Piano Fingers

I pull the fingers of my left hand away with the palm of my right into a deep backwards stretch. I repeat on the other side.

I shake out my hands, my wrist joints crackling with the movement. I place my hands back onto my lap, fingers extended towards knees in a relaxed position.

My mother always told me I had pretty hands—pianist hands—with long, slender fingers others envy for flawlessly hitting big, juicy chords and fluttering arpeggios.

But playing the piano has never come easy to me. When I confess to strangers and friends that I’ve been playing for over 20 years, they gasp in surprise and beg for me to “tickle the ivory” if we encounter a piano nearby. I must often remind them that it doesn’t work like that for me. I can’t sit down and glide my fingers over the keys as a tune pops into my head the way other musicians can.

It takes hours of practice for me to learn a simple pop ballad, months to comprehend something more advanced.

I always wonder whether I would become more of a natural after dedicating more time to practicing. I’d be a success to my parents at dinner parties—“Margaret, why don’t you show the Jeffersons what you’ve been learning this week in your lessons?”—and the center of attention with friends, where I could plop myself down on the bench and dazzle them with a popular show tune from the latest Broadway hit, us brightly singing together into the night.

I stare at the keys, pulsing with the energy of being played after months of neglect. I glance up at the sheet music. It’s one I played in high school, a Rachmaninoff number with heavy chords, complicated fingering, and a quick pace that caused me to stumble back then, and now as I relearn it.

I let out a mangled groan from the back of my throat and slap my hands down on my thighs, embracing the stinging pain after each hit.

I hate this. This is pointless. I will never get any better than I am now.

Tears fill in my eyes as I stare at the sheet music. I used to be good—no, incredible—when I played this song. My arms ached after each play, my head felt clear, my body felt more energized.

Now, ten years after learning the song for the first time, I realize I’m a failure. The months of hard work this required has slowly disappeared from my muscle memory, and now I stumble across each chord change.

I push away my negative feelings for now. I wipe my eyes gently. With a cleansing sigh, I place my hands on the keyboard again. I pause, stare at the music, and focus in on my right hand, then my left, as I copy the notes printed on the paper with my fingers. I slowly press down the keys, hesitating in case I’m wrong, and listen to the weak noise that emits from the instrument for any mistakes.

When none sound, I exhale steadily, realizing I’ve held my breath, and continue through the rest of the song in that same rhythm as someone who is reading it for the first time.

It’s painstakingly slow, and I imagine Nina, my old piano teacher, sitting next to me like she used to in her black swivel chair, slurping a Diet Coke, and telling me in that staccato tone of hers to Pick. Up. The. Pace. She clapped her hands next to my ear to get me to play faster, her voice increasing with every incorrect key I hit. That was her way of motivating me to continue. At the time, I despised it, but looking back I realize it was an effective way to push me out of my comfort zone, a place I was very hesitant about leaving.

I wonder what Nina’s doing now. She gave birth to a son when I was a junior in high school, and took her maternity leave right in the middle of teaching me this Rachmaninoff piece. I never imagined her as a mom. She didn’t exude any of that motherly type love to her students like some of the other piano teachers did. She was all cheekbones and no nonsense when it was time for my weekly hour-long lesson. She had the kind of buzzy, alpha-dog energy that always made me feel nervous around her, no matter the fact that I worked with her for eight years.

When it was time to apply to college, she asked if I would consider any music programs. Based on the look on her face, I knew she was asking to be polite, that she didn’t expect me to excel in a university environment playing the piano or learning about music composition. Suddenly, the emotions that I felt at 18—of her not truly believing in my potential—rise within me now. I clasp my hands together, squeezing my fingers to release the anger vibrating within my chest, my belly, my arms.

I shake my head, pushing away thought of her. All I want is to stand up from this bench and move on with the rest of my day, but I know it’ll do nothing to assuage my mood. I’ll feel more like a lost cause if I don’t finish one run-through of the song. I’ve committed to playing, and play I must.

I peer at the next set of chords. G, B, D, G. The music notes are starting to look more like giant splotches on the page. I continue, hitting the notes slowly, but more confidently as I move through the piece, my fingers’ muscle memory returning in snippets and disappearing just as quickly as it appeared.

After what feels like an hour, I reach page six, the last page, of the composition. It’s my favorite. Fortissimo until the end. Chords requiring all five fingers. Arm strength at 100%. The piece is at its climax.

I always imagine this is the part in the movie playing in my head where the woman, knowing for months that her husband has been cheating on her, finally confronts him after deftly dropping poison into his dinner, revealing everything she’s known, watching as he collapses out of his chair onto the hardwood floor, wiggling before her, wheezing for help, a pleading look in his eyes to forgive him of his wrongs.  

The song ends in a satisfying piano, with a brisk and cheery arpeggio that moves through three octaves. The murder complete, the debts paid.

I tap the final notes, both in G, and let go quickly. I smile.  

I’ve still got that talent in me somewhere.