It was three days ago that the anxiety struck me. Early in the morning, mere hours before I received the call, a restlessness overtook me and I could do nothing more than pace. Rachmaninoff’s “Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini” was swelling to its climax when the phone rang. “Kelli? It’s Mike… Mike Mackenzie. I don’t know how to tell you this. It’s your father… He’s suffered a massive stroke. He’s passed, sweetie. Can you come?” The words—so sudden… so final—sat heavy in my heart and the hardest part to swallow was the uncertainty of how I should feel.
The last refrain of my father’s favorite piece of music, executed with perfection on the piano, gently nudged me out of my dazed state. “Kelli? Are you there? I’ve already called Lisa. She refuses to come.” An unease continued to grow as I learned my sister would not be returning to the mansion in Fairhope to say her goodbyes. Of course, she wouldn’t. After all, she said them fifteen years ago when she left home at seventeen. “Please come… He was your father.” Mr. Mackenzie’s voice was heavy with a burden only outweighed by his grief. How was I to tell him that his grief was greater than that of both of the deceased’s daughters?
“I’ll be there by nightfall,” I said, resolving myself to endure the funeral alone.
It’s a dismal, rainy day. I walk into the room choosing not to look at the coffin I picked out only two days ago. Nervousness wraps itself around my limbs. I have no idea what to do, so I position myself ten feet to the right of Dad, lying in his beautiful mahogany casket, and try to ready myself for an onslaught of mourners. The French doors to Dad’s living room swing open, and a large crowd pours into the room. The first two gentlemen who approach played in the symphony with him, before family life took him. I remember them coming to the house when I was young to practice their instruments with dad accompanying them on the piano. Jimmy Bolton, a small-statured man with thinning hair, played the violin, and Robert Muhler, a large man with a mane of white hair, the cello. As they reminisce about Dad’s dexterity on the piano, I see a short, stout woman, dressed in a pink suit, waiting impatiently. An audible sigh escapes my lips, as I realize it is Mrs. Miller from two houses down the street. She is still a good friend of my mother, but she and my father were constantly at war about landscaping. Her only reason for attending is to catch any juicy smidgen of gossip that might slip out. Mr. Bolton and Mr. Muhler, thinking no doubt that the sigh was directed at them, take leave to pay their respects, and my stomach sinks.
“Where’s Lisa? It’s so sad to see you up here by yourself.” I can hear the clicking, as her mind types out her mental notes. His oldest daughter won’t even attend his funeral.
I’m unsure from where I retrieve the words but they stumble out all the same. “She has a very busy life.”
“Oh, dear. Well, I don’t blame her. Your father was a very stony-hearted, selfish man.”
A fury is immediately unleashed in me. I feel the hot blood rush to my face and ringing fills my ears. “Who the hell do you think you are?” I step towards her and slap her hard across her face.
There are many things my father was not. He was not a patient man nor did he find cause to be understanding on many occasions. A truly active participant in his children’s lives… well, he was not that either, but he worked hard to provide for his family. When Mom became pregnant with Lisa, he gave up a teaching job that he loved to take over his father’s business. He had no desire to be a businessman and, in fact, hated every aspect of the profession. However, it was the only option available to him that would ensure that his children would have a nice life and would also be able to give my mother the “comfortable” life she desired. The money was great, but the hours were long, and he no longer had time to play with the symphony. He sacrificed his passions to ensure that his children would be able to enjoy their own. This comes to me as a revelation and now is the first time I’ve been able to admit this to myself.
Mourners are shocked out of their grief as I, Malcolm Saunder’s youngest daughter, stand blocking his body from the vile woman who has shown such disrespect. The realization that this spectacle only fuels her repertoire of future gossip enrages me further. My whole body becomes hot and prickly as the anxiety and anger take over. The look on Marjorie Simmons’ face tells me I’ve overstepped socially acceptable boundaries by a considerable distance. I feel like I am standing outside myself, watching the meltdown of the century. Not only is my voice loud and shrill, but I’m having difficulty breathing through the unbridled sobs. My words and actions become more irrational with every insult and all Mrs. Miller does is stand there smiling victoriously.
It is Mike Mackenzie who intercedes and saves me from one of my all too well-known Kelli bombs. He places his hand on my shoulder. I instinctively shrink back. I can see that he understands why as well. It’s a reaction that I can’t chalk up to anxiety. It comes from a shallow girl’s impression of her father’s groundskeeper. He’s creepy and dirty. I used to tell my friends that the mere presence of the groundskeeper made me feel like taking a scalding shower “to wash the stench of him off me.” My father was so disappointed that I took such a view. He liked and respected Mr. Mackenzie, even going to him for advice from time to time. Guilt flushes on my cheeks but Mr. Mackenzie never misses a beat, “Miss Kelli, please calm yourself. This is a hard day for you. Why don’t you go to your father’s study until you’re feeling better? I will escort Mrs. Miller off the property.”
Careful to move around his outstretched hand, evidently my guilt holds no sway, I mumble a thank you and take my leave. Halfway to the study, I hear familiar music float down the hallway. It’s the powerful rhapsody Dad loved so dearly, and it sounds like it’s coming from inside the study.
The room is dark—almost black—with only subtle hints of gray highlights on the billows of the dense fabrics that cover its furnishings. My stomach flutters, full of what I’m certain is moths. I can feel their dust filling inside me as soft beats abruptly sink into my gut with unexpected weight. There is no music. Perhaps it is playing in some other room. With the lightest of steps, I cross the marble and pull back the curtains from the large picture window, only to reveal the dim light created by a rainy day. The bench of Dad’s old Baby Grand relieves my overtired, wobbly legs of their burden. This gorgeous instrument was his baby—the vast room she resides in… her cradle. Pulling back the cover from the keyboard, I run my hand across the smooth ivory. Shivers run through my body, as a shaky finger outstretches to find middle “C.” The sound rings dull and flat. The thought that he would allow his baby to sit unused for so long seems inconceivable.
“You have to play it with conviction,” he told me often. I sat at his beloved piano—a five-year-old—and took the first of many steps in learning to play his favorite piece of music. I mastered my scales and arpeggios with lightning speed. Rachmaninoff’s beautiful work of ecstasy took much more time. He loved teaching me, and I enjoyed the time with him, although his passion for music caused angry outbursts when I could not grasp a technique or when my fingers could not quite move with fluidity. I now find my fingers clumsily reaching for familiar keys, but the piano is so out of tune that they are unrecognizable. A tear slips down my cheek.
I gently pat the piano and carefully place the cover back over it. His desk is on the other side of the room. It is covered with piles of disorganized papers. There were many times in my youth I would come into this room to find him hunched over his desk working.
“Why weren’t you there?” I screamed at the age of thirteen. “You promised you would come!”
“I’m sorry, pumpkin, but something came up and I had to go to work.” Dad got up from his desk and moved towards me. “I thought I would still be able to make it in time, but it took longer than expected.” Seeing me backing away, he stopped and sat on the corner of his desk.
“You always have to work. I only learned that stupid piece for you, and you can’t even be bothered to see me perform it.” My shoes clapped loudly across the marble, as I stormed out, slamming the door behind me.
Dad spent much of his spare time in his study, especially after Mom became so cold towards him. A mansion and vacation homes were not enough for her, she always wanted more. Dad wanted more too, but he wasn’t looking for the lifestyles of the rich and famous. He wanted to be able to teach and play in the symphony again. His Baby Grand would suffice though. I’ve spent fifteen years hating him for missing my performances and driving Lisa away. Now he’s gone and I have no way to express to him the revelations of today.
I pick up a couple of bills and realize that Dad was still paying for his wife’s extravagances, even after the multi-million-dollar divorce. She was still bleeding him dry. The refrain from Dad’s rhapsody echoes through the room. How long has it been playing in the background of my mind? I know the sound of those strokes—the delicate treatment of the phrase. But it can’t be.
I walk around the dim room looking for a speaker… or possibly the music is flowing in from another room through a vent. The sound is coming from the Baby Grand, I know it, but that can’t be right. It’s not a player piano and, even if it was, it’s far too out of tune to produce that sound.
My Dad’s beautiful rhapsody by Rachmaninoff continues to play. I keep thinking of this piece of music as my father’s favorite, but whether I want to admit it or not, it’s mine too. I painstakingly learned this work inside and out. I would even sneak downstairs after bedtime to practice—to make it sound the way my father made it sound, and I did. It was perfect and he was supposed to hear it—hear my love for him—but he didn’t. He chose to work. He always chose work over me. The rhapsody fills the room as it swells to its exquisite climax. Where is that music coming from? I tear the cover off the piano and see the last three notes strike. A piece of paper falls to the floor.
It’s crumpled and smudged as if from tears. The paper is yellowed and delicate, almost disintegrating as I fold back the corners.
“Dear Kelli, I’ve heard you every night. It is perfect. Love, Dad.”
I sit on the bench, my hands hovering over the keys, and play. It is horribly distorted and produces an eerie tone, but I hit each key with precision and finesse. Tears fall and splash up from the keys that they strike. I know that Dad is here, and he’s proud.
“Miss Kelli? I’m afraid that Mr. Saunder hasn’t played for some time. The tuning is a bit off.”
I stand up and grab his rough hands. “Mr. Mackenzie, thank you for always being there for my dad. He thought a lot of you.”
“Your dad was a good man.”
“Yes… he was… Who do I call to get his baby tuned?”
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