Chapter Thirty-Three
DEAR PROFESSOR Hochsteiner,
I’m not sure how to start this letter, but since you’ve probably never received one like it, you might not know how it should start either, so I’m just going to dive in.
“I Am My Beloved’s,” submitted for your consideration by Mr. Victor Nelson, was actually my piece. I wrote it entirely on my own. I am enclosing another one of my compositions as proof. I think you will see the similarities in style as well as handwriting.
Why would someone voluntarily submit their own work under someone else’s name?
I’ve been asking myself the same thing, and the answer that keeps coming to mind is that at the time I thought it the right thing to do.
Victor’s number was drawn early in the recent draft lottery, and we both were afraid for his future.
He was so afraid, in fact, that he could not come up with an idea for his audition piece on his own.
Desperate to help him and under the pressure of the approaching deadline, I offered him my work, and he accepted it and submitted it under his name.
Since “I Am My Beloved’s” is mine, not Victor Nelson’s, I am humbly and respectfully requesting that the spot you awarded him be given to me instead, or that an additional space in the program for next fall could be carved out for me to attend.
As I am the one who wrote the piece, I am the one who earned that spot, and thus I believe a spot is rightfully mine.
If our mutual deception is so grievous that you cannot accept either of us, I understand and won’t bother you any further.
But since in your note to Victor you expressed an eagerness to work with the composer of “I Am My Beloved’s,” and since you said such things as “a remarkable talent” and “a brilliance rarely seen,” I wanted you to know the truth.
Whatever decision you make regarding that truth is yours alone, and I will respect it.
But if you find it in your heart to accept me to Whitehall, I am all yours.
Most sincerely, apologetically, and hopefully,
Miss Iris Wallingford
I removed the sheet of paper from my father’s typewriter, scribbled my signature at the bottom, then grabbed an envelope and a stamp from the desk drawer.
My heart hammered. I still feared Victor pounding on the front door and demanding my notebook.
But I’d left his house hours ago and had seen nothing. Heard nothing.
I wondered whether that would still be the case if he knew what I was doing now.
But coming clean was the right thing. Whether Victor agreed with me or not, I needed to do this. I doubted they’d reward me with his spot at Whitehall. But nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Even if Whitehall wasn’t part of my future, I’d be fine, because I was free.
I’d freed myself of Victor and all his self-centered drama.
I still didn’t know what real love with a boy felt like.
I knew now what it was like to love one.
But I didn’t know what it was like to be loved by one, because Victor hadn’t truly loved me.
Though I was sure I’d feel sad about that at some point, I now felt more relieved than anything else.
Two and a half more months of high school and then Victor would be out of my life forever and I’d never have to see him again.
I could cut ties and move forward and find someone who loved me for me.
Or not. Maybe I’d be happier on my own. Maybe I’d become a famous composer.
Maybe a music teacher. For a second it was tempting to dream.
Oh, well. Whatever God decided. He had a wonderful plan for my future.
Plan.
Dream.
Future.
Melody rushed into my heart. Harmony followed close on her heels. A piece entered my head. Just a motive, a few bars. But it was beautiful, and I had to write it down.
Wait. No. I had to mail the letter to Whitehall first.
What was their address? My rejection letter was probably still in my room somewhere. I rounded the corner and went down the hall to my room. Maybe my desk?
I moved a pile of papers, and in the process I knocked over the little bottle of pills.
Right. Those pills.
I needed to start taking them again.
Victor thought I suspected him of lying to me, of using me, because I’d stopped taking the pills. If I went back on them, that would show him it had nothing to do with the pills.
Let’s see . . . how many days had it been since I’d taken them? Two . . . three . . . four . . . Four days.
I was supposed to take two a day, so . . . wow. That’d be eight pills.
That seemed like kind of a lot. But I had to get caught up, right? Had to get my brain back in working order.
Maybe if I just took half. I could take the other four tomorrow, and then I’d be all caught up.
I picked up the bottle and squinted to read the little label. May cause drowsiness.
Well, it was almost bedtime anyway. Maybe a good night’s sleep would be just the thing.
I had a glass of water on my nightstand, so I downed it along with the pills. Thank goodness they were small.
Okay. That was out of the way. Now I needed to find the rejection letter from Whitehall so I could get the address.
Oh. There. In the desk drawer. I carefully printed the address on the envelope I’d retrieved from my father’s study, then sealed and stamped it.
The music was getting louder in my heart. More insistent.
I’m sorry, Melody. Apologies, Harmony. I’ll pay attention to you soon, I promise. But you represent my new life, and I have to start it on the right foot.
I went downstairs, slipped out the front door, and hurried down the sidewalk. It was cold out, because of course it was. This was the part of the year when it seemed like spring would never come. But the tree in the front yard boasted tiny buds.
Spring would be here soon. We just had to hold on. Be patient.
I whispered a brief prayer and slid the letter into the mailbox.
As soon as I did, I felt ten pounds lighter.
Whitehall would know the truth now. Whether it made any difference or not, whether it meant Victor didn’t get to go anymore, whether it meant neither of us did, I couldn’t control.
All I could do was the right thing. And telling the truth was the right thing.
Back in the warmth, I hurried upstairs to my room and sat down at the desk.
Thank you for your patience, Melody. Much appreciated, Harmony. And thank you, God, for these new ideas. Let’s get to work.
As usual when I composed, I lost track of time.
The notes seemed to pour from my heart to the tip of my pencil and onto the page.
Notes of worship. Of repentance for placing Victor on the throne that belonged to God.
Of gratitude for the second chance he’d given me, of the plans he had for my life.
I erased, revised, and rewrote until what was written on the paper matched what I heard in my head.
After writing the soprano line, the main melody, I felt a little dizzy. An annoyance, though. Nothing debilitating. Barely noticeable. I sipped some water and kept going.
The harmonies filled in nicely. The first page was done. As I turned to the second page, though, I noticed my fingernails looked a touch blue.
Blue? That had never happened before.
Must’ve just been the cold. Or maybe I’d been gripping the pencil too hard. Cutting off circulation. I tried to relax my grip, but my hand wouldn’t cooperate.
I didn’t know what was going on with me, but I needed to finish this piece before I could pay attention to anything else. Melody and Harmony could be unrelenting taskmasters, but the work was so lovely, so enjoyable, that I didn’t mind at all.
And this piece . . . this piece felt important.
Something about it was absolutely crucial for me to write down.
The notes burned in my heart, dying for an escape onto the page.
I wrote and wrote and wrote, and when I’d fully harmonized the first phrase, I wanted to cheer like crowds do when their team scores a touchdown.
This piece was . . . It was good.
I rarely thought that about my own work, but this time it was undeniable. This piece was even better than “I Am My Beloved’s.”
Probably because it wasn’t about Victor. He had nothing to do with this piece. In fact, I’d barely even thought about him for however long I’d been . . .
. . . what was the word . . .
Writing. Yes.
What? What was I . . .
Oh. Yes. The piece. I didn’t write it for Victor. I wrote it for God, and about God, and about how much he loved me even though I didn’t deserve it, and about how even if a human man never loved me the way I needed to be loved, Jesus would.
He already did.
Tears streamed down my face, and my heart felt like it was breaking. I just wanted to go to bed and pull the covers up over my—
No. I did that before. This felt a lot like before, when I didn’t get into Whitehall in the first place.
Was the anxiety coming back?
Couldn’t let that happen. I had work to do.
The pills were right there. A few of them still lay scattered on the desk. I grabbed two? Three? I didn’t count them. Whatever. I swigged them down with the last of the . . .
. . . the water.
Yeah. The water.
Wow. I was exhausted. Composing usually took it out of me, but never like this.
I felt like all the life force had just drained from me.
Like I’d run a marathon and followed it up by climbing a mountain.
My arms and legs weighed a ton. My eyelids .
. . it took all my strength to keep them open . . .
No. I had to finish.
But the notes on the page, they just swam and blurred, and I couldn’t even hold my pencil anymore.
I was so sleepy that I worked hard even to breathe.
I . . . I had to go to bed. I had to sleep. I needed rest. I couldn’t force it anymore. I’m sorry, Melody. Sorry, Harmony. I’ll be back soon, I promise. I’m just so very, very sleepy.
The bed was so plush. So inviting. The roses on the quilt became almost three dimensional. Like a field of flowers welcoming me into their fragrant embrace.
So I fell. I let them hold me.
They really were beautiful flowers.
When my eyes opened, light streamed into my bedroom.
Was it morning already? I hoped not. I still wanted to sleep.
The light was so beautiful. I wanted to go straight toward it, but I thought its brightness would hurt my eyes.
I rolled over, and . . . someone sat next to me. A man.
I should’ve been scared, but I only felt peace. The deepest peace I’d ever known. The man wore a long robe, and his skin and eyes were brown, his hair was black, and he had a beard . . .
I’d never seen this man before, but I knew his name in an instant. Jesus.
He smiled at me with such love, such kindness . . .
“What . . . what are you doing here?” I asked.
“It’s time to come home, Iris.” His gentle voice sounded like a cello. A whole orchestra of cellos, rich and sweet.
“Home? But this is my bedroom. I’m already home.”
“Not this home. Your real one. With me.”
The light brightened, but strangely, it didn’t hurt my eyes.
“Wait . . . home? Home? Like . . . heaven, home? I’m only seventeen.”
That didn’t seem important anymore, though. In the light, Jesus was so warm and wonderful and inviting, and I felt so loved. So very perfectly loved.
This was the love I’d longed for my whole life. From my parents. From Victor. From my nonexistent friends. The love was here, in the person of Jesus. It was Jesus, and how could I not have gone with him? I’d have followed him anywhere.
At the very edges of the light, in my peripheral vision, Flora hovered.
Flora?
What was our maid doing in my room? Why was she coming toward me with a pillow in her hands?
“Don’t worry about her.” Jesus’s voice was as gentle as ever. “Just come with me.”
So I did. I took his hand, and he helped me up. As heavy as my limbs were earlier, now they were featherlight, almost like I didn’t even have them anymore. I floated to him, and he caught me in his arms.
I heard music. Just the faintest strains of music, but they wrapped themselves around my heart anyway. Voices and strings and instruments I’d never heard before, never even imagined, music so gorgeous it brought tears to my eyes.
“There’s so much music at home, Iris.” That deep, rich voice rumbled against my cheek. “And you’ll help create it. You’re going to write beautiful music here. You and I. Together. Forever. We’ve got all the time in the world.”
He carried me toward the light. The music built with every step.
And in his arms, in this light, surrounded by this music, was where I’d always wanted to be.