“Have you changed?” Clara asked, turning to me as the wind whipped her rippling black hair away from her face. She looked at me with a probing gaze, as though she were trying to see the way I’d changed written on my face.
“I don’t know if I have, but sometimes, at night, I can still hear Mary of Misery screaming, far away.”
Clara took my hand and kissed it gently, as though my pain were a child’s wound that she could kiss and make better. Then she smiled, and pulled my hand, and we were running together, laughing, to the shore.
Epilogue
As the days grew longer and warmer, and the sea-breeze became humid and warm as it blew in from the gulf, the winter I’d spent in the abbey seemed more and more like a distant nightmare. I caught up with my schoolwork easily by midterm, and after that, my days were filled with friendship, music, and most of all, Clara. Before I knew it, my 17th birthday was approaching, final exams were over, and my fellow students were preparing for the annual student exhibition.
“It’s something we put on every year before graduation, so we can show how much more special we are than the public school kids,” Summer explained to me, as we sat under the oak tree at lunch. “Everyone has to participate. Chad and I are acting out the final scene from Hamlet, and I get to play the title role. My fencing is getting very good.”
“That sounds like fun,” I said. “Do you still have a part in it I could play?”
“No!” Summer said, looking mortified. “You have a special talent, and if you don’t show that off, the teachers would never forgive you. Everyone knows you’re some sort of genius pianist. If you don’t play, your senior year will be hell.”
So, while Summer and Chad spent the afternoons rehearsing, Jason wrote a song on his guitar to perform, and Clara put together a presentation featuring the artwork she’d won awards for, I went home to have extra practice sessions with Mr. Boscov. He insisted on choosing the piece that I would perform at the exhibition, and had me play through some of the pieces I’d prepared over the past year, as though I were auditioning them.
When I got to Mephisto Waltz, I played with special enthusiasm. The song had come to mean something special to me. I felt it somehow symbolized my struggle and my triumph at the abbey, and felt it would be especially meaningful if I could play it during the exhibition.
He listened the entire time with his eyes shut, and when I’d played through the entire piece and stopped, exhausted but feeling accomplished, Mr. Boscov opened his eyes and smiled brilliantly.
“Yes, Miranda, yes! You have mastered this piece for me, at last. I’m so proud of you!”
“Do you really think it was good?” I asked, breathless with pleasure.
“Was it good? Oh, heavens no, Miranda, that was terrible. I absolutely forbid you to play that piece at the student exhibition. I’d never be able to teach in this town again.”
My face fell. “But, you said-“
“I’m sorry, Miranda. I meant to say that you’d mastered the musical lesson I meant for that to teach you. You’re far from the ability to play that piece in concert, though. No, I want you to play the lovely Chopin Etude that you’ve been working on. That, you play beautifully.”
I sighed, disappointed, but I knew that he was right. I put Mephisto Waltz away and took out Chopin’s Revolutionary Etude.
#
The day of the exhibition fell on my birthday. I woke that morning with a feeling of dread, not because of the exhibition, but because I had never celebrated a birthday without Mark. My friends had insisted that they take me out that day, and give me gifts, but I honestly didn’t want to celebrate at all. My parents took me out to a quiet dinner the night before, and they and Aunt Elizabeth both gave me small gifts, but they’d seemed to realize that I didn’t want a party, and respected that wish. I didn’t want to disappoint my friends, so I agreed to a small gathering, but that morning I sat in bed and watched the breeze from the open window rustle the window curtains, wishing I could stay there all day.
As I watched the curtains rustle, and the shadows that fell across them danced in the breeze, I heard a familiar sound.
“Miranda,” I heard, whispered.
Somehow, though, I greeted the mysterious voice without fear. I listened to the sound, and it soothed me.
“Mark,” I whispered back.
“Miranda,” the sound came again.
“I’m okay, now. I hope, wherever you are, you’re okay too.”
The breeze stilled then. The curtains stopped rustling, and I didn’t hear the sound again. I got up, opened the curtains, and greeted the sunny day with a newfound serenity.
I went with my friends to the beach, and then we went into the beach house. There was no surprise party waiting for me. There were only a few small gifts, and a cake baked by Jason’s mother. I enjoyed a quiet party, and then returned home to shower and don the floor-length black gown that I would wear to the exhibition that evening. I finished dressing and went back downstairs in my gown, with my hair pulled up into a chignon at the nape of my neck. My mother began to cry, saying how grown-up I’d become, and even my father became somewhat misty eyed. I endured a long series of photos, followed by the photos that they took of all of my friends when we arrived at the school, as well as photos taken by my friends’ parents.
The exhibition was everything Summer had promised it would be. I was impressed my Summer’s acting and fencing skills, and Jason played a flamenco piece very skillfully on his guitar. Amber, surprisingly, sang an Aria with a strength that I’d never heard her sing with in church. Even David, who recited an essay he’d written, I had to give grudging respect. Alice, who’d been forced by her father to come and watch David, and who swore that she’d fall asleep halfway through, watched each performance with an countenance as enraptured as the countenance she’d worn when she watched the snow fall over the abbey.
Clara showcased an amazing series of impressionist paintings, each showing such rare skill that, even after everything that had preceded her, made the other performances seem pale in comparison.
Finally, my turn to perform came. I was nervous as I approached the piano, even though I’d never experienced stage fright before. As I played, however, I quickly forgot about anything else but the music, and I was startled to hear the applause directed at me after the last notes faded away. I could feel my cheeks turn red as I bowed, and I made a hasty retreat.
I sat alone outside, watching the stars as I listened to someone reciting poetry inside. I couldn’t make out their words, but the voice provided a pleasing, musical cadence that felt as soothing as a gentle rain. I sat and listened, and felt my heart’s beating become more regular.
Clara exited the cafeteria, which was serving as our makeshift auditorium, and walked over quickly to give me a hug.
“You were incredible,” she said. “You were the best musician tonight, by far.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I felt as though I was going to be sick, though, when it was all over.”
“You looked that way, too. How do you feel now?”
“I feel better. You were the best artist, tonight, by the way. You’re going to be famous, one day.”
“Perhaps after I’m dead,” she said with that light, casual laugh I felt I’d never get tired of hearing. “I have a gift for you, by the way.”
“No, you already gave me my birthday gift,” I said. “You can’t give me another one.”
“Yes, I can. The other one was just some stupid thing I bought. This one is… well, open it.”
She handed me a package wrapped in rough, brown paper and bound with twine. I opened the package, and inside, framed, was a delicate watercolor of me, sitting on a low wall, surrounded by roses.
“This is the one you drew of me, that day in the garden.”
“Yes, it won first place in the art competition, after all. The ribbon is attached to the back of the frame. I wanted you to have it, because you inspired me.”
I meant to say, “Than
k you,” but somehow, the words got lost on the way to my mouth. Instead, I said, “I love you.”
“I love you,” she said. “No matter what happens, I always will.”
She kissed me, and I felt the same synchronicity that I’d felt the day she kissed me by the pond. This time, no one came to tear us apart.
The End.
Mephisto Waltz Page 30
