’ At that point, the way Sam loved me, it was the exact opposite of anything I knew.”

  “So why didn’t it work out?”

  “Sam came from nothing. Because of that, he had a stronger sense of need. When he was offered the baseball contract, he knew this was his chance at a different life. At first, he was all for me coming with him. Of course, Sam knew my parents would strongly object. But he also knew they’d have less of an argument if we were already married. Naturally, I said yes, and on a windy May day we drove to Maryland and did just that.”

  Theo laughs at this bit of history. “You are a live wire, Liv. I kind of admire your impulsiveness. But I’m guessing your parents didn’t take the news any better after the fact.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “But California has plenty of great choices for music education. Surely one would have accepted you.” Theo offers this with the steadiness of a guidance counselor.

  “Maybe.” As the positives of the story come to a close, I lean back in the seat. “Sam was signed by a California team, but reassigned to their farm system in Cedar Rapids, Iowa—not exactly fertile virtuoso feeding ground.” Theo’s expression says he’s trying to put the puzzle pieces together. He doesn’t have enough information. “My parents reacted worse to the location than they did the married part. To make sure I didn’t miss their objection, Mr. and Mrs. Klein cut me off without a dime. Eventually,” I say, skipping the middle of the movie, “Sam and I parted ways—”

  “Because you didn’t like the location? Because your parents wouldn’t give you money?”

  Well, that’s not very becoming . . .

  “No. That’s not . . .” Theo’s lack of facts is mudding the point. “Location, my parents’ financial support . . . our breakup had nothing to do with that.”

  “But you just said . . .” Theo pauses. “Then you must not have really loved each other very much.”

  I consider stopping there. It would be complementary reasoning for India and Theo’s breakup. My continued impulsiveness foils the greater good. “You have no idea how much I loved Sam.”

  “I’m not following. If that’s true, and you say he didn’t leave you . . . It sounds to me like you passed on happiness because it affected your credit limit and zip code.”

  Anger flushes through; facts never meant for Theo’s ears spew out. “I got pregnant.”

  Theo is startled. Of course he has no idea how startled he should be. “Oh. I didn’t . . . Sorry.” He mentally scrambles to shove pieces in a puzzle. “And that didn’t work with Sam’s future plans.”

  “To say the least. By the time I found out, Sam had already left for Iowa. He wasn’t ready for a child, and it, um . . .” I examine the tabletop, a scattering of sugar crystals and truth. “I don’t want to give Sam a pass, but is it fair to cast blame on someone for being who they are?”

  “Sam had a responsibility,” Theo insists. “He was already married to you. If he loved you, he should have done the right thing. Hell, he should have done the right thing if he didn’t.”

  Oh my, he has been wholly trained in accountability. I would have been lucky to teach him not to steal candy from the 7-Eleven. “He tried, Theo. In his own way, Sam tried. After some tearful phone conversations, he came back to North Carolina. It wasn’t as if he abandoned me. But the marriage was so impetuous; I was still living in a dorm. We drove to a little place on the outskirts of Winston-Salem, a honky-tonk we frequented, the Pour House. I thought he’d come to say ‘It’ll work out, Livy. Iowa’s not so bad—we’ll make a life.’” I smile at Theo. “To my disappointment, it wasn’t his first suggestion.”

  Theo expression goes flat. “He wanted you to get an abortion.”

  “He put it on the table. He wanted me to consider it.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “Theo, I wasn’t even twenty-one. We’d been married barely a month. There was no plan . . . no money. There were a ton of obstacles—not the least of which was my parents. Sam lived in an apartment with four other guys. We were still figuring out life between the two of us, never mind throwing a baby into the mix.” I swallow down the rest of the confession, but it bobs right back to the surface. “I had enough trouble taking care of me. At that age . . . even now . . .” I take a deep breath. “Theo, I’m not mommy wired.”

  He is speechless. In Theo’s mind parenthood is illustrated by people who are willing to go around the world to get you.

  “Oh, so you didn’t . . .” Theo says. “You don’t have children, do you?” My mouth gapes. “Sorry. I assumed, at some point, you would have wanted . . .”

  “A part of me did want that fantasy, for Sam to react like he was supposed to . . . in a book, in the movie. In reality, Sam’s coldhearted suggestion only made me lash out.” My fingers make a prayerful knot, a physical diagram of the web I’m weaving. “He, um . . . Sitting in the Pour House, he didn’t exactly come around.”

  “So what did the two of you decide?”

  I’m stymied. My mind can’t close the gap between the grown man across from me and a bundle of black-and-gold blanket, made from a sweatshirt. A sweet smell forever embedded in my brain, tiny fingers curled around mine for a few hours. I never said good-bye. I just said, “See you, baby boy . . .” I breathe deep at him and a fortuitous choice of words.

  “Liv?” Theo prods.

  “Sam and I concluded nothing about—” The word you almost tumbles out. “His hesitation was evident. So was his fear. Sam had a rough life, and h
e was halfway to a golden-ticket future. Instead of being the person he wanted to share it with, I was suddenly the person stopping him.”

  I sink back into the booth. “On the way back to campus our discussion turned into an ugly argument. I pushed Sam. I wanted him to say he loved me more than the shiny future in front of him. I demanded to know what he wanted more, a career in the big leagues or us.”

  “I guess he was leaning toward the big leagues.”

  “He was leaning toward the wrong side of the road. It happened so fast, a car was coming straight at us. Sam swerved. We hit a ditch. The next thing I knew we were hanging upside down from our seatbelts. Really, we were lucky.”

  “Jesus . . . That’s incredible . . . and lucky.”

  He has no idea how much.

  Theo’s eyes fill with compassion and question. I don’t let him ask the one on his mind. I let him assume the accident ended in a resolution—a miscarriage. According to the doctor who treated me, it should have. Apparently, Theo’s will to thrive was always deeply seated. For as many times as I’ve told this part of the story—to Sam, to my parents, to Sasha, and even Rob years later, I’ve never imagined conveying it to the subject.

  But what does it matter? In little more than two months, Theo and I will part ways again. He’ll go on with his life and meet someone better than India. It’s why I began this story. “It worked out for the best. Sam went on with his big league life, which told me something about our chances. That kind of all-consuming love, Theo, it’s not the best recipe for a happy life.” Theo is quiet, perhaps applying the lesson to himself and India.

  “Afterward . . . I stayed with my brother for quite a while. I’d lost Sam. I couldn’t stand the idea of living with my parents. But eventually I came back to Boston.”

  I ignore more intimate details, the handwritten footnotes that belong in Theo’s baby book: I wonder if you mind competing with a holiday on your birthday? Sorry about that. Twenty hours of hard labor . . . The seasons in New Zealand, they’re opposite ours; it was ninety degrees the day you were born. I always think of you as a summer baby . . .

  I rehash other truths: After the accident, at the hospital, Sam came to my room—he’d been discharged. It would be the last time we’d see each other. I told him there was no longer any baby to be concerned with—that if he was looking for a fateful solution, he’d found one. Sam sat on the side of my bed, looking chagrined. It wasn’t as if he could sit there and tell me how sorry he was. He tried to take my hand, and I told him to leave—to go back to Iowa. I told him it was over. How could it be anything else? Hours later, I told my parents the same thing.

  “And the happy ending?”

  Theo startles me out of my mental rewind. My gaze meets his. More than two decades have passed since I made that choice for everyone. I don’t get Theo’s question. He repeats it.

  “And your point, Liv? The reason you told me your story . . . you ended up with someone you loved more than Sam?”

  “Rob?” I blink furiously. “Yes. Of course, I married Rob because I loved him.”

  “More than Sam?” Theo presses, looking for his happy ending.

  I look toward the now shadowy street. “Differently,” I say, acknowledging that it is. “When you fall in love in your thirties, it’s bound to be different than what you feel at nineteen or twenty. Brain chemistry, maturity, desires, it all factors in—you’re just not the same person. You need different things. Does that make sense?” I ask, looking oddly at Theo and waiting for an answer.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Olivia

  After parting ways with Theo, I walk—Boston is well suited for that. While I would not have predicted ending up in Theo’s classroom, I am less surprised at the depth of information I shared. It’s the sort of error—self-inflicted or stumbled upon—that defines me. So I walk, because I need to stop and think. Mostly, I think of Theo. How this misguided, but not malicious, idea has spiraled.

  Between David McAdams and Theo’s fiancée, I don’t want to be the third thing Theo has to overcome before he’s thirty. Worse, what if he can’t? So far, Theo has rebounded from difficulties that would test anyone. What if I’m the person who breaks him? I play it out—picturing Theo’s shock, labeling me the mother of all mistakes. Theo would hate me; a person he seems to like. I trudge slowly down Boylston Street, searching for different avenues of resolution.

  I could pick a nasty fight with Theo or show up to class as myself. He wouldn’t be interested in having coffee or a conversation after that. But I’m too taken by even a simple friendship to jeopardize it. The more I get to know Theo, the more I want to see how his life will turn out. For so long Shep Stewart provided that window. Going forward, I’ll want all of Theo’s year—not two paragraphs, courtesy of his mother. I snicker at the sidewalk. Maybe that’s the rub. Envy is nice payback—an up close but don’t touch look at the relationship Theo shares with Claire. Ambling onto Gloucester Street, I settle on a rational strategy. I’ll quit while I’m ahead—or at least before I have been slapped with a restraining order.

  Not that I’d ever let it go that far. Nothing could make me confess the things Theo doesn’t know. I keep walking. I am on track to complete my community service hours before the holiday break. With that in mind, I vow there will be no further friendly bonding, certainly no shared coffee and heartfelt stories. I stride forward with fresh affirmation. For the second time in Theo’s life I am determined to do the right thing.

  My phone chimes Brandenburg’s Concerto no. 2. I retrieve it from my purse. Damn. It’s Theo. I stop moving. A cooler more distant Olivia answers the call. Theo apologies for bothering me after taking up so much of my afternoon. His manners are impeccable. Fresh determination melts like April snow. Listening, I lower myself onto a bench. He’s likely forgotten to tell me about a Braemore schedule change, or it’s an afterthought about Antonio. Just as I’m poised to tell Theo we’ll have to talk about his students during my official classroom hours, he derails my new attitude.

  “My mother,” Theo says. I squirm a little. “She’s on a committee that raises funds for the arts in Boston Public Schools. Braemore is part of that. She’s hosting a black-tie gala at the Boston Public Library. Would you come, Olivia? She’d get a kick out of it if I brought a real live symphony violinist. You’d lend some clout to the event.”

  It’s unexpected, the invitation and the lure. I stall, asking Theo the date. We can’t . . . Rob has Bruins tickets that night (I’ve never set foot in the frozen rink) . . . It’s my mother’s birthday . . . Her birthday is in May. The symphony has an engagement that evening . . . An actual possibility . . . A million easy lies are on the tip of my tongue. I choose to perpetuate the one I’m living. “Uh, sure, Theo. I think I can make it.”

  “Bring your husband.” He laughs. “I wouldn’t want my mother to get the wrong idea about me inviting you.”

  The call ends. I roll my eyes at Theo’s stab at humor. Claire might prefer an older love interest to the truth. Of course, unless I’m wearing a sash that says Theo’s Birth Mother, Claire won’t know me. We’ve never met. She’s never seen a photo. The baby handed to her could have belonged to anyone. Her facts are purposely limited. When people are desperate to adopt a child they’ll agree to anything, even borderline anonymity.

  As far as the McAdamses knew, the woman who gave up Theo lived in New Zealand. Surely, Claire and David McAdams saw this as a bonus perk—no one from Down Under would turn up on their doorstep. The distance screamed “Take him away . . . take him far away . . .” During the adoption process, the McAdamses were given a few morsels—Claire knows music and athletics were part of his birth parents’ backgrounds, along with Caucasian, and no known diseases. She also knows both parents were under twenty-five and over eighteen. Since this accounts for millions of people, she won’t think twice about me. Theo is such a blend of genetics, I have trouble seeing where I end and Sam begins. I sigh at my phone and the ten seconds it’s taken to break my new vow. I hurr
y away from the bench and the deeper hole I’ve dug for myself.

  I walk until the shoes I’m wearing blister my feet. Finally, I grab a cab but ask to be dropped a few blocks from the brownstone. Enduring some level of physical pain seems appropriate.

  Gingerly, I cross the street, heading toward Commonwealth. I pull my cell from my pocket and hover over Sasha’s name—she’s first on my favorites. There’s a trendy corner bar nearby. I need a drink. But if I have a drink with Sasha, the odds of this entire story spilling out are too great. I can imagine her appalled reaction—to the fact that I have a grown son, to the fuse I’ve lit by dropping in on his life. “Liv, what were you thinking? Knowingly asking to serve your community service hours with the son you gave away. Furthering things by agreeing to a social event . . . That’s disgraceful—even for you . . .” I withdraw my thumb. I wonder if I’ve committed a crime beyond ethical; I wonder if Sasha can get in trouble for this. Best not to invite yet another opportunity for open sharing today.

  I let recent history dominate. Instead, I call Rob.

  He meets me at the bar, taking my invitation as an olive branch. On the surface, things at home have settled into the pattern of this past year—two people who cohabitate and share complementary shortcomings. After a drink and some benign conversation, I ask Rob if he’s made progress on the Wellesley house. I’ve avoided two calls from my mother today. Rob says he spoke with her. I cheer my glass toward him. “The specifics are still in motion, which is what I told her. But no, I don’t have it nailed down yet. The house is still in jeopardy. It was, um . . . a strange conversation.”

  “Why?” I pick a peanut from the bowl in front of me. “She wasn’t happy to hear from you?” Usually a conversation with Rob under any circumstance makes her happy.

  “Not so much that, but while we were talking she came across her watch, which apparently had been missing.”