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Alek woke in the dark feeling decidedly less morose. He reached out for Ian, but instead of Ian’s warm, solid frame, a piece of paper crinkled beneath his hand. He switched on the bedside lamp.
Alek,
Couldn’t sleep. Decided to start demoing the greenhouse. DON’T COME DOWNSTAIRS WITHOUT ME! Say my name and I’ll come. I have you on speaker. Your phone’s on the end table.
Love, Ian.
Middle of the night demoing? That wasn’t a good sign. Alek unplugged his phone from the charger and disconnected the call. There was a text from Ian.
I mean it. Call me. I’ll come right up.
Alek scooted to the edge of the bed and stood. When the fuzz cleared from his vision, he walked to the staircase,and with his good hand gripping the rail tightly, made his way to the first floor. At the bottom of the stairs, he paused only long enough to catch his breath, then marched into the parlor room before he could change his mind.
The piano was waiting.
He considered leaving without playing, but the only reason he came into the parlor was to get it over with. Prove to himself that even the magic of the Victorian’s piano couldn’t find the music he’d lost.
His footsteps echoed beneath his feet and when he sat on the bench and scooted in, the scrape of the legs against the wood floor struck him with deja-vu like a zap of static electricity. He was so close. It was right there. If he could just get the memory right, it would all come back.
After a cursory search on his phone, he found a how-to video series for the novice adult. It was insulting to start at the beginning all over again, but if he could learn, he could practice.
Alek knew he’d likely never be what he was before. He’d never be able to stitch together his emotions into musical notes he could write on a page and remember forever inside his head. He’d never be able to bottle up the moment when Ian proposed to him and pour it into the piano to spit out a song with a joy so contagious it was intoxicating.
But if he could learn the basics, maybe he could parrot back songs written out for him by someone that wasn’t him, and it would be unsatisfying and boring and there’d be no color, no pictures, no connection between him and the piano and the memory of his uncle on the other end, but it would still be practice. He could keep his promise.
The production value of the Youtube video he selected was on par with 1970s amateur porn, and Walter, the how-to host, had a mustache Stalin would be proud of. About every thirtyseconds, in between an exceedingly tedious abridged life story, Walter reminded his viewers to hit the subscribe button.
While Walter blathered on, Alek decided to try to play on his own. Maybe he wouldn’t need Walter. He moved both hands to the piano. Pain shot up his broken arm while the sling kept it firmly in place. How many brain cells had the fall cost him?
He shook his head, rolled his shoulders, and readied his one good hand over the keys. He knew these keys. Before the fall he could have recognized them by touch. It was quiet and distorted and far away, but he thought he could remember what the keys would say when he touched them. He reached out and pressed one, but the sound it made wasn’t the sound he was expecting. He tried another and another. None of them matched. It was like someone had shuffled them around while he was gone.
Alek’s ears began to ring. He stared at the keys until his vision became unfocused and the black and white stripes blurred together.
“I’m sorry,” he told the piano.
While Alek apologized to an inanimate object, Walter had reached the end of his introduction. First, he explained the visual landmarks to determine which notes corresponded to which keys.
“The black keys repeat in a pattern of two and three. Think chopsticks and forks,” Walter said in a tinny, echoing voice. “Start with middle ‘C’. It’s the white key in front of the center-most chopsticks on the keyboard. ‘C’ for chopsticks. Is it starting to make sense?”
Alek wondered if Walter had a secret sex dungeon in a shack that he pretended was storage for his instruments. Meanwhile, Walter demonstrated the exercise. Starting with his pinky, then ring finger, and so on and so forth, he depressed the next five keys, one after the other.
Next, it was the viewer’s turn to follow along with him. Alek’seyes shifted back and forth between the keys and the video while he tripped and stumbled over his fingers, until he finally caught up near the tail end of it. It was literally the simplest of exercises at the slowest speed, led by a video instructor, but he did it.
On the screen, Walter smiled wide. “Now give yourself a pat on the back.” Walter paused, waiting for his viewers to do as he said.
Alek scowled. It was almost as sociopathic as when public speakers made crowds repeat back “good morning” until the response was suitably enthusiastic. He paused the video and tried again by himself. He was able to play. Agonizingly slow and imperfect, but he could remember and he could learn. So there was that.
He tried again, faster this time, but the rhythm slipped through his fingers and he lost his place and his head started to ache and the nausea came back. He clenched his eyes closed and considered slamming the fallboard shut just for the satisfaction, but it would be sacrilegious to treat his piano that way. Abusing the keyboard the hospital loaned him was one thing, but hurting his piano in a fit of rage? No. He’d find another outlet.
“You played.”
Alek turned. Ian stood in the doorway. Sweat stained the neck of his shirt and a line of dirt smudged his forehead. When he stepped closer, Alek spied a stray leaf in his hair.
“How’s the jungle?” Alek asked.
“Overwhelming.” Ian sat down, straddling the bench, a stern look on his face. “I told you not to come down without me.”
Alek turned to face him. “I don’t like to be told what to do.”
