Nocturne(12)

Before heading up the stairs, I smoothed my hands over my floor-length emerald gown. In my everyday life, I found it a major facade to have to “dress a certain way.” Just to make a point, I had underdressed for my audition to the conservatory. You could say that my point was made, since I got in, but Madeline White softly scolded me about it later. However, tonight wasn’t my everyday life. Yes, it was my birthday, but tonight my mother was performing as a special guest in Tosca. I’d never seen her sing this particular opera, and I was anxious and excited. I was thrilled to see her, and respected every bit of pomp and circumstance that went along with the opera.

“Is it lame that I’m really excited to see your mom sing?” Nathan whispered as we made our way to our excellent, “special guest” seats.

“No,” I whispered back, “I’m super excited too. It’s been a long time for me.” The anticipation alone gave me goosebumps.

While Nathan and I have been friends for more than ten years, my mom worked so much—and most of it overseas—that he’s never seen her perform live. And it’s always better live.

As we settled into our seats, I couldn’t help but wonder what Gregory would think of all of this. While his class was proving to be thoroughly more irritating than I could have even imagined, the image of him playing that Bach piece on our first day of class was still seared in my brain. The man was a walking contradiction. He spent the last several weeks trying to prove to us that music was all science and math. His point of doing that Bach piece, he told us the next day, was to illustrate that if you study how music is written, you could, in theory, start a piece and finish it on your own, even if sight reading, because everything is a formula. He said the trick, however, was to still be able to put feeling into it, which, in his mind, came from more practice.

That was an incredible lie I really think he believed. What was going on with his body and on his face while he was playing that piece was anything but practiced. I wondered, idly, if he’d ever seen himself play. Surely he has recordings of his Pops performances? Whatever his reason for insisting that practice really does make perfect, natural talent or not, he was hell bent on teaching the class his way.

Still, thoughts of his eyes scanning over my body a few days ago in Murphy’s had me silently wishing he was sitting next to me, watching me more. My stomach flipped the way it did when he grinned at me, and I shifted in my seat, trying to ignore my thoughts.

Sitting between my dad and Nathan, I pulled out the program. As always, I was filled with pride to see her name. I saved every program of hers I could get my hands on. She’d send me some, and her agent would send me the rest when she was on a whirlwind tour.

“Dad,” I whispered, “Mom says she gets a break for a while after this?” I spoke to my mother earlier in the week, and she said she would have a few months off before deciding if she wanted to continue. That’s the longest break I can remember her having, and the first time she alluded to possible retirement.

He nodded, with a strange, tight look passing over his face. “That’s the word.”

Before I could respond, the lights dimmed, the orchestra tuned, the show was on, and I was lost in it. My mom’s stage presence really was something to covet. She was gorgeous. Tall, my height, but deep, rich black hair that accented her Italian olive skin. Her face was made even more impossibly beautiful by enticing blue eyes—eyes that were in such stark contrast to the rest of her dark features that they almost looked fake. She wasn’t born in Italy, but her parents were, and Italian was always spoken in her house growing up—it was the natural place for her to want to carry out her career.

By the time the second act was underway, I pried my eyes away from the stage and looked at my dad. As my mother’s voice reached nearly every octave possible, his eyes widened and glistened. The reverence beaming from his face highlighted the deep love and admiration he’s always had for her. And she was in love with the opera. It wasn’t that she didn’t love my dad. It’s just that opera was her first love, and you can’t come between first loves—people or not. She was singing long before she met him, and he took on the role of supporting that, no matter what it meant for him. They met when he played in the pit for one of her shows. He’s a French horn player. Or was.

I gave his hand a slight squeeze, which seemed to startle him, and he took an exaggerated breath before looking at me. Something on his face had changed. I’d never seen that lonely look in his eyes before. I cautiously glanced back to my mom on stage before returning to his face. He nodded, as if to tell me everything was fine, but I started to wonder if twenty years of success in a certain kind of marriage would translate into the same success when the structure changed.

By the end of the show, I was emotionally exhausted. In order to be a great opera singer, you have to also be a great actress. That’s how it works. My mother took both to heights that made people’s jaws drop. That was her job. Her facial expressions, the movement of her body, and the pairing of that with her voice was something to behold. Nathan was still and silent through the entire show, and was buzzing with excitement by the end. On the rare occasions I saw her perform, I was fascinated by all the emotion my mother projected.

“That was amazing!” Nathan yelled as we stepped outside onto the cold March air. Puffs of frozen breath swirled around us as we laughed.

“It was certainly one of the best I’ve seen from her in a long time.” My dad nodded and shoved his hands in his coat pockets as we hurried to the Hyatt Regency, where my parents were staying.