Page 35 of Sensing Selma
EIGHT
My sleep was repeatedlyinterrupted by dreams of Major Cooper and Damen Dominic. In one particular dream, both men showed up.
My dreams about Major Cooper mainly revolved around my asking for his name. He hadn’t answered me. Was he a major in the army? The navy? Or had his parents given him that name...perhaps in the hopes that he would eventually join the military.
As for Damen, it was impossible to dream about him without having my mother come in to ruin it.
I awoke confused about both men and angry with my mother.
“Great,” I muttered as I got out of bed and got ready for my first day of working with Ayra.
I pulled on a comfy pair of jeans, a loose-fitting white cotton blouse and slipped my feet into my flat leather sandals.
Heading out of my room, I turned to go to Ayra’s music room a few doors down. As I knocked on her door, I suddenly worried I might be too early...maybe a little too eager.
“Come in,” she called through the door.
“Hi,” I said as I opened the door.
“Come. Come.”
She had a piano, a cello, a violin and a guitar set up in a large, airy room adjacent to her bedroom. Light flooded in through the large windows that were left open to allow fresh air in.
Ayra gestured to the piano bench. “Sit down,” she said as she sat on a stool and brought the cello in front of her.
“You want me to play? Now? Just like that?”
She nodded. “I want to feel your tone, your musical voice. Not your singing voice, but your musical voice. I want to know what you have in you.”
“Okay,” I said with trepidation. This wasn’t the type of situation I was accustomed to.
“Don’t feel pressured. This isn’t a test. We’re not here to compose anything...not yet. So there is no right way or wrong way of doing this. I just want to play a few long notes here on the cello, and I want you to jump in, whatever your feel, whatever comes to mind.”
Improvisation wasn’t my strong suit. “I’m not sure I can...I mean...”
“Holly,” she said. “I know you’re a talented musician and singer. That’s already been settled. You’re in. You have the job. This isn’t an audition, but just part of my work process.
I assure you this is just to get us in the same mood. I want to feel you, and I want you to feel me. Even if we do this exercise and you don’t feel anything...that’s okay. No pressure. Got it?”
“Got it.”
She played a long, woeful note, then another and another. Then she began again, the same three notes, long and mournful.
I closed my eyes, let the notes enveloped me, pull up my emotions, seize me. My hands reached for the keys but still lingered there, uncertain. Then, I hit one complementary note to hers. One single note. Then another and soon I was gone. The music took over. While she played the same three notes over and over again, I delved deep, burrowing into the lower keys only to rise up and bring in a few plaintive sharp notes.
Suddenly, the cello fell silent, and I opened my eyes to turn to her, thinking I’d failed her.
