When I climbed the stairs to my apartment that night, I expected to find her curled up on the couch with a book. Instead, as I reached the landing I heard the sweet sound of Will’s guitar and another sound, unfamiliar to me. I walked in to find my mom at the Wurlitzer playing, “I Feel the Earth Move.” She was singing horribly out of tune. Will nodded his head encouragingly as he accompanied her with some interesting funk guitar on the telecaster. I spotted the notorious bottle of Patrón on top of the Wurly. He looked up and shot me an errant smile. I rolled my eyes at him.
“Okay, lovely ladies, that’s it for me tonight,” he said as he put his guitar in the case. “Liz, it was a pleasure to meet you. I see where your daughter gets her beauty.” He kissed my mom’s hand. Her giddy look made my eyes roll again.
“Oh, thank you, Will. It was so nice to meet you.”
“Where are you headed to?” I asked.
“I have a gig tonight at nine.” He paused before heading out the door, then whispered back to me, “Night, Mia.”
I thought it was strange that Will said I have a gig and not we. I also couldn’t help but feel like it hurt him to be around me or maybe it just annoyed him.
“Mia, he’s cute.” My mom said, wiggling her eyebrows.
I scowled at her as if her comment was complete blasphemy. “He’s a musician!”
There was a long pause. “So are you, sweetheart.”
I had never had a serious conversation with my mom about men. She never lectured me on whom to date or live with. I’d made a strict set of rules for myself… guaranteed success… remember?
As I studied her silly, drunken expression, I recognized something real, something human… I saw her vulnerability.
The next day the girls covered me at Kell’s so my mother and I could see the city. We spent hours at the Guggenheim and then we strolled through Central Park.
I took her to Turtle Pond, where my father used to take me. It was a clear, warm day; the sun was low in the sky, peeking through the trees, casting large shadows on the still water. We found a bench and sat in silence, letting the natural sounds ruminate around us. I started feeling sleepy, so I rested my head on her shoulder, inhaled deeply, and let the mixture of Chanel No.5 and rose water pervade my senses as we watched a variety of birds dance about and play.
Turtle Pond has seen quite a renovation over the years; the great lawn was redesigned in ‘97, giving it a new, clean look, yet the vibe remains the same. Separate from the rest of the park, it’s a quiet zone, free from noisy activities… free from music… in the traditional sense, anyway.
There were times growing up during those hot summers when my father would seem agitated or confined. His need for escape from the city life, seedy shouts, and dirty sounds of the East Village, was tangible. He was always so jovial, but when the pressures of running Kell’s would get to him, Turtle Pond is where we would go. We would sit on the grass near the shoreline and he would say, “Can you hear it? Can you hear the music?”
I would always giggle and shake my head. “There’s no music here, Pops.”
“Then you’re not listening.”
As I sat there on the iron bench, nuzzling into my mother’s warmth, I stared down at my veiny, muscular hands, my long, bony fingers, and cringed. I balled them into fists. I hate the look of my hands, they’re void of any femininity; the skin is taut against bulging blue veins, my nail beds are wide, my knuckles are thick and heavy. My hands belong to a man, yet they are my most prized possession. I thought back again to my father on the shoreline. “I am listening, Pops. I don’t hear any music.”
“Quiet your mind, luv.” I could almost hear his voice in the memory: the faint remnants of an Irish accent, the husky depth when he spoke from his chest that always gave me the shivers. His memory ached in my soul, but his presence was still palpable in the silence. Tears began streaming down my cheeks. I stretched my hands as my fingers began to move on the illusory piano keys. I finally played the music my father had begged me to hear when I was a child; it was a song of peace and contentment and my ugly, obedient hands could play it flawlessly.
My mother noticed my movements and smiled as if she were acknowledging my father’s spirit in me. She took my hands in hers and spoke quietly, “Mia, my girl. You know I loved your father; I still love him. He was honest and kind and had a passion for life greater than any person I know. I loved his spontaneous, free spirit, and I loved how much he adored you. You know all he wanted was for you to be your most true self. He wouldn’t want to see you wallowing.”
In that moment I wanted to ask her about their relationship and why it didn’t work. I knew she respected my father, but her words were a surprise to me. I wondered why they didn’t even give it a chance after they found out she was pregnant, but I knew there was no sense in making her visit heavy by dredging up old, painful memories of their relationship when my father’s beautiful essence was still everywhere around us.
“I’m not wallowing, I’m just trying to figure it all out.”
Later that night as I lay in bed, my mother paused in the doorway before entering. Her eyes were distant as she studied the room; she was in a trance, locked in a memory, or a smell or sight that reminded her of another life a long time ago. I cleared my throat, causing her to glance down at me.
“Robert canceled our date this weekend.” I sighed.
“I’m sorry, honey. He sounds like a busy man.”