Three Girls Book Two Chapter Ten Sonatas and Sadness by Andrea Lena DiMaggio

Previously...

“Susan…I think you should listen to Gennie, okay?” Her voice was soothing and calm and served to ease the tension in the room.

“It’s going to be okay.”

That week...

The girl seemed almost giddy as the bow glided on the strings. She had to recall the piano from memory since she had the sound to the CD player turned down. Beethoven's Sonata for Cello and Piano in F-Major. A bit of an elevation of mood for her; not quite bright, but no where near gloomy. She looked forward to showing them that she not only could play cello, but that she was 'that good,' as they say. In real life she held herself in very little regard, but her music gave her confidence that she gained no where else in life.

That confidence was painfully difficult to sustain, especially now that her other talents, as well as her identity, seem to be called into question; first by circumstances and sadly, she felt, perhaps by those she loved. She played the piece over and over, almost like a comforting favorite lullaby at bedtime. And she played so as not to think and feel. Try as she may, between the sheer fatigue from the playing and the lack of sleep over several days, she stopped halfway during the fourth run-through and she began to cry hard enough to drop her cello to the floor only to fall beside it, weeping.

Further into the week...at the Peterson home...

Ase’s Death from Peer Gynt was playing moderately in the background. Susan covered one ear and spoke into her cell phone.

“Al?…Sue…are you free for dinner Sunday? Alan has some things he wants to talk over with us, and it would be easier if he could tell us together..no…nothing like that..school stuff…yeah…okay…two thirty okay? Alright…yes…Love you, too. Bye”

“I hope this works,” Susan turned to her child, who was debating how to tell her father that she was a young woman.

“They say immersion is the best way to teach a new language, right?” Familiarity had been brushed aside as a daughter looked up at her mother instead of the usual boy and his mom.

“I’m speaking a new language, Mom…you’ve been speaking it all your life, and I need you to jump in and talk to me like I’m from the same place as you…it’s the only way I can…the way you can help me…” Where once Alan Peterson might have sat, Elaine Peterson…Petronova she had mused…Elaine had taken his place.

“What do you want me to say, honey? This is not easy for either of us. I can’t just set aside years of my life to suit your needs…” She bit her tongue, trying not to cry. Elaine winced at the rebuke.

“It’s not like I can’t see you this way…it’s just that it’s so new…so different. When you were born…you were my baby boy…your birth certificate said as much until the next day. You may have been a girl all along, but my heart doesn’t know that child…at least in that way.” She shook her head; the tears were flowing freely and she felt both guilt and confusion over the strangeness of it all.

“Honey…I’m trying, and we’re going to get where we both need to go, but it’s not going to be without challenges and obstacles along the way. Please…” She turned away, but she didn’t turn her back on her daughter so much as turn to seek some sort of sense; as if facing Elaine would confuse and befuddle her thinking.

“Mom…look at me…I’m the same person…please…I’m the cello that plays counter-point to the melody; I support….I’m not in front anymore…Alan’s gone, Mom…I’m here, and I need you to listen to me…” She began to sob and buried her face in a pillow from the couch. It was almost too much to bear. She felt shame over her needs; as if being herself was being selfish.

“I know…God, I know…please help me.” Elaine watched as her mother stood stock still and raised her hands in the air, and she realized the plea wasn’t to her, but a prayer to God. Susan began to shake; a small tremor that culminated in her falling to the floor, weeping. Elaine rushed to her side.

“Mom…I’m so sorry…this isn’t right…I’m so sorry. I’ll go…” She wasn’t going to go change her clothes, but she felt responsible for her mother’s pain in the same manner her mother felt responsible for the devastation the divorce had wrought with her child. She wasn’t going to put on a tee shirt and sweats; she was prepared to abandon herself. Susan’s hand grabbed Elaine’s wrist as she pulled the girl to the floor and embraced her, weeping.

“Mommy…please…I have to go…I have to go.” Too much guilt spread over three people when two were to blame but none was guilty. The girl went to stand, but her mother had locked her fingers and held tight.

“No…Alan…Alan….Oh God….my baby….” She rocked back and forth; her movements at once jarring to the girl, but gradually the laments became a lullaby of sorts as Susan spoke her child’s name for the first time, over and over.

“My baby…Elaine…Elaine….Oh God, forgive me…please.” Her words, while soft and nearly a whisper, became a prayer to be heard by the One who was listening all along. The same one who had formed her child in her womb had done the same for her as well.

“Mommy…I’m so sorry.” Both requesting forgiveness when neither was guilty. Both seeking absolution when their very embrace was proof that forgiveness was not only possible, but was working in them.

They sat on the floor and hugged, without word as the music almost played an accompaniment; the sadness of Grieg that had played like a dirge…perhaps for Alan’s death…was supplanted by the bright hope of Tchaikovsky’s Serenade, almost as if new life had entered their living room. The music permeated the two like a rainshower replenishes a dry flower bed. The notes at first bounced off their hearts, but gradually they were absorbed as the two rested in each other's arms.

“Mom…what are am I going to tell Dad?” The girl tried not to cry; as if she were betraying the bright mood of Pyotr Illytch, but she sobbed into her mother’s breast.

“We…We are going to tell him that his daughter has decided to major in Cello.” She shrugged her shoulders in hopes that her ex-husband would be as receptive as she finally had become. Her prayers were about to be answered as he would be confronted with the truth about his child, but how receptive he would be remained to be seen. Tchaikovsky’s frenetic pace seemed almost a prelude to the confrontation they hoped would not take place.

Sunday afternoon...

Al kissed Susan on the cheek as he entered the house, pausing long enough to stand and smile. It was his routine whenever he visited the family home, hoping still to win her heart enough to at least attempt to rekindle their marriage. Actually rekindle was incorrect, since they’d already been divorced and ostensibly moved on. Al never gave up hope even as Susan ran through two quick and disposable relationships; her being the dispossee.

“So what’s cookin’ Babe?”

He asked that question almost every time he had returned to the house for the awkward but necessary “let’s be civil for the sake of our son” meal. The comment was bordering on trite, but coming with his bright smile and welcoming tone, it actually was something to look forward to with each visit.

“Baked ziti with sausage on the side,” Susan remarked. Her face grew warm at the touch of his lips. She had never stopped loving him, even if they found they couldn’t live together. They’d even cheated in a way by having a brief but tumultuous affair with each other only weeks after the divorce was finalized.

“Sounds wonderful, honey.” He smiled again and quickly scanned the living room.

“Where’s Alan?”

“Oh, down the hall.” She hadn’t meant to be deceptive, but the pronouns and nouns and even Elaine’s name just didn’t roll off the tongue yet.

“We’re going to have some company; I hope you don’t mind.” Susan almost shrugged in apology.

“I thought we were going to talk about Alan’s college….what’s going on.” Al looked disappointed; he loved his son, and would have done anything for him, but he also felt the need for privacy, and not just to talk about the past or the future.

“Some friends are coming over; their daughter is already here now…down the hall.” She used her hand in a broad gesture before continuing.

“Genevieve has gone through some of the same challenges…I asked them to come so we could discuss the options.” She avoided the name and the pronouns once again.

“Okay…I guess.” He half-frowned.

“What?” She anticipated an argument, but his tone was understanding though disappointed.

“I was hoping to talk to you…” He smiled and she finished his sentence.

“About us? Al…we already discussed this. You and I have changed, and both for the better. We get along great even if…”

“Part of what I wanted to talk to you about was that I got a promotion.” She tilted her head in question and he continued.

“I’m going to be able to pay more support, and I got a bonus that’s going all to back payments. I want to do right by you and Alan, and now maybe I can. I’m so sorry.” He hoped this turn of events might serve to change her mind and he was prepared to continue pleading his case when he was interrupted by the doorbell. Sue smiled and shrugged her shoulders in apology once again before going to the door.

“Hello, Meav…Sean…This is my hus…my ex-husband Al. Al, these are Meav and Sean O’Hara. Their daughter works over at Perugino’s as a server, too.” Meav stepped closer and offered her hand to Al, which he promptly but softly shook. Sean shook Al’s hand as well and scanned the living room in much the same manner as Al had only minutes before.

“Something smells delicious,” Meav said, noting the aroma coming from the kitchen. She held up a tupperware container slightly.

“Is that the peach pie you told me about? I’ve got vanilla ice cream for that as well.” Sue smiled and walked into the kitchen with Meav.

“I’ve got to say, your kid really can play. Violin all the way to double bass from what I’ve heard. You must be proud.” Sean said with only the slightest hint of Kilkenny in his accent.

“I am. And he’s got a full ride to Illinois…he’s a miler…a rare thing indeed since they’ve been sorta stingy with their athletic scholarships lately. Sean smiled, wondering how well Al would take the news that the track scholarship had been revoked.

“Dinner is just about ready. Why don’t you guys sit down and I’ll serve the salad, okay?” She smiled nervously, hoping her face wasn’t turning red.

“Meav? Would you mind going down the hall and telling those two that dinner is ready?” Meav nodded and was off down the hall. Sue came into the dining room and placed a large salad bowl on the table.

“Dressing is there…help yourselves.” She nodded in the direction of the bottles of ranch and Italian before hurrying back to the kitchen.

“I’ll just get the pitcher of iced tea and I’ll be back in a moment,” she called back. Sean handed the bowl to Al as Meav walked into the dining room accompanied by two girls. The first of the two entered the dining room. She appeared to be in her early twenties; a bit boyish but pretty. She wore blue jeans and a black top under a green Eisenhower jacket with flower appliques on the epaulets.

“Hi, I’m Gennie.” She nearly added ‘you must be…’ but thought better of it. Standing in the doorway was a girl of about seventeen or so. She looked nervous.

“Oh…you have two daughters.” Al turned to Meav, who had sat down. She shook her head ‘no.’ He turned back and looked at the girl again.

She wore blue jeans and a turquoise shell under a hip-length purple lavender cardigan. She wore little makeup, giving her a pretty but ‘natural’ look. Her hair was longish and she was smiling. And she looked very familiar, even if the hair and clothes didn’t. Al stared at the girl, whose nervousness grew with each moment of scrutiny until he blurted out.

“Son of a Bitch!”

The girl shrugged once and burst into tears and ran back down the hallway.

Al’s outburst was quickly accompanied by a loud crash and the sound of breaking glass as Sue dropped the pitcher of iced tea.

“Oh, Hell NO!... Son of a Bitch!”

Next: Rachmaninoff and Romance

Cello Sonata No. 1 Op. 5/1 in F major
by Ludwig Van Beethoven
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G-xlTc5qfWQ

Peer Gynt Suite No. I, Op. 46 -
Ase's Death i obrazy Muncha
by Edvard Grieg
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YD7WUdMHHgc&feature=fvst

Serenade for Strings in C Maj. Op.48
Fourth Movement
by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-z8i8zixPU0