Page 16 of Symphony of Salvation

With her disability, I had no idea if wind instruments were possible. Not wanting to make her unnecessarily uncomfortable by asking, I encouraged Constance to follow me to the storageroom outside the music department, where we kept our stringed instruments.

The noise dampened beyond the classroom, so I didn’t need to raise my voice as I guided her to the storage closet adjacent to the gymnasium. I unlocked it and held the door wide.

“Pick whatever your heart desires, mademoiselle.”

With less strain in her shoulders, Constance peered into the crowded room and scanned the full shelves. She moved immediately to the violins and selected the shiniest case. Giving her options seemed to have made her happy.

Constance opened the case and inspected the instrument from the scroll to the chin rest before reverently removing it from its soft velvet cushion and cradling it under her jaw. The bows were kept separately. I selected one and handed it to her. She carefully adjusted the tension on the bow until it was to her liking and glanced up as though seeking approval.

“Do you want to try it first before we go back?”

She nodded, and I told her to go ahead.

Eyes closed, fingers balanced with precision over the strings, Constance played. She started with a simple scale, a C major, but moved rapidly into scale variations, something I encouraged my students to practice all the time for warmup. Few of them listened, which was why scales were part of our daily routine.

The violin’s tuning was off, but Constance caught it immediately and adjusted a peg. Satisfied, she balanced the violin under her chin again and went right into a piece of music I didn’t recognize.

A dreamy expression came over her. At the show, I’d been too far away to register an emotional impact, but in the storage room, I had front-row seats, and the music transformed her.

Forget it. Never mind the crusty rules. I didn’t care who her father was or what his demands were. Constance’s parents could force her to speak, but I wasn’t doing it. It wasn’t my job. Myjob was to teach. My job was to nurture the heart and soul of music. This girl had a talent like none I’d ever seen, and despite envy and jealousy, I wanted to be part of her growth. Without knowing a thing about her, I could tell Constance needed an adult on her side.

Chapter four

August

The restaurant was modest, with a standard menu of comfort food and a wine list consisting of two choices: Red or white. Constance had picked the location for dinner, and considering Peterborough was a small city in relation to the various others I’d visited over the years, it could have been worse. I wouldn’t begrudge her on the first day of school. We were meant to be celebrating.

Although agreeable to dinner out, Constance made no attempt to share her impressions of Timber Creek, the faculty, or her assigned schedule. Since arriving at the restaurant, she’d picked at the complimentary bread rolls, tore a napkin to pulp, and people-watched. It was as though I didn’t exist.

“How was day one?”

She shrugged noncommittally, more interested in a family dining a few tables away. A mother and father seemed entrenched in a silent argument while continuously shooting daggers at one another across the table. A teenage girl, more focused on her phone than the untouched lasagna heaped on her plate, and two boys who looked to be about eight and ten,horsing around with their french fries in a manner inappropriate for dining out—or eating in for that matter.

I sippedred wineand searched for our waiter. A meal might divert Constance’s attention to our table since my company failed to do so. “Do you have homework?”

No eye contact. She shook her head and stirred the thick milkshake she’d ordered with the paper straw.

“Make any friends?”

I earned a dirty look that conveyed I was an idiot, coupled with another head shake

I sighed and attempted a humorous angle to see if I could draw some life out of her. “Don’t forget my stance on dating. Unless he can play Stravinsky’sTrois mouvements de Petrouchkabackward while standing on his head, he isn’t worthy of my daughter.”

Constance rolled her eyes.

Every conversation since October, when I’d taken custody of my daughter, followed the same pattern. I talked, and she either nodded, shook her head, rolled her eyes, or shrugged, depending on the question or context of the offered dialogue. In the beginning, I’d found it infuriating and insisted she stop being difficult. Informing her she ought to use her voice or else. Or else what? I didn’t know. I’d paid for the best speech therapy in the world, so in my opinion, she should damn well use the skills she’d learned to communicate.

Teenagers, however, were of a different breed, and there existed no minacious threat strong enough to force them to do anything they didn’t want to do. Constance was especially willful, and since Chloé had given up and allowed our daughter to use the sign language she’d been taught as a child, I was the spiteful parent.

I tried a new angle. “How was music class? I have a feeling you might be able to teach your instructor a thing or two.”

Basal gestures and a sulking posture were so commonplace that I flinched when Constance snapped to attention with a flash of anger. I expected a flurry of hand movements I wouldn’t understand, so when she rose from the table and returned with a fresh napkin and pen, it took me by surprise. Not once in the months we’d been cohabiting did Constance make communication easy.

She spent a minute furiously writing before shoving the napkin toward me and crossing her arms.

“What’s this?” I asked.

She stabbed a finger on the table and pointed at her written message.

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