Chapter 16 #2
The word home snaps in my throat and I almost blurt out that I am home.
Which makes no sense, but nothing has made sense since I came to Maplewood.
And I can’t say I’m upset about it. For years, my life made sense, but was I truly happy?
The longer I’m in Maplewood, the more time I spend with Ever, the more I feel the answer to that question is a big fat, no .
I sink into the worn leather desk chair, letting the honey and pine scent of Ever envelop me. “I have everything I need here. It’s easier to fly out of Boston from here than to travel back to Philadelphia.”
“What about your car? You’ll have to return to Boston to pick up your car when you come back,” my mom says.
Covering my mouth, I yawn, my jaw cracking with the intensity of it.
The late nights are catching up with me, but I am not about to exchange midnight orgasms for sleep anytime soon.
Nor am I about to tell my parents I’m bringing Ever with me to London.
“I’ve picked up a few violin students, and Rio asked me to play on an album he’s recording.
Apparently the artist is a friend of Rain and he told her she needed violin on a couple of tracks.
And some of the Maplewood community has approached me to help them with the formation of a youth orchestra. ”
“That’s exciting,” my mom says with the same enthusiasm as if I had just told her I was the first violinist to play on the International Space Station.
As the only child, after a couple of years of infertility concerns, my parents think I’m nothing short of miraculous.
As sweet as it is, since being in Maplewood, I realize how heavy the weight of their admiration has been.
Which I’m sure has more to do with me since they have only ever supported and loved me.
Through the speaker, I hear the kettle boiling for my dad’s afternoon green tea and Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E, playing softly in the background.
Automatically, my fingers move, playing the piece I’ve performed so many times I could do it in my sleep, and a sense of calm comes over me.
My parents shared their passion for music with me and for that I will be forever thankful.
“You should come for a visit before you move to London,” my dad says.
I chuckle. “I haven’t even auditioned yet.”
“They’d be fools not to jump at the opportunity to have you,” my mom says with a mixture of pride, absolute certainty, and a hint of challenge, as if she dares anyone to say anything different.
It’s the tone that only mothers can manage.
Like she would fly to London and reprimand everyone on the search committee and demand their reasoning should they disagree.
The thing is, I’m not sure I want the job.
Obviously, I keep that to myself. It was surprising enough that I voiced my inner thoughts to Ever, who had a hard time grasping why I would ever consider not taking a position like the concertmaster of a renowned orchestra.
I can’t imagine what my parents, two lifelong orchestra musicians, would say.
Not that they wouldn’t support me in any decision I made, but how can I expect them to understand my reluctance when I don’t fully comprehend it, nor can I verbalize it?
Maybe I should talk to them. There aren’t that many people who would have the perspective they do. “Did either of you ever feel you lost your passion for the music?”
“What do you mean?” The hint of seriousness in my mother’s tone reminds me of afternoons after school, sitting at the kitchen table telling her about my day, the sound of my dad’s flute tinkling in the air from their practice room.
No matter if it was something ridiculously silly my friends and I did, a concern about a grade or audition, or crying because a boy I liked didn’t like me back, my mom listened like everything I said was the most important thing in the world.
Because my dad and I were the most important things in her world.
“I’m not sure.” I blow out a breath. “Playing in an orchestra. The schedule, the responsibility, the intensity, the competitiveness.”
Silence fills the space and I can picture my parents giving each other the look that communicates entire conversations only they can interpret.
A part of me is envious of their relationship, and maybe a little irritated that they set such a high relationship bar.
In my almost forty years, I have never experienced that kind of connection with a partner.
I rub my chest and slide deeper into the creamy leather of Ever’s chair.
Finally, my dad says, “For us, stability was the priority. Plus, the opportunity for your mom was too good to pass up. We wanted to have a home base for you.”
“With the extensive travel the orchestra does, it was better for you to have a place where you could have friends and a community,” my mom continues.
“But were there ever moments when it felt more like work than our passion? Sure. I don’t think you can do something for as long as we have and not have that from time to time. ”
Rolling my shoulders doesn’t release the tension building in them. “How do you know when it’s burnout? Or when you need to make a change.”
Another silence.
“I think that’s different for everyone,” my mom says, her tone as soothing as when she read bedtime stories to me as a boy, rubbing my head as I fought to keep my eyes open, but always losing the fight before the end of the book. “Only you will know what’s best for you.”
“Well, that’s helpful,” I snark, and she laughs.
“But it’s true,” my dad says, his tone steady and reassuring. “You’ll figure it out.”
“And you can always come home if you need time and space,” my mom adds.
“Thank you.” I yawn again, feeling better, knowing my parents will support me.
Not that I didn’t already know that, but sometimes we need a reminder.
“I’m going to go. There are some things I need to do, and I want to get in some more playing time.
” I leave out that the playing time I’m referring to is in a field with a sexy cellist performing for bees.
“Okay, lovey. Let us know when you land in London,” my mom says.
There’s some shuffling, then the low resonance of my dad’s voice, “Love you, bud.”
“Love you both.” I end the call and close my eyes, resting my head on the back of the chair, trying to envision my future.
And like all the other times I’ve tried this, the pictures in my head are murky.
The only thing that is clear is Ever. In every muddy scenario, Ever is as clear as mountain spring water.
I just hope that before too long the rest of the picture comes into focus.