The next Wednesday, the teacher poked her head out from the back room when he came in.
“Give me a second. I spilled tea everywhere.”
“Okay.”
He set his bag beside the chair. She came back with a towel and wiped the small table next to the piano.
“Oh, by the way.”
“Yeah?”
“She asked about you earlier.”
“What?”
“She wanted to know if you were getting better at Mélancolie.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. I told her you were doing pretty well.”
“I practice every day.”
The teacher laughed.
“So does she. She really likes Chaminade.”
She carried the towel back out of the room. He opened his bag and took out the Chaminade score. The latest newspaper column was lying open on the teacher’s chair. He picked it up.
This week was about when the daughter was five.
When you were five, you fell from a slide at the playground and an ambulance took you to the hospital. Mom called me while I was at work.
You had fallen from the top and hit your head. I remember how panicked she sounded. I left work and took a cab straight to the hospital. When I got there, you were lying in a bed.
There was gauze on your cheek and forehead, and a cut under your nose. Mom saw me and immediately started apologizing.
“I’m sorry. I was watching her. I really was.”
Her eyes were red. She said it more than once. Because you had hit your head, they ran some tests. When the doctor said there was no serious injury, Mom cried beside me.
I was relieved too. The cuts on your face took a while to heal. After about a year, they were almost impossible to see. There was only a faint mark left under your nose.
It healed so well that you had to be close to notice it. That day, Mom kept blaming herself. And I asked her, “How could you take your eyes off her?”
She was the one who took you to the playground. She was the one who watched you play outside. I hardly ever went. I should have taken you to the park more often too.
Below that was another handwritten letter.
To You at Seventeen
Happy seventeenth birthday.
How is school?
Do you have a favorite class?
What do you do after school?
Is there anything you’re really into right now?
Do you have close friends?
Do you go places together on weekends?
What kind of music do you listen to now?
Maybe there’s someone you like.
Have you started thinking about what comes after graduation?
College, work—have you decided anything yet?
Is there something you want to try? Mom is practical about those things. Talk to her about school and whatever comes next.
I wish I could have been part of those conversations too.
I’m sorry I’m not there for them.
I wonder what you think about these days. Next time I see you, tell me what your life is like now. Happy seventeenth birthday.
He read to the end.
The daughter had been seventeen when the father wrote that letter. His age. He went back a few lines and stopped at Maybe there’s someone you like. The teacher returned.
“Reading it again?”
He looked up from the newspaper.
“It was sitting there.”
“This week’s is good too, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
He folded the paper and put it back.
“She was seventeen.”
“The daughter?”
“When he wrote that letter.”
“Oh. About your age.”
“Yeah.”
The teacher pulled out the piano bench.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.”
He opened the Chaminade score he had already put on the piano. She pointed to a measure.
“Start here today.”
He put his hands on the keys.