Performance Under Emotional Trauma (Caitlin)

Why won't Steve just talk to me? His new silence bothers me. If he is mad at me, why does he not bring it up so that I may resolve it? He just lies there rather than fighting, mining, or practicing. Before, he was constantly active asking me to do things with him. With our wedding day two weeks away, the tension has escalated. I want him to approach me. Day after day, I fill his coffee cup, make meals, help with paperwork, and he doesn't appreciate any of it.

He forgot my prescription a few times. I mean, WHO DOES THAT!!?! I'm sure he never meant to endanger my life, but that's what forgetting does. He says everything is fine although it's obviously not. My students wrote about the musical qualities of their favorite songs for this assignment. Some of the songs held a great deal of personal significance to these students. My mind is racing a chunk a minute.

In the meantime, I will keep my mouth shut and wait until Steve is ready to express his feelings to me. I can hear his apathy in his music. His articulations have gotten sloppy, his dynamics were nonexistent, and he faded at the sight of a forte. Kyle's return helped with the way Lost One's Weeping sounded. The timpani part was restored to its former glory. Austin was on snare. The band was a band again.

They would rehearse Reboot with Emmeline after school, so I would need to perform at the symphony orchestra concert alone. To top things off, I was selected to be a supporting soloist to Sylvia's main solo. Was I really ready to be the associate principal clarinetist? I trembled thinking about it.

Minutes before the concert, I shuffled around awkwardly, found a concert-worthy reed, and placed it in my mouth. Sylvia and I ran through our scales together in order to achieve a good blend.
         "Pull out. You're a bit sharp." I pulled out. We played again. "Much better." After that, we relaxed. We decided not to play after that to prevent our reeds from breaking. "How is Carmen doing?"
         "Carmen is doing very well. She's already onto sixteenth notes."
         "That's great." Sylvia paused, leaning into me to tell me something. "You know, you're more than just a great musician. You're a great person--and I mean that."
         "Thank you." To be honest, that caught me off guard.
         "You too." I awkwardly returned the compliment and felt myself blushing as I did so.
         "Actually, I'm not. I'm the one who abandoned my son at the hematology ward because I'm deathly afraid of blood." She turned away, tears filling her eyes. The gray hairs she had were apparent in this light. "And knowing Adrian's nature, he will never forget this. You stepped up as more than just some music teacher doing something for some student." We walked onto the stage as colleagues, as friends.

The curtain raised to reveal lights that seemed to suck the moisture out of my eyes. I watched the conductor, following the low brass, basses, and cellos' rich tones and the flutes' sprightly grace notes. The other clarinets played around me. How I wished I could blend in with them, not stand out. A bit nervous, I came in just in time. I controlled my vibrato and stilled my fingers despite the fact that I was terrified. I took a breath and let the notes flow from my mind into my instrument like I was singing.

Sylvia came soaring over me ten measures later, her tone sublime and pure. Her confident repose was evident as we played together as an indistinguishable blend of tones, no distinction between her experience and my lack thereof. When we rested, the trumpets came in. Their blend seemed off somehow. I could tell they were absent a certain trumpeter.

It was so unlike him to miss out on anything music-related. Though I felt uneasy, I decided that it wouldn't show. Not onstage. Not through my intonation. Or my face. Or my posture. At intermission, Mark yanked me from my seat and dragged me backstage.
          "Phone's for you. I hope everything works out." He joined the other brass players. "I'll give you a ride to brass band."
          "Do you know Steven Lowell?" I gulped.
          "Yes."
          "He's with us being treated for an overdose on anticonvulsants. We suspect that he attempted suicide." No. No. No. No. No. No.  I wanted to hang up, but I couldn't think to do it in the moment. I collapsed into a nearby chair and heard the story unfold. "Some girl, probably 12 or 13, self-identified as 'Alice' called 911 because she found him, in her words, 'half-dead in his office slumped over his desk with a pill bottle near his hands'. Alice said she was waiting for him to ask him about something music-related." Seeing that my legs, on a good day, have the strength of limp noodles,  I stayed in the chair violently trembling head to toe. I was in too much shock to cry, much less think rationally. And of all people, why Alice? Why one of my students? Alice was older than the others at age 13, but she still should not have to suffer like that.

Sylvia must have been very concerned about me because she kept shouting my name. However, her voice sounded as if it came from a tunnel. I closed my eyes and steeled my nerves enough to not break down.
          "Do you need to go home?" The question was simple enough. Performing while undergoing emotional trauma is a skill I'm sure every professional musician has learned. I tried to breathe deeply. If I could breathe, I could play. A jagged, rasping sound came out as I inhaled. I tried again, yielding the same results. I tried to control the air flow, but I had no such luck. I needed to go home. Part of me knew leaving in the middle of a concert was unprofessional, but so was going on stage unable to play properly. 
          "Yes." My legs were basically useless at this point. How many times have I failed to truly appreciate Steve, not only for what he does, but for who he is? How could I have overlooked the soul behind his deep blue eyes, his seemingly universal empathy? I've been so selfish that I only ever really focused on myself, partly out of necessity, but I have gone too far. What kind of example was I setting for my students? What could I have said to prevent this? Why did Steve even want to die in the first place?

Overcome with guilt, I finally brought myself to the point where I could cry. I cried, not only for myself, but for many others. I cried for Alice, for the doctors and nurses, for Mark and Andrew, for Alex as she would likely ask where he was and I didn't know how to tell her, for his students losing their band teacher, and for Steve. Normally, I would have wanted him to comfort me, but I hurt him. I was the one who landed him in the hospital. I took a deep breath and braced myself just to go home. To the house. Because nothing felt like home now.