Remember Me

It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. The woman with the wrinkled, pale skin gave a thin smile as she gazed up at the single, framed photograph on the faded wallpaper. The girl in the photo smiled back, eyes alight with youthful joy.

Marie Coulter

Violin

-----------------------------------------

“The building is to be demolished tomorrow morning, ma’am. The manager of the demolition company would like you to sign this to confirm the payment date and other terms that you have agreed over.” The office-worker kept his tone formal and his face straight as he passed a set of documents to a brown-haired lady.

           “Thank you, Walter. I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Janine Owens said as she slid the papers into her shoulder bag. Just as she turned to leave, Walter spoke up.

           “Just out of curiosity, ma’am,” the assistant said hesitantly. “Why did you put off the demolition project until tomorrow when it could have been completed two months ago?”

           Janine paused, and when she answered, her voice had lost its brisk edge that earned her respect in the office: “I had to find some way to meet in the middle.”

-----------------------------------------

“We’re home, Mum. Would you like a drink before you go to bed? Long car rides always make me thirsty.” Janine laughed softly and opened the refrigerator to take out a flask of cold water. She walked back out of the kitchen and froze. The wheelchair in the hallway was empty.

           “Mum!” Janine called, her heartbeat accelerating. Her mother had never gotten out of her wheelchair by herself. What if she had fallen down and hurt herself? What if—

           “Come out, little one. You can’t hide up there all day. Your milk’s getting cold, you know.”

           Janine felt relief wash over her like a wave. Her mother was there as she came around a corner, staring up the stairs.

           “Mum,” Janine repeated, approaching the old lady cautiously to not alarm her. “Mum, come sit down and drink some water. You’re just tired after that two-hour drive from your nursing home.”

           Brown eyes met brown eyes, one pair bright with concern, the other wide and clouded over.

           “Have you seen little Brahms, darling?” Mrs. Marie Owens asked. “He licked a bit of rosin dust and I don’t think he liked it much…” Her voice trailed off and her eyes darted to a distant point that no one but her could see. When her eyes returned to Janine’s, her voice cracked slightly. “Have you heard? They’re tearing our old conservatory down, Anna. It’s terrible, isn’t it, but I won’t let them! We have to sign this petition, see, and—no, I won’t!” Marie burst out as Janine put her hands onto her mother’s shoulders. Janine could feel her heart shatter into a million pieces for the umpteenth time as her mother struggled to free herself, shouting now.

           “I won’t let you take my school away from me or my friends, you hear me?” Marie’s eyes glittered fiercely, more focused than Janine had seen for a long while. “Look, I’ve got 500 signatures! You won’t- no, I won’t let you-!”

           Heart twisting in her chest, Janine hugged her mother, feeling the frail body trembling in her arms. The metal flask fell with a soft thud onto the carpeted floor and rolled away, forgotten.

           “I know, Mum, I know,” Janine choked out, trying not to break down. “I’m sorry. Nothing will happen to the conservatory; I promise. I promise.” Her mother was just sick, that was all. There was no reason to cry about this at all.

           Marie began to calm down after Janine’s apology and allowed her to guide her to another room. There was silence as Janine settled her into her bed. Just as she turned to leave the room, Marie asked in a small voice, “Where am I?”

           “You’re home, Mum,” Janine whispered, taking Marie’s hand and squeezing it gently before resting it back down on the blanket. “You’re safe and you don’t need to worry about anything. Go to sleep, Mum. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

           Janine closed the door behind her and collapsed against a wall. A single, muffled sob tore through her body as she buried her face in her crossed arms, curled up with her knees against her chest. She really was sorry. Sorry that she had lied to her mother on a matter she hardly had any control over; sorry that she could do nothing to help her mother get better; sorry for feeling so helpless and lost.

           Three years had passed since Marie Owen-Coulter was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s disease.

-----------------------------------------

Warm yellow light bathed the stage after flickering on and off several times. Janine could see the dust particles suspended in the air and the layers of dust that coated each unmoving surface.

           “This way, miss,” the man in the button-up shirt said. Janine nodded and pushed her mother on her wheelchair towards the stage. She followed him up the short ramp and wheeled Marie onto the stage. “Careful,” the man warned. “This place hasn’t gone through maintainence in a very long time. The wood there seems like it’s going to break soon if someone else steps on it. But, I mean, what’s the point of re-doing this place if we’re going to tear it down anyway? Right, miss?”

           “Right,” Janine murmured, only half-listening. She gazed at the seats the audience would be in during the concerts held in this hall. She had never been in the conservatory herself, and had only ever seen the outside of the building.

           “We can only allow you 30 to 40 minutes in here, miss,” the man carried on. “Would you like me to leave or should I—” he broke off as a ringtone split through the stillness of the concert hall. “Oh, sorry. I have to take this so I’ll come back when your time is up, alright?”

           With that, he left the hall briskly, phone to his ear. Janine looked around one more time before going to a nearby table to put the case on her shoulders down. She walked back to her mother and her eyes widened slightly when she heard Marie humming the man’s ringtone under her breath.

           “Mum?” Janine spoke softly, approaching her mother the same way she always did for the past three years: slowly and cautiously. Marie seemed to not have heard her, and continued humming the melody.

           “I think I know this song,” Marie finally said, fidgeting with her sleeve. The old woman hummed the first phrase of the music again at half the speed. Although she was going out of tune because her vocal range hindered her from reaching the higher notes, Janine recognized it immediately.

           “Yes, you definitely know this song,” Janine agreed, smiling faintly. Her classically-trained musician of a mother had always insisted that she know the difference between pieces and songs so she knew what to call them, but to Janine it hardly mattered because Marie seemed to be remembering bits of her old life. “It’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik by Mozart.”

           “That’s nice,” Marie said serenely, and continued humming the nine notes on repeat.

           “Would you like me to play it for you now? I can play a little bit of the violin, you know.” Janine took Marie’s hand between her own. Marie’s fingers, just like her body, had once been so full of life as they danced to music and to make music. Marie was quiet for a moment and her grip on her daughter’s hand tightened slightly.

           “I think I could play the violin, too,” Marie whispered. “I think I was a violinist.”

           Janine froze and inhaled a sharp breath, unable to think of what to say.

           “Was I?” Marie asked, turning her head to look straight at Janine. Were her eyes a little clearer than they were a minute before?

           All Janine could do was nod, her throat tight, holding back tears as she forced a weak smile onto her face.

           “Yes,” Janine replied, a slight tremor in her voice. “Yes, you were a violinist. One of the best out there.”

           When Marie nodded, Janine couldn’t stop herself from continuing. “You used to play Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Paganini, Beethoven. You loved Brahms so you named your first kitten after him. You loved Bach even more so you named me after Janine Jansen, whose Bach you loved listening too. I remember listening to you practicing the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto; Remember how it goes? B, B, B, G, E, E…” Janine sang the notes as she named them.

“You said you liked it very much, but your favourite would always be Sibelius’ Violin Concerto. Remember? G, A, D...." Janine hummed the first few notes. "You... you performed it for the first time here on this very stage, if I remember correctly. I’ll get my old violin out. I brought it because-"

         Because I hoped that something about your old conservatory would bring back a part of your old self.

         "-your Stradivarius went back to your sponsor.”

           As Janine rubbed rosin onto her bow hair, Marie asked quietly, “Can I still play it?”

           “Sibelius?”

           “Yes, Sibelius.”

           Janine hesitated. Her violin had been a few thousand dollars, but the violin that Marie had played on before she became a world-renowned soloist was in the five-digits price range. Janine had locked it away carefully, in fear that Marie might accidentally break it if she got her hands onto it. She had witnessed Marie throwing things in sudden fits of rage and the last thing Janine wanted was for her mother to smash her beloved instrument.

            And if Marie were to leave her forever, Janine wanted the violin to be buried with her in one piece.

            "You can play on my violin," Janine said finally.

           Was this a good idea?

            "No" was the immediate reply. Janine shook her head, banishing her mental response along with the worst-case scenarios she had come up with. Forcing her shaky hands to still, Janine stepped forward and held her instrument out to her mother. Gingerly, she moved the violin into place.

             "You're head goes here, Mum," Janine instructed softly. "And you hold the neck here."

----------------------------------------- 

"Jani, if you don't get your posture right now, you'll never be able to play as well as you should." A woman with short, curly brown hair chides as she pokes her daughter's back and pushes her elbow up.

              Mu-um," the young girl holding the violin huffs.

"I'm not joking, Janine. Look and, more importantly, listen. I'll play with your posture." The woman takes her own instrument out of her case and hunches over in an exaggerated imitation of her daughter. The latter giggles merrily as her mother's bow skids in an unusual show of bad playing.

              Marie smiles, her eyes sparkling. "I'm warning you, young lady. You'll sound like that if you don't correct yourself early enough. Let's try again."

-----------------------------------------

               Janine slowly let go of the bow, allowing her mother to hold it up herself. She stood there, frozen, for a few moments, arms extended should Marie accidentally let go.

              "Good, good," Janine breathed, as if speaking too loud would disrupt this moment. "Now let's start with a down bow. Put your bow up here and draw it downwards. Yes, that's great, Mum!"

-----------------------------------------

"Try not to let your bow skid, alright? Keep your bow speed consistent-- no, don't rush it there! Your sound thins out if you do that; you can hear it, can't you?"

-----------------------------------------

                "You can press your fingers down on the strings while you bow, Mum," Janine says hesitantly, and quickly adds, "Gently."

-----------------------------------------

A large studio light illuminates the room with a brilliant blaze of white. Papers shuffle and a chair creaks.

                 "Recording in three... two... one."

"Hello and welcome back," the interviewer says, smiling at the camera. "Today, we have the pleasure of welcoming a very special guest to the studio: Marie Coulter!" 

"Hi, everyone!" Marie waves at the camera, smiling broadly. "I'm Marie Coulter and I perform professionally as a violinist."

"What will you be performing this week, Marie?"

"I will be performing the Sibelius Violin Concerto."

-----------------------------------------

Janine could feel herself shaking as she watched her mother stumble through a scale, but a scale nonetheless. This had to be a miracle on the part of haptic memory, she was sure.

Then, all of a sudden, Marie stiffened. Her bow ricocheted as she recoiled. Janine rushed forward, heart plummeting as she noticed the tell-tale signs of an outburst.

"Mum, Mum," Janine called, her voice a barely controlled calm. "Mum, look at me. You-- you played a scale which means that all your talent and violin skills are still in you. Will you try one more time, Mum? G, A, D, that's it."

"G,A,D," Marie echoed, her voice cracking with a desperate confusion.

Janine knew she was being selfish as she urged her mother on. She knew she had promised herself that her mother's well-being came first and her own wishes far behind.

She is an angel sent from heaven, a blessing like none other.

Is that why God is calling her back to him?

-----------------------------------------

"G, A, D"

Marie could feel the wood pressing against her neck and could feel the strings making indents on her fingertips. She could hear the bow hair on the strings, a noise that was broken to her ears. But why?

She couldn't remember.

G, A, D.

The hauntingly beautiful opening melody seemed to echo in Marie's head. She did try to continue the piece. But when she did, a fog overwhelmed her senses and made her falter, plunging her head-first into silence.

G, A, D.

Her fingers skimmed across the fingerboard and onto the E string. Her fingertips prickled and she felt as if an invisible force was tugging at them.

No, it was an invisible hand, guiding her to the next step.

G, A, D.

And she remembers.

-----------------------------------------

Applause. Blinding lights. A churning sensation in her stomach.

The brown-haired soloist raises her bow to the strings as the violin section starts their fourth bar of repetitive thirds. "Dolce ed expressivo" she remembers is how Sibelius had annotated the soloist's entrance so she plays as sweetly as she can, expressing what there is to be expressed clearly without the use of physical features.

Other performance directions arrives soon at the part marked "sul G" : "Veloce" and "ma poco a poco cresc.". She remembers practising this part, making sure that she could play the running notes on the G string consistently without slips and without her bow crunching when she used the lower third of it.

She remembers the octaves; she remembers the key change from D minor to D-flat major-- one of her favourite bits with the chilling sixths labelled "affettuoso". She remembers the change in time signature and the feel of the orchestra around her, surging forward and letting her fall back with sustained chords. She remembers the three-octave jump where she had to remind herself not to hesitate. All this happens within the first seven-and-a-half minutes of the concerto, and it all starts with three simple notes:

"G, A, D".

Marie remembers much more, of course; It's all flowing back to her in a flood of visual and audio memories.

She remembers a picture of her onstage, giving the conductor the brightest smile she had ever smiled after she nails the solo passage while he keeps the pulse of the orchestra in the background. She remembers seeing herself in the video recordings with her violin clutched to her side as the orchestra played the tutti, eyes sharp and glinting in the yellow stage light, nodding her head on the downbeats.

She remembers that meeting fans after the performance was the most rewarding experience.

The young soloist stands and smiles until her cheek muscles ache. She listens and responds to questions, and offers words of encouragement to the aspiring musicians that come up to her to have their posters signed. The beginning of the concerto she had just performed echoes once more in her ears, not quite letting go of her yet.

G, A, D.

-----------------------------------------

In a few minutes, the man in the button-up shirt would return to escort the mother and daughter out of the old building. They would pass the wall where pictures of some alumni were hung up, and they would stop for a moment or two.

In a few minutes, she would forget again.

She remembers, for now at least . It might not stay for long, but she remembers, and that was all that mattered.