on the worn sofa, which is much lower than a chair would be, and separate my knees to allow the cello space. The spike pivots on the rug. I rest it against my chest. The instrument barely clears my left ear.
My fingers hurry to their position—left hand on the strings, right hand clutching the bow. I slick wet hair behind my ears and knot it into a bun. I reposition my four fingers on the bow—pinky finger on the button, ring finger on the metal, middle finger on the hair, and the first finger resting in space. My thumb curls into the butt of the bow.
The first note shudders through my body. The defining sound thunders like a ship entering the dockyard, and I try to contain myself. I warm up, and the bow drags lower to the bridge, so that the notes are a different color entirely.
My elbow cuts the air in a precise angle. My wrist stabilizes the line between elbow and shoulder. I play the next note and the next. The familiar horn amplifies and injects the room with life. I chop the strings into separate notes.
I transition to scales, the notes as familiar to me as the shape of my son’s face. I close my eyes and let the whole tones and semi-tones captivate and transport me somewhere else. My left hand springs to life. I stretch to reach different tones—I stretch to forget. The dormant muscles shake awake.
I channel a different memory. I’m in my finest black dress with ample slits that let the fabric slither up my thighs. I wear earrings, delicate diamond studs that twinkle under the blinding symphony lights. My lips are full and red, my eyes obsessed with the notes on the page.
I am not in my pajamas, my breasts heaving with milk, in a home office in Elmhurst, Illinois. I am on stages in New York, London, Paris, Chicago. I am a traveling cellist who is defined by what her hands can do—not what her eyes don’t see.
I launch into Prokofiev’s Sinfonia Concertante. My breath comes hard and fast as my body detaches from my brain and knows just what to do. I finish, gasping. I open my eyes and the hazy landscape returns, the images of my real life here, as a mother. A widow. A cello teacher.
After running through scales once more, I put the cello away and go to my computer to check emails and Facebook. I sift through the various messages and junk and pause on a Facebook request. VoiceOver says the name: Jake Donovan. My body responds before my brain. My fingers hungrily navigate to his page and scroll to a recent photo. I wait for the audible description. “May contain man, tattoos, motorcycle, tree.” In spite of myself, I smile as an entire world comes crashing back: hotel rooms; long, romantic dinners; kisses that made my knees weak; the promise of forever; then the crushing grief of our sudden breakup when he got transferred. Over the years, I wondered if he’d ever get in touch, but Jake is chivalrous. If he knew I’d gotten married, then he would respectfully keep his distance. And he had.
Before I know what I’m doing, I audibly like the photo, then log off and do a quick cleanup of the house. I lose myself in a podcast. I feed Jackson and put him in his Pack ’n Play. When I open the fridge to grab a bottle of wine to bring to Jess’s, something bites into the edge of my palm.
“Ow.” I retract my hand. I carefully reach in and remove the serrated knife from earlier, my fingertips gliding over the handle. I turn in a slow circle, knife in hand. Did I mistakenly put it in the fridge? I mentally retrace my steps then slide the knife back into the butcher block. The blade zips into the slotted wood.
I walk around the counter to Jackson and lift him into my arms. I kiss his soft cheeks. “Mommy’s just tired,” I insist. “Right?” I bounce him until he laughs, my thoughts scattered, my pulse erratic. I gingerly put him down and continue with my pre-party dinner. I scoop noodles into a bowl and pour the meat sauce on top, but I can’t mute the worry.
I crank up the podcast, slide my bowl to the edge of the bar, and get lost in someone else’s world, but I can’t answer the single question that hammers my mind: