Page 30 of Interpreter

I know I’m a spectator and I’m not barefoot nor do I have my hand on the piano, but I freaking want to experience this too, so I close my eyes and wait.

I wait for him to shatter my freaking soul.

And he does so… flawlessly.

Tim plays angelically. Soft and caressing, a feather touch, tickling the inner most nerves. I freaking tingle. Is that a normal reaction? Tingling? I’ve heard of chills and crying but not tingling. Yet, here I sit, my whole body tingling and humming, craving his every keystroke. The man is fucking me up with his massive hands spanning over the keys as if he’s their commander, wordlessly directing them with the sheer power radiating off him.

Have mercy. I’m going to need a shower when I get home—a long one.

I pull myself together long enough to look at the little boy who has abandoned Tim’s instructions and has chosen to squeeze in next to him on the bench, his little hand placed over Tim’s larger one. Oliver is playing. He’s feeling the music through Tim’s hands—am I freaking crying? What is this sorcery? I swipe away a tear, eyeing the magician in the room—Ms. Peak. She’s smiling, smugly, I might add. Did she know Tim could play so well? Did he tell her or did she guess?

I think she guessed. Tim isn’t a talker. I highly doubt he ripped open his soul on the second day of class when he barely makes eye contact with anyone. My gaze narrows on the older woman nodding in appreciation before she stands and strides over to the boys to place a metronome on the piano.

“You’re a little off,” she says sternly. “Start again.”

Yeah, she knew he played. I don’t know how she knew, but she did. That only makes me a little jealous for some odd reason.

Radio host: Timaeus is in Georgia, correct? Still in college?

Penelope: He is. A double major: Music and foreign language.

Radio host: I can see the pride on your face.

Penelope: Ah, Brian, I am more than proud of Timaeus. From the moment Timaeus was born, he has surpassed every expectation we’ve had of him. He’s a brilliant flame that will never be smothered.

Radio host: That sounds like a new song idea!

Penelope: Ha. Maybe after everything is over.

Ms. Peak is worse than Anniston, and that’s hard to fucking do. But for some reason, I seek her out. Her music room feels like home, even if I abandoned the family long ago. Music and instruments haven’t been a part of my life for a very long time. Then when I completely lost my hearing, I was happy to finish vanquishing them out of my life forever. I hadn’t seen a piano in years. I loathed everything it represented. Her. A past. And a future I would never fulfill for her. And yet, the minute I walked into the room, it was almost as if I was drawn to its beauty—its power that has always called to me.

And then she asked me to play, and it snapped the spell. I remembered my vow to never play again. I wouldn’t miss the sound. I wouldn’t miss the way it made me feel. Music. Sounds. They would never be a part of my life again. I made sure of it. Nothing is left in my room—apart from the TV I keep only for Aspen and me. And the tape recorder that I play on those nights when I just can’t let go. On the nights where my mind wanders back to a time when I was happy. A time when she was dying inside and I missed it.

A small hand tugs on mine. I look around and realize I’m still at the piano bench, my hands shaking from playing Un Sospiro. I can’t believe I remembered it. I can’t believe I played it.

The little hardhead next to me squeezes my hand again. “Are you cold? Do you want a jacket? I have one in my book bag.”

I didn’t read him wrong. I don’t have to look at Milah to know. This selfless soul just offered me his jacket. A jacket that I probably couldn’t even get a hand through. A knot forms for the hundredth time in my throat. “That’s okay; I have one back in the classroom. Thank you, though.”

I don’t tell him that I’m not cold. These shivers, or tremors as Anniston and Dr. Parker would tell me, are an emotional reaction. I would argue and say it’s from the stress of being goaded into playing. But let’s be honest, the lightness and warmth swirling around me like a warm shot of whiskey is not from stress. I felt the music.I felt it.I can’t tell you where it started or why I allowed Ms. Peak, Anniston 2.0, to talk me into trying.

Maybe I am looking for hope. Maybe I just wanted to prove that Dr. Parker was wrong. At my appointment next week, I can report that I played again. I am moving the fuck on. But I won’t. Because what I just did… feeling the vibrations start in the soles of my feet, moving up through my legs… my palms absorbing the shock of the key hammers… I couldhearit. I could follow the melody. I could remember the sound, and it was magnificent. The only way I can even begin to explain it is when you hear someone sing and it brings tears to your eyes and goose bumps down your arms. You don’t know why the song is moving you, but it does. That’s what it felt like standing there, vulnerable, in front of Ms. Peak.

The small hand squeezes mine again. “I’m hungry. Ms. Iglesias says we don’t have much longer to eat our lunch.”

I’m really not in the mood to eat, but I can’t let the little kid starve. I nod. “I guess we should eat then, huh?”

I’m slipping. I already feel myself slipping. Kids have always been a chink in my armor. I think it is because I was an only child and I wanted so badly for my mother to give me a sibling. Her career was her other child, and so it never happened. And then the diagnosis came, and I realized, not only would I never be someone’s big brother, but I would also never be someone’s dad. This gene has to stop. I’m the end of the line. I won’t let it continue running through my family’s name. I guess that’s one of the reasons I love Aspen so much. It’s like she’s my little niece. Someone so perfect, so untainted by my bad genes, and loves me more than her limited vocabulary allows her to express aloud.

Oliver slips his shoes back on and leads us back to the desks, where Milah awaits, each of our lunches pulled out and waiting neatly.

“Did you measure how far apart the milk was to the sandwich?” I tease her. Teasing her is better than feeling so naked and exposed in front of her. That’s three times she’s seen me at my worst since I’ve met her. That’s three times too many. But yet, here she is, playing the dutiful boss and good person. She could have told Principal Moorehouse about my outbursts and failure to be present in the classroom. She could have ratted me out yesterday, but she hasn’t yet, which tells me she is a good soul. Even if I do make her plot my death.

“Just for that comment, I do not feel bad for eating the cherry tart in your lunch bag.”

I pause for a second, absorbing the words. “You ate my lunch?”

Not that I care, but I find it rather hilarious that Miss Selfless was rooting around in my lunch bag and then decided to eat my dessert.

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