Chapter 3

Aspen- age 13

My life began to revolve around practice schedules. It was normal, and I really didn't notice that other kids my age were different. I'd always lived this way, so I didn't ask for things like school dances, or ballet lessons, or riding my bike with friends. My days consisted of going to school, coming home to practice, and going to bed. I had time to unwind, but music occupied my every thought. If I wasn't playing, I was looking for the next piece I wanted to learn. I'd sit under the tree in our back yard and spend hours searching through my father's music books. I wanted a challenge, and the bigger the challenge the bigger the thrill. I was past the simple melodies and working toward complex chords and tempos that rivaled professionals. My dad told me at one point that he would need to hire someone to teach me because I'd soon surpass him. I knew that would never happen. He was my dad, and I knew he was the best. To say I was better would be a lie.

"Aspen?" my mom called from the kitchen window. "Dinner will be ready soon." She yawned and dropped her chin.

"I'll be in in a minute," I replied as I scanned the page I was on. This piece looked promising, and I couldn't wait to show my dad.

I stacked the books and carried the pile inside. Mom was in front of the stove, stirring something. She seemed tired. She'd been really tired lately, but I hadn't asked why. "Do you need any help?" I placed the stack of books on the piano bench.

"I'm ok. Just go get cleaned up." She motioned to the stairs that led to the bedrooms. I smiled before rushing upstairs. As I rounded the corner, Dad came in the front door.

"I picked out something for the summer recital." I grinned as I barreled up the stairs.

"Can't wait to see what it is." He laughed as I disappeared. I could hear muffled voices as he talked to Mom, but I didn't know what they were saying.

I happily washed my hands before skipping down the steps and making my way to the kitchen table. "What's for dinner?" I glanced around. It smelled really good.

"Have a seat." Dad motioned to my chair. He brought the pot from the stove over and set it in the middle of the table. After helping Mom sit down, he began serving us.

"What's wrong?" Genuine concern filled my voice. Mom sighed and Dad rubbed her shoulder. "I'm not eating until you tell me." I crossed my arms over my chest. I may be mature for my age, but I'm still a teenager.

"Your mom went to the doctor last week because of how tired she's been, and they ran some tests." He glanced at Mom and placed his hand on hers, squeezing it in the process. "She has a problem with her heart."

"But they can fix it, right?" I sat up straighter.

Mom and Dad looked at each other. "Yes, but it's more complicated than that."

"How so?" Panic set in. I started sweating, bouncing in my seat, trying anything to make this a dream. I needed to wake up.

"Your mom was sick a lot as a little girl. One of those illnesses weakened her heart. We didn't know this until now. Turns out, it has been working hard, too hard, all these years, and now it just can't anymore."

"What does that mean?" I started to cry. I could feel the hot tears leaking from my eyes. I swiped them away as my lip quivered.

"It means she needs a new one." I stood, shoving my chair back, and rushed over to fall into my mother's arms.

"This isn't real." I sobbed.

"The doctor gave me medicine to help, but I need to rest a lot." Mom ran her fingers through my hair. "I'm going to be ok," she reassured. Part of me wanted to believe her, but another part of me knew that her chances were slim.

I spent most of the summer at home that year. I skipped music camp, which upset my music teacher, but I think Dad understood. I wanted to soak up every moment. Every day was a gift, and I didn't want to take any of them for granted. Mom passed away the week before Thanksgiving. The end was rough. She began sleeping most of the day, and the times she was awake, were brief. She said her favorite moments were when she was sitting on the couch in the living room listening to me play. I worked hard that summer. I learned several of her favorites, and Dad and I played several duets. I let music speak for me. The melancholy melodies helped me express what words couldn't. Some days, I'd play until my hands cramped and then curl up beside her and we'd cry together. On her last day, she requested a piece that Dad had always played for her. It was a waltz, and she always said she could see them dancing in her mind. I'd never tried to play it, but I knew I needed to do this. I sat at the piano, placed the music in front of me, and took a deep breath. My fingers moved painlessly across the keys. The tune was light and brought a smile to my face. I, too, could see my parents moving about a ballroom waltzing to the music. When I finished, I sighed with pride before turning to get my mom's approval. When I looked over, she was slumped on the couch, her eyes closed, and a slight smile on her lips. I knew that was it. She wanted to dance into the afterlife and be happy.

Dad and I spent most of the night reminiscing as we cried together. It was the first time I'd seen my dad cry. He's always been the rock, but as we picked music for Mom's service and whispered memories of her through our grief, I knew I'd be ok. It would take time, but we'd help each other. As cruel as it was, we'd had a warning. We were able to prepare and accept what had happened.

The day of the funeral was a beautiful fall day. The sun was shining and there was a crisp breeze in the air. The leaves danced, a complete contradiction to the way I felt. Our house had been quiet for days. Dust was beginning to settle on the piano, something that was unheard of in our home. Dad hadn't wanted to play, and I didn't out of respect. He was playing at the funeral, and I could tell by the look on his face that it was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do.

When I came downstairs in my black dress, Dad was standing in front of the window, staring out at the street. He looked lost. His dark suit fit him perfectly, and his hair was combed neat as always, but I could see the turmoil in his eyes. There was a storm brewing, and I wasn't sure how to help him through it. "I'm ready when you are," I murmured as I touched his arm. He nodded and we slipped into our coats and began the three block walk down the street to the church.

When we arrived, people were already seated and quietly whispering to each other. White lilies, Mom's favorite, covered the wooden casket placed at the front of the church. I squeezed Dad's hand in support as we stepped through the door. We made our way to the front and took a seat. The minister came in, nodded to us, and then took his spot at the pulpit.

As the minister began reading scripture, I kinda zoned out. I wanted to be anywhere else at the moment, and I still hadn't really accepted that this was happening. Dad stood at one point and strode over to the piano. As he sat, I saw his shoulders drop. He placed music on the stand and held his hands over the keys. His eyes closed; he was playing Mom's favorites. His fingers began to move, slowly at first. A lone tear slowly made its way down his cheek. I watched in complete awe as he pushed away his grief and played for her. His fingers moved faster, dancing over the keys. The tune light, almost happy. When he finished, his shoulders shook with silent sobs. His chin dropped and his hands covered his face. He made his way back to me and sat before leaning over and releasing the tears. I've seen my dad angry, happy, and frustrated, but never this sad. It was like a piece of him died with her, and he couldn't figure out how to be without her.

I leaned into his side and wrapped my arm around him. "I love you, Daddy," I whispered. He turned and kissed the top of my head.

When all was said and done for the day, we made our way home. I changed, but Dad stayed in his suit. He sat at the piano in our living room for the first time since the day she died and played. He played for hours, lost in the music. Some songs I recognized from my childhood, others I didn't. There were happy songs, and sad songs. The music filled our house until the late hours of the night. When he finally stopped, he looked exhausted. He closed the piano and turned sideways on the bench. He looked around the room, and then broke down into tears. I stayed silent, just letting him grieve. There were no words to make it better. It just was, and I knew in time we'd be ok.

I watched this strong man stand, and stumble up to bed. When the house got quiet, I made my way to my room. Music would heal us. It was what made us who we were, and I knew we'd be ok.