8. Conrad
CONRAD
Two weeks after the household plague, the world finally started looking less waterlogged.
The lawn had gone from a swamp to something resembling actual grass again, and the trees along the drive had begun showing off with new leaves.
Spring had stopped making threats and started making promises, which was convenient because CJ and Bianca’s school recital landed right in the middle of that fragile seasonal optimism.
I was late—not egregiously late, according to every clock I checked with increasing desperation—but late enough that my phone buzzed while I sat at a red light behind a landscaping truck.
The message was from Winnie.
Where are you?
I stared at it for a second longer than traffic laws recommended.
Winnie had never texted me before.
She only ever phoned, and even then, she tended to handle most communication in person. Her text looked formal. No emoji. No unnecessary punctuation. No softening exclamation point. Just three words that had me sitting straighter in my seat.
I typed back one-handed, then deleted it because one-handed texting while driving was irresponsible and because my first attempt said Omw, which suddenly felt too casual.
At a red light, I tried again.
Two minutes away. Save me a seat?
Her response came almost immediately.
Already done.
Something stirred in my gut, and it wasn’t the Chinese food I had for lunch. It was ridiculous. She was my nanny. She had saved me a chair at a school recital, not thrown herself between me and an oncoming train.
Still, the message, the considerate action, was making me feel things I hadn’t felt in a long while. I told myself not to be weird about it, then spent the next two minutes being weird about it anyway.
The school parking lot was already packed when I arrived. I found a spot near the back and hurried toward the auditorium, trying not to look as frantic as I felt. I’d loosened my tie, and my hair had suffered the consequences of me running my hand through it at least eleven times during the day.
The end of the financial year always turned my office into a pressure cooker. Everyone needed me to sign off on something or answer a question that could have been an email or, preferably, a private thought they never shared with me at all.
The auditorium doors were closing when I slipped inside. The lights were already dimming, and the room was jam-packed with parents, grandparents, siblings, teachers, and the particular pre-performance electricity produced by children trying hard not to look excited.
I scanned the rows, spotting Winnie near the middle with Billie beside her and an empty seat on her other side.
She wore black, naturally. Tonight’s outfit involved a high-necked dress, gloves, a tiny black hat instead of the wide-brimmed one, and sunglasses perched atop her head, even though we were indoors and it was after sunset.
When Billie saw me, she waved her arms like a miniature air traffic controller. Winnie turned, her face softening in a way I had been noticing far too much lately.
I slid into the saved seat just as the lights dimmed fully. “Thank you,” I whispered.
“Cutting it rather close,” she murmured.
“Traffic.”
Her brows lifted.
I shrugged. “And work.”
“There it is.”
Billie leaned across Winnie’s lap. “Bianca said if you missed CJ’s piano thing, she was going to put your name in her villain notebook.”
I frowned. “She has a villain notebook?”
Winnie adjusted the folded program in her lap. Before I could stop myself, I looked at her. Her mouth curved in an amused grin.
The curtain opened, saving me from possibly embarrassing myself. I tended to say the dumbest string of words when Winnie was around. I really needed to work on that.
The first group was the third-grade chorus, which meant neither of my older children was on stage yet. I still watched because Billie knew half the kids and offered commentary in a whisper that had no understanding of acoustics.
“Her bow is falling off. Someone should rescue it.”
Winnie bent her head to Billie’s ear. “Quietly, please.”
Billie nodded solemnly, then whispered, “That kid ate paste last month.”
I pressed my lips together and focused on the stage.
CJ came out next with the fifth and sixth-grade music group. He wore the school’s formal concert blazer and looked far more serious than any eleven-year-old had the right to look. His curls had been flattened somewhat, though one section near the back had staged an uprising.
He walked to the piano bench and sat down with dignity and grace.
I was so damn proud of that kid.
I’d heard him practice, obviously, though it usually came in fragments. Occasionally he had a dramatic burst, after which he announced he was “channeling a doomed composer.” But it was different to see him there, under the stage lights, his hands poised over the keys.
He began a simple classical piece I only recognized because he’d complained about it for three weeks. His fingers moved tentatively at first, then with more confidence. He made one tiny mistake, barely anything, and his mouth tightened before he moved through it.
I wanted to stand up and cheer right then. I didn’t, because Bianca would have disowned me, and CJ would have moved to another state under an assumed name.
When he finished, the applause shattered the awed silence. Cheeks flushed, he stood, bowing with more drama than necessary.
His eyes found me. I grinned and gave him a thumbs-up. He tried to look unimpressed, but he failed. Beside me, Winnie clapped with complete sincerity.
“He was wonderful,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said, because anything that required more vocabulary than that might have cracked something open that neither of us were ready for.
Bianca performed with the fourth-grade chorus. She had explained in advance that she was not “performing” but “participating in a required ensemble assessment,” which was Bianca-speak for I’m nervous and would rather chew glass than admit it.
She stood on the second riser near the center, cardigan buttoned over her recital dress, hair pulled back with a ribbon. She lifted her chin slightly, looking more composed than half the adults in the room.
The song began.
Bianca sang with precise focus, watching the music teacher’s hands. Every few moments, her gaze roamed over the audience. Toward us. Toward me.
I smiled every time.
At intermission, I was already floating a little from having seen CJ and Bianca perform. Their second performances were still ahead. I’d made the right call by leaving work early. Being present for my kids, seeing their achievements, was what mattered.
Then my phone buzzed. I took it out of my pocket and glanced at the screen. Peterson.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again. Then again.
My stomach tightened with irritation. I stepped into the aisle, keeping my head low. “I’ll be right back.”
Winnie looked at me with a scowl. “Now? Are you serious?”
“It’s one call.”
Her expression did not change much, but her eyes cooled.
Outside the auditorium, the hallway was bright and crowded with parents stretching legs and children sneaking snacks from coat pockets. I found a quiet spot near a trophy case and answered.
“Peterson, this better be important,” I said.
He launched into a crisis involving numbers that did not match, a client who wanted revised models before morning, and a document that apparently couldn’t wait until I’d watched my daughter sing about seasonal renewal.
I kept checking the time. The lights flickered once, signaling everyone back inside.
“I need to go,” I said.
“I understand, but if we don’t address this before the board packet locks?—”
I looked toward the auditorium doors. I could hear applause starting inside.
I should’ve hung up. Instead, I said, “Send me the file.”
By the time I slipped back into the auditorium, the second half had already begun. I moved down the aisle as quietly as possible, but a woman in the end seat still gave me a look most people reserved for dirty politicians.
Bianca’s group was already on stage when I sat down.
My stomach dropped.
I reached my seat and sat carefully. Billie pouted at me, her arms crossed over her chest. Winnie didn’t look at me at all. That bothered me, but I told myself not to make it about me.
Bianca was singing. That was what mattered. She saw me eventually. I smiled and mouthed sorry.
She smiled back, but it was too quick.
Something uncomfortable moved through me, but I pushed it aside. I was here. I’d seen the first half. I was watching the second half. It had been difficult to get here, but I was present. Surely improvement counted for something?
After the recital, the kids came out bright and flushed.
CJ acted as though the evening had been an exhausting burden that an unjust society had placed upon him, but he stayed close enough to my side that his shoulder bumped mine twice.
Bianca pretended she didn’t care about praise while probably memorizing every compliment word for word.
“You nailed it,” I told her.
“It was adequate.”
“It was much better than adequate, Bianca. I heard that part where you harmonized. Beautiful.”
“Several people came in late during the second half,” she said.
My heart stuttered. “Yeah,” I said. “I noticed that.”
Her face smoothed over. “It’s okay. You saw the main part.”
“I saw you,” I said, and meant it.
She studied her feet, but she gave me a slight nod.
Before I could say anything else, CJ tugged my sleeve. “Can we get something to eat? Performing uses tremendous amounts of energy.”
Winnie stood slightly apart from us, her expression unreadable.
I turned toward the kids. “How does ice cream sound?”
CJ perked up. “At the place with the ridiculous sundaes?”
“Obviously.”
Bianca tried her best not to look pleased. “They have espresso chip.”
I shook my head. “No espresso chip for you. You’re nine.”
Billie bounced. “Can I get the one with worms?”
“Gummy worms,” I clarified.
“All worms are gummy on the inside.”
Winnie made a small sound that might have been disgust or amusement. It was difficult to tell.