It might have backfired. It almost did. Because she gasped and got to her feet behind her modular beige desk when she heard the music, and I thought she might burst into tears.
But then he said, with such sweetness, “I hear music when I look at you. Please, will you let me take you somewhere?”
“Where . . .” She was shaky still, but starting to recover. “Where do you think you’re going to take me?”
“Is that a yes?”
I couldn’t help myself, I got up and made sure I was in her line of sight, just over his shoulder, and started to jump up and down, waving and nodding and mouthing the word yes.
“Yes!” she said, with a little more force than was strictly needed and a sharp look at me, clearly directing me to sit the hell down before I embarrassed her to death.
“Wonderful,” he declared, a hand on his heart. He was handsome (for a grown-up), and expressive. Google hadn’t given me any info on his background, but I thought he might be Italian, or maybe Spanish.
“The moon, the ocean, the top of the world . . . whatever you wish. Copenhagen, Rome, Prague, Paris . . .”
“Why don’t we start with dinner?” she said, laughing, eyes sparkling with something I hadn’t seen in a long time, or maybe ever. “I have responsibilities that prohibit space travel, at the moment.”
“Dinner, then,” he said.
When he left a few minutes later, her phone numbers and e-mail address in his contacts, he blew her a kiss, and then, just as he was turning to go, he met my eyes, grinned, and gave me a very jolly wink.
I was ordered to hide upstairs when he arrived.
“No man gets to meet my daughter on the first date. Or the second, if there is one.”
“Have you looked in the mirror? There’ll be one.”
She shrugged, but she had to know she looked stunning, with her finally growing-out hair half up, half down; a touch of red lipstick and a little mascara; a flowing black-and-red jumpsuit I’d convinced her to wear by threatening to burn all her beige clothing while she was out if she didn’t; and pair of strappy sandals.
“You’ll be all right here?” she asked.
“I’m actually old enough to babysit, you know. If we knew any babies.”
“Stay inside, keep the shades down, don’t answer the door or tell anyone over the telephone or Internet that you’re alone here,” she instructed.
I was tempted to comment that I’d survived for months in the house with her practically comatose, but I figured it was a bad subject to bring up.
When the doorbell rang, I dutifully scampered up the stairs, but then ran into the bathroom to get a hand mirror, and set myself up on the floor, just out of sight, with the mirror tilted toward the front foyer. I’d be able to see how it went without Andreas or my mother catching me. Once the door opened, though, Andreas was looking only at her.
He loved her already. I could see it as clear as anything, even through the tiny mirror. Why he did, or how he could in such a short time was unclear, but I was certain it was so.
They had dinner on a ship in the harbor, that first night.
And then there were more dinners, and plays and movies and sporting events, and he even got her to go to a rock-climbing gym, though she refused to don a harness once there, stating that the look (from below, I assume) was undignified.
To my intense relief, she asked him to call her Margot-Sophia, not Marg. This was a good sign, and not just about their relationship. At least that’s what I hoped. By then, Andreas knew to look for me at the top of the stairs when he picked her up. On the fourth date he slid a book from his jacket and set it on the entryway table.
Mom pretended to ignore it, but she was smiling.
Smiling all the time.
It was a good book, too. The Secret Garden. I read it in three nights.
Date number five was on a Saturday afternoon, and they were going horseback riding. Andreas stood in the foyer, never having been invited farther into the house.
“I wonder . . .” he said to my mom, after a surreptitious glance at me, up in my hiding spot.
“Yes?”
“Does she turn into a pumpkin when she comes downstairs?”
My eyes widened and I retreated so Mom wouldn’t see me if she looked up.
“Pardon me?” she said.
“Or does she have some terrible disease so that she becomes a troll when confronted with the outdoors? I promise, no matter what it is, she won’t frighten me.”
I was technically too old for such silliness, but I was giggling—silently at first, and then not so silently, and no longer strictly in hiding.
Mom was looking from Andreas to me, and back.
“Or is it me?” he said, touching her arm. “Because otherwise . . . perhaps she would like to come riding with us?”
“Yes!” I said, leaping up, but then reminding myself to act like a twelve-year-old, not an overeager puppy. “I’d love to. I’m Ingrid, by the way. Thank you for the book. I loved it.”
I walked down the stairs at a measured pace, and came to stand in front of him.
“Wonderful to meet you, Ingrid,” he said, and proffered his hand, which I shook. “I am Andreas.”
“Hello,” I said, in my best grown-up voice. “Nice to meet you. Mom? Can I come?”
She hesitated for a moment, and I could tell she was worried this was happening too fast, but finally she gave a sharp nod, and said, “Yes.”
After that I was invited most of the time, unless it was a school night. Andreas was fun and funny and generous, though he did sometimes treat me like I was younger than I actually was. Regardless, he clearly understood I was part of the package, and acted as though he wanted me as part of the package.
It turned out Andreas was part Greek, part Moroccan, and his dad had been a diplomat, which meant he had spent a lot of time moving around, and been educated at international schools. He was worldly, and had many interests, and I worried for a long time that he would have liked us better in our old life, that the way we lived now might be too small for him, that Mom would eventually become too mothlike.
But she began to read—something she hadn’t had much time for when she was a singer. She read newspapers, books, science journals. At first I think it was because she, like me, was afraid she wouldn’t have enough to talk about with Andreas, especially since she didn’t want to talk about her past. But it became a passion for her—knowledge, history, current events, city politics, debates about the state of the world, the latest novels—she was insatiable for it all, and it was clear she had been in need of something to exercise her excellent mind on.
She also took up tennis, and convinced Andreas to ballroom dance with her—something she already had the basic skills for from the old life. And together, they cooked—fun, amazing meals, a bottle of wine always nearby, laugher and chatter and the occasional verbal sparring match.
She was alive again. Still beige at work, still working the beige job, but alive.
And so I was, too.
PARIAH
(Age Twelve)
Dear Isaac,
You thought I was weird about singing. The fact is, I thought I couldn’t.
I had all these lessons as a kid, and then they stopped. Long story. Anyway, they can’t accurately assess the quality of your voice when you’re really young. For a girl, they don’t know until you’re eleven or twelve if you’ve got something worth training. We were way past lessons, and our musical life, when I got to that age.
In fact, our house was a no-music zone. No one ever said it was a rule or anything; it just happened. Once in a while I’d listen to something, but only when Mom was out, which felt very wild and rebellious, not to mention dangerous.
One of those times, when I was twelve, I had some pop music not just on but blasting full volume in the kitchen, and I was s
inging along. The song was something embarrassing, I’m sure. I was dancing and going crazy the way you do when you think you’re completely alone. You know, pretend microphone, striking poses, acting like a rock star—blackmail material if anyone had got it on video. But I thought I sounded pretty good.
And then, holy shit, the music was gone and my mom was there, her hand on the power button, my lonely voice suddenly hanging awkwardly in the air.
I stopped.
Her face was ghostly white.
I stood there, gaping. Hot and cold and confused and somehow deeply ashamed. For a second she’d looked so pained, and I didn’t know if it was the music itself, or if it was because my voice sounded horrific, or if it was, instead, because my voice sounded good. All I knew was that it—the moment itself—was so very bad.
She recovered first, and reached out to pat me on the head.
“Well,” she said, clearing her throat, “at least we’ll be spared that.”
“Spared what?” I said.
“The possibility of your having a career as a vocalist,” she said, with a rueful smile.
“Oh,” I said, my humiliation doubling. “I don’t sound good? I mean, I know I don’t sound like you . . . used to . . . but . . .”
I could have sworn . . .
“Trust me, Ingrid,” she said. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but . . . that voice of yours . . . is not going to be your path to fame and fortune.”
I died a little then. My mom knew about voices, so if she didn’t think it was good, it wasn’t.
“But that’s just as well, isn’t it?” Mom continued brightly. “Because look at where all of that got me? Poverty, instability, gruelingly hard work, and then a broken heart. You deserve better. You’re smart, and you have a world of choices open to you. Don’t be sad, darling. If you want to sing in the kitchen, or the shower or whatever, you go right ahead.”
I couldn’t, though. Not after that.
And now I think she lied to me. Or, if it wasn’t exactly a lie, it was a deliberate misdirection, a deception. And look at me here on this trip, thinking I was going to camp, speaking of deception, if that’s what it was. For my own good, supposedly, both times. But I don’t know. . . . If you deceive someone for their own good, how can any real good come of it?
I hate the feeling of being angry. I don’t want to be angry with her. It hurts.
A lot of things hurt.
By the way, I’ve been thinking: I wish I had seen you naked.
And vice versa.
How’s that for random and shockingly honest?
Yeah, yeah, it’s my true voice. And it’s staying here, in this book.
Wistfully yours,
Ingrid
I first met Isaac in a closet, and not the metaphorical kind.
It was seventh grade and we were locked in a utility closet at lunchtime at our lovely school.
No lights.
With a bunch of eighth graders heckling us from the other side of the door, because, wow, shoving people into closets was fun.
Isaac was a geek of the quintessential variety, complete with horribly fitting clothes, straw-like hair that looked like his parents cut it with an actual bowl over his head, blotchy freckles, glasses, braces, and a fabulous brain combined with a socially suicidal eagerness to show his mental prowess in every conceivable academic subject.
I was new. Or I was considered new, not having been noticed in any way whatsoever the year before, when I’d actually been new, and apparently that was reason enough for people looking for someone to pick on.
This closet thing had been happening to me a lot, but I assumed it was a first for Isaac, who was gasping and shivering. I backed myself up against one wall, trying to give us both space.
“Sorry about this,” I said.
“Not your fault,” Isaac said.
We’d never spoken before. When you already have problems, it doesn’t help to align yourself with people who have the same problems. It would be nice to think you can team up and that would alleviate the situation, but based on my observations during my first year and a half of “real” school, this wasn’t the case.
“What do we do?” Isaac said.
I shrugged, then realized that of course he couldn’t see it. “Usually I just wait until lunch ends. And hope at some point it will all be over.”
“But they said they want proof that we—”
“Hey, Ingrid, are you on your knees?” came a shout from the other side of the door.
“They can’t make us do anything,” I said through suddenly gritted teeth.
“No, I just thought . . . maybe we could mess ourselves up? So we look—”
“Mess ourselves up? No. Eww.”
“Okay! I didn’t mean to be offensive.”
“I’m not offended. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just so sick of these Neanderthals.”
“Okay, but you sound mad.”
“Well, I’m locked in a closet against my will. Again. And I ran out of time to eat my lunch in advance, so I’m hungry. And the people at this school are awful and unoriginal. And this is our local school, so I can’t leave until ninth grade, and then apparently they’ll all be at the same high school too. And I had a better life than this, once. So actually yes, I am mad. But not at you.”
“Oh, okay,” Isaac said, clearing his throat and not sounding okay at all himself. “I guess it could be worse. They could be beating us up, instead.”
“Wow. That’s so comforting.”
“Of course they still might.”
“Oh my God.”
“Sorry. I’ll shut up.”
“Thank you.” I endured the silence for forty-two counted seconds before I gave in and asked, “Have they? Uh, beaten you up?”
Isaac made another gasping/choking sound.
“Never mind; you don’t have to tell me.”
After that we stood, breathing in the cleaning-product fumes and trying not to listen to the catcalls and abuse from outside the door. It was loud out there, but inside the closet was its own little sound capsule and this meant I could hear Isaac’s breath accelerating and a wheeze starting.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Other than the obvious?”
“Yeah.”
“I am showing manifestations of not liking . . . I don’t like . . . small closed spaces.”
“You’re claustrophobic?”
“Whatever. The point is, if I were going to choose a place to be forced to supposedly, uh, hook up with someone, this would not be it.”
“Not to mention we’re twelve.”
“That too.”
“So . . . are you going to freak out? Pass out? What?”
“I don’t know. I’m . . . trying to stay . . .” he said, his voice coming out half strangled. “But these assholes . . . these Neanderthals, although I think it’s actually an insult to the Neanderthals . . .”
“True.”
“They’re making my life difficult already and now this is . . . just . . . great.”
Standing there in the dark I realized a few things.
This might be some kind of test, and if I were smart (plus evil and ruthless), I would pass it by finding a way to throw Isaac under the bus—humiliate him, cut him down, thus giving myself a chance at a better social status and perhaps a reprieve from the closet lunches and the rest of it. After all, Isaac’s status was established and fixed, whereas mine wasn’t. At least I hoped it wasn’t.
On a cosmic, karmic, “being a decent person” level, this was a test of a different kind.
It was unlikely I could pass both of these tests.
That sucked.
Meanwhile, his distress was ramping up.
“Isaac, what can I do?”
He didn’t answ
er.
“How do you get yourself out of this? Okay, you probably need to . . . breathe. I mean, breathe slower. Meditate or something.”
“Sometimes”—he gasped—“I do math.”
“Of course you do. All right, do some math.”
“I can’t. I can’t get started.”
“One plus one is—”
Isaac half gasped, half chuckled. “It has to be harder than that . . . formulas . . . fractions . . .”
“Well, sorry, I’m crap at math,” I said, then reached across the small space. “Give me your hands. Or your arms.”
“Okay.”
I took him by the forearms, squeezed, then slid my hands to his and held them. They were ice-cold.
“I can’t lose it in front of those people,” he said.
“You’re not going to.” He was going to, at this rate. “Listen, what about music? Doesn’t music stimulate the math part of the brain?”
I dug into my memory banks, pulled up my favorite Bach cello suite, and started to hum, taking it slow because at regular tempo the notes were too fast for humming. I kept hold of his arms, stood close, and envisioned pitching my voice so it would go straight to his brain and his nervous system.
“Keep going,” he said when it was done.
He sounded a little calmer, so I moved on to the next thing that came to mind—a Verdi aria. At first I was humming, but soon I was singing the words.
It was working. He’d stopped gasping for air and his hands weren’t so cold anymore, so I just kept going. I sang a folk song, some Mozart, Puccini, more Bach, mostly from Margot-Sophia’s repertoire or my own music lessons. It was all still there inside me and it felt like finding water in the desert. Although I never forgot about the assholes on the other side of the door, the music helped me hook into something that caused me to just not care, that caused me to remember the very big world outside this hellish school. And anyway, it was too loud out there for them to even hear.
“Don’t stop,” Isaac said when I paused at the end of the lament from Dido and Aeneas.
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