“Yes. I mean, no. Theo, you know damn well it was nothing short of magnificent.”
He lets go of my hand; his expression shifts to slight embarrassment. “Magnificent . . . More like mysterious, at least the origin.”
If I was the fainting type, now would be a good moment.
Look at him, Liv . . . You did this . . . You screwed up again . . . Now face it . . . “What do you want to know?” He’ll ask. I’ll answer. We’ll part ways—just like we did twenty-six years ago. I’ll go to jail for not fulfilling my community service or decent-human-being requirements. “Well?”
He’s taken aback by my tone. It’s the one Sasha points out on occasion, the one that frightens store clerks and is not suitable for small children.
“I, uh . . . I was wondering if you think the symphony might offer a summer internship to a kid like Antonio.” He stirs black coffee.
“What?” I lean in, squinting at his request.
“I understand. It’s probably totally out of the realm of possibility. It’d be a hard thing to finagle for a talented kid from Brookline. I can see where a student from Braemore would be a long shot.”
“A summer internship.” I lift my cup, and coffee sloshes over the edge. Fortunately it’s tepid. The cup makes a shaky landing back onto the saucer. “I, uh . . .” I smile our smile. “I didn’t think that’s what you were going to ask.”
“What did you think I was going to ask?”
“Nothing that matters.” I stiffly shift my shoulders. “An internship. I’ll talk to Manuel Gutierrez, our conductor. See if he’ll speak to the front office.”
“Great,” Theo says, breathing deep. “If it works out, your assignment at Braemore will have delivered more than I could have imagined.”
“And what did you imagine? A snooty symphony violinist, banished to a timeout for bad public behavior.”
He frowns. “Not really. I don’t make judgements based on occupation. As for the timeout . . . Well, after getting to you know a little, I can’t see that either.”
I have been careful about the Olivia Theo knows, crafting the woman I would like him to see. While she is clearly not a teacher, she tries. She is reserved. She does not act out or take baseball bats to luxury vehicles. Theo still doesn’t know the transgression that landed me in his classroom. Of course, that’s nothing compared to the other things Theo doesn’t know. I flounder between small talk and a ridiculous well of emotion. “You know, Theo, you’re extremely talented.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“You’re being modest.”
The diffident tip of his head turns into a nod. “It took a while to realize it . . . grasp it.”
“You thought your life should be dedicated to athleticism.”
“How do you know . . .” He knots his brow; then it relaxes. “Oh, that’s right. You’ve followed the Theo McAdams chronicles, the Shep Stewart stories.”
“Yes, the stories.” Thank God for the stories. More than once they have explained my innate knowledge of Theo. “You, um . . .” I feign a struggle to recall facts. “Didn’t you win a scholarship or something based on athletics?”
“To Cornell. A full ride for lacrosse.”
“Cornell. You must have had the grades to back that up.”
“My parents—my mother,” he says, alluding to David McAdams’s limited time with him. “Schoolwork always came first, whether it was music or sports.”
“Tell me, were you class president too?”
“Vice president,” he admits.
I am blindsided by the miraculous correction that can be made to DNA. “She . . . they,” I say, giving an absent David McAdams credit. “Your parents raised an incredible human being—so gifted yet so selfless and smart about your talents.”
“When it comes to sports, music . . . education, they instilled good values. But the gifts themselves . . .” Theo’s gaze moves around the café, taking in the strangers that surround him. His eyes settle back on me.
“What?”
“I’m adopted.”
I bite down on the inside of my cheek and concentrate on forming normal steady breaths. We’re doing okay for just having stepped off a cliff. Right. I’ve stepped off, but I am holding his hand. “So you always knew that you were adopted?”
“Mmm,” he murmurs. “The same way you know your birthday. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Even when it falls on New Year’s Eve?”
Theo thuds against the booth and his jaw slacks. “How do you know . . .”
My fingers flit nervously through a layer of bangs. “Subconscious recall. Claire must have mentioned it in one of her many updates.” His surprised expression doesn’t change, but he can’t argue. Theo hasn’t looked at the stories in years. “Or maybe you brought it up in passing.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned—”
“So you were saying, you’ve always known about your adoption.”
“Uh, yeah.” His face relaxes. “I remember my mother rocking me when I was about four or so. She’d say ‘You’re my sweetheart, you’re my lamb . . . you’re my adopted . . .’”
Brava, Claire . . . how brilliant.
“Just another word for love,” I say softly. But a wedge grows so large in my throat it feels as if I’ve swallowed a sea of jealousy.
“So, actually,” Theo continues, “I don’t know where any of my abilities come from. I don’t know how it is I stepped onto a soccer field at five and, hands down, was better than every kid out there. Of course, at that age, when your dad was a college All-American, you just figure it somehow comes from him.”
“I can see where a boy could draw that conclusion.” Aside from the McAdamses’ zip code, David McAdams’s athleticism was a boon. The savvy athlete turned business executive and accomplished woman with a publishing background. Intelligent (which is different than smart), unselfish, focused, and success stamped on their DNA. Those are the things I wanted for a child who might have all the inherent gifts in the world and be sorely lacking an ability to navigate them.
“I liked believing athletic talent came from my dad. It kept him that much closer. But it all blends. I love to read, and I know that comes from my mother—despite biology. She has a background in publishing. It all fit naturally, less the music.”
“Couldn’t attribute that to either of your parents.”
“My mother is tone deaf, and, well, my dad was so good at sports . . . How many talents can one person have?”
I lean in and my gaze turns questioning.
“Right.” He laughs again. “I do wonder more about the music, where it comes from. Don’t get me wrong, there can be beauty on a field, in that sort of accomplishment. But it isn’t anything like music. Not for me.”
I’m sitting on my hands to keep still, silently willing him on. He is saying all the things about music that I’ve been told but never truly experienced.
“At first music was like sports. It was something that came naturally; it just existed. Then, after my father died—the way he died—that changed. The meaning of music changed.”
“It’s music. How does it relate to what happened to your father?”
“Chaos,” he says. “That time in my life was chaos. The world was chaos. Afterward, no matter my mother’s influence, my life could have become chaos. Music kept that from happening. All the questions, all the anger. Music is the one thing where every note is where it’s supposed to be.”
I lean back into the booth. It’s such a profound thought. Theo is so fortunate to have the capacity to think it. Yet the other end of that equation sinks in. “But if you hadn’t been adopted, nothing on 9-11 would have been so personal—a father and the tragic way he died. You wouldn’t have had to go through that.”
Theo shakes his head. “The tragedy would have been not knowing him at all.” I am too awed to reply. Theo continues on. “David McAdams was an exceptional father. After 9-11 . . . My mother certainly gets all the credit. I couldn’t have asked
for a better one there either.”
Touché, Liv. You had that coming . . .
“But she couldn’t give me everything. Wherever my musical wiring comes from, that was my saving grace.”
“How incredible,” I murmur. “It’s been nothing but a burden for me.”
“How so?”
“That’s a long story.” I glance at my cup. “They probably don’t have enough coffee on hand to get through my formative years.”
“I’d love to hear it. It’d be fascinating to know how you interpret your musical gift. It’s not a conversation I can have with a lot of people.”
“I suppose it isn’t.” I take a deep breath and we order more coffee. “It’s a twofold story. My gift was my father’s. His life was all about music. All he wanted . . . all he could see was a career as a symphony violinist. While on his way to achieving his dream, he got into a car accident.” I breathe deep and so does Theo, who sinks further into his grandfather’s story. “A stupid, reckless accident. He was out joyriding with some friends from Indiana University.”
Theo nods. “One of the best music programs in the country.”
“The very best in the early 1960s. He lost his left index finger in the accident,” I say, bending mine at him. “He suffered severe nerve damage in his hand. Suffice it to say a finger wasn’t all he lost that day. In so many ways, he never recovered. It affected the rest of his life—and mine.”
“But he could have done other things, maybe taught music?”
Theo’s naïveté is sweet, the ease with which he pinpoints a simple solution. “You, Theo, are a born teacher. For my father, music and the violin became nothing but instruments of torture. Playing . . . performing, it was the only aspect he deemed worthwhile.”
“And he ended up putting all those unlived, lost aspirations onto you.”
I widen my eyes at the café window, the steadier flow of traffic. “Is it that obvious?”
“After listening to you play . . . I see the talent—clearly. But I also sense the lack of passion.” Theo shakes his head. “Maybe it’s only something one musician can see in another.”
“Like a slight note of imperfection that only a well-honed ear can pick up on.” I pause; he waits for more. “Without sounding too ‘poor me,’ I was bound to Asa Klein’s crushed dreams from the age of five, when I made the god-awful mistake of playing Carl Bohm’s Moto Perpetuo flawlessly.”
“Interesting. I suppose my parents only saw my talent as a pleasant surprise.” Theo pauses for a moment. “I guess you never know what you’re going to get with grab-bag DNA. Still, they never pushed me musically.”
“No disrespect. But they probably didn’t appreciate the depth of our gifts.” This comes out wistful, my gaze reverting to the window. Then it darts back to Theo. “Speaking in general, of course, about musical talent. The only good memories I have about music belong to my grandfather, which is ironic.”
“Because?”
“Because, compared to me or my father, his connection to music is the true tragic story.” The intent look on Theo’s face deepens. “My grandfather was a Holocaust survivor. His ability to play saved his life. He was in Dachau,” I say, informing Theo of family history he has no idea exists. “They kept him alive and barely fed to play at the commandant’s house parties and for the guards on duty. Jacob Klein’s experience left him with a hard-earned appreciation for life and for music. Being with him . . .” I breathe deep at what I view as a sacred memory. “We used to play together on Sunday afternoons—memorable rounds of call and response. Those are the fond thoughts I associate with the violin.” I stare at the coffee cup. “My grandfather died when I was eight.” I look at Theo. “There, um . . . there just weren’t enough Sundays.”
Sharing this story is not something ordinarily I do. Although we surpassed extraordinary the moment I intruded on Theo’s life. “I have my grandfather’s violin. My father would never allow me to play it. I’m not sure if he considered it substandard or too much of a treasure. It was impossible to tell how he felt about things like that.”
“And because of his behavior, for you, music became nothing but a job.”
“More like a requirement. The organ grinder’s monkey. Over the years, only the organ grinder’s face has changed: my father . . . even my mother, time served at various musical institutions, and the symphony.” I pause and smile at Theo. “You’re not going to say it, are you?”
“What?”
“That if playing music makes me unhappy, why don’t I walk away? Open a flower shop, travel the world, pursue something I do love.”
“Because you can’t. I know what it is to have that gift, Olivia. I’m sorry you’re so torn by it, your experiences so negative. But I also know you can’t deny it. Maybe that’s the bottom line of what troubles you.”
I tilt my head at Theo. “Have you ever considered psychoanalysis as a career path?”
“It wouldn’t work for me the same way a flower shop wouldn’t work for you.” He smiles wider. “No matter what, music dominates.”
“You’re so talented,” I say, steering away from emotion. “And yet you’ve never considered playing professionally?”
“My fiancée—my ex-fiancée used to ask the same thing. Who knows . . . Maybe I was still trying to figure it out when India walked into my life. It didn’t matter so much after she walked out.”
“The effect one person can have, it’s so curious . . .” I think of Rob and Sam, the profound ways both men changed my life. “I definitely know what you mean.”
“Do you?” Theo asks.
“What, um . . . What happened between the two of you?” If I keep the conversation slightly off balance, I may make it through this. “If you don’t mind obvious prying.”
“No, I should talk about it, or at least be able to by now.” But Theo’s drifting gaze falls to his hands, which are clamped around a cold coffee cup. “India works for her parents’ catering company,” he says. “She was setting up a cappuccino machine at a Cornell alumni event in Boston. I’d just graduated and was trying to make connections. I didn’t get a job—but I got a hell of a lot more, or at least I thought so.”
The loss on his face is awesome. I dive toward inconsequential information. “Did you help her with the cappuccino machine?”
“No. The way I told her to put it together was completely ass backward. India put her hands on her hips, insisted I was an idiot, and fixed it herself.” He drifts into a deeper memory “She was total fire and passion—between her personality and that flaming red hair . . . I would have done anything to prolong a conversation.”
I nod at Theo’s deliberate path to a first impression. I suspect he’s more than capable of assembling a cappuccino machine. “But things didn’t work out?”
He takes a regretful breath and a big gulp of coffee. “Last spring India attended a catering convention in New York. She ran into an old boyfriend. I suppose he was more than that. They’d nearly gotten engaged. Anyway, that afternoon . . . Tom invited her for coffee—some swanky Midtown martini bar.”
“And it turned into something else?”
“A few martinis.” Theo’s jaw goes rigid. “Then a kiss. She called me that same night, confessed everything. It was hard to hear . . .” He breathes deep. “But I trusted India. I trusted what we had.”
“But that wasn’t the end of it?”
“It was as far as the old boyfriend is concerned. As far as I know. I thought India rushed back to Boston to try and smooth things over. She came back to end our engagement.”
Theo’s words are heavy. Anyone can see he is still madly in love with the redheaded India. His brooding mood is so dense it clouds the café air. “Maybe you’ll work it out,” I offer.
Theo shakes his head. “Not long before we broke up, India’s sister, Helen, hit a rough patch. I saw it myself when she and India came to collect her things. Helen looked . . . bad.”
“Is she ill?”
“Not exactly . . . Not
in a way that makes you completely sympathetic,” he says. “Helen is a heroin addict.” My eyes widen at this tidbit. “She’s overdosed a couple of times. Dealing with Helen can be like being trapped on a roller coaster.”
“But a ride that India is willing to take.”
“India is fiercely loyal to Helen.” He is quiet for a moment. “Actually, India is like that with anyone she loves. But I imagine the timing of moving back home was a relief to all the Churches. Once India made her choice . . .” Theo flashes a smile. “Did I mention that India is stubborn? I heard through mutual friends that they got Helen into a private treatment program this time. It was good news. India’s parents were never able to afford more than the ninety-day variety offered through the local hospital. Her mother and father, they’ve got their own issues, aside from Helen’s. My guess is once Helen completed the program, having India at home . . . Well, my loss probably turned into their saving grace.”
I let the clanking of dishes and noise of café patrons dominate. “I . . . I’m sorry that happened to you—all of it.” A bizarre compulsion to physically reach out to Theo invades.
“I guess it’s rawer than I want to admit. But being angry at India isn’t going to solve anything. I hope it all works out for her—I really do.”
It may. I’m far more concerned about how life works out for Theo. I know how long bitterness can last. I’m surprised how badly I don’t want this for him. I take a breath, start talking, and stop. Then I dive headlong into our past. “When I was at UNC,” I say firmly, “my last college stop, I fell madly in love.”
Theo’s glance shoots to mine. “But not with your husband?”
“No. Not with Rob. This boy . . . man, he was a baseball player.” Boldly, I fill in a few more details. “His name was Sam.” It’s so simple and generic, downright Dr. Seuss. Surely Theo is only hearing a narration of topsy-turvy verses. “Sam was carefree and wicked . . . Or maybe just wickedly handsome.” I look in Theo’s eyes. Sam’s eyes . . . “We were so different. I came from old Massachusetts money. Sam came from the middle-of-nowhere Tennessee—dirt poor, a childhood more caustic than mine. I was the number one fan of the man from Tennessee.” I reflect on an old joke about an even older song that Theo will not get.
Unstrung Page 15
