A Place In This Life

Chapter 5

My mother was a piano teacher since before I was born, and had tried to teach me on several occasions how to play. Instead, I would disobey, play the wrong thing or just get up and walk away from the keys because I didn't see the point of formal training. However, the urge to play was there in my bones and I spent a good deal of time composing music that I couldn't write down.

At the other end of the familial creative spectrum was my dad, a formally-trained artist with a fondness for oils and a rendering technique that brought buildings and landscapes to life. Consequently, we had a lot of paint and canvas around, and I loved dabbing at the greasy, poison colors that melted together like soft butter sticks. My dad had once told me to leave his stuff alone until I learned how to paint. But since I thought I could paint, I never stopped getting into his stash.

Today, though, I sat at the piano, fiddling with a new song I had been writing in my head. Reading music wasn't my cup of tea, but playing by ear was. My dad was working in his studio, an ancient A.M. radio blaring out talk radio while he painted with his right hand and held a smoke with his left. Our household was peaceful and creative, my mother and brother absent due to school clothes shopping.

Our doorbell never rang, except for the occasional Jehovah Witness or Girl Scout selling cookies. That's why when it did ring it felt like the start of an earthquake, when you're shocked into realizing your experience, and feel completely unprepared to deal with it in the midst of the shaking. Today, I let my dad get the door, not bothering to look over my shoulder.

"This is a surprise. Come in," he said. This time, I did look over my shoulder at the tall, lanky boy standing in the doorway, a backpack slung over his shoulders. He wore jeans and a hooded sweatshirt that couldn't hide the pounds he had lost. From afar, his hair looked a little longer, and he wore a small gold hoop earring in each lobe, which would likely get my father's commentary later on.

Todd looked down the hall and saw me, a warm smile and look of relief on his face.

"Almost didn't think I was going the right way on the bus. Looks like I didn't mess up," he said, following my dad to the living room.

"Natalie, did you know Todd was coming over?" asked my dad. I shook my head and got up. A trill of excitement made my stomach lurch.

Todd came over to the piano and put his backpack on the floor.

"Thought you wouldn't mind a little surprise." He ran his hand along the piano's grain.

"You should have told me," I said, painfully aware of my ratty sweatpants, faded t-shirt, and bare face with a new zit forming on the chin.

"Then it wouldn't have been a surprise." Todd walked around the baby grand with great care. "Nice piano."

My dad, eager to get back to painting, opted-out of the conversation.

"Well, I'll let you kids talk. I've got to finish something," he said, turning on his heels, back to the studio for more smokes, talk radio and endless brush strokes.

Todd was now looking around the room at the paintings on the walls, and at the handmade curtains on the windows and needlepoint pillows on the couch that my grandma had made.

"I wanted to take my truck, but it needs work and I can't risk having it break down on me right now," he said.

"What kind of truck do you have?"

"A Baja. I used to take it out to the desert and run it up the dunes."

"A long bus ride probably isn't nearly as exciting as your truck," I said. Todd focused on the piano and then at me, his eyes narrowing.