RoseBlood(5)
To this day she still shuns all things otherworldly, but her skepticism about my voice died a swift death as she herself sat a few days later, stunned and muted, while Dad played a recording of a Spanish aria sung by a vocalist in accompaniment. I sang along, executing every foreign lyric and note as if I were the world-renowned diva. This from a toddler who’d only recently learned to sing her English ABCs.
After that, Dad began accompanying operatic recordings regularly, and many times, I would join in unprompted. One day, as we put on a concert for some close friends, Dad stopped and dropped his bow, listening in reverent silence with everyone else as I finished out the song in perfect German. But without his violin guiding me, something changed. I still carried the song perfectly, until the final pristine note.
At that point, the vivid prismatic colors of the melody dancing around my head bled to a thick red glaze that tinged my vision. I dropped to my knees, trembling and nauseated. I was sick the whole night.
Dad decided it was performance anxiety, that I needed him as an accompanist for support. I became his marionette and he my puppeteer, and I loved every minute of it. At first, he concentrated only on the arias I responded to, and as long as we were bound together by strands of music, his violin’s voice leading me, I could sing without incident. Then he taught me new songs. Each one lifted me higher, gave me more confidence. By the age of six, I was invincible. No note was out of range, no composition too complex.
He and Mom agreed I was too young to go public. They wanted me to have a normal childhood, so we didn’t seek out formal training, and we kept our rehearsals private.
Dad encouraged my budding talent at every turn—he was my biggest fan—until he was diagnosed with cancer. When he became too weak to accompany me with his violin, I tried to keep singing for him, in hopes to give him the strength he once gave me. But since the musical ties between us had been snipped away, my performances left me exhausted. I ignored the flu-like symptoms and kept pushing myself just to see him smile.
Yet no matter how pristine the clarity of notes, or how genuine and evocative the emotions interpreted through song, I couldn’t lift him out of the mire of feeding tubes, catheters, and chemotherapy. I couldn’t change his fate.
After he died, my grandmother insisted it was my fault. That my unnatural gift had somehow drained my father of life and killed him.
I can’t shake the belief that maybe in some way she’s right. How can something so strange and inexplicable be healthy or good? It’s not. I know that much. I know it by what happened between me and Ben. Although I’m hoping he’ll be okay, I’m also hoping that if he wakes from his coma, he won’t remember a thing. He’s the only other witness.
My shoulders slump at the thought of last time I saw him, hooked up to IVs and machines in the hospital, just like my dad before he died.
For my part in Dad’s death, Grandma Liliana wanted to send me to hell. An old woman terrified of a young child. Whereas Mom was, and is, convinced I’m the one with fears. She’s oblivious to the dangers, sees my curse as a talent, and thinks that with practice, I’ll get over my stage fright and learn to perform for the public one day.
If only.
It was hard enough feeling normal in Texas. At least there, an operatic aria popping up unexpectedly on the radio was a rare event. I don’t know exactly what the trigger is. Although it’s always a woman’s aria, it’s not every single one I hear. Some speak to me, some don’t. But once the spark has been ignited, the music eventually wins. And at RoseBlood, I’ll be exposed to opera every day, and forced to purge the notes in front of strangers who will see me at my most vulnerable.
No more blending, quiet like a raindrop siphoning into a stream on a windowpane.
Tiny rivulets of water jostle on the limo’s window, and I rest the knitting needles in my lap, forehead pressed to the glass. Coolness seeps in to counteract the hot rush rising from my neck to my face. Through the leaves, the sky darkens, as if borrowing from my mood.
“I don’t know why you’re being so morose today,” Mom says, the cadence of her words dancing around me like a taunting chime. “You’ve always talked about being involved with Broadway or theater. How’s opera any different?”
“Behind the scenes.” I attempt to reason with her. “A costume or makeup designer.” In a last-ditch effort to change her mind, I pull out all the stops. “This is so unfair. I never asked for any of it.” I start up the knitting needles again, slower this time, and my pulse settles to a calm rhythm. The song recedes into my subconscious, but it’s only a temporary reprieve. It will be back.
Mom’s suit rustles. She grips firm, warm fingers around my jaw. I set aside my sweater to study her features, each one shadowed with disappointment.
“Oh, you asked for it,” she says. “You made poor choices. So now we’re going to get your life back on track. And the first step is surrounding you with kids your age.” She releases my chin.
And there’s where RoseBlood’s small populace of fifty students, made up of sixty percent juniors and forty percent seniors, comes in handy. That particular detail from the brochure stood out loud and clear while I was reading on the plane.
I stuff my knitting into the bag and kick myself for the thousandth time for going to that college frat party at the beginning of school. Getting drunk that night had nothing to do with the fact that I feel more comfortable around college kids than my own classmates. But I know better than to admit that to Mom, because were she to know the real reason I took that first sip of beer, she’d turn this limo around and drop me off in Versailles with Grandma Liliana. Bloodthirsty birds of a feather belong together.