becoming.txt

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spent much of my childhood listening to the sound of striving. It came in the form of bad music,
or at least amateur music, coming up through the floorboards of my bedroom—the plink plink plink
of students sitting downstairs at my great-aunt Robbie’s piano, slowly and imperfectly learning their
scales. My family lived in the South Shore neighborhood of Chicago, in a tidy brick bungalow that
belonged to Robbie and her husband, Terry. My parents rented an apartment on the second floor,
while Robbie and Terry lived on the first. Robbie was my mother’s aunt and had been generous to
her over many years, but to me she was kind of a terror. Prim and serious, she directed the choir at
a local church and was also our community’s resident piano teacher. She wore sensible heels and
kept a pair of reading glasses on a chain around her neck. She had a sly smile but didn’t appreciate
sarcasm the way my mother did. I’d sometimes hear her chewing out her students for not having
practiced enough or chewing out their parents for delivering them late to lessons.
“Good night!” she’d exclaim in the middle of the day, with the same blast of exasperation
someone else might say, “Oh, for God’s sake!” Few, it seemed, could live up to Robbie’s standards.
The sound of people trying, however, became the soundtrack to our life. There was plinking
in the afternoons, plinking in the evenings. Ladies from church sometimes came over to practice
hymns, belting their piety through our walls. Under Robbie’s rules, kids who took piano lessons
were allowed to work on only one song at a time. From my room, I’d listen to them attempting,
note by uncertain note, to win her approval, graduating from “Hot Cross Buns” to “Brahms’s
Lullaby,” but only after many tries. The music was never annoying; it was just persistent. It crept up
the stairwell that separated our space from Robbie’s. It drifted through open windows in
summertime, accompanying my thoughts as I played with my Barbies or built little kingdoms made
out of blocks. The only respite came when my father got home from an early shift at the city’s
water treatment plant and put the Cubs game on TV, boosting the volume just enough to blot it all
out.
This was the tail end of the 1960s on the South Side of Chicago. The Cubs weren’t bad, but
they weren’t great, either. I’d sit on my dad’s lap in his recliner and listen to him narrate how the
Cubs were in the middle of a late-season swoon or why Billy Williams, who lived just around the
corner from us on Constance Avenue, had such a sweet swing from the left side of the plate.
Outside the ballparks, America was in the midst of a massive and uncertain shift. The Kennedys
were dead. Martin Luther King Jr. had been killed standing on a balcony in Memphis, setting off
riots across the country, including in Chicago. The 1968 Democratic National Convention turned
bloody as police went after Vietnam War protesters with batons and tear gas in Grant Park, about
nine miles north of where we lived. White families, meanwhile, were moving out of the city in
droves, lured by the suburbs—the promise of better schools, more space, and probably more
whiteness, too.
None of this really registered with me. I was just a kid, a girl with Barbies and blocks, with
two parents and an older brother who slept each night with his head about three feet from mine.
My family was my world, the center of everything. My mother taught me how to read early,
walking me to the public library, sitting with me as I sounded out words on a page. My father went
to work every day dressed in the blue uniform of a city laborer, but at night he showed us what it
meant to love jazz and art. As a boy, he’d taken classes at the Art Institute of Chicago, and in high
school he’d painted and sculpted. He’d been a competitive swimmer and boxer in school, too, and
as an adult was a fan of every televised sport, from professional golf to the NHL. He appreciated
seeing strong people excel. When my brother, Craig, got interested in basketball, my father propped
coins above the doorframe in our kitchen, encouraging him to leap for them.
Everything that mattered was within a five-block radius—my grandparents and cousins, the
church on the corner where we were not quite regulars at Sunday school, the gas station where my
mother sometimes sent me to pick up a pack of Newports, and the liquor store, which also sold
Wonder bread, penny candy, and gallons of milk. On hot summer nights, Craig and I dozed off to
the sound of cheers from the adult-league softball games going on at the nearby public park, where
by day we climbed on the playground jungle gym and played tag with other kids.
Craig and I are not quite two years apart in age. He’s got my father’s soft eyes and optimistic
spirit, my mother’s implacability. The two of us have always been tight, in part thanks to an
unwavering and somewhat inexplicable allegiance he seemed to feel for his baby sister right from
the start. There’s an early family photograph, a black and white of the four of us sitting on a couch,
my mother smiling as she holds me on her lap, my father appearing serious and proud with Craig
perched on his. We’re dressed for church or maybe a wedding. I’m about eight months old, a
pudge-faced, no-nonsense bruiser in diapers and an ironed white dress, looking ready to slide out of
my mother’s clutches, staring down the camera as if I might eat it. Next to me is Craig, gentlemanly
in a little bow tie and suit jacket, bearing an earnest expression. He’s two years old and already the
portrait of brotherly vigilance and responsibility—his arm extended toward mine, his fingers
wrapped protectively around my fat wrist.
At the time the photo was taken, we were living across the hall from my father’s parents in
Parkway Gardens, an affordable housing project on the South Side made up of modernist apartment
buildings. It had been built in the 1950s and was designed as a co-op, meant to ease a post–World
War II housing shortage for black working-class families. Later, it would deteriorate under the grind
of poverty and gang violence, becoming one of the city’s more dangerous places to live. Long before
this, though, when I was still a toddler, my parents—who had met as teenagers and married in their
mid-twenties—accepted an offer to move a few miles south to Robbie and Terry’s place in a nicer
neighborhood.
On Euclid Avenue, we were two households living under one not very big roof. Judging from
the layout, the second-floor space had probably been designed as an in-law apartment meant for one
or two people, but four of us found a way to fit inside. My parents slept in the lone bedroom, while
Craig and I shared a bigger area that I assume was intended to be the living room. Later, as we
grew, my grandfather—Purnell Shields, my mother’s father, who was an enthusiastic if not deeply
skilled carpenter—brought over some cheap wooden paneling and built a makeshift partition to
divide the room into two semiprivate spaces. He added a plastic accordion door to each space and
created a little common play area in front where we could keep our toys and books.
I loved my room. It was just big enough for a twin bed and a narrow desk. I kept all my
stuffed animals on the bed, painstakingly tucking them around my head each night as a form of ritual
comfort. On his side of the wall, Craig lived a sort of mirror existence with his own bed pushed up
against the paneling, parallel to mine. The partition between us was so flimsy that we could talk as
we lay in bed at night, often tossing a balled sock back and forth through the ten-inch gap between
the partition and the ceiling as we did.
Aunt Robbie, meanwhile, kept her part of the house like a mausoleum, the furniture swathed
in protective plastic that felt cold and sticky on my bare legs when I dared sit on it. Her shelves
were loaded with porcelain figurines we weren’t allowed to touch. I’d let my hand hover over a set
of sweet-faced glass poodles—a delicate-looking mother and three tiny puppies—and then pull it
back, fearing Robbie’s wrath. When lessons weren’t happening, the first floor was deadly silent. The
television was never on, the radio never played. I’m not even sure the two of them talked much
down there. Robbie’s husband’s full name was William Victor Terry, but for some reason we called
him only by his last name. Terry was like a shadow, a distinguished-looking man who wore threepiece
suits every day of the week and pretty much never said a word.
I came to think of upstairs and downstairs as two different universes, ruled over by competing
sensibilities. Upstairs, we were noisy and unapologetically so. Craig and I threw balls and chased
each other around the apartment. We sprayed Pledge furniture polish on the wood floor of the
hallway so we could slide farther and faster in our socks, often crashing into the walls. We held
brother-sister boxing matches in the kitchen, using the two sets of gloves my dad had given us for
Christmas, along with personalized instructions on how to land a proper jab. At night, as a family,
we played board games, told stories and jokes, and cranked Jackson 5 records on the stereo. When it
got to be too much for Robbie down below, she’d emphatically flick the light switch in our shared
stairwell, which also controlled the lightbulb in our upstairs hallway, off and on, again and again—
her polite-ish way of telling us to pipe down.
Robbie and Terry were older. They grew up in a different era, with different concerns.
They’d seen things our parents hadn’t—things that Craig and I, in our raucous childishness, couldn’t
begin to guess. This was some version of what my mother would say if we got too wound up about
the grouchiness downstairs. Even if we didn’t know the context, we were instructed to remember
that context existed. Everyone on earth, they’d tell us, was carrying around an unseen history, and
that alone deserved some tolerance. Robbie, I’d learn many years later, had sued Northwestern
University for discrimination, having registered for a choral music workshop there in 1943 and been
denied a room in the women’s dorm. She was instructed to stay instead in a rooming house in town
—a place “for coloreds,” she was told. Terry, meanwhile, had once been a Pullman porter on one
of the overnight passenger rail lines running in and out of Chicago. It was a respectable if not wellI
paying profession, made up entirely of black men who kept their uniforms immaculate while also
hauling luggage, serving meals, and generally tending to the needs of train passengers, including
shining their shoes.
Years after his retirement, Terry still lived in a state of numbed formality—impeccably dressed,
remotely servile, never asserting himself in any way, at least that I would see. It was as if he’d
surrendered a part of himself as a way of coping. I’d watch him mow our lawn in the high heat of
summer in a pair of wing tips, suspenders, and a thin-brimmed fedora, the sleeves of his dress shirt
carefully rolled up. He’d indulge himself by having exactly one cigarette a day and exactly one
cocktail a month, and even then he wouldn’t loosen up the way my father and mother would after
having a highball or a Schlitz, which they did a few times a month. Some part of me wanted Terry
to talk, to spill whatever secrets he carried. I imagined that he had all sorts of interesting stories
about cities he’d visited and how rich people on trains behaved or maybe didn’t. But we wouldn’t
hear any of it. For some reason, he’d never tell.
was about four when I decided I wanted to learn piano. Craig, who was in the first grade, was
already making trips downstairs for weekly lessons on Robbie’s upright and returning relatively
unscathed. I figured I was ready. I was pretty convinced I already had learned piano, in fact, through
straight-up osmosis—all those hours spent listening to other kids fumbling through their songs. The
music was already in my head. I just wanted to go downstairs and demonstrate to my exacting
great-aunt what a gifted girl I was, how it would take no effort at all for me to become her star
student.
Robbie’s piano sat in a small square room at the rear of the house, close to a window that
overlooked the backyard. She kept a potted plant in one corner and a folding table where students
could fill out music work sheets in the other. During lessons, she sat straight spined in an upholstered
high-back armchair, tapping out the beat with one finger, her head cocked as she listened keenly for
each mistake. Was I afraid of Robbie? Not exactly, but there was a scariness to her; she represented
a rigid kind of authority I hadn’t yet encountered elsewhere. She demanded excellence from every
kid who sat on her piano bench. I saw her as someone to win over, or maybe to somehow conquer.
With her, it always felt like there was something to prove.
At my first lesson, my legs dangled from the piano bench, too short to reach the floor. Robbie
gave me my own elementary music workbook, which I was thrilled about, and showed me how to
position my hands properly over the keys.
“All right, pay attention,” she said, scolding me before we’d even begun. “Find middle C.”
When you’re little, a piano can look like it has a thousand keys. You’re staring at an expanse of
black and white that stretches farther than two small arms can reach. Middle C, I soon learned, was
the anchoring point. It was the territorial line between where the right hand and the left hand
traveled, between the treble and the bass clefs. If you could lay your thumb on middle C,
everything else automatically fell into place. The keys on Robbie’s piano had a subtle unevenness of
color and shape, places where bits of the ivory had broken off over time, leaving them looking like
a set of bad teeth. Helpfully, the middle C key had a full corner missing, a wedge about the size of
my fingernail, which got me centered every time.
It turned out I liked the piano. Sitting at it felt natural, like something I was meant to do. My
family was loaded with musicians and music lovers, especially on my mother’s side. I had an uncle
who played in a professional band. Several of my aunts sang in church choirs. I had Robbie, who in
addition to her choir and lessons directed something called the Operetta Workshop, a shoestring
musical theater program for kids, which Craig and I attended every Saturday morning in the
basement of her church. The musical center of my family, though, was my grandfather Shields, the
carpenter, who was also Robbie’s younger brother. He was a carefree, round-bellied man with an
infectious laugh and a scraggly salt-and-pepper beard. When I was younger, he’d lived on the West
Side of the city and Craig and I had referred to him as Westside. But he moved into our
neighborhood the same year I started taking piano lessons, and we’d duly rechristened him
Southside.
Southside had separated from my grandmother decades earlier, when my mother was in her
teens. He lived with my aunt Carolyn, my mom’s oldest sister, and my uncle Steve, her youngest
brother, just two blocks from us in a cozy one-story house that he’d wired top to bottom for music,
putting speakers in every room, including the bathroom. In the dining room, he built an elaborate
cabinet system to hold his stereo equipment, much of it scavenged at yard sales. He had two
mismatched turntables plus a rickety old reel-to-reel tape player and shelves packed with records
he’d collected over many years.
There was a lot about the world that Southside didn’t trust. He was kind of a classic old-guy
conspiracy theorist. He didn’t trust dentists, which led to his having virtually no teeth. He didn’t
trust the police, and he didn’t always trust white people, either, being the grandson of a Georgia
slave and having spent his early childhood in Alabama during the time of Jim Crow before coming
north to Chicago in the 1920s. When he had kids of his own, Southside had taken pains to keep
them safe—scaring them with real and imagined stories about what might happen to black kids who
crossed into the wrong neighborhood, lecturing them about avoiding the police.
Music seemed to be an antidote to his worries, a way to relax and crowd them out. When
Southside had a payday for his carpentry work, he’d sometimes splurge and buy himself a new
album. He threw regular parties for the family, forcing everyone to talk loudly over whatever he
put on the stereo, because the music always dominated. We celebrated most major life events at
Southside’s house, which meant that over the years we unwrapped Christmas presents to Ella
Fitzgerald and blew out birthday candles to Coltrane. According to my mother, as a younger man
Southside had made a point of pumping jazz into his seven children, often waking everyone at
sunrise by playing one of his records at full blast.
His love for music was infectious. Once Southside moved to our neighborhood, I’d pass whole
afternoons at his house, pulling albums from the shelf at random and putting them on his stereo,
each one its own immersing adventure. Even though I was small, he put no restrictions on what I
could touch. He’d later buy me my first album, Stevie Wonder’s Talking Book, which I’d keep at
his house on a special shelf he designated for my favorite records. If I was hungry, he’d make me a
milk shake or fry us a whole chicken while we listened to Aretha or Miles or Billie. To me,
Southside was as big as heaven. And heaven, as I envisioned it, had to be a place full of jazz.
A
t home, I continued to work on my own progress as a musician. Sitting at Robbie’s upright
piano, I was quick to pick up the scales—that osmosis thing was real—and I threw myself into filling
out the sight-reading work sheets she gave me. Because we didn’t have a piano of our own, I had to
do my practicing downstairs on hers, waiting until nobody else was having a lesson, often dragging
my mom with me to sit in the upholstered chair and listen to me play. I learned one song in the
piano book and then another. I was probably no better than her other students, no less fumbling, but
I was driven. To me, there was magic in the learning. I got a buzzy sort of satisfaction from it. For
one thing, I’d picked up on the simple, encouraging correlation between how long I practiced and
how much I achieved. And I sensed something in Robbie as well—too deeply buried to be outright
pleasure, but still, a pulse of something lighter and happier coming from her when I made it through
a song without messing up, when my right hand picked out a melody while my left touched down
on a chord. I’d notice it out of the corner of my eye: Robbie’s lips would unpurse themselves just
slightly; her tapping finger would pick up a little bounce.
This, it turns out, was our honeymoon phase. It’s possible that we might have continued this
way, Robbie and I, had I been less curious and more reverent when it came to her piano method.
But the lesson book was thick enough and my progress on the opening few songs slow enough that I
got impatient and started peeking ahead—and not just a few pages ahead but deep into the book,
checking out the titles of the more advanced songs and beginning, during my practice sessions, to
fiddle around with playing them. When I proudly debuted one of my late-in-the-book songs for
Robbie, she exploded, slapping down my achievement with a vicious “Good night!” I got chewed
out the way I’d heard her chewing out plenty of students before me. All I’d done was try to learn
more and faster, but Robbie viewed it as a crime approaching treason. She wasn’t impressed, not
even a little bit.
Nor was I chastened. I was the kind of kid who liked concrete answers to my questions, who
liked to reason things out to some logical if exhausting end. I was lawyerly and also veered toward
dictatorial, as my brother, who often got ordered out of our shared play area, would attest. When I
thought I had a good idea about something, I didn’t like being told no. Which is how my great-aunt
and I ended up in each other’s faces, both of us hot and unyielding.
“How could you be mad at me for wanting to learn a new song?”
“You’re not ready for it. That’s not how you learn piano.”
“But I am ready. I just played it.”
“That’s not how it’s done.”
“But why?”
Piano lessons became epic and trying, largely due to my refusal to follow the prescribed
method and Robbie’s refusal to see anything good in my freewheeling approach to her songbook.
We went back and forth, week after week, as I remember it. I was stubborn and so was she. I had a
point of view and she did, too. In between disputes, I continued to play the piano and she continued
to listen, offering a stream of corrections. I gave her little credit for my improvement as a player.
She gave me little credit for improving. But still, the lessons went on.
Upstairs, my parents and Craig found it all so very funny. They cracked up at the dinner table
O
as I recounted my battles with Robbie, still seething as I ate my spaghetti and meatballs. Craig, for
his part, had no issues with Robbie, being a cheerful kid and a by-the-book, marginally invested
piano student. My parents expressed no sympathy for my woes and none for Robbie’s, either. In
general, they weren’t ones to intervene in matters outside schooling, expecting early on that my
brother and I should handle our own business. They seemed to view their job as mostly to listen and
bolster us as needed inside the four walls of our home. And where another parent might have
scolded a kid for being sassy with an elder as I had been, they also let that be. My mother had lived
with Robbie on and off since she was about sixteen, following every arcane rule the woman laid
down, and it’s possible she was secretly happy to see Robbie’s authority challenged. Looking back
on it now, I think my parents appreciated my feistiness and I’m glad for it. It was a flame inside me
they wanted to keep lit.
nce a year, Robbie held a fancy recital so that her students could perform for a live audience.
To this day, I’m not sure how she managed it, but she somehow got access to a practice hall at
Roosevelt University in downtown Chicago, holding her recitals in a grand stone building on
Michigan Avenue, right near where the Chicago Symphony Orchestra played. Just thinking about
going there made me nervous. Our apartment on Euclid Avenue was about nine miles south of the
Chicago Loop, which with its glittering skyscrapers and crowded sidewalks felt otherworldly to me.
My family made trips into the heart of the city only a handful of times a year, to visit the Art
Institute or see a play, the four of us traveling like astronauts in the capsule of my dad’s Buick.
My father loved any excuse to drive. He was devoted to his car, a bronze-colored two-door
Buick Electra 225, which he referred to with pride as “the Deuce and a Quarter.” He kept it
buffed and waxed and was religious about the maintenance schedule, taking it to Sears for tire
rotations and oil changes the same way my mom carted us kids to the pediatrician for checkups. We
loved the Deuce and a Quarter, too. It had smooth lines and narrow taillights that made it look cool
and futuristic. It was roomy enough to feel like a house. I could practically stand up inside it,
running my hands over the cloth-covered ceiling. This was back when wearing a seat belt was
optional, so most of the time Craig and I just flopped around in the rear, draping our bodies over
the front seat when we wanted to talk to our parents. Half the time I’d pull myself up on the
headrest and jut my chin forward so that my face could be next to my dad’s and we’d have the
exact same view.
The car provided another form of closeness for my family, a chance to talk and travel at once.
In the evenings after dinner, Craig and I would sometimes beg my dad to take us out for an aimless
drive. As a treat on summer nights, we’d head to a drive-in theater southwest of our neighborhood
to watch Planet of the Apes movies, parking the Buick at dusk and settling in for the show, my
mother handing out a dinner of fried chicken and potato chips she’d brought from home, Craig and
I eating it on our laps in the backseat, careful to wipe our hands on our napkins and not the seat.
It would be years before I fully understood what driving the car meant to my father. As a kid, I
could only sense it—the liberation he felt behind the wheel, the pleasure he took in having a
smooth-running engine and perfectly balanced tires humming beneath him. He’d been in his thirties
when a doctor informed him that the odd weakness he’d started to feel in one leg was just the
beginning of a long and probably painful slide toward immobility, that odds were that someday, due
to a mysterious unsheathing of neurons in his brain and spinal cord, he’d find himself unable to walk
at all. I don’t have the precise dates, but it seems that the Buick came into my father’s life at roughly
the same time that multiple sclerosis did. And though he never said it, the car had to provide some
sort of sideways relief.
The diagnosis was not something he or my mother dwelled upon. We were decades, still, from
a time when a simple Google search would bring up a head-spinning array of charts, statistics, and
medical explainers that either gave or took away hope. I doubt he would have wanted to see them
anyway. Although my father was raised in the church, he wouldn’t have prayed for God to spare
him. He wouldn’t have looked for alternative treatments or a guru or some faulty gene to blame. In
my family, we have a long-standing habit of blocking out bad news, of trying to forget about it
almost the moment it arrives. Nobody knew how long my father had been feeling poorly before he
first took himself to the doctor, but my guess is it had already been months if not years. He didn’t
like medical appointments. He wasn’t interested in complaining. He was the sort of person who
accepted what came and just kept moving forward.
I do know that on the day of my big piano recital, he was already walking with a slight limp,
his left foot unable to catch up to his right. All my memories of my father include some
manifestation of his disability, even if none of us were quite willing to call it that yet. What I knew
at the time was that my dad moved a bit more slowly than other dads. I sometimes saw him pausing
before walking up a flight of stairs, as if needing to think through the maneuver before actually
attempting it. When we went shopping at the mall, he’d park himself on a bench, content to watch
the bags or sneak in a nap while the rest of the family roamed freely.
Riding downtown for the piano recital, I sat in the backseat of the Buick wearing a nice dress
and patent leather shoes, my hair in pigtails, experiencing the first cold sweat of my life. I was
anxious about performing, even though back at home in Robbie’s apartment I’d practiced my song
practically to death. Craig, too, was in a suit and prepared to play his own song. But the prospect of
it wasn’t bothering him. He was sound asleep, in fact, knocked out cold in the backseat, his mouth
agape, his expression blissful and unworried. This was Craig. I’d spend a lifetime admiring him for
his ease. He was playing by then in a Biddy Basketball league that had games every weekend and
apparently had already tamed his nerves around performing.
My father would often pick a lot as close to our destination as possible, shelling out more
money for parking to minimize how far he’d have to walk on his unsteady legs. That day, we found
Roosevelt University with no trouble and made our way up to what seemed like an enormous,
echoing hall where the recital would take place. I felt tiny inside it. The room had elegant floor-toceiling
windows through which you could see the wide lawns of Grant Park and, beyond that, the
white-capped swells of Lake Michigan. There were steel-gray chairs arranged in orderly rows,
slowly filling with nervous kids and expectant parents. And at the front, on a raised stage, were the
first two baby grand pianos I’d ever laid eyes on, their giant hardwood tops propped open like black
bird wings. Robbie was there, too, bustling about in a floral-print dress like the belle of the ball—
albeit a matronly belle—making sure all her students had arrived with sheet music in hand. She
shushed the room to silence when it was time for the show to begin.
I don’t recall who played in what order that day. I only know that when it was my turn, I got
up from my seat and walked with my very best posture to the front of the room, mounting the stairs
and finding my seat at one of the gleaming baby grands. The truth is I was ready. As much as I
found Robbie to be snippy and inflexible, I’d also internalized her devotion to rigor. I knew my
song so well I hardly had to think about it. I just had to start moving my hands.
And yet there was a problem, one I discovered in the split second it took to lift my little
fingers to the keys. I was sitting at a perfect piano, it turned out, with its surfaces carefully dusted, its
internal wires precisely tuned, its eighty-eight keys laid out in a flawless ribbon of black and white.
The issue was that I wasn’t used to flawless. In fact, I’d never once in my life encountered it. My
experience of the piano came entirely from Robbie’s squat little music room with its scraggly potted
plant and view of our modest backyard. The only instrument I’d ever played was her less-thanperfect
upright, with its honky-tonk patchwork of yellowed keys and its conveniently chipped
middle C. To me, that’s what a piano was—the same way my neighborhood was my neighborhood,
my dad was my dad, my life was my life. It was all I knew.
Now, suddenly, I was aware of people watching me from their chairs as I stared hard at the
high gloss of the piano keys, finding nothing there but sameness. I had no clue where to place my
hands. With a tight throat and chugging heart, I looked out to the audience, trying not to telegraph
my panic, searching for the safe harbor of my mother’s face. Instead, I spotted a figure rising from
the front row and slowly levitating in my direction. It was Robbie. We had brawled plenty by then,
to the point where I viewed her a little bit like an enemy. But here in my moment of
comeuppance, she arrived at my shoulder almost like an angel. Maybe she understood my shock.
Maybe she knew that the disparities of the world had just quietly shown themselves to me for the
first time. It’s possible she needed simply to hurry things up. Either way, without a word, Robbie
gently laid one finger on middle C so that I would know where to start. Then, turning back with
the smallest smile of encouragement, she left me to play my song.