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She thought it was a flu. She holed up in her bedroom, not wanting to give it to the rest of us. By the time my father realized how ill she was, it was too late. She died of meningitis after being sick only two days.
My father felt horribly guilty. He still does.
In our world, you know that you might lose a family member in a violent way. The Gallos have lost more than our share. But you don’t expect the silent thief, some disease striking a woman so young and otherwise healthy.
Papa was devastated. He loved my mother intensely.
He saw her perform in the Riviera Theater. He sent flowers and perfume and jewelry to her for weeks before she agreed to have dinner with him. He was twelve years older than her and already infamous.
He wooed her for two more years before she agreed to marry him.
I don’t know what she thought about his job, or his family. I know she adored her children, at least. She always talked about her three handsome boys and me, her last little surprise.
Dante has her focus. Nero has her talent. Sebastian has her kindness. I don’t know what I have—her eyes, I suppose.
I can play the piano a little. Not like her, though.
I see Papa’s broad, suited shoulders hunched over the keys. He touches middle C with a finger almost too thick to stay within the bounds of the key. Papa has a massive head that sits almost directly on his shoulders. Dark, curly hair with shocking streaks of white. His eyebrows are as thick as my thumb. They’re still black, and so is his mustache. But his beard is gray.
“Come play with me, Aida,” he says without turning around.
It’s impossible to sneak up on him. And not just in our house, where the stairs creak.
I sit down next to him on the bench. He slides over to make room for me.
“Play your mother’s song,” he says.
I spread my fingers over the keys. Every time, I think I’m going to forget it. I couldn’t tell you how it starts, or even hum it properly. But the body remembers much more than the brain.
She played this song over and over. It wasn’t her most difficult, or even the most beautiful. Just the one that
stuck in her head.
Gnossienne No. 1 by Erik Satie. An odd and haunting piece.
It starts out rhythmic, mysterious. Like a question. Then it seems to answer angrily, dramatically. Then it repeats, though not quite the same.
There are no time signatures or bar divisions. You can play as you like. Mama sometimes played it faster or slower, harder or softer depending on her mood. After the second time through, it transitions into a sort of bridge—the most melancholy bit of all. Then back to the beginning once more.
“What does it mean?” I asked her when I was little. “What’s a gnossienne?”
“Nobody knows,” she said. “Satie invented it.”
I play it for Papa.
He closes his eyes, and I know he’s imagining her hands on the keys, moving much more sensitively than mine can.
I see her slim frame rocking with the motion of the music, her gray eyes closed. I can smell the fresh lilacs she kept in a vase by the window.
When I open my own eyes, the room is darker than she kept it. The oak trees have grown thicker and taller since then, crowding the window. There’s no vase anymore, no fresh flowers.
Nero is standing in the doorway—tall, slim, black hair falling over one eye, face as beautiful and cruel as an avenging angel.
“You should play it,” I say to him. “You’re better than me.”
He gives one quick shake of his head and heads back down the stairs. I’m surprised he came up here to begin with. He doesn’t like reminiscing. Or displays of emotion. Or anniversaries.
Papa is looking at the ring on my left hand. It weighs my hand down and makes it hard to play.
