Page 17 of Symphony of Salvation

I read.Why do you have to be such an egotistical show-off? I don’t need you hovering over me. Mr. Edwidge was the nicest teacher I had today. He was warm and understanding, unlike you. He doesn’t need your help, and I don’t need you constantly in my face. Stay home.

Frowning, I glanced at my daughter. “I don’t understand.”

She snatched the napkin back and wrote again with such passion the pen tore through in places.

Why can’t you be normal? Why do you have to make everyone feel small? You don’t need another job. Stay home and work on that stupid composition you were hired for. Leave Mr. Edwidge alone. He doesn’t need yourexpertise.

She underlined the wordexpertise, although it needed no added emphasis. The sentiment showed in the bold press of the pen. Confused, I replayed the exchange with Timber Creek’s music teacher, seeking evidence I’d overstepped. Was my lesson onGaspard de la Nuitmisconstrued? Did Niles think I was showing off? Had I made him feel small? I’d only wanted to help.

It would explain the surliness I’d encountered.

Since my daughter’s concerns seemed multilayered, I let the narcissistic implication fall to the wayside and focused on the more pressing matter of my attendance at the school.

“I’m sorry you’re unhappy with this decision, but your mother and I discussed sending you to school and felt it was in your best interest if I—”

She tore the napkin from my hand, ripping the corner. Again, she penned a message.

“I wish you would speak to me properly.”

Constance paused long enough to sneer before continuing.

Mom didn’t agree with this. She would never have sent me to school. My best interest would have been staying with her. I liked my tutors. I liked my life. You ruined everything. The least you could have done was stick up for her. You should have stayed in Chicago.

The untimely arrival of our meals halted the conversation. I took a moment to process the hatred and accusation in my daughter’s written tone. Chloé hadn’t agreed with me about school, that was true, but Constance’s view surrounding everything else was skewed, and I’d become the scapegoat for her anger.

I thanked the server, requested a second glass of wine, and positioned a napkin on my lap, still absorbing Constance’s hurtful words. I couldn’t tell my daughter I didn’t want to be there either, that I would have much preferred staying in Chicago than racing to Ontario to rescue her. I’d never played an active role in Constance’s life. Over the years, Chloé had allowed me to come and go as I pleased, so I’d focused on my career instead.

When Constance was first diagnosed, I’d gone home and tried to have a proper relationship with Chloé, to be the parent I was supposed to be. It had been an utter mess. I was miserable without music, and Chloé was miserable with me.

My silence persisted for too long. Constance rolled her eyes and reached for the makeshift notepad I’d discarded.

I removed it from her hand before she could scold me anew, crumpling it into a ball. “No more. Eat your dinner.”

The meal passed uncomfortably, the air between us doused with hostility. Instead of objurgating my daughter on things she didn’t understand, I cleared my mind with some Debussy, hearing the notes in my head and imagining “Syrinx” flowing effortlessly off my fingers, filling an auditorium.

It gave me peace and took me away for a while to a place where the world hadn’t been turned upside down, where I wasn’t fully responsible for the well-being of a depressed, disabled, and stubborn daughter who hated and blamed me for her misery.

At one point, Debussy changed to a faint tune, a few bars of music I’d heard earlier in the day. It was nothing more than a handful of connecting notes. I couldn’t name the piece or recall when I’d heard them, but they lingered.

Constance picked at her food, eating small morsels of cheese-baked macaroni while cautiously sipping the milkshake between bites. As instructed by the team of specialists, she pressed against the prosthesis when swallowing the thickened liquid to ensure a tight seal of the plug to prevent leaking.

Eating had been the first challenge. Upon conquering this initial summit, we realized the mountain of woes, ascending beyond the clouds, stretched to a height we never knew existed. We were still climbing, and the clouds blocked our view of the peak.

In the early days of the TEP, Chloé hired someone to make special scarf-like TEP covers suitable for a teenager. Constance owned one for every color of the rainbow and several with fancy patterns to match any outfit she might want to wear. It gave her a unique style and flair, but they never made her happy.

As dinner progressed, the unknown music vanished, replaced once again by “Syrinx.” “Syrinx” became Chaminade’s “Concertino,” and my thoughts drifted to that morning with Niles. I must have been too caught up in my inappropriate musing of his person to fully register the hurt I’d caused.

Constance slapped the table, drawing my attention.

“What? Don’t do that. It’s rude.”

She pointed to her mouth, then made the universal sign forbe quiet. Unsure what had invoked such reproach, I stared at my daughter as I finished the last few bites of seafood ravioli from my plate and drained the wine. When I caught myself humming and my daughter silently shushed me again, I understood.

Constance had long ago pushed her plate aside, abandoning more than half her meal. Her appetite had never returned after chemo, and the doctors worried she was underweight for a girl her age.

I didn’t have the capacity to argue any longer, so I paid for dinner and followed her out to the rental car.

At the cottage, Constance went to her room. I didn’t expect to see her again for the rest of the night. Hearing the soft reverberation of the violin, I smiled. Music was the only thing we had in common, and hearing her practice soothed the ache in my heart.

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