Heartstrings

It was not uncommon for Peter to think of shrieks and cries when reflecting on his childhood.

Although he doesn’t remember much, the stories told to him by neighbors still ring clear in his mind:

Sounds could always be heard through windows of the McCleod’s small, blue, two-storey home in southern Massachusetts. The screeches were those of a single violin being stretched and plucked near to its breaking point.

Peter, who lives in the city now, cups a black coffee between his palms. He feels its warmth seep from the blue, polka dotted ceramic into his hands. It had been Maya’s mug, when they first moved in together. But he was so fixated on the intricate, hand painted details, that within a week, he found himself washing it any morning it was dirty, just to be able to use it over and over again.

Peter picked up the violin at age five, his wrist barely fitting around its neck and his chin far too small for the rest. Despite evidence of a poor fit, Peter refused to put the instrument down. He played before school, after studies, and well past his bedtime. After a month of auditory agony, Peter’s parents indulged him with weekly lessons.

Looking back, Peter thinks it may have been a small act of defiance. A plea for attention from the youngest of three siblings.

All of the McCleod children were musically inclined, a genetic train passed on by their parents. Peter’s older sisters, Rachel and Bethany played the guitar and the piano, and Peter’s parents spent their weekends performing duets in coffee shops. Jack had the voice of an angel, while Linda could competently play any instrument she picked up – although, if you asked her children, she loved her nylon-strung acoustic guitar nearly as much as she loved them.

Peter gazes calmly out the window of his ninth story apartment, while he sips the nutty brew from his (Maya’s) polka-dotted cup. He takes in the view, letting it wash over his senses. Peter took comfort in the predictability of sunrise; each morning – clear or cloudy – he knew it was there, rising from the dark skies of the previous night.

This was Peter’s alone time, and he often used it to reflect on his childhood. Maya enjoyed sleeping in on Sundays. Peter had never been one for yoga or cross-legged meditation, but he valued the indulgence of being alone with his thoughts for a few hours each weekend.

He sets his empty mug into the sink and heads toward the bedroom he and Maya share. The pine floors creak softly under his feet, and Peter feels a twinge in his heart as he walks past their front hall closet. He closes his eyes and bows his head down. In his mind, he can see the cherry, red violin sitting there, protected from dust accumulation by only its worn, brown case. It had been so long since he played it. Peter head shakes in an attempt to clear the thought, but his chest still aches, his stomach in knots.

He breathes in deeply when he enters the room, retreating under the covers to the comfort of Maya’s sleeping body. He sighs only once his arms are wrapped around her, and he feels the rhythmic inhale and exhale of her breath. He closes his eyes in the low light of drawn curtains and tries to forget.

Thoughts of music fill Peter’s brain. Images of his parents in the living room of that Massachusetts home. his Mother would envelop the whole house as she played for his father -- a book in Jack’s hand, a worn guitar in Linda’s. She’d caress the strings, plucking away gently. She strummed with a tenderness it took Peter a long time to fully understand.

He remembers when they played as a family, two guitars, a piano, a violin, and three harmonizing voices. They never agreed on what songs to sing – Rachel and Bethany always wanted pop music, and Jack preferred the classics – but they all valued the weekly ritual. Peter couldn’t sing; the notes never sounded quite right to him coming from his own mouth, but he could make his violin bleed with emotion.

Maya stirs, her head turning slowly to face Peter’s. He gently brushes away a strand of blonde hair from her closed eyes. Just inches away from one another, he admires the stillness of her round cheeks and delicate nose. Peter nestles in further, burrowing his own cheek into the curve of her neck.

The last time Linda played for Jack stands out most vividly in Peter’s mind. Nothing was different about it, really, other than the fact that it was the last time. In fact, it’s the sheer normalcy of it that gives Peter pause. It was just one of his parents’ rituals.

Tall and lanky, Peter remembers answering the door that Saturday morning in early 2008. The girls were off to college, so Peter, then 17, was left to watch the family dog while his parents performed live. He was always invited to tag along but couldn’t bring himself to.

He only remembers a few words and a hollow feeling. The rest blurred: An accident… Fault in the stop lights… It was instant, the police later told them. The officer continued to speak, but Peter only imagined a splintered guitar, frayed strings, a single bridge pin rolling across the smokey asphalt.

He doesn’t know if this is how it happened. And after that day, he never bothered to ask.

Maya’s eyes flutter, and she slides her arms around Peter’s waist before falling back into her slumber. Peter waits a few moments and then crawls back out of bed. He leaves a note on her bedside table before slipping out the front door.

Peter saunters down nine flights of stairs. A cool breeze hits his face when he opens the door, and he is glad to be protected by a wool scarf and light jacket. The cold will do him good. Peter stares at the ground, watching each leather shoe press forward in front of the other. He keeps moving, sometimes glancing up at strangers, before reaching a grungy diner. It’s late enough that Maya will skip breakfast, so he orders one for himself, saying thank you as the waitress passes him greased eggs, bacon, and a few slices of tomato.

Peter stood between his two sisters, both 22, as their parents were lowered into the ground. His grandmother drove them all home. He sat in the front seat, while his sisters huddled together in the back. They clung to each other – each grasping for something out of reach. He felt, in that moment, completely disconnected from the outside world. Life continued, but Peter kept completely still.

His sisters graduated that year; Beth pursued a career in finance, moving to Chicago, while Rachel settled down in Massachusetts to start her own family. The three didn’t stay close, but grief didn’t push them away either.

The McCleod children all just drifted separately, parallelly lost in their own coping mechanisms.

Peter tips his waitress. A bell rings as he opens the door and steps onto the sidewalk, the sound only ceasing when the door swings to a close.

Days after the funeral, Peter remembers himself and his sisters sitting in the family room. They packed what remained of their parents’ musical equipment into boxes and drove it to goodwill. None of the surviving McCleods could bear to look at it, let alone use it. Without so much as a murmur, the children – now grown – silently crept back to their bedrooms, stowing away their own instruments.

Peter thinks of his violin as he walks, cast away to the back of the closet. All alone. A busker plays a cello from across the street. Peter looks down, his pace quickening, his eyes welling with tears. The notes drum inside his chest, a pounding, and he cannot breathe. Goosebumps line his arms, and he can almost hear the sounds echoing off the walls of his aching chest.

Neither Peter nor his sisters has played since, yet none is aware that the others do not play. A secret shared between them, despite each one keeping it to themselves.

When Peter returns home, Maya is in the kitchen. She greets him with a warm smile, the smell of curry wafting from the stove.

Her hair sits in a knot, high on top of her head. She wears striped, flannel pyjamas. He watches her, bent over their pots, absorbed by the smells and flavors of coconut cream and basmati. Peter exhales, and the pain begins to abide, fading as his muscles slowly unclench. As he and Maya exist together, Peter’s thoughts are able to tune to the present moment.

That night, while Maya is reading on the couch, Peter feels drawn to the closet. He moves boxes and winter clothing aside, carefully uncovering the violin, safe inside its case. He pulls it out and sets it against the cracked paint of the wall, while meticulously placing every item back where it goes. Now finished, Peter is forced to look at it. He stares, frozen, wondering what is stopping him now and what has stopped him all these years.

Slowly, and carefully, Peter unclips the latches. He pulls the zipper. Cold fingers curl around the lip of the vinyl, opening the case. It looks exactly the same. Exactly the same as that last night. Like him, the violin stayed still while the world continued to turn. He feels a lump forming in his throat, but now it is too late to go back. Peter clasps the neck in his right hand, and the bow in his left.

Maya knew he played as a kid. The rest – the family practices, his parents shows, how music filled their home – that Peter preserved only for his own memory.

She glances up from her book as Peter once again enters the room. She offers a small, sweet smile as he asks if he can play for her.

Maya’s eyes close as Peter fills their living room with sound. The violin, now slightly out of tune, needs a careful hand. Peter’s bow slides across the fingerboard, manipulating the sounds into a melody. The chestnut feels good in his hands.

Peter thinks once more of how his mother used to play. It startles him, the resemblance between Maya’s expression and the one he was once so used to seeing on his father.

Peter plays. A the music flows through his veins, his eyes begin to well, and this time, he lets the tears stream silently down his face.