The Key to Healing

"You did what?" I said to my mom incredulously as we walked home from the bus stop.

"I signed you up for piano lessons! They say that kids who lear--"

"Stop right there. Mom, I'm not a kid anymore. I'm 13 for crying out loud! Why doesn't anybody get that? I don’t even see why you still have to meet me at the bus stop. I’m perfectly fine walking the 300 yards on my own," I said in exasperation.

"Sweetie, you're making a bigger deal out of this than it needs to be. This will be really good for you," Mom said, trying to use her sweet, honey voice.

"I'm sick of people making these decisions for me, assuming that they know what's best for me. Don't you think I'm the one who would know what's best for me?" I raised my voice.

"Riley Marie Coulter, it's not the end of the world. It's just piano lessons. I've signed you up, and you're not getting out of it. End of discussion," she said firmly.

I made a frustrated "ugghh" and refused to make eye contact with my mom as we walked back home in silence. She may have signed me up for piano lessons, but that doesn't mean I have to like them. In fact, I'm going to make her just as miserable as me, then maybe she’ll let me quit, I schemed as our small, one-story rental home with its light lavender paint and resident maple tree came into view.

***

It was the worst first piano lesson in the history of first piano lessons. My teacher was nice enough, but I couldn’t remember which key matched the note on the page, my fingers didn’t curl right, and I felt embarrassed because I started piano lessons at age 13 when there were so many kids that started at like age 6. Didn’t Mozart start composing at age 5 or something? Needless to say, I felt dumb and overage.

Besides feeling like I was too old to learn, the second absolute worst part of it was the practicing. I hated practicing. Mom kept saying that 15 minutes a day isn’t that big of a commitment, but to me, that was 15 less minutes of perusing Instagram and texting my friends. Particularly about that cute boy Tristan that I may or may not have a teeny weeny crush on.

We’ve had a keyboard in storage for a while now, so I guess I should’ve seen piano lessons coming. My mom’s older brother—my fun-loving uncle Derek—learned how to play piano when he was young, and she loved listening to him play. She always says, “There’s nothing like the sound of music echoing through a home.” Personally, I prefer the sound of the 80’s bands Journey and Chicago in my earphones. That’s right; I’m an oldies girl. I would give anything to listen to that over these horrible, inconsistent, and unbearably slow piano sounds I’m producing. You can’t even tell that I’m playing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” What’s worse is that my teacher is starting me out with the basics, so I’m basically playing out of books designed for kids. It only adds to my humiliation, and every time I play, I’m reminded of the fact that I’m not Mozart. I’m an awkward teenage girl learning how to play kids songs on the piano just for my mom’s benefit. Maybe if I keep playing like this, she’ll let me quit. So I intentionally take my time, play the wrong notes most of the time, and when I hear her footsteps on the hardwood floor, I put on my best “concentrated” face so that she thinks I’m trying my hardest. It’s still an agonizing 15 minutes though. I can hardly wait for it to be over, because once it is, I can get back on my phone and gush over Tristan’s angelic face, bright blue eyes, and luscious wavy brown hair…

***

After another 15 minutes of pure torture, one week into my brilliant plan, Mom wanted to talk to me. That’s never a good sign. Either she’s onto me, or she wants to teach me some kind of lesson that I just don’t want to hear. I tried my go-to stalling technique, telling her I need to go to the bathroom. She just said “Okay, but don’t spend an eternity in there. This is important.” Darn. So much for stalling.

She was on our one old couch in the living room when I came out. I took a seat on the old but cushy blue armchair across the room, by the window. “Come on, Riley,” she said as she brushed her reddish-brown bangs out of her face, “You can sit closer than that.”

I rolled my eyes in the most dramatic way possible and moved to the much less comfortable wooden chair we threw in the living room, 6 feet away from the couch where my mom was sitting. We don’t usually have people over, but we figured we had to have more places to sit in the living room in case we do. Plus we didn’t need that chair anymore at the kitchen table, so it all worked out perfectly.

Mom tried to start out light. “So, how do you feel about your piano skills?”

I responded with a good long look at her. “Why are you asking me? You hear me play every day, if that even qualifies as playing, which I’m pretty sure it doesn’t,” I snapped back.

She sighed. “Come on, Riley. Don’t be so hard on yourself! You’ve only been playing for a week.”

“Mom, I’m too old to learn. It seems like everyone else started lessons at age 5. And she’s having me play out of a kids book. Do you even know how degrading that is?” I felt the heat rising in my face. This conversation was not gonna end well as long as my piano skills—or lack thereof—is the main topic of discussion.

“I may not know personally, but I know someone else who does. Which is actually what I wanted to talk to you about—”

“Mom, why? Why would you choose to put me in lessons so old? Why put me in lessons at all? Surely this is just as agonizing for you as it is for me. Not only am I such a bad player, but it always brings back painful memories of Dad—" Then I stopped. First, I knew that I had gone too far. Second, I realized that I answered my own question. I looked at my mom. Tears were starting to glisten in her eyes. Then I felt my own eyes start to tear up.

My dad walked out on us a year ago. Long before that, I knew he and my mom were having a rough go of it, but then suddenly he was happy again, but not in a natural way. Then one day, after a particularly terrible argument with my mom, he packed his things and walked out, never to return. In appearance, I had moved on. But for months afterwards I’d glance out the window, hoping he’d come back. But he never did. Mom could never bring herself to say it, but I knew he was with someone else. We still haven’t heard anything, but I’m guessing he left town. This is one of those small towns where everybody knows everybody. He’s probably in some big city somewhere, probably married to her. Any other alternative is too painful to think about, and I’ve become an expert pain-avoider. At least until now, now that piano has been brought back into my life.

Dad used to play. Judging off what Mom said, he must’ve started older, like me. But he was a good player. He certainly wasn’t Mozart, but he had it where it counts. He played the funnest, most upbeat songs. I would dance around our small living room while he played on the same keyboard I’ve been playing on. When I was young, he used to set me on his lap and I’d pound the keys. Then he’d pretend to get all choked up and say “Wow, that was the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard. Did you write that just for me?”

I can still remember his thick dark hair, his brown eyes that match mine. How he always wore plaid button up shirts and the same black leather jacket, rain or shine. Mom always told him to get a new jacket, but he’d always say, “Why fix what isn’t broken?” then hug her from behind and plant a big kiss on her cheek. I’d always exclaim “Eeewww! Kissing!” and try to run away, but Dad always caught up with me and would swing me around before planting big wet kisses on my cheeks, which always made me laugh. He made us all laugh. We were such a happy family, and the piano was a part of that. But when he left, the keyboard went into storage, along with all the pictures and memories of him, and pain and heartache took their place.

So why did she want the piano back in our lives now? Has she actually forgiven him? Despite all the pain he’s caused our family? I felt betrayed all over again. Now I wanted to quit more than ever. But she wasn't going to let me. Is this supposed to be some sort of therapeutic exercise that a counselor would come up with to help me heal? Believe me, forgiving him was the last thing I want to do. I just wanted to forget all those memories. But clearly Mom didn’t.

My mind zipped back to the present conversation. “You want me to learn how to play the piano because you think it’ll be some sort of healing therapy?” I sounded harsher than I meant to. I could see my mom was on the edge of a breakdown.

Trying to hold back the sobs, albeit unsuccessfully, she said quietly “Well, I just thought it would be good for you…good for us…”

My heart started to soften. Maybe this would be a way for me to form some kind of connection with him. To remember the beautiful parts of our story. Maybe one day I’ll be able to look back on those memories with fondness instead of pain. And maybe I can pass on the tradition to my own family someday, and tell my kids about my dad and how fun he was. I sat up straight, wiped my tears, rubbed my mom’s back, and said the words I thought I’d never say: “Okay. I’ll keep playing.”

***

ONE YEAR LATER

Okay, disclaimer. I’m still not perfect on the piano. But at least I’m out of the little kids’ books. I’ve upgraded from recognizable tunes like “Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star” and “Mary Had a Little Lamb” to harder but more fun tunes like “Hip Hop Polka.” And every time I play an upbeat song, I think of Dad. It still hurts a little, but it’s also gotten much better. Mom was right; it did help both of us. As a surprise, and to help me remain motivated during the rough days, Mom got me a Journey’s Greatest Hits piano book, which, needless to say, I was very excited about.

He still hasn’t come back. We still haven’t heard anything about him. But I’m still hoping that one day, he’ll come back. Not to try to fit back into our lives or anything, because we’re doing just fine, but just to see what’s new in our lives, and so we can see where he’s been. And I want to play for him that day. Something upbeat and fun, just like he used to play. Maybe I’m not ready for that day now, but it’s my goal to be ready, whenever that day comes. And it may never come, who knows? But that’s all right. At least I know that I’m better now than I was before, because I’ll always have a beautiful piece of him inside. That was the key to my healing.

Piano keys.

THE END