Porcelain Keys (15 page)

He hesitated, then said, “Can I at least give you a ride to work?”

I nodded. “I’ll go home and change, then meet you at the end of your driveway.”

As I walked to my house, the wind moved restlessly around me, stirring up the smell of dirt. Dark clouds billowed in the western sky, moving toward me, blanketing the blue sky like a shade sliding over a sunroof. I entered through the back door, hesitating on the threshold. The wind rattled the windows in the kitchen, and the last sunlight shining through them slowly darkened, smothered by storm clouds.

With a pounding heart, I crept into the kitchen, ears peeled for any sound. I’d told Thomas that Dad wouldn’t hurt me. But now I realized how uncertain I was about that. I’d never seen Dad as upset as he was the night before, and maybe he was lurking around a corner with a knife, ready to plunge it into my heart.

The parlor door was wide open when I stepped into the living room, and just as raindrops started pelting the windows, I noticed a white, narrow rectangular block lying on the floor. “No,” I mouthed. I moved slowly across the floor, strangely unable to feel my legs beneath me. The closer I
got to the parlor and the more that came into view, the more my body began to tremble.

Piano keys on the floor, broken in pieces. The entire lid detached, leaning against the wall and a broken window. The shiny lacquer cracked and dented like it had been pummeled with a baseball bat.

My mind fought against the image, my hands clenched at my sides. I shut my eyes and tried to calm myself, tried to slow my breaths, but I couldn’t take in air fast enough, couldn’t think beyond the deluge of pain that washed over me. Trying to escape it, I turned away from the parlor and floated numbly up the stairs, knowing I needed something from my room, but not remembering what. As I passed Dad’s room, I saw him strewn out on the carpet, face down. His back expanded and deflated slowly, rhythmically. A crow bar lay on the floor next to his legs.

I backed away slowly and turned into my room, only to find it in complete disarray. Every piece of furniture was turned over, the contents of my drawers scattered over the floor. Lightning flashed in the window, followed by deafening thunder cracking over the house.

At my feet lay Mom’s music notebook, torn into a thousand pieces.

I didn’t know why I was there. All I knew was that I no longer had the strength to stand. I sank to the floor, into a nest made of Mom’s shredded music. I picked up a piece and stared at it in my open hand. In the notes and rests, the staff lines and tempo marks, I saw myself. And in the ragged edge that broke the music in half, I saw Dad.

Another bright flash filled the room, and raucous thunder rattled the window, shaking me to the core and striking down what was left of my strength.

Sorrow bore down on me, crushing me to the floor until I lay curled up, debilitated with despair. I shut my eyes, thinking that if I never opened them again, I wouldn’t have to see again what Dad had done. I pressed my hands over my ears, trying to block out the sound of my own anguished cries.

I felt someone kneel beside me, but I couldn’t lift my head or open my eyes. I wanted to stay where it was dark and pretend I was somewhere else, someone else. There was a soft touch on my back and the sound of Thomas’s voice speaking my name, but I couldn’t move.

I heard the creak of steps, the sound of someone moving about the room. I heard my closet door slide open, and a zipping sound. I pried my eyes open a sliver, and through blurred vision I saw Thomas’s feet walking back and forth, his arms carrying things, putting them in a bag on the bed. I shut my eyes again.

I felt Thomas’s hand on my shoulder again. “I’m taking you away from here.” His voice was gentle. “I have some of your clothes and your school stuff. Is there anything else you need?”

Taking you away.
The words echoed in my mind, reverberating and gathering energy.
Away. Away.

The power in his words washed through me, and I found the strength to sit up and look at him. He was crouched at my side, his face a duality of encouragement and worry. His lips straightened into a sad smile. “Let’s go,” he whispered, offering me his hand. His blue eyes offered conviction and strength, and I held his gaze, trying to glean the courage I needed to take an unknown path. I didn’t know
where I would go, but as I glanced around my overturned room again and thought about Mom’s piano downstairs, I knew I couldn’t stay.

A low moan came from the hall, and I turned to see Dad standing in the doorway, face twisted up like someone was holding a rotten fish under his nose.

“What are you doing?” He spoke slowly, still too hungover to function at normal speed. His hair was a firebomb, and his face a shade of red to match.

Thomas was suddenly standing in front of me. “She’s leaving,” he said with firmness.

Dad’s eyes swept over my room and widened as he took in the extent of damage. His gaze finally landed on the bulging duffel bag near Thomas’s feet, and understanding lit up his face. For a split second, sadness and regret curled around the edges of his mouth. “She’s not going anywhere,” Dad said, his expression hardening again. He pointed at Thomas. “But you are. Go home, Thomas.”

“I’m not going anywhere without her.” His voice was calm but unyielding.

“If you don’t get out of here,” Dad said, his voice growing louder, “I’m gonna—”

“You’re going to what?” Thomas tossed back. “Hit me the way you hit your daughter?” He opened his arms. “Go ahead. Hit me. Then you’ll be charged with child abuse
and
assault.”

Dad stood there, huffing through his nostrils like a provoked bull, his bloodshot eyes staring Thomas down. I could see his mind turning like a tornado, trying to pluck useful words or actions from the storm inside him. But he must have ultimately seen that Thomas would stand his ground, because the storm weakened. The huffing slowed,
his shoulders slumped. “Go ahead,” he said, his voice flat and defeated. “I should have let you go a long time ago.”

“She’s not coming back,” Thomas said. “And if you try to contact her again, in any way, I’m reporting you to the authorities.”

Dad just stared at the floor and said nothing.

“Aria,” Thomas said, keeping his eyes on Dad and stretching a hand out to me, “you ready?”

I looked around my room. There were still clothes and books and knickknacks I’d collected over the years, but at the moment, they seemed worthless. The only thing I wanted was my freedom.

I put my hand in Thomas’s and he pulled me to my feet. Grabbing the duffel bag, he took me by the hand and led me out of the room.

As we walked past Dad, a rage ignited inside of me. A rage that had been pent up and gradually swelling over the past five years. It suddenly broke free with explosive power. I ripped my hand from Thomas’s and turned and charged Dad. I shoved him in the chest with all my strength and he stumbled back, his face stunned. “How could you!” I cried. “How could you do that to her piano? And her notebook! They were all I had left of her!” The dumbfounded look on his face only fueled the fire inside me, and I stepped into him, swinging my fists wildly, not even sure where my blows were landing. He lifted his arms in front of his face, completely on the defense for once. “I hate you!” I screamed and stepped back. There were so many things I wanted to say, so many emotions burning inside, so many whys I couldn’t put words to.

I felt Thomas’s hand on my arm, and I turned to see his pleading, anxious expression. He slid his arm around
my waist and led me down the stairs and outside into the rain.

We walked down the lane through a canopy of blazing red maple trees, and rain dripped from the leaves onto our heads and shoulders. I shivered from the wet chill.

“I’ll go get my car,” he said as we neared his driveway. He handed me my duffle bag, then turned and jogged away.

I sidled up to the trunk of a maple tree to keep out of sight. My entire body trembled. I set down the duffle bag, and soon found myself sitting beside it. I clutched the handle like it was a lifeline. It and its meager contents were all I had left. The magnitude and uncertainty of my situation washed over me, and I felt like a lost child in a sea of people at a train station. I didn’t know which train to get on, which one would take me home.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to push out the fear, and instead focused on the pattering of rain on the maple leaves. It sounded like applause, congratulating me for standing up to Dad, for setting myself free.

The rumble of Thomas’s Bronco joined the sound of rain, and I opened my eyes to see him standing before me with an outstretched hand. He picked up my duffle bag and pulled me to my feet. Once in his Bronco, we rolled down the lane with the wipers on. He stopped at the highway and handed me his cell phone.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“You’re calling in sick.”

I debated a moment. I was still wearing Thomas’s damp pajamas. My cheek was swollen and my eyes puffy from crying. My hair was snarled and my makeup non-existent. I’d have to explain myself to Dirk. Dirk, who’d tried to kiss me the night before. And I didn’t have a home anymore, so
I probably needed to spend the day figuring out where I’d be living from now on.

I dialed Pikes Pancake House, and Dirk answered. I told him I had what Trisha had. It wasn’t really a lie. I did have what Trisha had. I had caught Thomas, an incurable condition that made my heart, stomach, and lungs do all sorts of unnatural things.

Thomas had pulled onto the highway while I spoke with Dirk, and now we were driving southeast. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“For a drive,” he said. “Until we can think of some place better.”

Nothing came to mind, so I settled into the seat and gazed out the window, still too shaken to think productively. We drove along in silence, passing blurs of pine and rock and highway dividers. Every time I tried to think of where to go, I was overcome with a frightening sense of falling. So I focused instead on the feel of my feet on the floor and the warmth of Thomas’s hand around mine.

As we neared Colorado Springs, Thomas squeezed my hand gently. “We should stop and get something to eat. Then we can figure out what to do.”

I glanced down at my pajamas—Thomas’s pajamas—and shook my head. “I need to change.”

“I’ll pull over at the next exit and get out so you can change.”

As he pulled off the highway, I realized we were only a few streets away from Nathaniel’s house. An idea came to me then. “Wait. Let’s go to Nathaniel’s.”

He looked at me uncertainly. “Are you sure?”

I nodded. “He can help.”

We arrived at Nathaniel’s a few minutes later, and
Thomas walked with me to the door. I rang the doorbell, and after some shuffling inside, the door opened, and Nathaniel stood there with a piece of paper and pencil in his hand.

“Aria?” Nathaniel said with surprise as his eyes swept over me. “You look awful. I don’t want to sound rude, but what happened to your face?”

I glanced into his house to see if he had a student, but it was clear. “Can we come in?”

“Of course. Come in.” He put his paper and pencil on the piano and gestured to the sofa. We sat, and Nathaniel stood in front of us with arms folded across his chest. “What’s going on?”

I bit my lip and looked at Thomas for strength, and he took my hand in his.

“Some things happened last night,” I started.

“Obviously,” Nathaniel said, his lips thinning in anger. “Did Jed do that to you?”

I nodded.

“I knew it. I knew that sad excuse of a man wasn’t fit to be a father. I should go over there and—”

“Thomas already threatened him,” I said, holding up a hand.

“And Aria pummeled him with her fists,” Thomas added.

“Good, good! I’m sorry I wasn’t there to see it!”

I lowered my eyes. “So, I was wondering if I could hang out here today. I just need somewhere safe where I can figure out what to do. I mean, I’ll probably need to pick up more hours at work and find a cheap apartment and . . .” I paused, checking the emotion rising in my voice.

Nathaniel dropped his chin into his hand and started
slowly pacing the room. “If you pick up more hours, you’ll have less time to practice. You’re coming along so well, but getting your own place right now would just throw a wrench in your spokes.”

“I know. But I don’t know what else to do. I can’t go back home.”

“I didn’t say you should go back home. In fact, that would be worse than getting your own place.”

The doorbell rang, making my heart plummet to my feet as I pictured Dad on the other side of the door.

“I’m expecting a student,” Nathaniel reassured. “Have you two had breakfast? There’s oatmeal and cereal in the pantry. Why don’t you go in the kitchen and make yourselves at home, and we’ll talk some more after my student leaves.”

Thomas and I went to the kitchen, and I sat by the window at a small mahogany table overlooking a garden bursting with fall perennials. Thomas opened the pantry door and perused its contents. I heard Nathaniel’s student come in, a chatty girl who gave him a rundown of her week before they started their lesson. She began playing a Clementi piece that I’d learned as a child, and although she got the notes right, it sounded mechanical, like a music box.

“What do you feel like eating?” Thomas asked. “I can make you some oatmeal, or he’s got a big selection of fiber-rich cereals.” He turned to look at me, and I made a queasy face.

He came and sat across from me, and with a worried crease between his brows, he opened my hand and gently rubbed his thumb over my palm. “Do you have grandparents somewhere?”

I shook my head. “They’re all gone.”

“Aunts? Uncles? Cousins?”

“A few, but we’re not close, and they live across the country.”

Nathaniel’s student finished playing the Clementi piece, and there was a long pause before I heard Nathaniel say, “Good. Um, yes. That was . . . that was fine. Let’s move on to the Chopin piece.”

“I didn’t have a Chopin piece this week,” the student said. “Do you mean Bach?”

“Oh. Right. That’s what I meant. Let’s hear the Bach.” It was apparent that Nathaniel was distracted, and I felt bad that because of me, his student wouldn’t get the instruction she needed.