Page 61 of Symphony of Salvation

Constance’s bedroom door opened. Like a moth to a flame. Did she know? Could she sense her mother’s presence if onlythrough a phone? She glanced down the hall, made eye contact, and vanished into the bathroom.

Relief flooded my veins.

“She’s not home,” I lied. “She made friends at school. She’s out with them.” I pictured auburn-haired Cody and debated telling Chloé our daughter had a boyfriend, but that would have been another lie since I’d forbidden it.

“Is she practicing?”

“No more than she wants to. I won’t force it.”

A haggard sigh. “Will you tell her I called?”

“No.”

“Will you bring her on Christmas?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”

“You’re angry.”

“Of course I’m angry.”

“She’s my daughter, Augustus. Please.”

“You lost your parental rights, so it’s my decision, and I said I’ll think about it.”

With nothing more to say, we got off the phone. Constance emerged from the bathroom and headed to the kitchen, rooting around the fridge. She inspected a bruised apple and put it back.

“Not much in there. I’ll hit the grocery store while I’m out.”

Abandoning the fridge, she checked two cupboards

“We can go grab pizza.” A last-ditch effort to earn her company.

She shook her head, signed something she knew I wouldn’t understand, and returned to her room, slamming the door.

The frayed threads of my control snapped. Anger boiled over. At Constance. At her mother. At my upended life. “For the love of god, use words,” I shouted. “Quit acting like you’re incapable. I’m sick of it. I want to have a normal conversation with my daughter. Is that too much to ask?”

She opened the bedroom door and slammed it a second time to get her point across, an unnecessary measure that infuriated me further.

“I gave up everything for you, you ungrateful brat!” Grabbing the car keys, my phone, and the remaining shreds of my sanity, I left the house before I said something else I regretted. Her skill at poking raw nerves trumped my ability to keep my mouth shut, but I should have bit my tongue. What I’d said was worse than cruel, and I was supposed to be the adult.

Peterborough bustled with Christmas spirit, of which I had none. I wandered a festively decorated street lined with quaint gift shops and cheery patrons carrying packages and sharing greetings. They rushed from shop to shop, merrily preparing for the upcoming holiday.

The scent of woodsmoke hung in the air, emerging from a chimney several blocks over. A charcoal cloud of smoke rose and dissipated in the low gray sky. The weak winter sun strained to heat the city, but the temperatures hovered below freezing.

Cars parallel parked on both sides of the road, windshields cleared of snow in an arc. Most wore thin layers of white on their roofs. An elderly gentleman shoveled outside a hobby shop, his knitted tuque sporting a fluffy pom-pom that bounced and nodded with his movements. Lampposts shimmered with garlands and bobbles. In the distance, the faint notes of Christmas carols. I couldn’t decipher from where they originated.

I wandered aimlessly, defusing, concocting Christmas plans only to dismiss them moments later, knowing Constance would hate each one. In a busy café, I ordered hot cocoa with a whipped cream topper and peppermint stick and took it to an unoccupied wooden bench on the sidewalk.

I hadn’t graced the music room at Timber Creek on Friday, choosing to stay home and work on the new compositioninstead. The one that wouldn’t let me go. The one that manifested itself only when in Niles’s presence. Meaningful and meaningless all in the same breath. I should ignore it. I had more important work to focus on. Commissioned pieces. But no, it was to be my downfall. The pull to writing it was insatiable.

I hadn’t seen Niles since the concert.

Since the kiss.

Since…

You need to pull your shit together if we’reeverdoing this again.

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