Page 21 of Speechless

The main studio looks exactly like the ones I’ve seen in TV documentaries: a massive sound board with thousands of buttons that do who knows what, separated from a large recording room by a single glass wall. There’s a full keyboard and numerous computer monitors. It’s kind of a mess to be honest. What’s unique is the flat screen TV mounted above. He explains how producers will send him clips to watch as he writes and then records. Sometimes he even sendsthemclips to time out scenes for filming.

The whole process sounds fascinating. He breaks down how composers typically work with orchestrators once the writing is done. Orchestrators will then turn the original songs into sheet music for individual instruments. Apparently, this is why Henry and his writing team live together and work so closely. They do all the composing and orchestration together: Graham on strings, Preston on woodwinds, Craig on brass and Jayce on percussion.

Henry says piano is the entire orchestra in itself, so he keeps his focus there even though it’s obvious he can play and write for pretty much anything. He doesn’t like working with new people on each project like most composers do which is why he created HAAAM. They only work with musicians outside of their circle once they’re ready to record with a full symphony orchestra.

He tells me about spotting, syncing and other terms I don’t fully understand. But it’s the way he talks so passionately about what he does that keeps me enthralled by every word. I can tell how much he loves every aspect of it, down to the tiniest details like working with the director to sync one simple drum beat to the flap of a dragon’s wings.

I’m tempted to ask him about every score he’s written. I want to know his favorite part of each one, why he chose all strings for one or to go fully electronic for another. His attention to detail reminds me of my own writing. How I’ll put together a ninety-thousand-word manuscript, but will always have that singular sentence I’m particularly proud of.

I feel overwhelmed with questions but try my best to relax. This doesn’t have to be my only chance. Maybe Henry and I can become friends, or at least stay in touch after I move out. That is if he doesn’talwaysdisappear for days at a time.

There are a few other connected rooms with shiny instruments and other recording gear, a state-of-the-art gym that I plan on using daily now that I’ve been allowed downstairs. But we breeze through them to end up back in the white piano room. I’ve been thinking about the futon since we first came down here—its’ just sobig—so I decide to take a seat.

“Wow. This is the most comfortable thing I’ve ever sat on—it feels like my bed. What is this sorcery!?”

He’s clearly amused and just stands there watching me sprawl out as much as I can.

“It’s like your bed. I had it made by the same mattress company. I like having a futon down here. Sometimes I just want to sit and write somewhere comfortable but still be close to the piano if I need it. And I also end up sleeping here quite a bit. As you may have noticed, my working hours aren’t exactly normal.” He smiles solemnly. “I never found a futon that was big enough for me to fit on comfortably so I had this made.” He looks embarrassed, but I’m not sure why. Henry’s huge, but in a superhero way. Of course he needs a custom futon. “Here, let me show you how it works. This is my favorite part.”

He offers his hand to help me stand and then grabs a remote from on top of the mini fridge. When he presses it, the futon flattens out into what I assume is at least a king-size bed. He said this room is his sanctuary, but I can imagine it would feel lonely here too. Just a piano, a bed and his awards to look at. I wonder how much time he spends here all by himself. It seems like most of it from what I can tell.

“Henry, this place is incredible. Thank you again for offering to let me stay here. It’s been really nice, not being alone. I’m meeting with an agent tomorrow to go look for a place. I promise I won’t overstay my welcome.”

He looks at me quizzically. “But you just got here.”

“Well, yeah. I just don’t want to be in the way, you know. You already have a pretty full house.”

He’s still looking at me like I’m speaking a different language.

“You’re welcome here as long as you’d like. And I think the guys would be sad to see you go. Especially Graham.”

This makes me smile. It’s only been a few days but I already feel like Graham is a close friend. He’s part of the reason I decided I want to stay in LA, at least for the time being.

“Stay a little longer, what’s the rush?”

I do love living here; this house is amazing. I doubt I can afford anything overlooking the ocean in Malibu, nothing decent anyway. And honestly, I love having people around. There’s always someone here. The thought of living alone again, just me and Rowan, sounds so . . . lonely.

“Okay, well, if you promise I’m not taking advantage of you.”

He cocks his head slightly and smiles. “I don’t think that’s possible. Stay. You’re welcome here as long as you like.”

I grin, just as I try to stifle a quick yawn. Unfortunately, he’s too observant. “Sorry, I’m not bored, I promise, just exhausted from falling off a surfboard all day.” It’s true. My body feels like it’s taken a serious beating. After flopping into the water my second day here, my fears have subsided a bit and I’m actually letting Graham give me surf lessons. I’ll never be without a wetsuit again though.

“Ahh, well I’d blame the instructor. I bet I could get you standing in no time.” Every so often he speaks with this innate confidence. It’s such an interesting side of him, and I wonder why he’s so hard to read. “I wanted to play you something, if you don’t mind staying up a bit? I promise I’ll have you off to bed soon, but I’d like you to hear this.”

He tells me to lay down and rest my sea legs while he settles in at the piano.

This is surreal.

Henry Turner is playing a song formein the same place he calls his sanctuary. For the last year, I’ve felt nothing but shame, disappointment, grief—just overall gloom. But not right now.

Right now, I feel honored.

The music is beautiful, but it has a sad quality to it. It sounds like longing. Like the notes are reaching out for something that’s unattainable. It reminds me of my own life, of everything I want and can never have. It reminds me of my mom, of all the times I wish she were here, of how much I miss her. I feel the tears start to slip down my cheek, but I let them fall. His back is to me and it’s like I’m completely alone with the music. I close my eyes and let it surround me, let my heart ache freely.

I peeloff the hospital gown and slowly get dressed. Jack and I have discussed this before, but his look of utter shock tells me he was never fully paying attention. We spend the car ride home in silence and he drops me off, telling me he needs to go blow off some steam. I draw myself a bath and cry.

My mom is here. In Boston. When’s the last time she was here? She and Jack are sitting across from me on our couch, but they won’t look at me.

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