The Code for Love and Heartbreak - Jillian Cantor Page 0,37
I have a little following, about fifteen residents, mostly the same ones who like music, who come to hear me play, and it gives me a chance to work out my pieces in front of a very nonjudgmental audience. They clap for everything.
Today I’ve brought the Rachmaninoff, even though I can’t play it at full tempo yet like I was telling Sam at lunch. I’m months out from the competition, but I need the practice performing it in front of a crowd, even a slightly hard of hearing one.
“Emma!” Mrs. Bates calls out for me when I walk in, waving wildly from across the room where she’s sitting today. Her other arm is linked with her husband’s. Mr. Bates has dementia, and if it weren’t for that, I don’t think Mrs. Bates would be living in an assisted facility at all. She’s eighty-six, but in great shape, mentally and physically. She runs a yoga class here, and she’d probably be off traveling through Europe if Mr. Bates were still just as fit. She comes to hear me every time I play, and sometimes afterward she grabs me and tells me stories about when she was my age. She apparently also used to play the piano. I get the feeling she likes having someone young to talk to for once.
I wave back to her before taking my seat at the piano and getting right to it. I play through the Rachmaninoff at half speed, then play through a few of their favorites: Clair de Lune and Moonlight Sonata. The notes and the rhythms of these songs I know by heart are numbers and patterns, and they always soothe me, so I relax when I play. Today, my mind drifts and I find myself thinking about Sam. The way he’d looked at me at lunch when he said he didn’t picture me ever doing anything less than perfect. He’s at choir now, and he’s probably looking at Laura, singing her perfect solo. That makes me feel weirdly annoyed and I hit the last few notes of Moonlight Sonata louder and harder than I should. But all the residents burst into applause when I’m finished.
I stand up and gather up my music. Mrs. Bates leaves her husband’s side for a minute to come talk to me, as she usually does. She’s small and trim, with bright red hair that’s teased up on her head, and she’s dressed in leggings and a big red sweater that look much too young for her. “Tell me, Emma, what’s shaking in high school this week?” She moves her hands as she talks, and the row of bangle bracelets on her wrist jingle.
“Not much, Mrs. Bates. Just studying, working hard. The usual.”
“Stanford accept you yet?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I haven’t even applied yet. So...who knows.” I shrug. The early action deadline is next week, but Ms. Taylor thinks I’ll have a better shot if I apply regular admission in January. She says I’m taking, and doing well in, so many AP classes this fall my application will be stronger with my first semester senior year grades. Plus, we’ll know by then whether we’re a finalist in all-state for coding club, and as long as we are, that could also help.
“Oh, they will,” she says. “It’s just a matter of time.”
I smile at her. She’s so kind, even though, really, she doesn’t know that much about me. But she’s part of the reason why I like coming here each week. If Mom were still alive, or if I ever talked to my grandma in Miami more than once or twice a year, I imagine she might sound something like Mrs. Bates.
Suddenly there’s shouting from the corner of the room. An aide is trying to help Mr. Bates up and he’s yelling at her to get her hands off him. Mrs. Bates casts me a quick apologetic smile, a wave goodbye and walks toward her husband, her bracelets jingling the whole way. “Honey,” she says gently. “That’s Roberta.”
“I don’t know any Roberta,” he says back. Mrs. Bates puts her hand on his arm, and his demeanor calms down. “We’re late to pick up the children, aren’t we?” he says suddenly.
“Honey, the children live in the city now, remember? They have children of their own.”
He shakes his head, confused. He doesn’t seem to remember at all.
“It’s all right,” Mrs. Bates says, standing up on her toes to kiss her husband softly on his cheek.