The Protege

I get up and start to put my cello back in its case. It has to be everything from now on, or nothing. I won’t hold back just a little in case I fail. No more holding back. I look down at my cello laying so snug in the black velvet lining. My playing might be nothing to strangers’ ears, but it’s exactly what I want.

And that means it’s not nothing. It’s everything.

Back in my room I write an email to Ms. Sanchez, apologizing for never replying to hers and telling her that I’m looking for representation if she’s still interested in me. I feel a huge sense of relief once I’ve sent it off.

But my mind seems determined to dwell in the past today and my thoughts turn again to my father. Is there anything left for us to rebuild from, or is he too sick and addicted?

He never even tried to get better, I think defiantly. He never reached out to me. He didn’t want me. He was probably relieved when Laszlo took me away.

And, I remember, anger racing through me, I tried, once. So if my father and I don’t have a relationship now, it’s not my fault.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Isabeau

Then

The house looks strange after all these years, as though while I wasn’t here it gave up. I almost turn around and leave because if this is what the house looks like what sort of state will my father be in?

But I keep walking right up to the peeling front door and I knock. I at least need to try. I made excuses all throughout my childhood and high school years for not seeing my father. But I’m not a child anymore. I’m nineteen and it’s time I started acting like an adult, and looking difficult things squarely in the face. If I was writing an essay about my journey through my second year of university I would call it, Losing My Virginity and Other Crappy Things.

There’s no answer so I knock again, louder this time. I hear a sound through the door like a snort or a snarl. It’s hard to tell with the road noise behind me.

“Dad?” I hammer on the door then stop and listen. Nothing. Trying the door I find it’s unlocked and I go in. A familiar stale aroma engulfs me, but everything looks different. Worn. Deflated. The hallway has a depression in the middle and the skirting boards are scarred with scrapes. At the other end of the hall I can see the kitchen. The sink is filled with dirty dishes and there are takeout containers open on the table. A fly buzzes indolently around the room.

I call out again and then head into the living because that’s where he slept. The mattress is on the floor with its tangle of sheets. Discarded clothes are draped over the furniture. And dad’s there, asleep on the bed. Or passed out, I can’t tell which. There are needles and a battered, scorched spoon on the carpet, and my heart sinks.

“Dad,” I call, going over to him. “Dad, it’s me. Isabeau.”

He awakens with a snort, his eyes startlingly green. It’s the heroin. It turns your pupils to pinpricks.

Dad looks around the room and then his gaze falls on me.

“Issy?” He sits up and fumbles for a packet of cigarettes and lights one. There’s an overflowing ashtray on the carpet and I nudge it closer with my foot. Then I just stand there, my hands deep in my coat pockets, watching as he smokes.

“Look at you. All grown up.” But he doesn’t say this like it’s a good thing. “Never bothered to come till now, did you, to see your old dad.”

The smoke coils up toward the ceiling. Outside a truck grinds past. “I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

It might sound harsh but it’s the only thing I can say. “You.”

He takes a long, deep drag of his cigarette and exhales slowly. “Bullshit. Ashamed, more like.” Angrily he stubs the cigarette out. “You’ve done your duty and seen me and now you can just piss off. Go on, get out.”

I don’t even know what I want. I feel guilty about leaving him on his own all these years. I feel guilty about what I said to Laszlo. Do you like that, daddy? I flinch and look down. What a gross thing to have said. No wonder Laszlo was angry with me. No wonder he’s never called me.

“I thought we could talk,” I venture. Isn’t he a tiny bit curious about what I’ve been doing all these years?

Dad lights another cigarette, not looking at me. “About what? How I get my hits?”

“About Mum. About what she meant to both of us. About how you’re still my father, even though…” Even though I never looked back and you never tried.

That makes me the angriest. He’s addicted and in pain, but he never tried, ever, to get better, so that we could have some sort of relationship.