The Astrid Notes

by Taryn Bashford

  20

  Astrid

  ‘I nearly died without knowing what happened to my own mum. You have to tell me.’ I curl my hands into fists and pace the length of the grand piano and back again. Maestro removes his suit jacket and continues to build the fire in the grate of the music room. Mum’s portrait watches us. She preferred the cold weather and loved a fire; the sound and smell would transport her to chalets in the Alps. Very different, I guess, from Broccoli Street. Now Maestro makes fires when he’s particularly missing her, or upset about something. He must be really upset if he’s lighting fires in September. My resolve to get the truth from him weakens, but not enough to let him off the hook.

  I wait for an answer, but he continues to build his pyramid of logs. ‘Maestro.’ The word comes out between clenched teeth. ‘Ever since Mum’s note, you’re snappy and distant. It’s as if something’s bothering you and it’s eating away at you. I don’t know who you are anymore.’

  ‘I said when you’re eighteen and I meant it.’ He positions another log in place. ‘Now stop behaving like a spoilt child.’

  The unfairness of those last two words unlocks something inside me. I slap an open palm onto the piano. ‘It’s insane. It’s a matter of months. I have a right to know.’

  ‘We discussed this a fortnight ago when you found your mother’s note. And right now, you need to focus on your recovery and your singing.’ He stands and wipes his hands on the cloth he was kneeling on. ‘And you’re recently out of hospital. You’ve been through an enormous ordeal. That’s enough to deal with.’

  I rest my chin on my sternum as if locking the anger inside before I say something I’ll regret. ‘Why would Tom have said that Mum left home, that she wasn’t thrown out? And if they were estranged, why did John keep writing to her?’ After Maestro had demanded I explain why we were driving to Cambridge, I confessed about finding the unopened letters, and the visit to Broccoli Street.

  ‘For the last time, I don’t know.’ He opens the French doors and a cool breeze enters the room. ‘I’ve never met your grandparents. Maybe Tom didn’t know the whole story. Why would your mum tell me that if it wasn’t true?’

  ‘Do her parents even know she’s dead? Is that why her father kept sending letters?’

  ‘I said enough,’ shouts Maestro. His face turns red. ‘It was your mother’s choice not to open them. Now I have a lot to do, and we’re going around in circles.’

  I storm past the piano, knocking over a music stand.

  ‘Where are you going, Astrid? We need to test your range.’

  ‘My voice is fine.’ I give a few impatient trills to prove it. I’d decided to start the ‘tell me about Mum’ conversation first, but maybe I should’ve begun with the fight about wanting to write songs rather than sing. But now’s not the right time. Now I need to lash out, to vent. ‘You’re crazy.’ I grab the cloak hanging on the hat stand and twirl it around myself. ‘For example, what’s with the cape? Who are you? Elvis Presley? The Phantom of the frigging Opera? Pava-fricking-rotti?’

  I’m amazed at myself. I’ve never spoken to Maestro like this.

  ‘That Jacob is a bad influence.’ Maestro sits down heavily at the piano stool and bangs out a scale. ‘C Major. I want to check your range. Whiplash can affect it if the laryngeal nerves were especially strained.’

  A gust of wind makes the fire waver and crackle. It seems to cross the room and blast through me. It snatches away my breath. The cloak slides to the ground. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that was possible?’ The words wobble from my tongue.

  Maestro blinks over his shoulder as I pull my expression back from freaked out. But I’m too late. His own Maestro mask slips and in the twist of his lips and the flicker of alarm across his face, I catch a glimpse of the softer dad from my past. He closes in on me and draws me against him. ‘Because I didn’t want to worry you.’ His voice is warm, comforting.

  It’s good to be held together. Maybe he is my cloak. And he has no-one to hold him together.

  ‘Now come, Buttercup.’ He leads me to the piano.

  When he begins the scale, I’m shocked at the possibility the accident has affected my voice. Instead of singing I chomp the air in my mouth.

  Maestro stops, places his hands on his knees. ‘See. I shouldn’t have told you and you’d have sung the scales without worrying. Can you let me be the parent?’

  Shaking, I pour myself a pineapple juice, sip it. Then we complete some breathing and warm-up exercises before I accompany him on a scale. It feels good. We climb up the octaves until I reach my head voice. I keep going.

  My voice falters. It fractures and cuts out. It’s as broken as a split flute.

  One of my hands swoops to cup my neck. So there is an inverse law of the universe: once you decide you don’t want to die, then that’s exactly what happens. Once you decide you don’t want to sing, then that’s exactly what happens.

  I was meant to die on that road to Cambridge.

  And now my soprano voice has been taken from me.

  Maestro stops playing the scale and appears to shrink into a hunched old man. He inspects his patent leather shoes on the pedals of the piano for a long time, as if he’s forgotten I’m here.

  I whirl away from him toward the fire. Above it, Mum stares down at me and I want to climb inside the portrait for a hug. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  Maestro’s suddenly there; he rotates me to him. ‘Don’t panic. The laryngoscopy revealed no damage. It’s likely to be a weakness in the laryngeal nerves. It’s not permanent.’

  What if he’s keeping the truth from me – like with Mum’s death? A silent sob crowds my throat. I pull away and pace around the piano. ‘How long will it take to heal?’

  ‘With so little data, it’s difficult to say. Maybe a couple months.’

  ‘Months?’ I should be happy. This is my excuse not to sing in public anymore, but suddenly, now that the choice has been taken away from me, I’m not so sure. I recall the years of voice training, how I never did quite hit a perfect E6, how hard I’ve worked for the San Francisco performance next month.

  ‘You’re alive. And it’s not permanent. It could be worse.’

  I step out onto the balcony. Behind me, Maestro keeps talking. Firm. Certain. Overly loud. ‘We’ll make an appointment with a laryngologist. We’ll work out a voice-treatment plan. All signs are your voice will be fine. I promise you, I will find a way.’ When I glance at him uncertain, he adds, ‘This is not the end of our goals.’ Then he slumps into the armchair as though he’s spent every ounce of energy and can no longer stand.

  I turn away from the desperation pouring out of him, from the alarm that’s making his complexion grey. He needs me to become a soprano. How could I think of taking that from him? And now the choice has been stolen.

  Mum and Savannah died and with them, their singing gift. Yet I was going to throw away my gift. I deserve to endure my punishment for the rest of my life.

  My fingers touch my neck, my mouth twisting. I whirl back to Maestro. ‘Will I ever reach those notes again?’

  He inches his gaze toward mine. I can see he’s holding himself together by how tense his jaw is. ‘We will never give up on your dream.’

  And now that my dream might be gone, I realise how much I stand to lose.

  After the blinding glare of the sunshine outside, the studio is pitch-dark. The blackout curtains are still drawn. We landed from England earlier this morning. Perhaps Jacob’s up at the house sleeping off his jetlag. About to leave, I pause to wonder why Kendrick Lamar’s ELEMENT is blaring from the huge speakers. The explicit version. I walk further into the studio, giving my vision longer to adjust. I identify the smell of old bananas. Then I spot Jacob lying on the floor in front of the Lego sofa. At the foot of the sofa are two banana peels and four empty bottles: three beers and a vodka. A pair of sopping wet boardies lies discarded next to
him. He said he was going for a surf when he got home.

  I collect the bottles, letting them clink loudly. Jacob jerks, working to focus on me. He’s not wearing a shirt, only jeans.

  ‘Astrid! You gave me a friggin’ heart attack.’ He pushes up onto his side. His abs ripple and their v-shape disappears into his jeans. A sharp tingle dives from my belly to the top of my legs.

  ‘I could say the same thing.’ I chuck the bottles in the bin while he struggles to perch on the sofa, drops his face into his good hand. He rubs at the stubble that’s grown since London, making him seem older. ‘Drink?’ He pushes to his feet, but rocks there for a moment before stumbling toward the fridge.

  ‘You’re wasted,’ I say. ‘And it’s not even lunch time.’

  ‘But in what time zone? That’s the question.’ Jacob twists off the top of an orange juice, slugs it back in long gulps.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I probe. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Why would you care after giving me the cold shoulder the whole flight home?’

  I suppose I deserve that. I pull my cardigan around myself and glance at the TV that’s always on. Today it’s paused on a newsreader mid-sentence, his mouth frozen around a word and the news ticker stuck on Shopkeeper feeds thief in supreme act of forgiveness.

  Jacob finishes the juice and tosses the carton aside, then reaches into the fridge for a beer. ‘Just when I thought I had it all figured out. I could’ve died. Again. My parents wouldn’t give a shit. Death keeps trying to take me, but they don’t care. I placed at Vienna, but why should they be here to celebrate with me? They’ll never change.’

  He releases the words like they’re arrows; they puncture me one by one and I’m suddenly sure I’m way out of my depth with someone as complicated as Jacob Skalicky.

  ‘Of course they care,’ I say.

  ‘Death failed again.’

  I lose hold of the words I was going to chastise him with, and soften my tone. ‘I get it, Jacob. It was awful. But we survived. And getting wasted isn’t going to help.’

  ‘You sound like Harper. Did I tell you she’s moving to Florida?’

  At the mention of her name my organs clench. Is this why he’s drunk? He can’t cope after seeing her again. Anger pulses through me in a series of shocks. ‘Listen to me. When you’re drunk you make bad choices. The Harley accident, for instance. Surfing with a broken hand in that storm.’

  Jacob ignores me and hollers along with Kendrick Lamar. He starts dancing, his beer spilling. He grabs me, pulling me against him, revolves his hips against mine. His face is inches away, his breath hot on my retreating cheek. He stinks of beer.

  I shove at him. ‘Stop it, Jacob.’ He throws his hands in the air, drains the beer. I snatch the bottle away. ‘Why are you doing this, when you have everything going for you?’ He plunges into the Lego sofa, slipping sideways. I kneel in front of him. ‘You’re alive. You have a second chance.’

  Jacob jams shut his eyes. ‘You know how I get through each day? I count the minutes. Then the hours. That adds up to another day. Rinse. Repeat. Beer helps numb things.’

  ‘You have to focus on the good things. Remember Vienna? How your voice had people crying and cheering? Your voice. It’s your reason for being on this earth.’

  Jacob doesn’t move or speak and I wonder if he’s gone to sleep. Gritting my teeth, I spin onto my butt and lean against the sofa. On the table his phone buzzes with a message.

  Harper: Landed safe. Miss you.

  Harper is typing . . .

  Harper is crushing my heart in her fist.

  ‘Sorry.’ Jacob’s voice creaks. ‘For acting like a jerk.’

  I get up to lower the volume of the music, then flick on a lamp and fill a glass with water. ‘Sit up and drink this.’ Jacob drags himself upright. ‘You didn’t die. You have another chance. And you should be grabbing it. Shall I tell you why?’

  Jacob burps. ‘I’m sure you’re going to.’

  I refrain from shoving him, only because he’s holding a glass. ‘I kept thinking I didn’t want to sing anymore. I was going to tell my dad, remember?’

  ‘Yep.’ Jacob rolls onto his side, hugging the empty glass. ‘Is this part one of the opus?’

  ‘You’re such a jerk when you drink.’ My irritation keeps me upright; it steels me enough that I can add, ‘The whiplash has affected my upper range –’

  The words pour out of me like water onto fire; my anger sizzles away, leaving me limp. I slump to the floor.

  Jacob moves close, throws an arm around me. ‘Jeez, Astrid. I’m such a dick.’

  I don’t have the energy to push him away. ‘Now I don’t have that choice, I’d give anything for a second chance. And here’s you. You survived the Harley, you weren’t travelling in the van you were meant to, and even the car accident. You still have a choice. Don’t throw it away.’

  ‘I can’t – I don’t understand.’

  ‘Maestro says the muscles in my larynx got strained or stretched and now they’re weak.’ And then I can’t talk anymore for crying. I let my head rest on him.

  Jacob rubs my back and holds me. ‘But you sound normal when you talk.’ His words are no longer soggy with booze.

  After a while I manage to say, ‘If I wasn’t a singer, it wouldn’t matter. It’s not a severe injury.’ I swipe at my wet cheeks with my wrists. ‘And I can sing. But I’ve lost my head voice. I might never follow in Mum’s footsteps. I feel as if I’m betraying her because even though I planned to talk to Maestro about not singing, I think I knew he’d never let me stop. It’s as though I needed to push back at him so he took my songwriting seriously. So I could do both.’ My mouth twists and fresh tears arrive. Jacob pulls me to him again. His fingers trace through my hair and I relax into him.

  ‘You’ve lived out your mum’s dream for most of your life – maybe this is a sign –’

  ‘No. This has shown me I’m not ready to give up on it. To emulate her is my dream. I wasn’t sure before. Lately, Maestro’s made me feel like it was more his dream than mine. But I think I was scared, with the stage fright. I was feeling trapped. And my dad. What if this means he loses his fight? When he suffered from depression, it was as if we lived in a black and white silent movie. He needs this goal. I might lose him again. He’s already acting weird. Everything’s so messed up. But do you hear me? About second chances.’

  The sound of the studio door opening interrupts his answer. We blink at the bright sunlight that floods in.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’

  I jerk away from Jacob and jump to my feet. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Maestro stalks toward us. ‘You drove away upset.’ He inspects me, his jaw gripped so that his lips are a thin line. He glares at Jacob, who hasn’t moved from the floor and is currently reading his cast. Maestro examines the studio. ‘You’ve been drinking.’

  ‘Jacob’s having a bad day. It’s been – tough for him. The car accident. He could’ve died and hoped his parents would be here. It’s dredged up a lot of stuff about the band too.’

  Maestro’s finger wags at Jacob who remains slumped on the floor against the Lego sofa. ‘Bad day or not, you don’t get drunk with my daughter. And you sure as hell don’t touch her.’

  Jacob hauls himself to his feet. ‘All right, Doc. Hold it right there. I didn’t ask her to come here and she was upset –’

  ‘I thought I told you the drinking needed to stop.’

  ‘You told me not to come to your house if I’d had a drink. This is my home. Not my fault you guys gate-crashed my party.’

  Maestro inspects me, then the room again. He gestures at the floor, littered with dirty plates, glasses, bottles, instruments, record covers, broken CD cases, sheet music. It’s worse than I’ve ever seen it. ‘This is no home,’ he says. ‘What do your parents say about this?’

  ‘Hah.
They don’t care if I live in a tree so long as I keep out of their hair.’

  Maestro’s rigid stance softens; even under his cloak I can see his shoulders fall. As he studies Jacob, his anger slips away a little. He’s going to want to help Jacob. He’s never been able to resist fixing people’s problems. When Kara ran away from home and hid in my room after her parents explained they planned to emigrate to Singapore, Maestro called her parents and let her stay the weekend and told her stories of Asia – places and people, traditions and history. She went home a little bit thrilled about the adventures she was about to have. For a while after she left Australia, she sent him photos: Tiger Sky Tower, the Sentosa Luge, her first experience of Buddhism, a bowl of chilli crab –

  Jacob careers toward his desk, slaps shut the laptop like he’s suddenly remembered he left something private open. I get a glimpse of a website listing death certificates. He stumbles to the sink and slugs another glass of water then throws the glass at the wall. I startle when it shatters, hand flying over my mouth. I expect to see rage biting at his features, but instead his face blots with sadness. He slumps against the wall and slips down so he’s sitting on the floor among the broken glass.

  ‘Could’ve died on that motorway,’ he mumbles, ‘but my parents weren’t even here when I got home. At least they left a note. Being in court was more important.’

  I move to go to him, but Maestro holds up a hand. He considers me, the room, then Jacob.

  ‘I can’t get involved where your parents are concerned, Jacob, but I can be someone you turn to if you need to. And I can be the one to tell you that you, and only you, can get yourself out of this quagmire you’re stuck in. Drinking will have you sinking further. Feeling sorry for yourself will keep you down. The only way out is to make plans and to have goals. Get into the Con and you can leave home. Bargain with your parents to make getting your own place a part of the deal, but you have to get into the Con.’

  Jacob thrusts his head back against the wall. Fingertips rush over his stubble.

  ‘You have nothing to occupy you. That’s half the problem. Do you have a job?’ Maestro’s concern for Jacob glows in his every feature. He’s in full ‘fixer’ mode.