by Jessie Tu
I bring a hand to the back of my neck.
‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘this experiment went on for about a year. I’d take you in about once a month. I don’t know why I kept going. Maybe I hoped you would change. That one day you would actually notice when I left you alone. But you never did.’
We look around the empty room, avoiding eye contact, the bag of old clothes sitting between us.
‘I think I wanted some time apart from you after all that playing,’ she confesses. ‘I wanted my own space. After all those years of touring, I think I just needed to stop for a while. I craved a bit of my own identity, maybe. You understand that now, I hope?’
Sometimes, I don’t know where my body is. Space, relation, distance. There are moments when I’m playing the violin onstage and feel as if my heart has transcended the physical world, and I find that I can’t join the body with my consciousness. Of being utterly detached from flesh and thoughts.
‘When you told me you were ready to come home from Wayne, I knew you’d want to play the violin again. I was nervous. I didn’t want you to fall into the trap your grandpapa did. I didn’t want you to neglect every other part of your life. And you are a girl. I knew that you would probably face harsher penalties for not doing those ordinary things. But of course, selfishly, part of me wanted you to play again because at least I’d know what sort of role I could play in your life. I was useful to you when you were playing. Without that, I didn’t know who I was.’
I stand to twist the string of the bag around my fingers.
‘So I’m going to drop this in the donation bin on my way home. Do you have anything you want me to take?’
Her face flushes into a mortified droop. It’s such a terrifying expression I don’t know what to do. So I walk out the door, gripping tightly to the bag. I don’t look back.
55
A call wakes me mid-afternoon while I’m in a shallow nap. Banks wants to know why I haven’t made the effort to see him. I’ve been back for three months now. He’d been looking forward to a debrief but he never heard from me. His voice is accusatory. He tells me he’s been lingering around the Conservatorium hoping I might drop in after a concert or rehearsal.
I run out of excuses. I cannot lie, so I don’t. I tell him I’m tired. I’m busy. I put my body and its wellbeing above cultivating his sense of worthiness. Then we hang up. A golf ball stuck in my throat. I delete his contact from my phone, though I know his number by heart.
Banks. Will I hurt for the rest of my life? Is that my burden to bear?
I wonder if my mother ever told him about the experiments. The university research. This must be what she felt all her life: that the child who was born of her womb might as well have been a stranger from another universe. I wonder if I’d have still been a violinist had I been the firstborn instead of Rebecca. Would I be the pretty one?
My mother’s story doesn’t feel like a story about me. I remember always being desperate for her to touch me, but feeling I could never reach out to her. I had always thought the distance came from her side. But maybe my mother needed the touch as much as I did.
Perhaps my mother had desires of her own, desires outside of my existence, outside of her role as mother and manager. Maybe she was too good at hiding it. But she did it because she believed at the time, and for all those years, that my hunger was more important, that my life was worth more than hers. That my talent meant more to the world, and to me, than anything she desired for herself. She knew that our hearts could not compete; that for one to be fulfilled, the other had to break. She broke her own heart for me. And then I went ahead and destroyed everything.
On the weekend, I receive an email from Tuba. My chest constricts. The two-second wait for the email to load. Three. Four. Five.
I scroll through it quickly to see how long it is. It’s long. I scroll back up to the beginning and start reading.
He is setting up a new ensemble called the New York Chamber Group. Most players he has approached are Curtis and Juilliard graduates.
It’ll be one of the best groups in the world. Forget the Philharmonic. They’re outdated. The repertoire will be diverse. Each concert will include at least one work by a female composer. We’ll collaborate with dance groups and artists from Brooklyn and hold monthly funks, which are performances based on improvised ideas. I’ve already been offered funding by that rich woman we met at the New Year’s Day Gala. Do you remember her? She’s willing to sponsor your visa too. You can stay with me until you find a place. She has lots of money. Good to know people with a lot of money.
I read the email twice, then put my phone down and go into the bathroom to look at my eyebrows. I pick up the tweezers and pluck at a few stray hairs. I stand back and look at the symmetry again. Then I go back to my phone and read the email again, this time focusing on the line:
We want you to lead the group.
Is this the silver lining? A second chance? Something always catches me on my way down. If I don’t take this, what else will come my way? I had returned to playing for a reason. The reason is crystallising now. I have to believe that everything happens for a reason. That I can be someone again.
I pick up my phone and call my mother. I read her the email.
She is silent until I’m done, then she asks, ‘Do you remember what I told you about the experiment?’
‘Of course.’
‘You know, I’ve carried that story with me for all these years. I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, but I knew you’d be too young to understand. It was a burden, you see. You do see that now, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I felt ashamed, too. To let a baby affect me so much.’
We listen to the grey noise at the other end of the line. The cackle of a wavering bird on her end. The thrum of a buzzing motorcycle coasting in my ear.
‘Everything was crazy. I held on to you because I was scared that the universe didn’t think I was worthy to be your mother. Or enough. I needed to prove that I could nurture something great.’
I want to hold her hand. Open my arms to her. I imagine my body meeting hers in an embrace. But I stay there, motionless, phone pressed against my ear, speechless. There is nothing to say. I don’t say anything at all.
Two nights later, Tuba calls while I’m eating a sandwich. When I see his name flash on my screen, I panic; the same panic I used to feel as a child, when, on the rare occasion I was home, someone would ring the doorbell, and I’d feel the panic of indecision erupt in my chest. Answer the door? Or don’t answer the door? Acknowledge, or pretend nobody is home?
‘What are you doing?’ he asks.
I have to put the plate down on the sink because my hands are shaking. ‘Nice to speak to you too.’
He laughs into the phone. ‘It’s getting really warm here. I think I prefer winter.’
I crack open my mouth to laugh along, but nothing comes out.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask him.
‘I want to chat about the email. Have you thought about it?’
I walk out onto the balcony.
‘It’s only been two days.’
‘Exactly. Two days too long.’
I wait for him to fill the silence.
‘Are you only calling me because of the job?’ he asks.
‘What? You called me.’
In my ear, I hear his voice, clear and low and strong; police sirens in the background.
‘Tell me about the city,’ I say. ‘Where are you?’
We talk for over an hour: about his new housemate, the rats, the congested bathroom drain and the condom packets lying around the apartment. The concert he saw the previous night. A Japanese tuba player. Jazz. ‘Out of this world,’ he says excitedly. A new concert series with the local conservatorium. The long meetings with the rich woman from the gallery. A new lover, who has, since last night, become his ex. The subway strikes. The terror his black and brown friends feel, and their families. The uncertainty of the future. We talk abo
ut my dream of living in New York.
‘Don’t you want this?’ he asks. ‘To make something of yourself over here? You said there’s nothing in Sydney worth waking up for. Nothing worth bettering yourself for.’
‘I have no interest in being virtuous.’
‘That’s exactly why New York City is perfect for you.’
Val enters the kitchen, keys dangling between her fingers. She opens the fridge and extracts a bottle of orange juice. I wave at her as she mouths something, which I miss; and leaves through the back door.
‘Why are you being so nice now?’ I ask. ‘It wasn’t strange? That I slept with that ex of yours?’
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Clicks his tongue. ‘Yeah, sorry if I was an asshole. I don’t care anymore about all that, frankly. I care about this. Our music. This ensemble is really something I’ve been thinking about a lot. I mean, why not? Why not now?’
56
Like a prized secret, I carry the decision in my heart for as long as I can without announcing it to the world. I defer it until I absolutely need to let those around me know. For seven days, I tell no one. It was an easy decision to make, in the end, because I’d known Sydney was never going to enliven my spirit; my hunger, my discontent.
When I do eventually tell others—my mother first, then Val, then Banks—they each express their pleasure. On hearing that I am moving to New York, Banks says, ‘Well, that’s to be expected. Perhaps you can still make it to Juilliard?’
‘Very funny. You were the one who said I didn’t need to go.’
I call him on a Monday morning. He sounds happy to hear from me.
‘I was right. You were so much better than anyone else.’
Finally, one evening in the shower, I tell Mark.
He is lathering shampoo into my hair and rubbing foam into my scalp.
‘I’ve taken it.’
‘What?’
His hands stop moving.
I turn around, eyes still closed. ‘I said I’m moving to New York.’
The sound of water splashing against tiles. There’s never been a lonelier sound.
I palm my face and open my eyes. Mark’s expression is flat and colourless. For the first time since I’ve known him, he looks his age.
‘When?’ he asks.
‘August.’
He looks defeated, wounded. I know that look. It’s the look Banks used to give me when I didn’t do what he asked. If I overplayed a phrase or took the third movement of a concerto faster than he suggested.
A look of defeat, disappointment.
‘Good for you,’ Mark says. He places his hand on one of my shoulders and turns me around, continues rubbing my scalp, his fingers massaging the top of my skull more softly than before.
‘Good for you,’ he says again, his voice softer.
A few weeks later, after dinner at Mark’s, I run the kitchen tap and pour dishwashing liquid into a bowl. I soak the cutlery in the water and leave the plates in the sink. Mark moves behind me and tugs on the edge of my shirt. I nudge him with a strong hand, and he counters with a bent arm just as I dip my head. His elbow knocks hard into my nose. Blood pours, a warm trail moving into my mouth and gums.
He brings me tissues, rubs my back while I lean back, pinching the bridge of my nose.
‘Shit.’
‘I’m fine.’
I walk to the bathroom, lift my chin and peer up my nose to survey the damage. He follows me, then kneels, pressing his face into my crotch. I can feel the tip of his nose.
‘You smell so good.’ He rubs his cheek against my thigh. Tries to lift my skirt.
‘You’ve injured me enough.’ I put my hand over my skirt and grip his head, hard, hoping he’ll get up. Release me.
He looks up at me from the floor. ‘Marry me.’
I put a hand on his shoulder, steady myself.
‘What?’
He does not move. Instead he repeats the question. Slides his hand to the small of my back. I am frightened of what might happen. Frightened by my own desires and where that might lead me.
‘Please get up.’
His eyes widen. ‘You have to say yes.’
‘What? What is this?’
I shift my balance away from him but his grip is tight.
‘Let go of me.’
He grips even tighter. ‘Do you love me?’
I try to arrange my features into an expression that matches his, but I can’t read his face. Is it defiance? Humiliation?
Yes. Yes, I do love you. Perhaps if I say this, he will let go of me.
Don’t leave. Don’t let me be alone.
Something inside me is always moving.
‘Do you love me?’ he asks again.
When did love became a threat?
I want for him to not look at my face, because I am scared the truth will be too obvious. I don’t know how to arrange my lips, my cheeks, the muscles in my forehead.
I go to cover my face with both hands, but my nose is still bleeding, and my hands are full of bloodied tissues. I know I do not love him, I have never loved him, but it feels like such an admission might now be dangerous.
I stand with my eyes locked on his and wait for him to say more. But then I realise he is waiting on me.
My father once told me that deception is actually a kindness. Hide the truth, because the truth always hurts. Did this man deserve my truth?
I know that whatever I do now will change everything.
He is patient, waiting for a response. I pull him to his feet and hold him. I kiss him because it buys me more time to think. But he draws away, takes my face in his hands—those hands which I have come to love because they are large and strong but which now feel oppressive.
Maybe we’d been too busy to notice the absence of love. I thought he’d shown me indifference more than anything else, and now I am confused. I hadn’t thought he cared for me at all.
‘Don’t go to New York,’ he says. ‘Stay here. I think we can make each other happy.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Stay here. Make me happy.’
A weight drops onto my chest. His expression twists into something else. Maybe he is just as confused as I am. Maybe that’s why he’d suddenly started drinking a lot.
‘Marry me. Stay here in Sydney.’
He drops to his knees again.
I pull his arm. Nothing shifts. I’m a small body trying to move a car.
‘Stop it. You need to get up.’
‘I mean it. I don’t want you to go. Don’t I make you happy? Don’t you think we can be married?’
‘Why are you asking me? This is wrong. I’m twenty-three.’
‘Because I just broke your nose and I told myself I’d propose to you if I ever hurt you accidentally.’
‘Stop lying.’
‘I love you. Do you want me to ask you again?’
‘No, please don’t. It hurts.’
‘You are hurting?’
A pained expression struggles for release behind his face.
‘No, I mean, I don’t want to hurt you.’ My voice is quivering.
He removes his hand from my waist and stands up.
‘What do you mean?’ His voice is soft, wounded.
My mouth is dry. What comes out is a small croak.
‘I don’t know.’
Three lines crease along his forehead. I press my arms to my chest, steel myself.
‘I don’t think we should see each other anymore.’
Intuitively, I bow my head, expecting what, I’m not sure. I wait, study his reaction. His face twists into an expression I don’t recognise. His eyes flit around the room; he doesn’t want to look at me because he knows he will find something he doesn’t want to see. Something resembling the truth.
‘What are you talking about? We’ve been in love for months now, haven’t we?’ A pink warmth collects at his cheeks. He could be talking to anyone. I just happen to be the object right in front of him.
/> ‘Have you?’ I ask.
‘You make me happy.’
‘That’s not the same as love.’
I lunge for the tap. My hands nervously reaching for something to move.
He slaps my hand away.
‘I want to spend my life with you.’
‘Mark, did you even hear what I said? I don’t think we should see each other anymore.’ I extract my phone from my pocket. He reaches out and grabs it.
I hold my hand out. ‘Please give me my phone back.’
‘I want to marry you.’
He’s gripping my phone in his right hand.
I ask again.
He folds his arms across his chest, clutching my phone.
I walk towards the bedroom. ‘I don’t want this.’
‘How can you say that?’ He laughs, a short manic burst. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’
He follows me into the bedroom.
‘You never loved me?’ he asks.
I don’t know where to look. I stop in my place, halted by the frank, unexpected void he’s opened.
I shake my head.
Everything is still in the apartment. For a moment, I think I hear the rattle of keys, someone to come and save me. But the sound fades; a neighbour, perhaps.
I look up at Mark’s face, finally brave enough to take what is coming my way.
But at that moment, he walks to the door. Before he leaves, he half turns and whispers, just loud enough for me to hear, ‘Fucking cunt.’
I realise later it is one of the few times I have ever heard him whisper.
That night, back home, I dream of Olivia. She has come back to me. She arrives at my apartment with a Tupperware container of brownies. She holds me in her arms and buries her face in my neck, repeating sorry, sorry, sorry. I run my hand over her long soft hair. She tells me secrets about Noah. She says she knows what I did with him, but that she’s not angry. I forgive you, she says, I forgive you. I forgive you. She is sorry she has abandoned everyone she loves. Then her body metamorphoses into a giant snake and I step back to look at my hands, which are now scaly and clasping flakes of dried skin. The snake has shed its skin. The snake slithers away. I try to run after it, but then Banks appears. He’s got a walking stick. He seems to have aged at least a decade. He’s wearing an expensive coat and a grey beret. I ask him where the snake has gone. He strikes me across the head with the stick.