Story of a Girl (17 page)

Her dying at the piano made perfect sense.

Still, it was sad. She’d given her life to their family, and now it was over.

After the EMTs rolled the body out, Gus got up off the stairs and stood next to Lucy in the starkly hushed foyer. If he was upset about Temnikova, he didn’t show it. When Lucy asked, “You okay, Gustav?” all he had to say about the death of the woman with whom he’d spent so much of his time over the last six years was:

“Mom’s going to be pissed.”

“She wasn’t even that
old.”
Lucy’s mother, tall and straight-backed at the kitchen island, slapped a flank steak onto the cutting board.

“She was ancient,” Lucy said, skulking in the serving pantry between the kitchen and the dining room. Her father had parked himself on a stool at the island, Gus next to him. The two of them created a handy buffer zone between Lucy and her mom. She’d already gotten in trouble for not calling either of her parents or Grandpa Beck—or even Martin, their housekeeper, who’d been off—until the EMTs left. Her defense, which her mother did not appreciate, was, “It’s not like any of you could have brought her back to life.”

Now her father said, “Lucy’s right. She was at that age when you can go anytime.”

“She had a dinosaur neck,” Gus added.

“Gus,” Lucy said. “A little respect?”

“Sorry.”

Lucy’s dad took a swallow of his Old Fashioned while her mother whacked the steak with a mallet and Lucy felt the in-and-out of her own breath. Since Temnikova’s exit, she’d become weirdly aware of her lungs, her heart, everything in her body that worked to keep her alive.

“Well, it’s terrible timing,” her mother said. She put a grill pan down on the stove top. While it heated she strode toward Lucy, who took a nervous step back, until she realized the actual object of her mother’s displeasure was the calendar that hung just inside the pantry. “Seven weeks.” She gave Lucy a hard look, pointing at the calendar. “Not even seven. Closer to six and a half.”

The winter showcase at the symphony hall.

CPR isn’t as easy as it looks on TV, Mom
. “Gus’ll be ready. He’s ready
now
.”

“Of course he’s ready
now
.” Her mother went back to the island and put the steak into the pan. Sizzle and smoke. “But he won’t be ready in six weeks without anyone on him. How am I going to find someone at this time of year? With the holidays coming up.”

“It’s okay, Mom,” Gus said. “I’ll practice the same amount.”

“It’s a showcase, Kat.” Lucy’s dad turned his glass in his hand. “Not a competition. He’ll do fine.”

He must have forgotten that
fine
wasn’t in their family’s vocabulary. If you were a Beck-Moreau, and you got up on stage for
any
reason—showcase, competition, recital, or just to roll a piano stool into place—you’d better surpass
fine
by about a million miles.

Granted, that was more a Beck issue than a Moreau one.

“The Swanner isn’t long after, and that
is
a competition. I’ll send out e-mails tonight,” her mother said. “After Grandpa gets home and I have a chance to talk to him about it. We’ll find out who’s available on such short notice. No one good, I’m sure.”

Lucy ventured two steps into the kitchen, placing her body in front of the calendar. “Maybe Gus could take a little break. Some people do, you know. Some people believe it actually helps. And then he could—”

Her mother cut her off. “Lucy, I’m sorry, but you’re not exactly the first person I’m going to turn to for advice about this.”

“Kat…” Lucy waited for her dad to say more than that. Perhaps even mount a minor defense on Lucy’s behalf. But no. Of course not.

“Do you want me to set the table, Mom?” Gus asked.

“I’ll help,” Lucy said, and followed him into their large formal dining room. It took immense self-control to not ruffle his hair. She loved his curls; he didn’t like anyone touching them.

“Set for four,” their mother called after them. “Grandpa’s meeting friends tonight.”

Given how Grandma’s death had gone down, it was no big surprise that Grandpa Beck hadn’t canceled his plans and come running home upon hearing the news about Temnikova. No surprise, but still cold.

They laid out clean place mats and napkins, dinner plates, salad plates, dinner forks, salad forks, knives, spoons. No dessert stuff on weekdays. Wineglasses for their parents. Water goblets for everyone. Even without Grandpa Beck, even under the circumstances, they would conform to tradition. Generally, Lucy didn’t mind. It would be nice, though, once in a while, to be the kind of family that on a crap day like this would order a pizza and eat it in the kitchen. Maybe even
talk
about the fact that it was
kinda sad and awful
that someone who mattered to them had died
in their house
that afternoon.

“Nice work, Gustav,” Lucy said, double-checking the table. She rubbed a butter knife clean of water spots. Martin would never let an unclean knife leave the kitchen.

Gus rested his hands on the back of one of the dining chairs and nodded. Lucy went to stand beside him. She wasn’t much of a crier, but, God. What a day. Temnikova was gone. Just… gone. Like Grandma. Except Grandma was
Grandma
. So it was different. But Lucy hadn’t been here for that, and now that she’d seen this death up close, she couldn’t help but think about the one she’d missed.

She put her arm around Gus and leaned way down to rest her head on his shoulder. “Someday you’ll be taller, and this won’t be so awkward.”

“Oh, is
that
why it’s awkward?”

“Funny.” She straightened up, the urge to cry gone. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save her.”

“You said that already. It’s okay.”

“Aren’t you a little bit sad?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Gus said. “Are you?”

“It makes me think of Grandma.”

Gus nodded, and Lucy set her hand on his head for a few seconds until he squirmed out from under it and took his seat. He put his napkin on his lap, so mannered and adult. He’d never had a messy phase. He’d never been sent away from the table. He never got crazy. Their parents took it as something to be proud of. Lucy thought maybe it wasn’t how a ten-year-old boy’s life should look, and she wished he
would
get crazy once in a while. A sugar bender. A tantrum. Inappropriate jokes.

But in their house, childhood, like grief, was an episode merely tolerated. An inconvenience and an obstacle to the real work of life: proving to the world and to yourself that you weren’t just taking up space.

No pressure.

She sat across from Gus and flapped her napkin out dramatically, to make him smile.

Maybe it was good he was such a perfect kid. It left her free to screw up for both of them.

A cocktail party at a hotel, eight months ago.
Lucy, nervous and in a new dress; one she and her mother had picked out together and agreed on, back when they used to agree on at least some things. It was slightly more adult than the rest of Lucy’s wardrobe. She was about to turn sixteen, and her mother didn’t mind Lucy showing leg as long as the neckline stayed appropriate and the heel low. The dress—silver jersey with ruching that gathered at the left side of her waist—stopped midthigh. Lucy was supposed to be wearing tights.

But her mother wasn’t there to check. She’d stayed home to take care of Grandma Beck, whose bad cold had suddenly become pneumonia. So Lucy’s dad had come instead to Prague, for the festival. Grandpa Beck, too, of course, because he believed he had to be at everything. Later, Lucy didn’t understand how he could have left his sick wife behind the way he did.

She was talking to two of the other pianists playing the festival but, unlike her, not competing: a guy from Tokyo and a girl from a European city Lucy didn’t quite catch over the noise of the room, whose name was Liesel or Louisa or something. They were both older than she was by about ten years, both good enough English speakers to talk about the pieces they were playing, where else they’d traveled recently, and where they were going next.

“I think I’m doing Tanglewood this summer,” Lucy told them.

It sounded impressive. Not that she
wanted
to go to Tanglewood. As she hadn’t wanted to do so many of the things that filled her time: the concerts and festivals and recording sessions and competitions that took her around the world and caused her to miss such massive chunks of school that she wasn’t officially enrolled anymore. Instead she worked with various tutors from USF. Marnie and cute Bennett and sometimes Allison.

She hadn’t even wanted to come to the Prague, which only took fifteen pianists in her age group from around the world. Out of thousands of applicants, she’d made it. There’d been a party. Grandma Beck wouldn’t let anyone else pick the flowers or the food. Lucy’s dad bought her a white-gold necklace with an
L
pendant to congratulate her, and Gus got all caught up in imagining himself at the same festival one day. Grace Chang, her teacher, took Lucy out for a special dinner to strategize a repertoire.

The thing was, Lucy hadn’t even applied.

Her mother had filled out the form and sent in the CD.

“I didn’t want you to be disappointed if you didn’t get in,” her mom had said.

Right
, Lucy had thought.
More like you didn’t want to give me the chance to say no.

That was when Lucy still believed that rocking the boat was the worst thing a person could do, and it didn’t even cross her mind to try to back out.

The guy from Tokyo leaned forward as if he had misheard her. “Tanglewood?”

“Yeah.”

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

He exchanged a glance with Liesel/Louisa, who said, “Wow.”

Lucy hadn’t meant to brag. It could be hard to find the line between sharing credentials in an effort to fit in and showing off. “It’s just part of this new youth-spotlight thing they’re going to try….”

“Excuse me,” Liesel/Louisa said, looking across the room as if she saw someone she had to go talk to.

Tokyo stayed. “Have you ever been to Japan?” He had long, shaggy hair, like a lot of the guy musicians had, to show the world they may be music nerds but they were rebel music nerds.

“Once. When I was, like, eight.”

He started to reply when Grandpa Beck appeared at Lucy’s elbow.

“Lucy, let me introduce you to someone.” He took her arm and pulled her away from the conversation. She scanned the room for her dad and didn’t see him. “Your father is up in our room. And don’t get too friendly with the competition.”

“They’re not the competition.”

“Everyone is the competition.”

She shivered in the arctic climate of the hotel ballroom while her grandfather ferried her around and made her talk to everyone he thought important: an up-and-coming conductor, an international booking agent, a Grammy-winning producer of classical albums. Lucy smiled and nodded a lot, hearing about half of what was said.

They left the party. In the elevator to their suite, Grandpa Beck turned to her. “You did well in there, Lucy. I’m proud of you.” His eyes were soft, and he touched her shoulder with real affection. “This is an important festival, and there’s a buzz about you. They all know who you are.”

She did like that part. Being somebody. Even if it meant certain people were jealous or thought she was too young to get the kind of attention she did.

Being a concert pianist didn’t win her any special respect from the kids she’d been at school with. Even her best friend, Reyna, didn’t know and wouldn’t care that she could nail a Rachmaninoff allegro. But in places like this, she knew she mattered.

“How’s Grandma?” she asked as they exited the elevator and walked over the hotel’s ornate carpet.

“Just fine.”

“Let’s call her. I want to say hi.” And she wanted to hear Gus’s voice, and ask her mom’s advice about how to wear her hair for the main part of the competition.

He pulled back the sleeve of his suit jacket to check his watch. “It’s complicated with the time difference. We don’t want to interrupt her rest.”

Before leaving for Prague, Lucy’d gone into her grandmother’s room to say good-bye, but she’d been asleep. Lucy had stared for a few minutes at her face: powdered and tweezed but also naturally beautiful. The face of a woman who was kind without being a pushover. Someone who’d managed to live with Grandpa Beck for more than fifty years without killing him.

“I don’t want to go,” Lucy had whispered, hoping Grandma would open her eyes and say she didn’t have to.

Her mother had heard. “You’re just nervous,” she’d said softly, joining her on the edge of Grandma’s bed.

Lucy had turned to her. Maybe there, in that quiet space, the afternoon light filtering through the gauzy curtains, dust motes in the beams and only the sound of Grandma’s breathing, her mother would listen. “I’m not nervous. I feel like I should stay here.”

“You have to go, honey. It’s the
Prague
.”

Lucy had looked back at her grandmother. “Isn’t this a family emergency?”

“Grandma’s going to be fine. And you won’t do her any good by not going.”