Page 122 of Symphony of Salvation

But Constance would not be okay. She’d been torn from her mother and rejected by her father. That day marked the first of many outbursts.

I entered the room, and the minute Constance saw me, she ran into my arms, collapsing and sobbing uncontrollably. Her sign language was messy and hard to understand when she was finally able to talk. She trembled and had to keep wiping her nose and eyes.

He left. I told him not to, but he left.

“He’s coming back.”

He’s not. I hate him.

Why should she believe me? August had spent a lifetime running from the responsibility of fatherhood. For all I knew, Constance was right, and August wasn’t coming back. He’d padded his exit with proclamations of love, but his shady reasons and elusive explanations didn’t bolster confidence.

Somehow, I calmed Constance, encouraged her to collect her things from the lawn below, and walked her to the activity room where her friends waited.

Did he break up with you?she signed.

“No.” The impact of his absence, however, felt oddly similar to the dissolution of a relationship. “And he said he’d be back.”

He won’t be. Dad’s a liar.

Constance’s biggest concern seemed to be for me, so I assured her I was fine and that August and I had parted on good terms. Eventually, she joined her friends.

As I drove home that afternoon, I questioned everything. Was I once again playing the part of a fool? Our conversation from the previous night played on repeat in my head. Regardless of the outcome, I was a grown man and could handle whatever transpired. Constance worried me, and the more I replayed the scene in the dorm, the angrier I got. How could August not see the desperation in her? She needed her father now more than ever.

August hadn’t texted, so I sent him one, expressing everything I felt in my heart.

You asshole.

***

The spring concert had once again become my responsibility. I junked August’s modified version of “Chorale from Jupiter” and every other ridiculous piece he’d chosen. No one in the band was enjoying themselves, with August’s stern way of conducting and finicky need for perfection. Instead, I selected a few fun compositions, including a medley of show tunes. We didn’t have much time to start fresh—the concert was in May—but the scores were simple enough that the students would have no trouble pulling them together.

Constance stayed every day after school to rehearse our duet or play with the band. She remained sullen and withdrawn, avoiding friends, avoiding Cody—whose cloudy countenance mimicked his disaffected girlfriend’s.

August’s departure had a rippling effect on both our lives, and those ripples spread outward.

Over the course of two weeks, Koa approached me more than once to say he had concerns. Constance’s work was perpetually incomplete, and what she did submit was subpar at best. It was the same in all her classes. The only reason I suspected her music didn’t suffer was because I had become her leaning post, and music was an outlet, but even then, she didn’t talk to me about August.

A month went by. The elusive musician who I could hardly consider a boyfriend called a handful of times. I refused to answer, at once angry at his irresponsibility and too afraid I’d resort to begging him to come back. I’d exposed my heart and left myself vulnerable, and I’d never been good at closing doors once they were open.

In April, Constance started skipping classes and gave up on her music. Once, I got pulled from teaching because another student from her dorm reported she’d left with plans to hitchhike to Toronto in search of her mother. Thankfully, for as worldly as Constance could be, her street smarts left much to be desired, so I caught up with her at a bus stop in Peterborough.

“Get in,” I said, pulling up alongside the curb.

She didn’t argue, slipping miserably into the passenger seat, wedging an overfull backpack between her legs. I didn’t scold or lecture her. It wasn’t my place. Instead, I drove back to the school and walked her to class.

Before she entered, I caught her arm. “So you’re aware, every time you pull a stunt like this,I’mthe one you’re punishing, not him.I’mthe one getting pulled from work.I’mthe one suffering.”

I’m sorry.

“After class this afternoon, I want you to stick around. I need help with something.”

She donned a quizzical expression, but I didn’t elaborate.

“Get going.”

At the end of the day, Constance remained seated as the rest of the fourth-period music students packed their instruments.

“You won’t need that.” I motioned to her violin.

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