Page 43 of Blindsided By You

By the third morning, I’ve become despondent. And I shouldn’t be. In what universe does a beautiful, intelligent girl like Jenna choose a regular guy like me? Of course, by the harsh light of day, the weekend is just a mistake. She’s gone back to her pre-Geordie life. Jenna’s off doing something important while I’m here, buried in the ordinary.

I race through my work today, now spurred on to finish up everything, so I don’t risk facing Jenna and my huge error of judgement by coming back another day. Packing up my tools, I linger in the foyer one last time.

To the right, in the sunny front room, a baby grand piano gleams, its black lacquer in perfect condition as if Fiona Sharpe is going to take her seat at the instrument any moment, and coax it back to life. It’s beautiful, far removed from the more modest, upright piano of the lessons in my childhood memories.

I stroll towards it, and lay a hand on the glossy surface, as if offering sympathy for the loss of the woman who loved it. The big strings in its heart lie still and silent, mourning the person who encouraged sounds from its depths. The music stand lies with empty arms pointing skyward, as if holding phantom sheets in place. I open the lid to reveal the keys; smooth black hills and ivory valleys, starved of the touch of the woman who once made them sing.

I slide onto the piano stool, settling my hands into the familiar position. Just like at the hotel the other night, the music comes easily, the residue of years of lessons and hours of practice. It’s Beethoven. The man really was a genius. His Moonlight Sonata is my mother’s favourite; the one she’d beg me to play over and over, sometimes just for her, other times dragging me up in front of her friends like aperforming seal, red-faced with embarrassment and clumsy under their scrutiny.

Today I play for Fiona Sharpe, a tribute to her kindness and patience with a boy who didn’t want to be in her studio, but found an unexpected ease in the learning forced on him there, the music a language that made more sense to him than any other, the intricate pictures on paper painting a pattern his hands could understand.

I play for me, too, the melancholy melody well-suited to my mood. I focus on the notes, trying not to think about how stupid I was to imagine the weekend could possibly mean as much to Jenna as it did to me.

Chapter 22

JENNA

Idriftupfromsleep, riding on a euphoric, pain-free cloud. I’ve finally won. After fighting for more than two days, now the simple act of lying here, feeling almost normal, floods me with gratitude for the drugs that eventually pushed away my migraine and the preventatives that most of the time stop them from stealing away days of my life.

I take a tentative peek from under still-drowsy lids. Sunshine leaks in around the edges of the curtains. Eyes automatically clamping shut against the brightness, I reach out with my other senses.

My breath rises and falls in a relaxed rhythm, no longer the frantic panting which, like a woman in labour, I deploy as a weapon against the stabbing pain of migraine. The air feels thinner, cleared of the heaviness that’s dragged me down.

The bed is cosy, a pleasant warmth in contrast to the raging heat of yesterday. Or was it the day before? I remember Dad bringing me floppy ice packs to wrap behind my neck like a chilly scarf, his hands tender in a well-practised routine.

As I roll onto my side, there’s stiffness in my joints, an after-effect of the medication that thrusts me so far under I lie deathly still, not shifting position like in regular sleep. After a couple of days, my body protests the lack of activity.

The ferocious pain in my temples is no more, and even the residual dull ache of the early hours of this morning has seeped away, leaving a gentle fog.

Through its misty tendrils, the soft sounds of the world return. When my headache was at its peak, tiny noises assaulted my ears like feedback in a speaker, amplified by the roaring of every nerve in my body. Now they offer comfort. Evidence that life goes on, waiting for me to rejoin it. Birds sing. A car slips along our quiet street.

And then there’s a sound that makes me reconsider; one that suggests I haven’t yet returned to reality but am still a prisoner in my drugged alternate world. Music carries up from below. A piano playing a classical melody. It’s a beguiling dream beckoning me towards a place where my mother sits at her instrument and plays.

But I’ve spent too long in the haze of sleep these last two days and I resist the temptation, spurning the hand that offers to lead me somewhere that magic still exists. Eyes flitting open, I scan my surroundings, confirming I’m awake.

This is my room, my new bedroom, in our new house. Dad’s and mine. A house my mother never lived in, never played in. A house that is ignorant of the beauty she coaxed from a piano with the precise yet delicate touch of those slender fingers.

I sit up, slide my legs onto the carpeted floor, and push myself to stand. With cautious steps, I move to the door, testing my legs’ ability to hold me upright. I sway a little, but there’s an overwhelming need to follow the music, as if a siren song calls me.

Beyond the door, it’s like an invisible hand has turned up the volume, the melody billowing up the stairs. I inch along the hallway, steadying myself with a hand on the wall. Pausing on the landing, I take a moment to let the music wash over me.

It’s Beethoven—Moonlight Sonata. Another sign I’m not in some parallel universe with Mum seated at the piano.

I know if she was to play for me one last time, this wouldn’t be her choice. She always preferred Bach over all the other classical composers, especially the elegance and intricacy of his Goldberg Variations—her favourite.

The tune falters for an instant and then resumes, tentative at first, then building in confidence. I take the stairs on wobbly legs. The music draws me forward with a desperate need to discover the source.

I pad in my bare feet across the tiled entry hall, the marble smooth and chilly. Ahead of me, sunlight streams through the windows of the room at the front of the house, the one that should have been my mother’s studio, where her piano has sat untouched, surrounded by her things, a shrine. I pause in the doorway and I can forgive the person who has dared invade this sacred space, because his knowledge of her gives him the right to be there.

Geordie is unaware of my presence. Eyes closed, his fingers trace the keys, occasionally losing the flow, but always finding their way back, confidence returning to his playing as he retrieves the sombre melody. His body sways, immersed in the music, while emotion ripples across his face. Sometimes his brows dip a little in a frown of concentration as he searches for the next note, then, as he finds what he seeks in memory, his mouth curves in a satisfied smile.

The elegant classical music contrasts starkly with the man playing, dressed in an ordinary plaid work shirt, sleeves rolled up, old denim jeans, sturdy leather boots working the foot pedals.

The sunlight illuminates the gold of his hair, the shafts of light picking him out in a surreal glow like he’s an angel Mum has sent down from heaven. It washes over his face, highlighting the clean-shaven skin I know to be soft and smooth, emphasising his youthfulness.

I remain silent, careful not to interrupt, allowing the music in its exquisite sadness to envelop me, a match for the tears that edge down my cheeks, warm and salty on my lips. I don’t move to swipe them away, fearful any movement will alert Geordie to my presence and bring this to an end.

But it must end. Gradually, his hands slow into the final quiet, contemplative chords, allowing them to fade away to nothing. He sits with eyes still closed, as if gently resigned to the loss of the music, instinctively knowing it would be wrong to venture beyond the composition’s melancholy first movement into the lighter more playful middle section, or the rapid, turbulent finale of the third.

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