Page 7 of Symphony of Salvation

Art.

Passion.

My daughter appeared at the bathroom door, and the orchestra faded. The man in the mirror came back into focus. “Verdi,” I explained unnecessarily.

Her expressionless stare was the only response I was going to get. She didn’t care. Not about me.

“Are you ready?”

She half shrugged, hugging her school cardigan tighter around her middle. The Timber Creek uniform consisted of a pleated navy skirt—or pants since the academy claimed to be progressive and didn’t require their female students to wear skirts if they didn’t want to—a white blouse with the Timber Creek emblem embroidered on the pocket, white knee socks, and black leather dress shoes.

Constance had artfully knotted a fashionable scarf with a navy and white patterned design around her neck. It was a necessity, not an act of rebellion. The excess makeup and chunky jewelry, however, crossed lines I’d recently drawn. Again, she didn’t care.

Instead of rebuking her heavily lined eyes and brightly painted lips, lecturing her yet again, I tugged the edges of my suit jacket and lifted my chin. “How’s the tie? Did I get it straight?”

Constance spent less than a second examining the accessory before giving a halfhearted shrug that neither approved nor disapproved of the finished product.

“It was a simple question.”

I earned a sneer.

“Are you nervous?”

No response.

“You’re being rude.”

She glared, lips pursed, nose wrinkled.

“Look, I know you don’t want me dropping you off, but I need to get a look at their music room, assess their supplies, and see what I have to work with.”

She rolled her eyes in a manner teenage girls had been perfecting for centuries.

“What?”

She sharply shook her head, whipping a braid over her shoulder as though the violent gesture explained everything.

“I know you don’t want to go to school here, but—”

Constance huffed. Her hands flew in a string of sign language that made no sense to me.

“Stop. You know I don’t understand when you—”

She stamped her foot in frustration and stormed away. The middle finger displayed over her shoulder, Ididunderstand.

I unbuttoned my suit jacket and flicked off the bathroom light, gritting my teeth as I called after her with as much patience as I could muster. “You look lovely in your uniform, but it’s cold and snowy. You would be better off wearing boots and packing your shoes.”

The double thump of leather loafers hitting the wall sounded from the front hall. A moment later—slam.

“I’m glad we had this chat,” I muttered under my breath in my native Greek. Despite her objection, I told Constance’s mother that I would encourage our daughter to use English. Like her parents, Constance was fluent in several languages but stubbornly stuck to the only one I didn’t know.

Jittery, remorseful, and defeated, I briefly closed my eyes and returned to Verdi, seeking balance. If I could have conjured something more tranquil, I would have, but that wasn’t how my brain operated. Internal soundtracks reflected my emotions,and they couldn’t be swayed to change. It wasn’t a radio I could switch to a new station. When music played inside my head, I was at its mercy. All I could do was listen.

Life had thrown me a curveball in October. After months of brooding and arguing with Constance’s mother, I made the executive decision to send my daughter to private school. I would take time off work and learn to be a father, but it was temporary. Once Constance was settled, I would return to my abandoned life and be at peace once more.

Perhaps staying in Canada was the wrong decision. Time would tell.

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