Sonata

The piano now sat dusty and forgotten, lost in the rooms of the old house. Sophie hadn’t set foot there in what seemed a life time. Old memories reared their heads, often causing her to stop and stare, the flashes coming in waves, stopping her from her mission. She walked into the piano room, pulling the edges of her coat tighter as she noticed that one of the windows had broken, the snow from outside threatening to enter, breaking her near perfect memory of the room.

She sat at the bench, running her gloved hand over the dust covered keys. She couldn’t count how many days he’d spent in here, perfecting his craft. It had always been said that Alan was a great pianist. And he defiantly worked keeping up appearances. Sophie had come second to the music; she knew this, even if he never outwardly said it. She knew. And she understood the need for perfection. She strove for it in her own endeavors. Keeping up appearances was key. For him it was the music, for her the house. Perfect house, perfect life. That is how it worked. Or so she thought.

It began when Alan’s mother fell ill. Alan’s mother, the driving force behind his music, the woman who’d worked two jobs for months so she could buy the old, breaking church piano from the school house. Who made sure her little Mozart practiced day in and day out, not worrying if his grades fell. School wasn’t important. He had what could not be taught. His strong independent mother who was now lying in a hospice, skin thin and gray, eyes sunken, tubes in her arms, and cancer in her lungs. In the early days, she was mostly the chirpy fire cracker she’d always been, but she gradually declined, and this hit Alan hard. He visited her as much as he could, brought her CDs and DVDs of his performances. See mum, still working, still making you proud his actions screamed. But as her strength wavered, his visits were cut shorter and shorter by the curt nurses, and his own strength failing, he retreated into himself, leaving Sophie to maintain their joint little worlds.

Sophie had struggled to keep the peace. Most of the time it was quiet, both lost in their own worlds. Clean house, clean life. Sophie worked, keeping their home free of clutter and mess, deflecting any issues with new furniture or wallpaper. She worked hard, but often by accident she’d put something in the wrong place, never meaning any harm by it, but the book left on the sofa, the papers still scattered on the desk, correspondence still in the letter box, would offend Alan.

She tried to make things right, but there was always something wrong. Little things, like the letters out of place. Silly really, her not remembering to sort them out, but it was something she’d work on. Okay Alan? I’m sorry, her smiles sat dutifully on her lips. Really Alan, I meant nothing by it, it’ll be fixed tomorrow, I promise, her eyes shone, seeking out his own, hunting for those glances from their youth. But his eyes were hidden and his ears were deaf, yet his hands were strong, and for all his blindness towards Sophie, he could always find her.

After he’d leave, the soft trills and dips of music floating down the hall, she’d pick herself up, push her hair back into place, pull the sleeves further down her arms and look in the mirror. Dabbing a cold, wet flannel over her cheeks, her lips, she studied her face.

The puffiness around her eye would be gone in a few days, the cut on her lip would take longer, but it too, will fade, just meant she’d stay inside a bit more. She replaced her makeup, and again fiddled with her hair, pinning it back. Don’t worry, she told herself. Later, you’ll tell him you love him, and he’ll smile and embrace you and whisper in your ear and it’ll be fine. Just a little slip, no one’s perfect. She refused to glance too deeply in her reflection, knowing all too well that if she allowed herself the luxury of staring into her own eyes, that she would be lost, the truth all too plain and raw. Ignorance was truly bliss she told herself. It had to be.