You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone

“We invite luminaries from conservatories across the country to this showcase,” Boris Bialik says. “You could very well be playing for your future professors. Commitment is crucial.”

I feel my face flush, like I am being challenged to prove myself. “I certainly hope so. I have never been more committed to anything than viola.”

He peeks at his watch, which is studded with diamonds. “Laurel is waiting for you.”

Thanking him, I head toward the stage, my muscles wound tighter than the tuning pegs on my viola. I’ve had strict teachers and conductors and music directors, but his words have put me on edge.

Laurel’s handshake is a tight, quick squeeze. Everyone in the showcase is under twenty-five, and she looks to be around exactly that age. It is my first time rehearsing with a pianist.

“Boris gives all the newbies a rough time,” she says. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”

I let out a breath, allow myself to relax a little. “Good to know. Thanks.”

Laurel positions herself on the cushion behind the baby grand and opens her sheet music. “This piece is one of my favorites of Debussy’s. Should we see how it goes?”

I tuck my viola under my chin and stretch out the fingers on my left hand one by one. They are a little stiff, but I’m sure they’ll warm up. The first time I performed on this stage with the youth symphony, I couldn’t believe how much larger it was compared to the middle and high school auditoriums I’d played on in the past. This is my first time standing on it—the way Arjun has me do during lessons. When I’m onstage with an orchestra, I’m seated in front, other musicians surrounding me. I am not the star. In a couple weeks these empty seats will be filled with people watching me, expecting me to create something brilliant.

Laurel is skilled, but not too showy. She knows exactly how to highlight the viola, because that is exactly what this piece is about. Soft, sweet notes pour from my instrument, and the beauty of it lifts my spirit. Très calme et doucement expressif. I can do this. I pull the song tight around me, shutting out everything wrong and bad.

But then my finger slips.

I have the piece memorized, but suddenly I have to think hard about what comes next, as though the notes are not imprinted in my muscles, trapped in my fingerprints. No. I can’t let the song get away from me—but it’s already drifting, my memory fuzzing, my fingers lost. I stumble over an entire measure, then skip two more, and Laurel trips over her keys to catch up to me.

The piano stops, and that’s when I realize my chest is tight and my throat is dry and I’m sucking in deep lungfuls of air.

“Adina?” Laurel says. “Adina, are you all right?”

I put a hand to my chest, my heart banging against my palm. “Yes. I got a little light-headed, I guess.”

Maureen’s words come back to me. We’ll be keeping a close eye on you. There’s no way I’m exhibiting symptoms this early. I’m just anxious. That has to be it.

“Do you need the music?” Laurel asks.

“This never happens. I swear I know the song.” I don’t have the time to be anything less than perfect.

“Being up here does things to people sometimes. It’s no problem at all. Why don’t you get some water, and then we’ll pick it back up whenever you’re ready?”

“Water would be good,” I mumble. In the wings of the stage, Boris Bialik has his arms folded across his chest.

Hattie and Meena are waiting in the greenroom as I hold a paper cup beneath a water cooler. “Stage fright?” Hattie asks.

“That’s a shame,” Meena says.

I simply nod, hoping with my whole heart that’s all it is.

Arjun refills our wineglasses with garnet-colored liquid and joins me back at his dining table. Rachmaninoff streams from his top-of-the-line speaker system, and I’m woozy from the wine, the kitchen blurred around the edges. The speakers are, undoubtedly, the most expensive thing in this room. It’s an old apartment. Later, I’ll tell him he should ask his manager about getting the stove fixed so more than one of the burners work.

When Arjun asked how I played, I lied that it went well and hoped he wouldn’t notice the heat on my cheeks. Lately I have been dreaming in Debussy; I cannot believe I needed the sheet music to finish the piece. That can’t happen on New Year’s Eve.

“That was incredible.” I gesture to my empty plate. He made an eggplant curry so spicy it made my eyes water. “Thank you.”

“I don’t cook for people much,” he says. “Don’t usually have the time. Or the space to have a lot of people over. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Do you always cook vegetarian? I don’t mind at all. I’m just curious.”

“Sometimes. I grew up vegetarian, but I cheat now that I’m in the States. You keep kosher, right?”

“My family does, but I don’t. I stopped when my mom—you know. It didn’t seem important anymore.”