The Astrid Notes

by Taryn Bashford

  It’s a question of who Jacob is.

  ‘Fine. Send the demos,’ I say. ‘Let’s see if they get to live on.’

  27

  Jacob

  A week later, I’m coming off the high from surfing when I spot Astrid sitting alone on the beach, her knees pulled into her chest. It’s nearing the end of October but she’s wearing jeans and a jumper. She lays her cheek on her knees. Definitely crying not sunbaking.

  More alarmed than I let on, I move to sit next to her, setting the board beside us. She turns to me and her blotchy features scrunch as she flings her arms around me, sobbing into my neck.

  ‘Maestro’s pulled me out of the festival in San Francisco,’ she howls. ‘My nightmares have come true. I was ungrateful for my voice and wished I didn’t have it. And now it’s gone.’

  I stroke her hair and keep squeezing her to me, never wanting her to let go. ‘It’s not even five weeks since the accident.’

  ‘I’m going to be exactly like my mum, after all. I’ll never sing again.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen. It’s a different medical condition. And whatever happens, you’ve got your songwriting.’

  ‘No!’ She struggles to her feet, her face puffy. ‘I’m a singer first. Writer second. I know it now. Sometimes you need to lose something before you realise how much it means to you.’

  My watch alarm goes off, reminding me Maestro’s about to arrive at the studio for my lesson. ‘Maestro time,’ I explain. ‘I can call and cancel.’

  She hunts for something in my features, bottom lip trembling. But then she pulls herself up by invisible strings. ‘No. Don’t. I’ll see you this afternoon.’

  This girl’s tougher than a drum claw hook.

  Doc and his cape whirl into the studio like he’s the Phantom of the Opera. The usual calm that surrounds him has gone and I almost check behind him to confirm he’s not being followed by ghouls and vampires. I get what Astrid means when she says his eccentric behaviour’s getting worse. As usual, he glances around to make sure I’m keeping to rule one: a tidy studio. I suppose he’s also on a quest for evidence – beer bottles, caps, used glasses.

  ‘Why were you and Astrid at the beach earlier?’ he demands. I realise he was searching for Astrid in my studio, not empty bottles.

  ‘What, no Good morning, Jacob? No buongiorno?’

  He pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Well?’

  Keeping my tone smooth, I reply, ‘I was surfing. We bumped into each other.’

  The doc’s eyes convert into thin coin slots. ‘She was upset when she left the house.’

  ‘Were you following her?’

  ‘I know she won’t listen to me, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t distract her.’ The doc swaps his satchel from one hand to the other.

  I shoot for the fridge. ‘Juice?’

  He slams his music satchel on the coffee table with enough force that the table moves a finger-length across the carpet. ‘She’s never been in a – relationship. Perhaps tell her you’re busy with your rehearsals for the Con.’

  ‘Whoa! Hold on, Doc.’ It’s as though my spending time with Astrid is his kryptonite. ‘There’s nothing going on. But don’t you think she might need a friend right now? She needed to talk to someone and I was there.’

  He presses his lips together. ‘She’s hardly talking to me at all these days.’

  It’s like I’m surfing into a wave that’s too big to handle. I need to bail. ‘We’re not doing anything, promise.’

  He holds up a defensive arm and grimaces. ‘I need you to stop talking. I didn’t want to have to remind you, but if you don’t keep it platonic, our arrangement is over and you can find your own way into the Con next month.’

  ‘You’re threatening me?’

  ‘Not at all. That was our deal, was it not? Astrid may not wish to listen to me. But you, I’m afraid, have no choice unless you don’t want me as your voice coach.’

  ‘And you think that keeping me and Astrid apart will mean you don’t lose her? You know her having a boyfriend doesn’t mean you lose her, right? Or is it your influence over her you’re afraid of losing?’

  The doc digs around in his cracked leather case. ‘To become a star, she must remain focused. It’s about having the right mindset.’

  ‘We’re just friends, Doc. No need to get your knickers in a twist.’

  Astrid’s right. The doc who wanted to help me is still there, the one who gave me extra lessons and invited me to Vienna, underneath that cloak maybe. But there’s something smouldering inside him and I’m getting a strong whiff of desperation.

  By the end of the first week of November, we’ve received two rejections from music labels out of five submissions. I feel like a too-tightly strung violin. Astrid picks dejectedly at her fingernails. But Dex is taking it worst of all.

  ‘One label even asked us to send in any new stuff,’ I say, fake positive.

  ‘There’s a lot of luck involved,’ adds Astrid.

  ‘Buh. We’re running out of time.’ Dex is pacing the room. He punches a fist into his palm. ‘Can we send out more – now?’

  ‘We can send out another round to smaller labels,’ I say.

  Dex searches for his shoes. ‘I gotta get out of here. I’m too pissed off to sing.’

  ‘That’s not how a star behaves.’ I snag the back of his T-shirt. ‘Put your feelings into your music.’ Dex wrenches himself free, but trips over his own laces. I stifle a laugh and let him wrestle to his feet by himself. ‘This is not all about you, Dex. I know it’s important to you, but it’s also about Astrid. She needs this too.’

  ‘I know I can be uptight. But the one lesson I’ve learnt is no one else is gonna make my life happen how I want it. No one else is gonna watch out for me. Losing my pa, coming out, looking after Mamma, working at this –’ He waves his arms around the studio, face reddening.

  Seeing Dex’s confidence slip, his flippant attitude crumble – it’s almost too much. A ball of cottonwool lodges in my throat.

  ‘But you’re right. Like Gerry and the Pacemakers said,’ adds Dex, ‘I must hold my head up until the end of the storm, I have to have hope. I have to walk on.’

  I swallow and turn toward the piano. ‘I get it, Dex. So let’s keep at it. Maybe we can post a video of you singing on YouTube. Loads of people have gained a fan base that way.’

  ‘Great idea,’ says Astrid. ‘We can set it all up in Jacob’s studio – special lighting, new clothes. Then your – our – demo might get more attention.’

  I can’t believe Astrid’s finally happy to let her songs go out into the world. ‘And we can use SoundCloud too.’

  ‘Mamma would freak. The internet scares her. She thinks someone’s going to come and steal me or something.’

  ‘She would never see it,’ I say. ‘We’ll film you and build your accounts from here.’ Dex considers this and Astrid runs her fingers through his coif. He pushes his head into her palm like a pussycat. I pull up the Uber Eats app. ‘We’re gonna need pizza. This could take a while.’

  ‘Nothing spicy for me thanks. Not good for the throat,’ Astrid says.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll order the slippery elm and pineapple one – with extra spinach.’

  ‘If there’s one that comes with perfect vocal cords, I’ll take that.’ Astrid suddenly becomes teary and the energy slips out of the room.

  It’s been a fortnight since she pulled out of San Francisco, and every day she’s seemed more worried. I go to sling an arm around her, but she turns away.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ I say to her back, bracing for the kick of rejection.

  Dex slaps his thigh. ‘You’re like Amish kids waiting for Rumspringa. I don’t get why you don’t go for it.’

  ‘Rumspringa?’ asks Astrid.

  ‘They slammed it at my church. It’s when the Amish te
enagers do whatever they want – wear the clothes they like, go out and see the world, hang free, have sex, whatever, before they decide whether to be baptised. I think about it all the time, but I don’t get to choose. I’m trapped in my life. But you’re not. You have choices. Just kiss and get over it, already. And no vegetables on my pizza – my teeth repel them.’

  I peer over Dex at Astrid. She sags into the Lego sofa and I recognise that until she works out how to trust her father again, and until she finds her voice, I’m on the back-burner.

  28

  Astrid

  I thought my heart was already jam-packed with sad until Jacob told me some of the labels had rejected my songs. Apparently sad can become something darker and heavier and desperate. For days my stomach churns; maybe I really do want to be a songwriter. Until now, it’s seemed like more of a hobby. Or perhaps that’s what I told myself because I didn’t think it was possible. It would give me some independence from Maestro if we got a recording contract.

  Neither Maestro nor I have a clue how to exist under the same roof. When he walks into a room, I can’t stay and walk out. When he speaks my body stiffens and it’s all I can do not to snap back, even if he’s only asking what I want for breakfast. I avoid meals with him and wait until he leaves the house before I come out of my bedroom. We’re two separate instruments co-existing on opposite ends of the same orchestra. I wish I could talk to Kara about everything – Jacob’s got his own parent issues and I keep thinking that at least he has parents.

  The only part of our life we have continued is the voice training. Neither of us can let that go. Maestro carefully tests my voice every day, never pushing, and we behave like student and teacher, not father and daughter. For now, I play the role like I’m a character in an opera, but I know I won’t be able to for long. And that’s why I ask for his help, though he has no idea it could lead to me finding a way to leave home. I tell him how Jacob’s been helping Dex. I don’t say I wrote the songs, but that Dex composes and sings them.

  ‘But now Dex needs some help getting the demo to labels,’ I say, after a particularly good lesson. ‘You’ve got connections in the music industry. Maybe not major labels, but some smaller ones. Maybe you know who to ask about broadcasting his demo online.’

  ‘I could potentially ask colleagues for advice. They may post the demo if it’s any good.’

  ‘And you have hundreds of successful past and current students who might re-post it or host the demo on their websites or YouTube channels?’

  Maestro closes the piano and stands. ‘Why do you want to help this boy?’

  ‘He’s fifteen and talented. He’s a nice kid. Why wouldn’t I? Why wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’d have to hear the demo first. I can’t make any promises.’ From the grimace on his face, I realise he isn’t going to give me my ticket out of home.

  A week after Jacob sends the second round of demos, Maestro and I stand side by side examining the view through the floor-to-ceiling windows while we wait for Jacob to join us in the Utzon room of the Sydney Opera House. My range has improved lately, the pitch becoming steady, the sound of straining gone, but I hadn’t dared to hope.

  Until now: my vocal cords have healed and my voice is back.

  Maestro’s ecstatic, and he’s in one of his impulsive moods. He called in a favour from a friend in the industry so we could have our voice lesson in this amazing room. They usually do more intimate chamber music performances here.

  Once upon a time, carrying news like this, Maestro and I would’ve stood arm in arm, grinning at each other until our mouths ached. But almost two months after The Truth we’re struggling to find our way out of the web of lies we were living in. The problem is that many of the repercussions of Maestro’s lie cannot be undone. There is no fix.

  However, with today’s news I’m finally sure: I want to become a soprano. With the choice almost taken away from me, I’ve learnt it’s something I want to do for me. Maybe now that I know I want this, I won’t suffer from stage fright. Nerves scatter through me, but this time they’re more like stardust than splinters.

  ‘I have a question.’ My voice is no-nonsense. This is how I talk to Maestro these days; a robot with no emotions. Maestro mostly wears his voice-coach mask, although the pleading apology is in every expression. Like me, he doesn’t know what to say anymore because there’s nothing left to be said except sorry. Which he’s repeated often. But sorry doesn’t fix anything. I’ve no doubt if I went to him for a hug, I’d get one, but until I do, he’s letting me take the lead – which has to be a first.

  ‘Ask away.’ He squints at the Harbour Bridge.

  It’s a question I’ve been too afraid to ask; I’m not sure how much more truth I can handle. But I have to be braver now. ‘Can you tell me who my – my biological father . . .’

  Maestro charts the scuff marks on the floor with his foot. ‘Your mother refused to tell me more than he was a renowned opera singer.’

  My stomach balls in on itself. ‘Did he know – about me?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘So Mum came back to you and Savannah because he didn’t want me either.’

  ‘But I wanted you, Astrid. I persuaded her to keep you.’

  His words are a new truth that colours and lightens the old truth, like mixing white paint with black to turn it grey. None of this is black and white. Even before I was born, Maestro wanted me. And then after Mum left, he still wanted me. He didn’t abandon me when Mum left, or give me up after Savannah died. He didn’t go back to a stage career, but instead, stayed to bring me up even though I wasn’t his blood. And he proved that he wanted me every day of our lives for seventeen years. And by the hope on his face now, he still wants me. He still loves me.

  We spin round in unison at the sound of Jacob entering the room. He’s wearing boardies and a T-shirt, both of which still appear damp. He ogles the fourteen-metre tapestry along one wall, and then me. I’m wearing a new fitted red cotton dress pinched at the waist, yet he makes me feel like I’m naked. A blush steams up my neck and into my cheeks.

  ‘Jeez. Fancy place.’ Jacob steps further into the room and takes in the harbour views. ‘Guess you won the lottery.’

  ‘I said two months and I was right,’ shouts Maestro, arms flung wide.

  ‘My full range is back,’ I explain.

  Jacob backslaps Maestro before hugging me. ‘I always knew it’d work out,’ Jacob whispers. We both hold on a little too long before letting go.

  ‘Astrid wants to sing with you today,’ says Maestro. He doesn’t explain that I’d refused to come here without inviting Jacob to share my lesson.

  ‘What can I say?’ quips Jacob. ‘I’ve had to switch off my phone. All the sopranos want me as their partner.’ His cheeky expression tickles my belly.

  Maestro accompanies us on the grand piano in the centre of the rectangular room and has us warm-up for longer than usual, like he’s afraid to push into my upper register. I start to think this is going to be a washout session when he holds up the score for Phantom of the Opera.

  ‘I have a new challenge for you. It will build the foundations on your technique, Jacob, while we decide what style of singer you’re to be.’

  Maestro plays the intro to ‘All I Ask of You’ and Jacob slips into the first few lines. They’re right in his safe range.

  ‘Good,’ says Maestro. ‘Now focus the sound in your chest. Imagine it there. Isolate the muscle.’ Jacob’s voice builds. It’s smooth and divine. That’s the right word. And when I join him I examine how my voice shapes and holds each note, if it’s transitioning without strain, and after a while I trust it’s healed and let it climb higher into the upper register.

  Jacob grins at me and we almost miss our next cue. Our voices tangle like they’re holding hands and it’s as if we’re bubbled inside a snow globe and everything else remains on the outside. But I’m not
prepared for the intensity in Jacob’s expression when he sings to me. It’s as though he’s kissing me, running his fingers through my hair, up my back, from across the metre between us. And I don’t want him to stop.

  I’ve sung duets before, but my body has never tingled like his voice has entered my bloodstream. We sing the final bars and I know if I don’t step away as soon as the last note ends, I’ll kiss him so passionately Maestro will dig a basement under our house and lock me up forever.

  Worse, I might let Jacob into my heart.

  29

  Jacob

  Once we’ve finished singing ‘All I Ask of You’, Astrid goes home. The doc doesn’t want her to overdo things and with two weeks until the Con audition, he and I have a long session planned.

  I fight against how empty I feel whenever Astrid leaves, but it’s worse than ever today. Singing that song – the gravitas of opera, the history behind it, again overwhelmed me. I let my emotions about the boys out, and I allowed them to weave into my voice. The memories are still tough to think about, but as I recalled each one, I thought about them in a positive way, rather than hiding from them. It felt like a release. And when I sang about sharing our love, I thought of Harper. But only for a split second; it felt okay that she’s now in the past. Instead, Astrid burst into my head. I couldn’t stop myself smiling at her like a lunatic.

  I hadn’t wanted the song to stop, but when it did, I struggled to pull myself out of my head, and out of the song. That never happened when I sang with Purple Daze.

  Doc ponders Astrid’s retreating figure then swivels to address me. ‘Son.’ He stands and rests a hand on my arm. ‘Your voice is sublime. You sing from somewhere deep inside you.’ His smile grows. ‘And then when you add that depth of emotion it’s – there are no words. You will sing and others will be unable to stop themselves from staying to listen and feel and get lost in the music you sing. As I do. You have a rare talent.’