When I mentioned it to Anna, she didn’t even bat an eye.
“You’re planning on doing a big kitchen clean-up, aren’t you?” she asked me, pouring herself a cup of tea.
“Send me the address. I’d like to see what you gave up everything for.”
“I don’t want her coming in here and distorting what she sees, darling.”
“She’s going to distort it anyway. It’s… it’s who we are. Let her distort everything, that’s what she does.”
I cleaned up, but I didn’t stage anything.
The refrigerator covered in magnets remained exactly as it was.
The messy shoe rack by the door was still there too.
I cleaned up, but I didn’t stage anything.
My mother arrived the following afternoon, perfectly on time. She was wearing a camel-colored coat and heels that clicked on our uneven driveway. Her perfume hit me even before she entered.
I opened the door and she came in without saying hello.
She glanced around, then gripped the door frame as if she needed to regain her balance….
… she came in without saying hello.
She crossed the living room as if the floor might collapse beneath her heels.
“Oh my God! What is this?”
His gaze swept over every surface, lingering on the second-hand sofa, the scratched coffee table, and the pale crayon marks Aaron had once drawn along the baseboards that I had never bothered to erase.
She stopped in the corridor.
His gaze swept over every surface.
His gaze lingered on the erased handprints outside Aaron’s room, green stains he himself had left after we repainted his room together. In the far corner of the room stood the upright piano.
The varnish was worn in places and the left pedal squeaked when used. One of the keys was stuck.
Aaron came in from the kitchen, a glass of juice in his hand. He glanced at it, then looked at the piano. Without a word, he climbed onto the bench and began to play.
One of the keys was stuck.
My mother turned around when she heard the sound and froze.
The melody was slow and hesitant.
Chopin. The same piece she made me repeat, hour after hour, until my hands went numb from so much repetition.
“Where did he learn that?” she asked. Her voice was calmer now, but not gentle.
“He asked me,” I replied. “So I taught him.”
Aaron went downstairs and crossed the room, holding a sheet of paper in both hands.
Chopin. The same piece she had made me rehearse relentlessly.
