thing I’ve got.
I get to the water, trot down a flight of narrow stone steps, and I’m on the quai—a wide stone walkway that hugs the river. There’s a bench nearby. I put my guitar and bag on it, take out my phone and call Dr. Becker’s office. Get voice mail. Call my mom’s cell. Get voice mail. Then I sit down and take off my boots and socks. My feet are killing me. I find a couple of Band-Aids, tape them over my blisters, and put my socks back on.
I made a few stops along the St-Antoine. At an art supply store, a Chinese grocery, and a vintage clothing shop. I dig in my bag, take out the things I bought, and put them on the bench. Paints and brushes. A canister of tea with flowers on it. A jeweled compact and six glass buttons and a perfume bottle. They’re all for my mother. I’m going to send them to her.
I’m going to make up stories about each one. Like she used to do. I’ll write them all down and tell her that the buttons came off one of Edith Piaf’s dresses and the perfume bottle belonged to Josephine Baker and the compact was used by a member of the Resistance who carried secret messages in it.
I wish I could see her face when she opens the box. I wish I wasn’t here, sitting on a bench in the cold. I wish I was home with her. I wish she was painting and I was playing. In the evening in our parlor. In the half-light. In our shared, unspeakable pain.
There’s a soft splash below me. I stand up, walk to the edge of the quai and see a rat swimming away. He dives, disappearing under the gray surface of the Seine, and I think how easy it would be to follow him. All I’d have to do is take a step. One step. The water would be ice cold. There’d be a short struggle, then nothing.
My phone rings. I open it without looking at the number.
“Hello?” I say, hoping really hard that it’s my mother, not Dr. Becker.
“We have a lesson now, ja? ”
“Nathan? Nathan! Oh, no. Oh, shit!”
I can’t believe I forgot. God, how stupid. It’s morning back home. Tuesday morning. I scheduled lessons with Nathan on Tuesdays and Fridays during break.
“What has happened?” he asks now, sounding worried.
“I’m in Paris, Nathan. For three weeks. I don’t want to be, but my father came home and he … he took my mom to a hospital. A mental hospital. He said she needed to go and that I couldn’t stay by myself and that he was going to Paris for work and that I had to go with him, so here I am. I should have called you to let you know. I totally forgot. I’m really sorry, and—”
Suddenly my voice breaks and I’m crying. I can’t help it. I miss my mother. I miss Nathan. I miss Brooklyn. I’m cold and scared and sick—sick of explaining, sick of being a head case and a screwup, sick of the sadness that stalks me every minute of every day everywhere I go.
“Andi?” Nathan says, but I can’t answer him.
Do it, you loser, I’m telling myself. Do it, you coward. Do it and be done. Come on. One step and you’re in the water.
“Andi, listen to me. Listen.”
Just one small step.
“Did you know that Bach lost his young daughter, and three sons, and then his wife, Maria Barbara?” Nathan says. “Did you?”
I take a breath, quick and convulsive. “No.”
“Then he and Anna Magdalena, his second wife, lost four more daughters and three sons. Eleven beloved children dead. Eleven, ja? ”
“What are you saying, Nathan? That eleven is more than one? So I’ve no right?”
“Many scholars of music have asked themselves: How could Bach survive such grief? How did his lungs push the air in and out of him? How did his heart not stop? And most of all, how did he continue to write music? The cantatas. The cello suites. Masses. Concertos. Some of the most beautiful music the world has ever heard. Do you know how he did this? I will tell you.”
“I was thinking you would.”
“One note at a time.”
“Okay, but Nathan? Here’s the thing: I’m not Bach. No one is.”
“One note. One
I get to the water, trot down a flight of narrow stone steps, and I’m on the quai—a wide stone walkway that hugs the river. There’s a bench nearby. I put my guitar and bag on it, take out my phone and call Dr. Becker’s office. Get voice mail. Call my mom’s cell. Get voice mail. Then I sit down and take off my boots and socks. My feet are killing me. I find a couple of Band-Aids, tape them over my blisters, and put my socks back on.
I made a few stops along the St-Antoine. At an art supply store, a Chinese grocery, and a vintage clothing shop. I dig in my bag, take out the things I bought, and put them on the bench. Paints and brushes. A canister of tea with flowers on it. A jeweled compact and six glass buttons and a perfume bottle. They’re all for my mother. I’m going to send them to her.
I’m going to make up stories about each one. Like she used to do. I’ll write them all down and tell her that the buttons came off one of Edith Piaf’s dresses and the perfume bottle belonged to Josephine Baker and the compact was used by a member of the Resistance who carried secret messages in it.
I wish I could see her face when she opens the box. I wish I wasn’t here, sitting on a bench in the cold. I wish I was home with her. I wish she was painting and I was playing. In the evening in our parlor. In the half-light. In our shared, unspeakable pain.
There’s a soft splash below me. I stand up, walk to the edge of the quai and see a rat swimming away. He dives, disappearing under the gray surface of the Seine, and I think how easy it would be to follow him. All I’d have to do is take a step. One step. The water would be ice cold. There’d be a short struggle, then nothing.
My phone rings. I open it without looking at the number.
“Hello?” I say, hoping really hard that it’s my mother, not Dr. Becker.
“We have a lesson now, ja? ”
“Nathan? Nathan! Oh, no. Oh, shit!”
I can’t believe I forgot. God, how stupid. It’s morning back home. Tuesday morning. I scheduled lessons with Nathan on Tuesdays and Fridays during break.
“What has happened?” he asks now, sounding worried.
“I’m in Paris, Nathan. For three weeks. I don’t want to be, but my father came home and he … he took my mom to a hospital. A mental hospital. He said she needed to go and that I couldn’t stay by myself and that he was going to Paris for work and that I had to go with him, so here I am. I should have called you to let you know. I totally forgot. I’m really sorry, and—”
Suddenly my voice breaks and I’m crying. I can’t help it. I miss my mother. I miss Nathan. I miss Brooklyn. I’m cold and scared and sick—sick of explaining, sick of being a head case and a screwup, sick of the sadness that stalks me every minute of every day everywhere I go.
“Andi?” Nathan says, but I can’t answer him.
Do it, you loser, I’m telling myself. Do it, you coward. Do it and be done. Come on. One step and you’re in the water.
“Andi, listen to me. Listen.”
Just one small step.
“Did you know that Bach lost his young daughter, and three sons, and then his wife, Maria Barbara?” Nathan says. “Did you?”
I take a breath, quick and convulsive. “No.”
“Then he and Anna Magdalena, his second wife, lost four more daughters and three sons. Eleven beloved children dead. Eleven, ja? ”
“What are you saying, Nathan? That eleven is more than one? So I’ve no right?”
“Many scholars of music have asked themselves: How could Bach survive such grief? How did his lungs push the air in and out of him? How did his heart not stop? And most of all, how did he continue to write music? The cantatas. The cello suites. Masses. Concertos. Some of the most beautiful music the world has ever heard. Do you know how he did this? I will tell you.”
“I was thinking you would.”
“One note at a time.”
“Okay, but Nathan? Here’s the thing: I’m not Bach. No one is.”
“One note. One
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