Now, after our lesson, my fingers run along the row of silk, chiffon, velvet – in every colour of the rainbow. I remember when she wore each one, thanks to Maestro building my memory bank. She wore the pink silk gown when she won the Richard Tucker Foundation competition. She should’ve left the red one with the spaghetti straps with the Paris Opera costume department, but she couldn’t bring herself to part with it and left behind her own clothes as compensation. While most of her dresses are her own, each time a soprano wears a dress from the costume department her name and the date worn are sewn into it on a tag. This one contains the names Renee Fleming, Yolanda Gustav, and of course, my mum.
Maestro didn’t keep anything personal – no brushes or perfume or diaries. Except for a while he kept a bundle of unopened letters addressed to her and tied together with string. When I was seven, I found them in what had been mum’s bedside drawer. It was weird that no one had opened them. The return address was a mysterious John Miller of 7 Broccoli Street, Camden in London. I figured they were from an over-enthusiastic fan. But they too disappeared.
At least we still have the CDs Mum recorded. Maestro had set up a player in here for Savannah and me to sing along with her. We spent hours mimicking her trills and how she hit an E6. We must’ve sounded like caterwauling cats back then. Some days I still don’t hit that note right. Like in Berlin. I didn’t even place. Instead of discussing what happened, Maestro stepped up my training. Now I’m terrified that if I can’t follow in Mum’s footsteps, Maestro will disappear into himself again.
I twist the dial on the player to my favourite classical station. Mozart’s Don Giovanni filters through the air. I wander across the hall into Savannah’s room even though I should be doing schoolwork. Maestro never packed away anything that belonged to her, yet what remains of Mum’s belongings barely fills the spare room cupboard. Maybe it’s harder to lose a child than a wife. Every toy Savannah ever played with, every pair of unmatched socks, every hair band, every drawing, remains in its place. Even her collection of Disney character perfumes is displayed in a neat triangle.
Sitting at her desk I open one of her singing books. I sometimes think if she hadn’t died we may have competed with each other. But when I was four, I became her puppy dog, following her around, waiting for her to throw morsels of information about Mum my way. She harboured dozens of stories that Maestro had repeated in the years after Mum’s death, and I couldn’t get enough. After I turned thirteen and Maestro allowed me to use computers, an internet search displayed loads of official function photos but they were never real enough for me. Mum often had a cigarette in her hand, and a glass of wine, or she’d be standing in a posh building wearing a party dress. This version of her didn’t fit the stories Maestro told of baking cupcakes, pyjama movie days, and building forts out of blankets in the lounge.
When Savannah was old enough, I’d bribe her with jelly beans to read out articles about Mum. I’d paint a picture of her out of the words. My favourite story was the one where a violin player reported how Mum would often come home with the entire orchestra after a performance and she’d sing and dance with them until the sun came up the next morning. I had memorised his words: ‘She never made it to a rehearsal before midday. Once I had to fetch her because she was two hours late. She was sitting on the front step popping olives and still in her pyjamas – well, more like a glamorous silk and lace nightie.’
I wish Maestro had kept that nightie.
Then there was Savannah’s story about the times she was too sick for kindy and Mum would take her to the beach. Mum always swam too far out though, which scared my sister, but then she’d eventually return and spin Savannah around and around until they fell over, dizzy, lying in a heap of arms and legs, giggling and covered in sand. And the time Mum came home with a puppy and when she accidentally let it escape out the house, she bought Savannah a human-sized teddy bear instead. To us, Mum was an enchanting movie star, a legend. Even her name sounded glamorous: Veronika. She was dazzling, and I wanted to be dazzling, too.
At the foot of Savannah’s desk is the box of photos and newspaper clippings of Mum that Maestro saved. It’s been years since I went through them. I lay each one on the carpet and a patchwork quilt of Mum – her red hair, her pale skin, her grey eyes, her delicate frame – forms around me. A square of paper slips from between two clippings. I pick it up, unfold it. The paper is old-fashioned with roses at the corners and the creases have torn in places. The cursive handwriting is small and neat.
Dear Sean,
People shouldn’t try to be what they are not. It only leads to unhappiness. I’m sorry.
All my love forever,
Veronika
My pulse beats fast, a sharp, repetitive staccato note on my temple. I trace my fingers over the words, confused about why this precious note, addressed to my father, exists among the clippings. Did Savannah hide it from me? My whole body clasps with jealousy as I make for the stairs.
Maestro is reading a book. An old recording of Pavarotti singing ‘Nessun Dorma’ plays on his prized gramophone.
‘I found something,’ I say, passing the notepaper to him. ‘Is that what she called you – Sean? No silly nickname?’
His jaw slackens as he inspects me. ‘Where did you get this?’ he growls.
‘It was in Savannah’s room. In the box of clippings. Are you angry with me?’
Maestro swallows hard and takes a deep breath, staring right through the note and into another dimension.
‘Her handwriting resembles mine,’ I add, when Maestro keeps staring. His torso heaves as Pavarotti’s voice crescendos. I nab a glass of pineapple juice left over from a session. Gulp at it, wondering if it’s the right time to ask him for the truth about Mum’s death.
I keep drinking.
I’m suddenly afraid of the truth.
Maestro rises to his feet as if his knees hurt. His glance flickers toward the photo of Savannah wearing the yellow taffeta dress she always wore to singing auditions. Even when I grew into it, Maestro never let me wear it.
The orchestra strikes up their finale and something inside me snaps. I have to shout to be heard. ‘I’ll be eighteen in March. What difference will another six months and five days make?’
‘I said eighteen, and I meant eighteen.’ It’s his stern voice-coach tone. Behind his eyes live all the secrets.
‘I’ll find out another way then. I’ll find her parents.’
‘I’ve told you before, the Millers were estranged from your mum. John and Esmeralda didn’t approve of her choice of career. They don’t know anything.’
Miller. John Miller from the letters in the bundle. He’s Mum’s dad. My grandfather.
‘They abandoned her when she was a teenager,’ he adds. ‘It was unforgivable and hurt your mother immensely. I don’t believe she ever got over it.’
The room plunges into silence as the record finishes; the stylus blips with static, the arm lifts to return to its home. Maestro unfastens the top button on his shirt. Then, walking stiffly, he leaves the room. He’s never walked out on me when I’ve asked about Mum.
Before he leaves, I blurt, ‘What does she mean in the note?’
He snatches at the door handle, leans on it. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Didn’t you ask her?’ I say, sharper than I intend. His face pales and puckers, as if he’s been left out in the rain and sun for several days.
His eyes rumble with memories. ‘I – I never got the chance.’
Because of me.
His socked feet whisper on the stairs, and I hear two small sniffs.
There’ve been many times I’ve felt glad I didn’t succeed at joining Mum and Savannah in heaven. Right now, the certainty that Maestro would not have survived my loss jolts me, like when the orchestra starts up at the beginning of a performance; sudden and dramatic and full of trepidation.
I vow to nev
er leave him.
Except I do sometimes worry there’s some kind of inverse law of the universe that says once you decide you don’t want to die, then that’s exactly what happens.
7
Jacob
Four days after breaking my hand, I bite the bullet and am standing outside the doc’s house listening to Astrid sing. I like her sound even more than I like Yolanda Gustav. How can someone so small pack that much power? I sit on the stone wall until she stops. Then I go home, knowing I won’t be able to sing. I thought I could, because I must, but my voice died with the band. And it should stay buried with the band.
When I get home, I tie my surfboard to the roof of my Jeep and head to the studio to pick up my board shorts and wax. But Dex is there. The studio’s in the back garden, so I never lock the door. He’s singing a Bruno Mars song – his back to me. His voice soothes. It doesn’t make me sad, like I figured it might. I slip inside to listen, observing the TV I never switch off. The ticker tape states that two teens were swept out to sea. More dead people, their families numb.
‘You’re not clipping the notes off properly,’ I say, stepping further into the studio.
Dex stops singing and spins round. ‘What d’ya mean?’ His buttoned shirt is half yellow, half gold and black stripes. Interesting.
‘The notes at the end of the 4th and 8th bars are semibreves. You’re holding for too long.’
Skittles used to do the same thing – he was always a better drummer than singer.
Dex cocks his head, bites his lip, then sings a couple of phrases.
‘Better,’ I say. ‘But you’re making your S’s hiss.’ I head for the fridge, desperate for a beer. The world needs anaesthetising. As I reach for the beer I reassess the situation and grab a Coke instead. ‘Juice or Coke?’
Dex chooses Coke and tries the lyrics again.
‘Good. Your phrasing’s wrong in the last line though.’
Dex’s shoulders sink. ‘Buh. Show me, dude.’
‘Nah. Give it another shot.’
He pokes his tongue into his cheek, peers at me from under his coif. Then he sings it again.
‘Now you sound mad.’ I smirk, crack open a Coke and gulp it down.
‘You look like crap,’ he says. ‘How’s the piano practise going?’ He scans my cast and I swallow a chuckle.
‘Don’t even go there, kid. Why aren’t you at school?’
‘School development day for teachers.’
‘So how long till you gotta go?’
‘An hour. Your house wasn’t dirty today.’ His smirk mocks me.
I give him a shove. ‘Maybe yo Mamma did it for her little boy before he got here.’ He snorts and tries to shove me back, but I sidestep him on my way to the iPad that’s connected to the studio’s speakers. I select some tunes and when I turn around Dex is emptying the tea leaves from several tea bags into the sink.
‘Check this out,’ he says, unravelling the filter paper of the tea bags and standing them on their ends. Quick as a flash he pulls out a lighter and three little fires lift off the bench top, floating upwards like tiny fiery angels. They swiftly burn themselves out and debris drifts into the sink.
‘You know playing with fire’s dangerous, right?’ I say.
‘I’m careful. It’s a buzz though. Don’t you reckon?’
‘You need a check-up from the neck up.’ I press play on the iPad. ‘I usually go surfing in the afternoons. But seeing as it’s you, and I have a broken hand – how about you give “Pillowtalk” a crack?’
‘Zayn. Love it.’ The music and Dex’s singing fills the cave of my music studio. The tension in me slips from ten to nine.
‘You sound similar to him,’ I say. ‘Now, how are you breathing?’
‘In and out. Just regular, dude.’
Coke spews from my mouth. I think about Callum in the hotel – before.
Dex launches into the next lyric. He’s good. I cut him off to correct his breathing. He gets me straight away. This feels okay. I’m helping this kid and it’s got nothing to do with the band. We work on his breathing technique and he sounds even better. He can sing anything. Then he starts dancing while he sings – turning big circles with his arms flung out, sideways-type dancing, his face raised to the ceiling like the music breathes life into his body and he’s surrendering to it. I edge up the volume and he hooks my elbow, makes me spin with him. I go with it.
The track’s on repeat and starts again. Dex sings to me, as if I’m his girl or something. He gets on one knee and serenades me, and I’m laughing at him – this kid’s nuts. And then we’re spinning again, oblivious, and it feels so good to let go and I sing the lyrics at the top of my lungs. It’s more of a scream. And we’re both shout-singing in each other’s faces, caught in a space where nothing else matters but that moment, knowing no-one can hear, and there’s no pain, no numbing required. And the music frees us.
At three-thirty Dex’s watch alarm beeps. ‘Gotta go.’ He shoves his feet into his sneakers.
‘Need a lift home?’ Dex considers the option.
‘Nah. Don’t wanna lie to Mamma even more.’ He takes off, untied laces dancing around his feet. ‘Your voice is smokin’,’ he yells before he leaves. ‘Might let you sing with me again.’
I chuckle. ‘Don’t let the door slap your arse on the way out.’
But I don’t mean it. I wish he could stay because I don’t want to stop singing.
8
Astrid
The day I catch sight of Jacob sitting on the wall of our garden listening to me sing, excitement swims through me. The song finishes and I request another; I can’t explain why I want him to keep listening. When Maestro says it’s time to finish I spy on Jacob from the dining room, ready to beat Maestro to answer Jacob’s knock.
During the last couple of days, Mum’s note has hung between me and Maestro as we wander around the house like two lost melodies hoping to find someone to harmonise with. It reminds me of the years after Savannah died, before Maestro began to teach again – he ate what I thought were pale yellow M&M’s and wore a mask that mimicked him but, being a mask, was lifeless. He told me much later the tablets helped his depression.
On top of tiptoeing through his current moods, I can’t stop thinking about Jacob, hoping he’ll come back for a lesson. And finally, today he has.
Except Jacob never even comes down the drive.
‘I saw Jacob. But he came and then he left,’ I tell Maestro, who’s in the music room staring into the fire.
‘Damn it. I wanted to help that boy. Kids with his talent don’t come along often.’ He takes a poker and stabs at the fire, a little too violently. My body tenses as I gauge his mood. Although he’s no longer as sad, he’s gotten more erratic since he started homeschooling me for high school. The dad I remember as encouraging and understanding is around, but there’s something acrid smouldering within him, similar to a house fire no-one’s detected; the contained flames seethe and fume and singe the edges of him when he’s feeling low. Then some days he’s so exuberant he seems manic – the batty professor side of him. During yesterday’s lesson he ran his fingers through his hair so much he resembled a victim of electric shock treatment. On those days I’m on my best behaviour, but then he’ll suddenly stop the lesson and waltz me around the room to Strauss.
‘I’ll go for dinner with Mikhail, instead,’ adds Maestro. ‘I’ve even told Mikhail about Jacob. He’s on the audition panel at the Con. I’m a fool for mentioning him, but with my help – I got overexcited.’ Maestro acts so glum and disappointed, I’m angry with Jacob.
Maestro stows the poker. ‘While I’m gone, finish your English assignment and study the recording of Yolanda Gustov. See how she supports her breath, how she shapes her mouth for the high notes.’
A case of ants-in-pants starts up. ‘How long’s the recording?’ I fail to keep a hint
of whininess out of my voice.
‘Two hours. And there’s leftovers in the fridge you can reheat.’
I plod up the stairs to get the recording, the ants now crawling beneath my skin. It can’t be normal to have this urge to run and run to stop the sensation of being trapped, not specifically in the house, but inside my skin. It’s as if I’ve been told something big might happen, and though I have no idea what that ‘big’ is, I’m anticipating it with every pore.
I think of visiting Savannah’s grave. The problem with graves is they can’t answer questions. Maybe I’ll go for a drive. Although I hardly ever drive anywhere other than the cemetery or the library, I love the sense of freedom driving gives me. But I have homework – and Yolanda.
In my bedroom I switch on a lamp. Dark clouds gather over the city, and I wonder if we’re in for another storm. I imagine what people are doing there. Lately, I wish I went to a normal high school and knew friends my own age. I’m Rapunzel stuck in her tower. Never to be rescued. In another forty years I’ll still be here, staring out this window. And if I’m Rapunzel, what does that make Maestro?
He’s given me so much, shown me the world, taught me everything I know, yet the older I get the more I realise everything I’ve learnt and seen was selected by Maestro. What if there’s more? How can I love him so much, yet sometimes want to push him away?
My fingers trace over the photo frame of me and Savannah in our swimmers, then the row of picture books that belonged to Savannah and were passed down to me. I wish she’d written in them – little thoughts, secret messages, a drawing. But she didn’t even fold down a corner to mark her place. Kara left her mark on Pinocchio though, believing his nose should be longer and drawing an extension on every page. Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, Snow White, Alice in Wonderland. Perhaps what I’m feeling is how Alice felt before she stepped through the mirror into the unknown. Except unlike me, Alice was born brave.
The Astrid Notes Page 5