Paying Her Dues

“Ninety minutes, Jess,” Mike says firmly. “Starting right now.”

Right. I stretch my neck side to side, fully expecting Mike to come in and watch me. But he doesn’t. I can hear him moving through the house—now up the steps, now out into the garage. He is giving me my space, and for really the very first time in as long as I can remember, I feel relaxed as I begin to practice. Relaxed, and safe, and comfortable.

I go through both the Paganini and the Tchaikovsky, not once but three times. As I play, I feel the deep hush and comfort of the house, and also the liberty to make decisions to play how I want to, without my mom meddling, without her constant tuts and inhalations and the aura of anxiety that follows her everywhere through our house. When I am at home, so much seems to be riding on every note. But here, it’s just me, and my violin, and the music. And it makes me so very happy.

I come up on a tricky part of the Tchaikovsky—measure 26, frustrating as all get-out. But instead of my mom tip-toeing outside the room, I hear the soothing sounds of football recaps quietly playing from the kitchen, and the sound of Mike rinsing something in the sink. The click-click of the gas burner coming on.

And just like that, like magic, I make it through measure 26 without a hitch.

As the minutes pass, I let myself trust myself. I let myself enjoy the music. And let myself decide that I won’t know which piece I’ll play until I sit down for tryouts tomorrow. I won’t have to explain it to my mom over dinner; I won’t have to justify it. I can decide. Me. And only me.

The light grows lower, and the den lights come, without Mike coming into switch on the lamps. As I slide down a tumble of triplets, I find myself smiling, glancing at a smart outlet.

And then, as I’m nearing the beautiful decrescendo at the end of the Paganini, I smell a wonderful smell from the kitchen. The smell of…could it be?

Oh yes. Oh it is.

Moroccan lemon chicken. My very, very favorite thing in the world.