On Leave, Chapter 11

I opened my email. I wanted to know if they had an orchestra I could join while I worked as a barista. I got a Facebook message from Sharon. It popped up on the side of my computer, on the bottom right hand side.

Hey, girl, I just wanted to check in one you. How are you doing? I really miss you. Call me sometime, okay?

I looked at my phone. I dialed Sharon.

The phone rang a few times, then I heard, “Hello?”

“Sharon, hey, it’s me, Natalie.”

“Hey Nat! Can I call you back in a bit? I’m heading over to Professor Blumenkorpf’s office hours. I got an F on my–puff–last—puff–essay exam, and I need help distinguishing between all the chord progressions. The class is hell without my bestie there to support me.”

“Yeah, sure. Okay…well, have fun at office…”

I trailed off because she hung up before I could even say “hours.” I flopped on the bed. Why couldn’t I just go back to school after this stupid medical leave was finished? Wait, would it ever be finished? What if I ended up at 30, still making lattes and letting my cello rust and wither until the bow hair exploded from lack of use?

I eyed my lonely cello. My lonely companion, so lonely without me. I heard myself singing the song “Lonely” by Akon in my head as I looked at the sleek curvy case. She was beautiful and she was mine. She was the one friend through which I could communicate my innermost thoughts, and yet I was throwing a pity party for myself.

I vented aloud to her.

“Why can’t I just go back to school? Why are Mom and Dad putting me under this life sentence called medical leave? All I did was drink some gin, it was no big deal. This is punishment, I tell you, punishment. And work today–it freaking sucked. We made thirty drinks in less than fifteen minutes and my coworker shouted at me. My life sucks.”

The cello listened intently. It was such a good listener.

But it called to me. It called to me to play on it, so I struggled to lug my lazy depressed self off the bed and play some tunes. I placed my bow on the string. The cello was getting caked with rosin and I needed to get it cleaned, but I didn’t really have the money to do so. Well, I thought, at least I have a job where I can make enough money to pay a visit to the local luthier once in a while. I started with a C major scale, bowing the string close to the bridge so it produced a beautiful resonant sound. I envisioned myself performing the C major scale for everyone in Carnegie Hall, where, after I returned to school and received my diploma, I would perform the Saint-Saens Cello Concerto in A minor for everyone to hear. I then played some random notes. A, C, F sharp, G sharp, back to A, E flat, F double sharp…before I knew it, I was improvising.

Then I took out my blue book. The Cello Suites by Benjamin Britten. I remember struggling through them during my first semester of conservatory. They are truly a delightful challenge to practice and perform. I bowed the notes with an astounding grace befitting to that of a queen. I didn’t feel depressed when I played. I felt like I was on top of the world. I continued to play.

“Natalie! Come help me put up the dishes.”

I groaned. My idealism, my dreams, shattered by a mother’s shrill voice, telling me to put up the dishes. But I walked down the stairs and went over to help her. I really couldn’t afford to be a brat. After all, Mom and Dad were letting me move back in with them so I could get myself together. I had already scared them by getting alcohol poisoning.

I had my headphones in. I heard muffled talking as I put up the hot and steamy dishes. And I felt a sharp yank as my mother grabbed my headphones, letting them dangle in the air as I looked at her with a face of embarrassment.

“I said how was work, and you pretended not to hear me,” she snapped.

“Oh, it was good, I guess,” I shrugged. I didn’t really want to talk about it.

“Oh, I see how it is. You can talk to your friends about anything and everything, you have this illustrious career ahead of you in music and everything fine arts. And yet you can’t just stop acting like a brat and have a single heart-to-heart conversation with me while we do the dishes.”

And with that, she left the room, trying not to let me see her cry. I know I let Mom down easily, but this must have been the final straw for her.

I looked sadly, put away my headphones and my phone. I was going to put up the dishes in silence. No music, no TV, no nothing. I was going to reflect on how bad of a daughter I was to my mom, how stupid I was to not talk to her or treat her like a human being.