Sometimes she wished her father had started her on the electric guitar. Or at the very least, singing lessons. What was she supposed to do with an ability to play the piano? Teach music at the local school? Or play in some hotel lobby while people were checking in? Or chase the hard life her father had? Look where the piano had gotten him. He'd ended up quitting Juilliard so he could hit the road as a concert pianist and found himself playing in rinky-dink venues to audiences that barely filled the first couple of rows. He traveled forty weeks a year, long enough to put a strain on the marriage. Next thing she knew, Mom was yelling all the time and Dad was retreating into his shell like he usually did, until one day he simply didn't return from an extended southern tour. As far as she knew, he wasn't working at all these days. He wasn't even giving private lessons.
How did that work out for you, Dad?
She shook her head. She really didn't want to be here. God knows she wanted nothing to do with any of this.
"Hey, Mom!" Jonah called out. He leaned forward. "What's over there? Is that a Ferris wheel?"
Her mom craned her neck, trying to see around the minivan in the lane beside her. "I think it is, honey," she answered. "There must be a carnival in town."
"Can we go? After we all have dinner together?"
"You'll have to ask your dad."
"Yeah, and maybe afterward, we'll all sit around the campfire and roast marshmallows," Ronnie interjected. "Like we're one big, happy family."
This time, both of them ignored her.
"Do you think they have other rides?" Jonah asked.
"I'm sure they do. And if your dad doesn't want to ride them, I'm sure your sister will go with you."
"Awesome!"
Ronnie sagged in her seat. It figured her mom would suggest something like that. The whole thing was too depressing to believe.
2
Steve
Steve Miller played the piano with keyed-up intensity, anticipating his children's arrival at any minute.
The piano was located in a small alcove off the small living room of the beachside bungalow he now called home. Behind him were items that represented his personal history. It wasn't much. Aside from the piano, Kim had been able to pack his belongings into a single box, and it had taken less than half an hour to put everything in place. There was a snapshot of him with his father and mother when he was young, another photo of him playing the piano as a teen. They were mounted between both of the degrees he'd received, one from Chapel Hill and the other from Boston University, and below it was a certificate of appreciation from Juilliard after he'd taught for fifteen years. Near the window were three framed schedules outlining his tour dates. Most important, though, were half a dozen photographs of Jonah and Ronnie, some tacked to the walls or framed and sitting atop the piano, and whenever he looked at them, he was reminded of the fact that despite his best intentions, nothing had turned out the way he'd expected.
The late afternoon sun was slanting through the windows, making the interior of the house stuffy, and Steve could feel beads of sweat beginning to form. Thankfully, the pain in his stomach had lessened since the morning, but he'd been nervous for days, and he knew it would come back. He'd always had a weak stomach; in his twenties, he'd had an ulcer and was hospitalized for diverticulitis; in his thirties, he'd had his appendix removed after it had burst while Kim was pregnant with Jonah. He ate Rolaids like candy, he'd been on Nexium for years, and though he knew he could probably eat better and exercise more, he doubted that either would have helped. Stomach problems ran in his family.
His father's death six years ago had changed him, and since the funeral, he'd felt as though he'd been on a countdown of sorts. In a way, he supposed he had. Five years ago, he'd quit his position at Juilliard, and a year after that, he'd decided to try his luck as a concert pianist. Three years ago, he and Kim decided to divorce; less than twelve months later, the tour dates began drying up, until they finally ended completely. Last year, he'd moved back here, to the town where he'd grown up, a place he never thought he'd see again. Now he was about to spend the summer with his children, and though he tried to imagine what the fall would bring once Ronnie and Jonah were back in New York, he knew only that leaves would yellow before turning to red and that in the mornings his breaths would come out in little puffs. He'd long since given up trying to predict the future.
This didn't bother him. He knew predictions were pointless, and besides, he could barely understand the past. These days, all he could say for sure was that he was ordinary in a world that loved the extraordinary, and the realization left him with a vague feeling of disappointment at the life he'd led. But what could he do? Unlike Kim, who'd been outgoing and gregarious, he'd always been more reticent and blended into crowds. Though he had certain talents as a musician and composer, he lacked the charisma or showmanship or whatever it was that made a performer stand out. At times, even he admitted that he'd been more an observer of the world than a participant in it, and in moments of painful honesty, he sometimes believed he was a failure in all that was important. He was forty-eight years old. His marriage had ended, his daughter avoided him, and his son was growing up without him. Thinking back, he knew he had no one to blame but himself, and more than anything, this was what he wanted to know: Was it still possible for someone like him to experience the presence of God?
Ten years ago, he could never have imagined wondering about such a thing. Two years, even. But middle age, he sometimes thought, had made him as reflective as a mirror. Though he'd once believed that the answer lay somehow in the music he created, he suspected now that he'd been mistaken. The more he thought about it, the more he'd come to realize that for him, music had always been a movement away from reality rather than a means of living in it more deeply. He might have experienced passion and catharsis in the works of Tchaikovsky or felt a sense of accomplishment when he'd written sonatas of his own, but he now knew that burying himself in music had less to do with God than a selfish desire to escape.
He now believed that the real answer lay somewhere in the nexus of love he felt for his children, in the ache he experienced when he woke in the quiet house and realized they weren't here. But even then, he knew there was something more.
And somehow, he hoped his children would help him find it.
A few minutes later, Steve noticed the sun reflecting off the windshield of a dusty station wagon outside. He and Kim had purchased it years ago for weekend outings to Costco and family getaways. He wondered in passing if she'd remembered to change the oil before she'd driven down, or even since he'd left. Probably not, he decided. Kim had never been good at things like that, which was why he'd always taken care of them.
But that part of his life was over now.
Steve rose from his seat, and by the time he stepped onto the porch, Jonah was already out of the car and rushing toward him. His hair hadn't been combed, his glasses were crooked, and his arms and legs were as skinny as pencils. Steve felt his throat tighten, reminded again of how much he'd missed in the past three years.
"Dad!"
"Jonah!" Steve shouted back as he crossed the rocky sand that constituted his yard. When Jonah jumped into his arms, it was all he could do to remain upright.
"You've gotten so big," he said.
"And you've gotten smaller!" Jonah said. "You're skinny now."
Steve hugged his son tight before putting him down. "I'm glad you're here."
"I am, too. Mom and Ronnie fought the whole time."
"That's no fun."
"It's okay. I ignored it. Except when I egged them on."
"Ah," Steve responded.
Jonah pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Why didn't Mom let us fly?"
"Did you ask her?"
"No."
"Maybe you should."
"It's not important. I was just wondering."
Steve smiled. He'd forgotten how talkative his son could be.
"Hey, is this your house?"
"
That's it."
"This place is awesome!"
Steve wondered if Jonah was serious. The house was anything but awesome. The bungalow was easily the oldest property on Wrightsville Beach and sandwiched between two massive homes that had gone up within the last ten years, making it seem even more diminutive. The paint was peeling, the roof was missing numerous shingles, and the porch was rotting; it wouldn't surprise him if the next decent storm blew it over, which would no doubt please the neighbors. Since he'd moved in, neither family had ever spoken to him.
"You think so?" he said.
"Hello? It's right on the beach. What else could you want?" He motioned toward the ocean. "Can I go check it out?"
"Sure. But be careful. And stay behind the house. Don't wander off."
"Deal."
Steve watched him jog off before turning to see Kim approaching. Ronnie had stepped out of the car as well but was still lingering near it.
"Hi, Kim," he said.
"Steve." She leaned in to give him a brief hug. "You doing okay?" she asked. "You look thin."
"I'm okay."
Behind her, Steve noticed Ronnie slowly making her way toward them. He was struck by how much she'd changed since the last photo Kim had e-mailed. Gone was the all-American girl he remembered, and in her place was a young woman with a purple streak in her long brown hair, black fingernail polish, and dark clothing. Despite the obvious signs of teenage rebellion, he thought again how much she resembled her mother. Good thing, too. She was, he thought, as lovely as ever.