Through the Fog by Zenia deHaven
Anne wiped her hands on her tights in an attempt to remove the sweat from her palms in a relaxed, nonchalant way. She sat with the other young pianists waiting for their turn to perform on stage for their family and friends in attendance. Anne liked hiding in the shadows. They shrouded her insecurities, while the spotlight brought them all to the surface. It would illuminate her with such intensity that even the farthest, least attentive audience member would notice the sheer terror written plain across her face.
While she was trying to pretend that she wasn’t about to have a panic attack, the other kids seemed unphased. The boy next to her was fast asleep, his head slumped against his chest, his sheet music spilling from his folder. Was he so confident in his playing that he could peacefully doze off? Or had he stayed up late practicing, and was now too exhausted to stay awake? There was another girl, one with her inky, black hair tied back in such a harsh ponytail that Anne felt a headache coming on just from looking at her. She had her arms crossed over her chest; her folder nestled in her grasp as if she was worried that someone was going to yank the sheet music away when she wasn’t looking. Other than holding her folder in a headlock, her posture was relaxed.
Maybe they’re just better than me, Anne thought, and they have nothing to worry about. She gnawed at the inside of her cheek, then stopped. She imagined a fantasy where her recital went off without a hitch, and, while absorbing the applause and hollers of praise, she opened her mouth to reveal a bloodstained grin. That wouldn’t leave the right impression, she reasoned.
Though Anne had been taking piano lessons for about a year, she had refused to perform in public until now. Even the idea of playing for an audience made her heart rate skyrocket and her insides twist into a labyrinth of knots. Her parents had finally pushed her to perform at this recital, threatening to cancel her lessons with Ms. Lawrence if she refused. After pushing down a feverish panic attack, Anne reluctantly agreed.
The current performer, a sixth grader stumbling through Prelude in C Major, was nearing the end of his piece. His technique wasn’t half bad, but he slipped a couple of times, accidentally hitting two keys instead of one, giving what should have been a major chord a dissonant tone. When he made these errors, Anne noted that the crowd didn’t scream at him to get off the stage. They didn’t hurl tomatoes and spoiled fruit at him or chase him out of the auditorium with torches and pitchforks, but would they be as forgiving if she made worse mistakes? She wasn’t sure. The audience sat in polite silence, demonstrating stellar “concert etiquette.” She was glad that her piano teacher had fallen ill recently, making her miss Anne’s recital. This sounded mean, but Anne couldn’t handle disappointing her. How could she? The teacher who gave her candy when she played an entire piece without referring to the sheet music? The only teacher at Thomas Jefferson Middle who still put stickers on their homework that said “GOOD JOB” with smiley faces and rainbows?
No, she couldn’t hurt Ms. Lawrence’s feelings, to reveal that she was a fraud and that all of their after-school lessons were for nothing.
The boy slammed the final chord. He slid out of the seat, faced the audience, and bowed stiffly. He was breathing heavily, and the spotlight illuminated dark pit stains on his baby blue shirt. Applause broke the silence, not the overenthusiastic, rambunctious applause that happened in movies, but the kind of applause that said, “Well, you did something.”
As he returned to his seat, retreating from the light into the shelter of darkness, an overdressed adult wearing a full tuxedo approached the microphone. Anne wasn’t sure what his role was, other than the summoner of unwilling middle-school-aged pianists to their doom.
“Anne Garrier,” he said into the microphone. The feedback squealed like a metal chair grating against a linoleum floor, and he flinched. He then nodded, as if approving of this minor technical malfunction, and then looked to the row of kids to the right of the stage.
In a daze, Anne felt herself stand, proud that her knees didn’t buckle. She moved her left foot forward, then her right, her feet uncomfortably hot in the dress shoes that her mom insisted upon. Though they were entirely flat, they offered no purchase, and Anne feared that she would slip on the carpet. Her movements became entirely mechanical like she was a passenger in her own body, a body that had decided it should follow the tuxedo man’s orders to play piano for an audience of parents, grandparents, and bored siblings. She approached the piano bench like a French aristocrat walking towards the guillotine.
When she finally reached the humming spotlight, she thought she might throw up. The light soaked her skin in an iridescent glow, blinding her. She could make out the silhouettes of the crowd in the darkness, but they were just that. Silhouettes. They were faceless figures eager to watch her make a complete fool of herself.
She began to bow, then froze halfway. Were you supposed to bow before you played? She couldn’t remember. Her thoughts were drowned out by her heartbeat that pounded in her skull like a war drum. Her second guessing resulted in a strange half-bow like she was stretching her back. Anne pretended that this was entirely on purpose, perhaps a new interpretation of what a bow could even be, and she sat down.
She slid the sheet music from its folder; her sweaty hands moistening the edges. She resisted the urge to wipe her hands on her blouse; she was in the spotlight now, and every movement she made would be noted by the unblinking audience. Her trembling fingers hovered over the black-and-white keys, her eyes flicked to the music, and her heart plummeted.
She couldn’t read it.
The notes were there, the staff, the quarter notes, the rests and half rests, they were all present, but when she tried to focus on it, the ink bled in black rivers and swirls. They swam in her vision, taunting her, dancing like witches circling a fire on a sabbath. She scrunched her eyes shut, then opened them again, hoping this would perform a hard reset on her vision, but it didn’t work.
She imagined her parents in the audience, their breaths held in eager anticipation, to see what their daughter had learned in almost a year of after-school lessons.
With a strangled sob, Anne shot up from the bench and fled from the stage.
♮
The car ride home was unsurprisingly awkward. She sat with Grandma in the back, who was looking out the window absently. Dad was behind the wheel, humming along to the Oldies radio, Mom bobbing along in the passenger seat. If they were disappointed by Anne’s performance after a whole year of piano lessons, they didn’t say anything. Somehow, their silence stung, and part of her wished they had scolded her at least a bit. Now, it just felt like they were pretending nothing happened like she hadn’t had a panic attack in front of a crowd and fled like a rabbit escaping the claws of a mountain lion. They were both singing along to the song with low undertones. It was a song about a boy asking a girl to run away with him, away from all of their troubles and sorrows. Anne thought it was cliche, but the tune was catchy.
Grandma reached over, holding Anne’s smooth hand with her wrinkled one. Anne looked over, surprised, and her grandma was watching her with a look of complete admiration.
“You did great, sweetie,” she said, pride gleaming from her sapphire blue eyes.
Anne forced a smile that she hoped was convincing. Grandma’s memory had waxed and waned in recent years, and Anne found it easiest to not correct her.
“Thanks, Grandma.”
She wanted to get better, to earn the look of unconditional love that her grandma gave her, to show her parents that she was at least learning something during her lessons with Ms. Lawrence.
But she had no idea where to start.
♮
The next day, Anne pushed past a group of sixth graders sword-fighting each other with their bookmarks that said things like, “Reading is fun!” and “Open your book = open your mind.” Mrs. Redmayne must have been passing out free ones outside the library.
She still had a few minutes before class, so she slipped into Ms. Lawrence’s classroom. Ms. Lawrence didn’t have a class during the first period, so the room was empty. It was a standard choir room, with risers facing two whiteboards and a grand piano. Ms. Lawrence herself was behind her desk and she beamed as Anne walked in.
“Oh, Anne-Marie!” Ms. Lawrence exclaimed. “How was the recital?”
“It wasn’t great,” she said. “I panicked and I ran away.”
“Aw,” Ms. Lawrence said sympathetically. “I’m sorry about that. What do you think happened?”
Anne took a seat on the risers, exploring the contents of her lunch box that Dad had packed for her this morning. Usually, Anne handled her lunches, but Dad must have noticed how defeated she was, and she found her lunch box fully equipped with a ham and cheese sandwich, apple slices, grapes, and Reese’s chocolate. Lunch wasn’t until noon, but she was too nauseous at home to eat, so she tried to get something in her stomach before classes started.
“I don’t know,” she said, popping a grape in her mouth. “I just got up there and froze.”
Ms. Lawrence leaned back in her chair; her chocolate eyes lost in thought.
“Anne, do you listen to classical music for fun?”
Anne laughed. “No, why would I?”
Ms. Lawrence grinned. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you need a drive to perform in front of people. It should feel like an opportunity, not an obligation.”
“But I like classical music,” Anne insisted. “It’s just not, like, fun.”
“A recital isn’t just to show the audience what you’re capable of, but what you’re passionate about,” Ms. Lawrence said. “If you’re going up there because you have to, not because you want to, you might question why you’re doing it in the first place and hesitate.”
She sat up straighter, tapping her pen.
“I can’t meet with you after school today, I have to pick up Mrs. Fluffernutter from the vet,” she said. Mrs. Fluffernutter was her cat, a feisty Siberian with icicle-blue eyes and thick, silver fur. When neither Anne nor Ms. Lawrence felt like tackling a new piece, Ms. Lawrence would sometimes show Anne photoshoots of Mrs. Fluffernutter dressed in clothes from different historical periods.
Ms. Lawrence’s words circled Anne’s brain like a BREAKING NEWS bulletin. She barely paid attention during Spanish and cared even less about Gym than usual. Several try hard boys tried to encourage her to run faster, but Anne couldn’t care less if Team Green qualified for the quarterfinals.
She was passionate about music, obviously, but what kind of music? What would make her want to go on stage and share a song with a bunch of people?
That evening, Anne lay sprawled across their living room couch, trying to read Act Three, Scene One of Macbeth for the third time, but it was no use. She gave up on analyzing Shakespeare and went to Spotify. She had another recital this weekend, and if Ms. Lawrence was right and her issue was that she wasn’t passionate enough about her song, she would have to find something else.
Anne tried everything. She listened to the entirety of the “Classical Bangers” playlist which featured a piano and violin emoji with an album cover of Beethoven wearing pixelated sunglasses, and while she enjoyed the songs, she didn’t find anything that moved her. It was all perfectly okay. She tried “classical music that goes hard,” “Instrumental Piano Mix,” and even an edgy, lowercase playlist titled “listening to piano music pretending i’m neither here nor there,” but nothing inspired her.
It was nearly 11:00 pm; Anne had spent the entire evening listening to Spotify playlists with no luck. She plucked out her earbuds as Grandma eased her way down the stairs. It was far past her bedtime, though it wasn’t uncommon for her to wake up and meander. She was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a few years back, and she was never fully present anymore. Anne wasn’t sure what she was looking for when she wandered; if she was searching for something or someone, or maybe she just wanted to explore. Mom usually found her on her nightly strolls and escorted her back to bed.
Anne texted her mom. She was probably downstairs, going through her English students’ papers.
Grandma’s up
The three bubbles of anticipation flickered on the screen, and then Mom’s text appeared.
Almost done with work, I’ll get her in a bit.
Grandma had settled in a rattan armchair, her eyes glassy. Anne liked her grandma, but it was hard to talk to her. How were you supposed to talk to someone when you had no idea what they would and wouldn’t understand? She didn’t want to talk down to her like she was a child, but she also worried she would overwhelm her if she spoke normally.
So, they sat together without speaking, Anne’s phone softly playing classical music from her lap. Suddenly, Grandma perked up, sitting up in her chair. She looked at Anne, her freckled face drawn in a frown, then blinked at her phone.
“Did you know I played piano?” she asked. Anne blinked at her. Mom had never mentioned that Grandma was a musician. Anne had spent long hours at the keyboard, learning new compositions, and practicing proper hand technique, and Grandma never said anything. She usually sat quietly in the living room, her eyes downcast and her mind somewhere lost in clouds.
“No, I didn’t,” Anne said.
“Hm,” Grandma said, looking contemplative. The thoughtful expression on her face was unfamiliar to Anne. She couldn’t remember a time when her grandma looked more focused.
“I can play that song,” she said. “The one from your phone.”
“Oh,” Anne said, stumbling for words. She couldn’t remember the last time that they had a normal conversation, especially one that her grandma had initiated. “Would you like to play it?”
Grandma pursed her lips, and for a moment Anne worried that her thoughts had been obscured by the fog of her mind once again, but she nodded. She stood, shuffled over to the piano, and groaned as she sat on the stool. Her wrinkled hands hovered over the keys, trailing their surfaces but not pressing them.
Anne was expecting it to be nonsensical, a stream of random notes and chords in no particular order, but she was completely wrong. Grandma was right, she did recognize the song from Anne’s phone: Erik Satie’s Gymnopédie 1. The song was soft, and leisurely, with the fragility of porcelain and the preciousness of a baby’s sleeping breaths. Her hands moved across the keyboard slowly, like exploring a place that she used to call home.
Anne was familiar with Gymnopédie; it was a popular song for its intentional simplicity but striking melody, but the way Grandma played it reminded her of something else. The music tickled the back of her subconscious, unearthing a collection of memories so old that Anne had to blow off the dust that coated their surfaces. Suddenly, she was a toddler, waist-deep in a bath overflowing with bubbles and toys. She squeezed a rubber duck, which let out a mechanical quack in response, and laughed as if that was the funniest thing she’d ever heard, which, at two years old, was possible. Mom was there, though there was less gray in her hair. Grandma was there too, but she was actually there. Her brain was free from disease, her eyes intelligent and rimmed with wrinkles from her laughter, and she looked at Anne with a love so deep it had no end.
Grandma finished playing, then looked to her hands, as if surprised by what they had accomplished. She had played the song perfectly as if the melody had lived in her even when so many memories were lost. She looked like she was ten years younger than she was four minutes ago. Her posture was upright, her shoulders back, and her breaths were unlabored.
“Grandma, could you teach me that song?” asked. Grandma turned to her, blinking. For a moment, Anne feared that she had spoken too late, that this window of clarity had already passed, but to her relief, Grandma smiled.
“Of course, dear.”
♮
For the next week after school, Anne attended lessons on technique and style with Ms. Lawrence, and when she returned home, she asked Grandma if she wanted to play piano together. Some days were better than others. Sometimes, when Anne assumed her spot at the piano and asked Grandma if she wanted to join her, she would blink at her, as if Anne had asked a question in a foreign language. Anne found that it helped if she played Gymnopédie from her phone or played the first few notes on the keyboard. The sound of the music unclouded Grandma’s eyes, and a smile would break across her face. She would sit beside Anne, eager to teach the lesson.
One evening, as Grandma showed her the best way to transition from one chord to the next about halfway through the song, Anne asked,
“When did you learn this, Grandma?”
Anne hoped that she didn’t push her memory too hard and trigger some kind of relapse, but Grandma didn’t seem to mind.
“Probably when I was your age,” she said. “It’s quite silly. I was interested in this boy… Pete? Patrick? I’m not sure anymore. I thought that, if I played well enough, he might ask me out to the dance.”
“Did he?”
Grandma laughed, abandoning the chord shape and playing a quick major scale before settling back on the chord.
“He did not,” she said. “I went on stage and froze. I think I ran off and cried in the ladies’ room.”
Anne tried to imagine Grandma as a middle schooler, but all she could think of was Grandma wearing a very old-fashioned uniform and standing in front of an auditorium of kids. It was hard picturing Grandma young, or her panicking on stage and running off just like Anne did. She knew that feeling. She hoped to never experience it again.
“He didn’t invite you out of pity?” Anne asked, giggling.
“Not even out of pity,” Grandma confirmed. “Come on, try from this stanza.”
Before she knew it, Anne was once again sitting in the darkness, awaiting her turn to approach the glistening, charcoal piano. Her nerves cackled like lightning, her hands quivering like autumn leaves in the wind, but it was different this time. She was nervous, but she was also filled with determination. Because this time, she had a mission. She would play Gymnopédie, both to prove that she could play under pressure and for Grandma, who was so interconnected with music that it freed her from her foggy mind, if only for a short while.
The boy before her bowed before the crowd, who applauded in approval at his mediocre rendition of a Beethoven piece. The lady who approached the microphone wasn’t nearly as fancy as Tuxedo Man from last week. She wore faded blue jeans, an off-white blouse that was probably solid white at some point in its life, and golden hoop earrings that reflected the spotlight.
“Anne Garrier,” the woman said, her voice cackling.
When Anne stood, her legs felt solid beneath her, like Greek columns that have lasted centuries of weathering. She walked towards the piano, but this time, she didn’t feel like a doomed girl walking to the gallows. This time, when the spotlight bathed her in gold, the budding anticipation in her core caught fire. She was frightened and lightheaded, but it was exhilarating. It filled her, not with dread, but with adrenaline. She felt like she was on a rollercoaster, and it was tick, tick, ticking up towards that first drop.
Was this adrenaline? Did professional musicians feel this way before every performance? If so, she understood the appeal. She wanted to feel this way forever.
She sat down at the bench and splayed the sheet music before her. The notes on the page were handwritten, not printed with ink, and when she looked at them, they stayed solid, eager to be transformed from mute markings into stunning sounds.
Anne took a breath, and she played.
The music sprang from her fingertips like a river flowing over pebbles in a stream. She started slowly, her fingers warming to the feel of the piano, the mellow sound resonating from her hands down her arms and into her spine. As she became more comfortable with the instrument, she felt her body swaying on its own accord, wrapped up in the sound like a caterpillar encasing itself in a cocoon. The audience faded into an irrelevant blur, and it was just her, the piano, and the sound. Anne knew where the music wanted to go. She was its vessel, its conduit, and she would guide it as it pleased. Sometimes, she let her eyes flutter closed, living and breathing the moment as she let the melody wash over her in tidal waves. She almost didn’t want to open her eyes, even if it was to anchor herself back to reality and not lose her place in the song. She wanted to live in this space beyond time and reason, where it was just her and this music and nothing in between.
When she finished, she was almost sad. She wanted to keep going, to explore the melody, to see where else it could take her. In a bit of a daze, like she was coming down from a music-induced high, she stood, bowing to the crowd. She heard them clap, but she didn’t bask in their praise. She was still thinking about that song. It had swallowed her whole and shut her off from the whole world. She wanted to go back to it.
Trying not to trip over her dress shoes that Mom had once again insisted upon, she made her way back to her seat. She wanted to dash out of the auditorium and meet her parents, grandma, and Ms. Lawrence outside, but she would have to wait until all of the performers finished their pieces. Ms. Lawrence would be especially offended if Anne broke concert etiquette. So, she sat still, the only sign of her impatience was her tapping her hand on her music folder. When the lady with the off-white shirt and gold hoops finally declared the end of the recital, Anne dashed out of her seat to find her family.
She found them waiting outside, each of them smiling so widely that her heart fluttered. She rushed to Mom, who wrapped her in a hug so tight that Anne felt her ribs creak a little under the pressure. When she pulled away, Dad ruffled her hair, the way he used to when she was little.
“You did great, kid,” he said. Anne was too full of emotions to say anything, so she just smiled. She turned to a beaming Ms. Lawrence, who retreated a step.
“I’m not allowed to hug you, Anne-Marie, but you did wonderfully!” she said. Anne laughed. Her heart was so full it felt like it was going to burst.
Grandma was watching her, and her eyes seemed less glazed. She looked more like the woman from Anne’s memory, the one whose laugh sounded like the leaves fluttering in a warm breeze. The one who had written an entire lullaby in honor of Anne’s favorite doll.
Anne hugged her, and Grandma chuckled.
“I’m so proud of you, Anne-Marie,” Grandma said softly. The back of Anne’s throat burned and she felt her eyes get watery. This time, she had earned this admiration, and she would cradle it deep in her heart.
Zenia deHaven (they/them) is a middle school teacher and an MFA candidate at Emerson College’s Popular Fiction Writing and Publishing program. Their short stories and critical essays are published in Fruitslice, NoVa Prism, As Alive Journal, and Page Turner Magazine. When they’re not writing or managing teen angst, they enjoy video games, group exercise classes, and giving their dogs scritches.
