Chapter 8

Aspen

Saturday, May 18 th will forever be the day that changed me. I was meeting Bryson for lunch. I'd moved into my new apartment the week before. Everything was going exactly as planned for me. I'd taken a waitressing gig part time as I was waiting on word from the New York Symphony. The weather was beginning to warm, and life was great. I actually had a bedroom at my new place, and a tiny balcony where I was trying to grow a few flowers. I felt like a grownup for the first time. Dad had come by several times over the last week to help me move in, but he had a show this weekend, so he was busy.

"Any word?" Bryson fiddled with the napkin in front of him. He's been offered a position with the Boston Philharmonic.

"Nope." I sighed as I sat down. "I'm not giving up."

"Good. Maybe they're just deaf." He smiled as he shrugged his shoulders. Each time we met up like this, we'd make jokes about why I hadn't heard anything yet.

"Maybe they're on a trip somewhere and can't send a letter." I grinned as a server brought over water for us. We ordered our usual, and as I picked at my salad, I began to let doubt creep in. "What if I wasn't good enough?"

"You're good enough. They're probably arguing over how much to pay you." He took a bite of his sandwich.

"I hope so." I sighed.

"How's the new place? Are you enjoying the fact that you don't sleep in the living room anymore and have to brush your teeth in the kitchen?" He laughed.

"I love the new place. I'm not far from where I grew up either. If New York makes an offer, I'm going to have to move again, you know that right? You ready to help?"

"We'll make it work." Byson chuckled. "I think you need to give that speech to your dad more than me," he mused. "Good thing you're renting by the month."

"I guess. I just hate this waiting. I feel like I'm lost." I picked at a piece of lettuce.

"You'll find your way. Give it time." He offered a sad smile. I knew he was trying to be supportive but couldn't really say anything else. It was in that moment my phone buzzed with a number I didn't recognize. "Maybe that's them." Bryson's eyes went wide.

"Hello?" I bit my lip, hoping this was my ticket in.

"Aspen? Aspen Vaughn?" A male's voice on the other end seemed a little panicked.

"This is her, I mean she," I stumbled over the words. Bryson's face lit up across the table.

"This is Ralph Harrison; I work with your dad. Is he with you?" He paused for a moment.

"No. He has a show tonight." I was confused. If they worked together, shouldn't they both have a show?

"Right. I'm at rehearsal. Your father didn't show up today, which is odd for him. I thought maybe with everything happening with you, that maybe he skipped for personal reasons?" He seemed exasperated.

"No. Dad never misses. Are you sure?" I dug some money out of my purse and tossed a few bills on the table to cover my lunch.

"I'll try calling again. He didn't answer the last time." He paused a moment before adding, "You might want to try him too."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll figure this out." I hung up and looked over at Bryson. "I gotta go; Dad blew off practice today, which is not like him. Something's wrong." I jumped up and rushed toward the door. I heard Bryson come rushing after me.

"I'll come too. You might need help."

It was only a five-block walk to my childhood home. The brick brownstone always seemed huge as a kid. When we knocked on the door, no one answered. If he wasn't at rehearsal, I wasn't sure where he'd be. He still kept his car in a garage down the block, and I didn't want to check that at the moment.

I dug in my purse for my keys, and slowly unlocked the door. "Dad?" I called as I stepped over the threshold. "Dad? Ralph called me." No answer. "Dad?" I headed for the stairs that led to the bedrooms. Maybe he was taking a nap.

"I'll check around down here," Bryson called to my back as I crept up the stairs and continued to call out.

"Dad?" I pushed open the bedroom door. His bed was made, and the room neat and tidy.

"Penny!" Bryson called from downstairs. I rushed back down the hall, took the stairs two at a time, and skidded to a stop by the opening of the eat in kitchen. Bryson was kneeling on the floor with his phone up to his ear. My eyes blurred and a whooshing sound filled my ears. I could see legs sticking out from behind Bryson. My dad's loafers were on the feet. Bryson looked my way. I could see his mouth moving but couldn't hear him for the rushing in my ears. White spots began to fill my vision, and then I dropped to my knees.

Bryson rushed over to catch me before I completely hit the floor, and that's when I saw his face. Empty eyes stared back at me. A sound like a hurt animal burst from my throat at the same moment EMTs came through the front door. Bryson pointed toward my dad as he lifted me and moved to the couch.

"Penny? Penny?" He cradled me against his chest. "I'm so sorry. Talk to me." He rubbed my back.

"What ha hap happened?" The words were broken, and I had to force them out.

"I don't know." He rocked us. "I'm staying with you tonight. You can't be alone." It was the last thing I remember him saying until the next morning.

I remember waking up and thinking that the entire had to have been a bad dream. Things like this didn't happen. When I shuffled out of my bedroom, I saw Bryson sleeping on my couch and reality set in that this was real. I went through my morning routine on autopilot, and when Bryson woke up, he called the coroner's office to get an official cause of death. It turns out that my father suffered a massive stroke. He went quickly, and didn't suffer. The details didn't really matter to me. It wasn't about what happened, it was more about why? It was just me now, and I honestly didn't care about anything.

The next several weeks, I spent locked in my apartment sleeping or watching TV. I called into work and ignored pretty much everyone in my life. If I was being honest, I didn't really want to live. I saw no purpose for it. I spent most days staring at the keyboard in the corner of my living room. I had no desire to play, and part of me believed that music was the cause of my misery. At the reading of my dad's will, I found out he left me the house and everything in it. The thought of living there made me want to scream. There were too many memories and the idea of those images of my dad that day plaguing me every time I went into the kitchen made me sell the place. I kept the piano because it was his most prized possession, but I let the rest go. I'd already collected a few things over the years that belonged to both of my parents. I didn't need what was left.

The movers were supposed to be bringing the piano over next week. I felt terrible, but in my grief, I treated Bryson terribly. I started shutting him out because he made me remember. Anything that had anything to do with music or my parents, was locked away. I closed off that part of my memory and forced myself to live without it. This included Bryson.

Two weeks later, my offer letter arrived in the mail. I was offered a four-year contract with the New York Symphony. When I called to turn them down, the guy on the phone sounded incredulous. The idea of playing was just too painful, and as much as music had been part of my life, it wasn't anymore. The things that once brought me joy now brought nothing but pain. Pain that filled me most days, and on the days it didn't I tried to live the best I could.

The days turned into weeks, weeks into months, Bryson moved away, and the months turned into years. The piano sat in the corner of my living room collecting dust, my music stacked on a shelf beside it. It just hurt too much to play. Every once in a while I'd hear a melody that my dad used to play and it would remind me why I can't let music back in. My heart would seize up and the tears would flow, and I'd have to bury it all over again. I was stagnant in life, and for me that was good enough at the moment. Nothing seemed worth it anymore. The beauty I once saw in the world was much darker after the stars went dark.