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By now, I knew it was because I’d never felt good enough for my father’s approval. If I got an A, his response was “why didn’t you get an A+?” When the training wheels came off my bike, rather than excitement, he criticized how long it had taken me to get there.
The constant comparisons and the put-downs, combined with little affection or praise, had done a number on me. My therapist and my friends had been counterprogramming me since. It made my brain a really wild place to be these days. I was a work in progress, but that was okay with me.
And now, well into my thirties, I was trying to own it. That wasn’t always easy, but it was one of the reasons I’d wanted to be a police officer. Not only because it was my family’s legacy, but because I was expected to give 100 percent all the time.
I’d believed that in law enforcement, integrity and fairness were essential. But it didn’t take me long to learn that, like in every other aspect of my life, I was too much for it. I cared too much. Fought tooth and nail for justice. I wasn’t built to play the political game like my father. Every case was personal, and I’d never figured out how to cultivate the cool detachment necessary to move up in that world.
So while I outwardly blamed the case that must not be named, along with my grouchy roommate, for the demise of my police career, I was beginning to understand that it had never been the right path for me. I needed a job where I could dive in, care as much as I wanted, and do all the things, all the time. And working for myself, as frustrating as it could be sometimes, gave me that.
I closed my eyes as I focused on the notes, feeling the emotion he was emanating. I was so wrapped up I didn’t notice that the music had stopped.
“Enjoying the show?” he asked, spinning around on the bench to face me.
There was absolutely no way I could play it cool after that existential experience. Especially was I was now staring straight at his thick, muscled chest. “Yes,” I said softly. “That song is so beautiful.”
“Puccini.” He put his fingers on the keys again and ran through scales. “‘Sono Andati’ fromLa Bohème.”
“Sounds vaguely familiar.”
“It’s a famous Italian opera. This young woman is on her deathbed, dying of tuberculosis.”
“Wow, that’s light and fun,” I quipped, trying to break the tension and failing.
He shrugged, tapping out a soft melody as I drifted closer. “She’s reliving all her happy memories with the man she’s fallen in love with. It’s happy and joyful and sad and sorrowful, all at once.”
I stepped even closer, pulled toward him by an invisible force. In juxtaposition with his usually stiff posture, for once, his shoulders were relaxed. Or maybe that was a sign of resignation, because he wore a soft frown, and sadness swirled in his irises.
“All in one song?”
He nodded. “All in one song. That’s why I love opera. It distills human emotion into its most potent form. Every note is meaningful. Every single measure creates feelings and tells a story.”
“I’ve never been to the opera.”
He ran his hands through his hair. It was wild and misshapen, so unlike the perfectly styled hair I was used to seeing. He had clearly been doing it for a while tonight. “Not everyone can appreciate the opera. But everyone should experience it once. I’ll take you.”
An annoying flutter in my chest forced me to move even closer. “Did I miss the opera house when I drove through town?”
“We’d need to go to New York. Once in a while, touring productions come to Boston. But there’s nothing like the Met.” His tone was soft, wistful, so unlike him.
“You’re really talented.”
“Come sit. I play modern stuff too.” He scooted over, making room for me on the bench.
I sat next to him, my leg pressed to his, and studied the gorgeous ivory keys. I could feel the heat radiating off his body and tried very hard to focus my eyes on the keys.
“Where did you get this piano?”
“It was my great-grandmother’s. During the Depression, her dad bought it from a neighbor who needed money so he could feed his family. She played until her death and then passed it along to my grandfather, who gave it to my father. My mom made us all take lessons as kids, but I was the only one who stuck with it for more than a year or so.
“When I got my first place, I took it with me. After a while, I paid a piano specialist in Boston a small fortune to restore it to its original glory.”
I inspected the gleaming surface, still processing his words. His house was still so empty. Obviously, he hadn’t brought much with him from Portland. Except this.
He played again, mostly from memory. Some things I recognized, like an Elton John song and “Moonlight Sonata.” Beside me, his body moved with the beat, and each note vibrated through me.
“What do you feel like?” He nudged me gently. “What’s your favorite song?”
“I like everything. But when I was little, my mom would sing ‘Dreamland’ to me. By Mary Chapin Carpenter. It was her lullaby.”
