The Musician

by Douglas Gardham

  “I don’t want to disappear again either. I don’t know why I did. But it could happen.”

  Ethan was on the fringe of revealing what happened when he sang and the episode at Mila’s grave.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” their mother replied, still standing behind Carlyn. She was looking at their father.

  “We have to, Ma,” Ethan said, surprised that on such a special night, they were discussing something that had remained a no-fly zone since his return from Ottawa.

  “Ethan,” his father said in the tone that could take Ethan to enraged fury in an instant, “I can’t allow this to go on.”

  “You can’t allow this to go on!” Ethan cried. It took but a moment to go from Christmas Eve sentimentality to raging war with his father. “This isn’t just about you! It’s about me! It’s about Ma!”

  Carlyn’s face was ashen. Her hands rose to cover it. “Please! Please! Stop!” she shouted. “I can’t stand it! This bickering! Dad, please stop!”

  Ethan felt the abruptness of Carlyn’s plea like the oomph that accompanied a large structure letting go.

  “Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her,” Ethan said, his anger flattening as he held his voice level, still wanting to explode. “That a little piece of my heart doesn’t break away and go with her. And Robbie, who it’s impossible to believe was even real. He was that—”

  He stopped. Tears ran down his cheeks like dammed pressure letting go. The heavy door didn’t feel as heavy.

  It was the first time he’d mentioned Robbie’s name in front of anyone since Dr. Katharine in her office. He couldn’t remember ever saying Robbie’s name to his parents.

  “You would have loved Mila. She was bright and happy. She made me happy.” He sobbed and leaned back in his chair, trying to get hold of his feelings. He took a breath and wiped away the tears blurring his vision. “I don’t want to go away again, but worrying won’t stop it from happening.”

  Their mother sat back in her seat.

  “It was my brain’s way,” Ethan said, extending his hand as if he were offering something visible to his family, “of dealing with a terrible thing. It wants me here.”

  No one said a thing.

  Their mother leaned forward and grabbed his hand. Tears were on her cheeks. She shook her head.

  “I can’t do that, Ethan,” she said. She grabbed hold of her red cloth napkin. “I’ve tried. I’m trying. I see you. I’m afraid I’ll hear that voice—that other voice that’s yours but not yours. I just can’t—”

  Her voice broke off. She lifted the Christmas napkin to her face.

  “I can’t do it!” she cried, and she stood up from her chair. “I just can’t!”

  She left the room. Dinner was over.

  “Damn it, Ethan,” their father said. “I told you when we came in. You just couldn’t leave it alone.” He tossed his green napkin onto the table. “I don’t know why you even came home.”

  Their father stood up and left. Ethan heard the front door open and close. He’d left the house.

  Bing Crosby was singing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” behind them.

  CHAPTER 49

  Monday, December 24, 1984

  “It’s been like this for the last few months,” Carlyn said, pouring herself another glass of wine. “Ma cries. Dad leaves. It’s always about you.”

  Ethan didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t remember his father speaking to him so derisively before, as if he were to blame for the mess they now found themselves in. His coming home for Christmas had suddenly turned lonely and quiet. He wished for Christa.

  “When did you start drinking wine?” he asked, surprised at the words that came out of his mouth.

  “I don’t know,” Carlyn said, running her fingertip around the rim of the glass as if she couldn’t have cared less what he asked her. Her vibrant excitement was gone. She leaned her head sideways against the open palm of her right hand, propped up by her elbow on the table. Ethan would have thought she was bored if he hadn’t been part of the confrontation that had just taken place. “’Bout the same time they started this fucking game.”

  Ethan was taken aback by what she’d said. He didn’t think he’d ever heard her swear before. It wasn’t becoming and was likely more for his benefit than anything else.

  She cupped the bowl of her wineglass in her left hand, the stem between her fingers, and took a gulp of wine. She wasn’t drinking for the pleasure of it.

  “How come I don’t know about this?” he asked.

  Carlyn shrugged, but he knew the answer. He was never there and hadn’t been for a long time.

  “What do you do now?” he asked. Previously, his reaction would have been to leave. In the years prior to leaving for university, during any kind of family turmoil, he’d either gone to his room to lose himself in an album or left the house. It seemed the only way he had of coping with being told what to do when he didn’t want to. His mother was the usual culprit. Tonight, his naive expectation had been to have a merry and happy evening; it was Christmas Eve. He’d imagined things had changed after his short stay while convalescing with his parents before moving in with the Release. Some things maybe never would.

  “Ma’ll come out in a while,” Carlyn said, turning the stem of her wineglass between her thumb and forefinger. “She doesn’t really say anything. Dad’s longer. I’ll usually hear the front door sometime after midnight. I don’t know where he goes. Don’t really care, to be honest. When Ma leaves the table, he usually says some shitty thing about my clothes or me, like he said to you, and then gets up. I don’t think he wants anyone around when he gets back.”

  Carlyn stopped and took another even larger gulp of her wine. She squinted as she swallowed. It looked as if she were taking medicine that didn’t taste good.

  “You know what’s fucking weird?” she said as she set the glass down on the table.

  Again with the swearing—he swore all the time, but hearing Carlyn use the word fuck made him sad. He didn’t know why and only shook his head in answer to her question.

  “They let on as if nothing fucking happened,” she said, sliding her wineglass to her right hand as if clearing the passage between them might help clarify what she didn’t understand. “When I ask Ma, she changes the subject. We then usually play cards or Scrabble for a while.”

  Saying the word Scrabble seemed to perk her up.

  “Wanna play a game?”

  Ethan shook his head. Nat King Cole was singing in the background. Ethan couldn’t remember the name of the song, but it brought back the childhood feeling of Christmas he wanted to be real.

  “Come on,” she said, pressing him. “It’ll be fun.”

  He really didn’t want to but acquiesced for Carlyn’s sake. He couldn’t imagine what she’d been through because of him. Intentional or not, it was how life happened.

  “Okay, but first I want a piece of that cheesecake.”

  “Ah, you saw it,” she said.

  “No, I just guessed.”

  Carlyn left the room.

  This was not the Christmas Eve he’d anticipated. He knew that what had been could never be again, but he never seemed able to stop deceiving himself that it wouldn’t be. Even while performing at their recent shows in Oshawa and Toronto, he’d kept imagining Christmas Eve at home.

  He’d never imagined watching his sister get drunk while he ate cheesecake at the almost sacred dining room table.

  Carlyn had just spread out the game board when their mother reappeared. Ethan didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have to say anything.

  “I see you found the dessert,” their mother said, returning to the seat she’d vacated.

  “Wasn’t I supposed to?” he mumbled over the forkful he’d put in his mouth.

  “I gave him a piece, Ma,” Carlyn said, placing her refilled gla
ss of wine beside the board adjacent to her. She wasn’t slurring her speech, but her words were elongating.

  “What a good sister you have,” their mother said. “She’s a wonderful little girl.”

  Ethan all but winced at hearing the words little girl. He prayed the comment wouldn’t set Carlyn off, even with her third glass of wine.

  “Yes, I’m your sweet little girl,” Carlyn said, and then she took an audible slurp, mimicking a child drinking juice. Her eyes didn’t leave the Scrabble board. “We were just going to start a game. Wanna play?”

  Carlyn’s timing was perfect. No doubt she’d used the “Wanna play a game?” card before to keep the peace. Ethan figured he and his sister shared the same disdain for confrontation, having grown up in the same household. Some, like Greg, seemed to live for the fight, thriving on what tension and adversity they could create. Ethan mostly preferred to get along, unless what he wanted was in jeopardy.

  “I think I will,” their mother said, getting up from the table, “but I want a piece of that chocolate cheesecake first. Anybody want coffee?”

  Ethan nodded. “I’ll have one—and another slice of that cheesecake, please.”

  They were picking their letters to start the game when the front door opened. Carlyn looked at Ethan, her eyes widening as if to say, “Now, this is something new.”

  “We’re not gonna have snow for Christmas,” their father said, closing the front door with a whoosh, “but we won’t be wearing shorts either. Sure is nippy out there.”

  Carlyn counted out her seven letters and handed the bag to Ethan. Ethan could hear his father at the front hall closet, hanging his coat up. He came into the dining room, as their mother had, as if his sudden departure hadn’t happened.

  “Dessert’s been served, I see,” he said, retaking the chair he’d occupied earlier. “Do I smell coffee?”

  “Are you saying you’d like some or just commenting?” their mother asked.

  “I’d like some, please,” he said. His face was flushed from the outside cold. Ethan could feel the cold air still on him. “I see the Scrabble board has made an appearance.”

  Ethan still had the sweetness of the cheesecake in his mouth as he took a sip of his coffee. He couldn’t get over what had taken place—not a word, not a gesture, not a “Sorry; please forgive me” or any acknowledgment that wrongs had been committed. It was just as Carlyn had described it. It almost would have been funny if it weren’t so real.

  The act went on—or maybe it wasn’t an act at all. To Ethan’s amazement, their father joined the game. He rarely played any game, cards being the only exception. He liked poker. Christmas Eve had returned with the gift of bewildering behavior.

  They were about halfway through the game, and it was Ethan’s turn. Carlyn had played the letters T-H in front of the E in ending. Ethan figured the wine was affecting her play, noting the three-letter word. Finding himself stuck, he decided to play off the T with a five-letter word and placed four tiles on the board, two in front and two behind the T.

  “Actor,” he said after setting the tiles in place. “Triple word score. Twenty-one plus six.”

  “Interesting,” said Carlyn.

  “The Actor,” his father said, acknowledging not only the new word but also the two letters Carlyn had put down. “Hmm, that’s a pretty good score for someone who doesn’t go to university.”

  Ethan watched the letters on the board undulate like air rippling above a road in the distance on a hot summer day. His eyes widened as he stared at them.

  Their father’s attempt at humor didn’t bring anything of the sort to Ethan. He watched Carlyn cross out his last score and add up his new total on the score pad.

  “Well, that someone who doesn’t go to university,” Carlyn said in a sardonic tone, emphasizing her words, “is winning.”

  Ethan smiled. Carlyn was staring right at him. He let his father’s comment slide.

  “We’re going to have to change that,” their father responded. “Aren’t we?”

  It was their mother’s turn.

  “Are you really going to audition on Boxing Day?” she asked. She was looking at her letters on her tile rack but hadn’t moved any.

  It seemed like a strange question to Ethan. Why would he have mentioned it if he weren’t planning to go?

  “They called you the Actor in the hospital,” his father said.

  “Darren,” their mother said, an edge to her voice, “if we heard that once, we heard it a hundred times. Why are you saying that?”

  “I dunno,” their father replied, pulling his tile rack away from his side of the board. “It just occurred to me.”

  “Occurred to you?” Her voice rose. “It didn’t just occur to you. You know exactly what you’re saying. You know it bothers me.” She turned to Ethan. “Do you really have to go on Boxing Day?”

  It wasn’t a question. She was telling him she disapproved. This was his mother’s other side, the one that had confronted him as a teenager every morning before school, questioning what he was up to.

  “Why is it such a big deal?” he asked.

  “Because Boxing Day is a family day,” she said in no uncertain terms.

  Ethan wished he’d kept to his original plan and not said anything about the audition. He’d thought if anyone would have been happy, it would have been his mother.

  “We just got you home from all that,” she said, moving her hand and spilling her tiles on the table. “Damn it.” She started to pick up her letters. “You just get home and have to go—have to go acting no less. To what took you away to God knows where.”

  She pinched a tile between her thumb and forefinger and held the rest in her hand. “Because of her—because of that actress.” She clenched her hand into a fist with the tiles still in it. “Mila, Mila,” she repeated, her fist tight and shaking, as if she couldn’t contain what was coming out of her mouth. “Mixed up in whatever crap that—”

  She stopped and stared at the game board. She dropped her tiles onto the table in front of her. Her hands rose to cover her face.

  “Even the game won’t leave us alone,” she said.

  She stood up and again left the room. There was a moment of quiet.

  “Maybe I’d better go,” Ethan said.

  He picked up the black bag that contained the wood tiles.

  “You can’t go, Ethan,” said their father as Ethan slid the tiles off his tile rack and into the bag. “Your mother’ll come around.”

  CHAPTER 50

  Tuesday, December 25, 1984, Christmas Day

  Ethan decided to stay after thinking about it a bit. Leaving would end his Christmas with no chance at redemption. He figured being at his parents’ place was still better than being alone. Things usually looked different in the morning. After all, if Christmas wasn’t hope, what was?

  They said little after their mother’s tirade. Their father headed to the den, where he likely fell asleep watching some old-time movie. Ethan heard him later rummaging in the kitchen before shuffling down the hall to the master bedroom.

  After Carlyn went to bed, Ethan dozed for a while in the living room, but he was pretty awake once he climbed into his old bed downstairs. His thoughts took him from his parents to Christa to his audition on Wednesday. He went to sleep wondering what his acting would mean for the Release.

  When he woke, it was light outside; Christmas morning had arrived. Christa was his first thought. He wished she were there. He got up to go to the washroom, only to recall his mother’s hurtful comments about Mila and how impossible it seemed that Mila could have been mixed up in anything sinister, as his mother had alluded to. He wished he could be more excited about Christmas morning, but Mila was gone, and Christa wasn’t there.

  Before going to bed, he’d placed his presents to everyone under the tree. It was one of the first times he could remember bei
ng more excited about the gifts he was giving than what he might receive. He had no idea what might be under the tree for him.

  He went upstairs to see who was up, his body and brain already begging for coffee. Nearing the kitchen, he not only smelled the coffee but could feel it. Someone was up.

  Whoever else was awake wasn’t there. The only sign of someone’s presence was the lit red light on the coffee maker. He pulled down a bright red coffee mug from the cupboard. As he poured, he heard the suck of the front door opening. He was in no hurry to see who it was but figured it was his father. He was taking his first sip when his father stepped into the kitchen.

  He was beaming. “Merry Christmas, Son,” he whispered.

  “Merry Christmas, Dad,” Ethan said, surprised by his father’s apparent joy. “You’re lookin’ happy.”

  “It’s Christmas, Ethan; we’re supposed to be.”

  Ethan nodded, remembering the less-than-congruent events of Christmas Eve.

  “Thanks for making coffee,” his father said, moving in to pour a cup for himself.

  “I didn’t make it. I thought you did.”

  “Wasn’t me.”

  “It was me,” said Carlyn, entering the room behind Ethan, “and you’re welcome.”

  “Has your mother made an appearance?”

  “Not yet, but I heard noises,” said Carlyn. Carlyn’s room was down the hall from their parents’. Ethan had moved downstairs when his parents had the basement finished during his first year of high school. They’d converted his room upstairs into a small den beside the master bedroom. Their mother had talked of knocking down the wall between the rooms, but like the baby grand, it hadn’t happened.