Antonia hadn’t always played the piano. Even when she learned to play, she hadn’t always enjoyed it. Ever since she was able to wiggle her fingers, her mother had tried to get her into it and had very little success. Ava—Antonia’s mother—had been a true pianist. She had studied it as a child, mastered it in school, and eventually gone to play in a prestigious orchestra. But, as happens with life, the unexpected often happens when we are growing most comfortable with our lives. Antonia was expected, but Ava’s car crash wasn’t. It was a freak accident, something that was entirely beyond her control and never should have happened. But it did happen, and it left a lifelong scar on Ava's life. Though she recovered in every other way, Ava’s fingers became weak, unable to move as quickly and precisely as they needed to. Needless to say, she was politely asked to leave the orchestra and pursue a different kind of life, one with less piano. Although demoralized, Ava was not the sort to give up—not on anything. So, with Antonia old enough to understand and respond to human speech, she began training her prodigy. She initiated rigorous lessons in the hope of instilling in her daughter the same passion for the instrument she possessed but now could not indulge.
Like any new hobby—Antonia saw it merely as a hobby for the entirety of her youth—it was rough at first. Not because the piano is especially difficult or Antonia struggled learning it, both her parents could see she had immense potential. The difficulty was in her mother's zest for something Antonia herself had little care for. Ava was determined to turn her daughter into the next Liszt while Antonia was content playing nothing but scales. So the two argued and Antonia poked along the keyboard at her own indifferent pace. Terrance—her father—kept his distance for the most part, happy that Antonia was taking up a hobby less foreign to him than other girls his daughter’s age. He was confident that Ava would work things out.
At sixteen, things started to change for Antonia. Life is always changing in the stages between child and adult, but this was different. It wasn’t something that could be explained as being human and passed off as normal. It wasn’t normal, not in any way, shape, or form.
On what seemed like an average Friday, Antonia walked from her bedroom down to the kitchen—groggy and half-cognizant of the world around her—to the horrified expressions of her parents.
“What did you do?!” Ava gasped after nearly choking on her coffee. Terrance, too stunned to speak, watched and waited with eyes wide.
Antonia—in the middle of developing teenage angst—ignored her mother and stumbled to the fridge.
“Antonia,” Ava’s tone lowered, “what did you do to your hair?”
“What do you mean?” Antonia scoffed after a long yawn. Her consciousness slowly returning, she stopped as she realized how light her head felt. She put her hand to her neck, where she should have felt long black wavy locks. When she felt only goosebumps on her skin, her eyes widened. She moved her hand further up, past her cheek and to the top of her head. She stopped, her eyes bulbous and fixed on her mother’s.
Antonia spent the rest of the morning behind a locked bathroom door while Ava and Terrance tried to comfort her. But what could they tell her? Neither of them believed her hair had miraculously fallen out during the night.
“For not having a razor, it’s actually an impressive buzz,” Terrance couldn’t help but note when she finally opened the door. His comment only made the situation worse, and Ava scowled at him before following Antonia into her room. Terrance, admitting that his comment had been ill-placed, retreated.
Needless to say, Antonia skipped school that day and demanded to skip every day until her hair grew back. While they allowed her to skip one day, Ava and Terrance knew that she would have to attend school after the weekend, hair or no hair.
“You can’t just skip school until your hair grows out, who knows how long that will be!” Terrance insisted. Antonia burst into tears at the reminder that it could be years until her hair was the same length it had been a night ago. Ava scowled again and Terrance reminded himself to equip silent empathy in this situation.
“It’ll be alright,” Ava said once Antonia had stopped crying. She sat on the bed, near her daughter but not so close as to invoke that unpredictable teenage wrath. Much to her surprise, however, as Ava reached out her arm, Antonia leaned into her mother’s embrace. Ava held her gently, realizing how much she missed the simple gesture. “There are a lot of realistic wigs out there.”
A moment of silence passed as Antonia thought about covering her barren scalp.
“I want a purple one.”
On Monday, Antonia stepped onto the school sidewalk with a much more vibrant look than she’d ever brought. Everyone—teachers, classmates, faculty—took several extra glances at her. She stood for a moment staring down any bold enough to look at her. If she was going to have purple hair, she was determined to own it. With a confident stride, she entered the building.
“Your mom let you dye your hair?!” Mel, her closest friend, gasped. “I thought she was super strict, you know—” she paused and raised her brows, “The Ivory Queen?”
“She is,” Antonia scoffed, knowing full well that piano lessons wouldn’t stop no matter how emotionally scarred she was from her sudden hair loss.
“Then how did you convince her to let you get a purple dye? And do you think it’ll work on my mom?”
In one day, Antonia received more attention than she had since the beginning of the school year. While some of the kids made spiteful comments, jealously proclaiming her hair was fake, the majority seemed to be taken with it. The teachers saw it a little differently, but Antonia didn’t care so much what they thought. She felt confidence in the new identity purple gave her.
“How was it?” Ava asked the moment her car door was open. “Did anyone make fun of you or say anything—”
“It was fine, mom,” Antonia said, slumping into her seat and pulling the door shut behind her.
“So no one—” she paused after the car began chiming at Antonia, “seatbelt. No one said anything?”
“Everyone said something,” Antonia replied, pulling her belt across her chest and locking it into place.
“Everyone? Even the teachers?”
“Especially the teachers.”
Silence filled the car as Ava glanced from the road to her daughter, anxious to hear everything. Especially what her teachers had thought of the new look.
“Good things?” Ava dared to ask after the silence had stretched on too long.
“Mostly,” Antonia shrugged before turning to face the window.
Ava lowered her brows, amazed at how relaxed Antonia was on the whole subject. Only a day ago, she’d been curled up in bed, rubbing her bald head as tears fled down her cheeks. She watched as her daughter waved to the students still gawking at her purple wig. Ava smiled, relieved that she seemed to have come to peace with her current situation until they could find a better solution.
Her position on piano practice wasn’t so peaceful, however.
“How about you just do the warm-ups,” Ava sighed. She’d already lowered the workload twice and was reaching the bottom. Any lower and her pupil wouldn’t be making progress.
“Can’t you see I’m too emotionally scarred by this?!” Antonia sobbed as she pulled up her wig to reveal her round head. “I don’t feel like playing your stupid piano!”
“I know you don't,” Ava persisted, ignoring the brutal assault on her beloved instrument. “But sometimes the piano calms us down. Maybe—”
“I don’t want to calm down! I want my hair back!”
Ava sighed and turned away.
“Can you just play a little bit?”
No response.
“Thirty minutes?”
Rebellious silence.
With crossed arms and an aggressive sigh, Ava gave up and walked out of the room.
Antonia was stunned. She waited a moment, fully expecting her mother to return with a new tactic. She’d never beaten her mother in an argument. She’d never thought it was possible. She felt powerful but guilty at the same time, cautiously in awe of what she’d been able to do. Her father entered the room shortly after, smiling before nodding to the piano.
“Don’t want to play?”
She raised her brows and gave him a sarcastic glare.
“Mind if I do?” he asked as he moved toward the seat.
Antonia lowered her brows as her father sat down. She watched, curiosity forming as he sat and looked at the keys for a moment. She’d never seen him at the piano, she’d always thought he couldn’t play. A part of her had wondered if he secretly loathed the piano, that he hadn’t minded so much when she didn’t want to play. She'd thought he was her ally when it came to her mother's dominion over the instrument. But now she could see a desire sparking in his eyes.
Terrance glanced at the entryway Ava had left, as if playing would land him in trouble. Once he decided he was safe, he looked to Antonia and winked before raising his fingers and lighting the piano on fire. The keys danced, they practically came alive and left his control before Antonia’s very eyes. They bounced up and down like ten laughing children on a long trampoline.
Terrance was smiling, almost grinning as his body moved in primal connection with the tune. She smiled, catching onto the contagious energy the music created. The mood was so different than anything her mother had taught her. Unlike the classical pieces she’d studied, it was lively and made her want to move her feet and dance.
“What was that?” Antonia laughed after he’d struck the last notes.
Terrance turned to her, smiling broader than she’d ever seen him smile.
“That was Art Tatum,” he nodded, “jazz.”
“Jazz?”
“Oh yeah,” he scooted over and motioned for her to sit, “come on, I’ll show you.”
Antonia watched and listened eagerly as her father explained simple concepts of jazz piano. It was so different than what she’d learned from her mother that she couldn’t help but be interested. It was so much less focused on strict rules and more on feeling, connecting the sounds to an emotion she controlled.
“See? It’s simple rhythms,” he concluded. “All based on you, what you feel.”
Antonia didn’t fully get it, not yet, but she nodded in agreement as she stumbled out some of what he’d shown her.
“I like it,” she said, “it’s better than what mom's stuff.”
“I like it too,” he nodded with a smile as he eased the piano into a gentler piece. “But it’s not all that different than Liszt, Chopin, and all the other pianists your mom loves.”
“Yeah it is,” Antonia scoffed. “Mom’s stuff is so stiff and—”
“Hold up,” Terrance struck a dissonant chord and changed the mood of his playing. “Just because it sounds different or has a different tempo doesn’t mean it’s totally different.”
Antonia didn’t understand and kept her eyes on his fingers.
“It’s like me and your mom,” he continued. “We both love you—you know that. But we show it in different ways.” He nodded toward the piano. “Music’s the same way. It expresses emotion, different genres and styles just sound different when they do it. But it’s all the same emotions.”
He ended with a frivolous twist of his fingers, threading them between several keys before turning to smile at her.
“Love you girlie,” he pulled back her wig and kissed her bald head. “Bald or not.”
Antonia sat alone at the piano, mesmerized by what she’d witnessed. Not only was that the first time she’d heard her father play, but it was also the first time anything other than classical had touched the piano. It seemed like a different instrument, capable of creating a sound completely different than anything she’d imagined.
Antonia let her fingers hover above the keys. She felt intimidated, the stride and thrum of jazz still new to her ears. But, once she began, she felt loose and free. All she could do was try to imitate what she’d seen her father do, but it made her feel something. It sparked a light tune that echoed from the piano to the open doorway.
Around the corner, Ava listened with closed eyes. It had been a long time since she’d heard Terrance play. He’d understood what piano meant to her, he’d seen the despair in her eyes when she'd stopped playing. Although they’d never formally discussed it, he decided to play less and less because he knew it made her wish she could play. But she had never asked him to stop.
Ava smiled as Antonia’s notes became more pronounced and closer to what Terrance had played. She’d never been set against jazz but had decided that it was important to learn the classical style first. But as she listened to the new life pouring into the piano, she decided that whatever got Antonia to the piano was what she would learn.
“Mom!” Antonia screamed as she leapt down the stairs three steps at a time.
Ava and Terrance glanced at each other with wide eyes before preparing for the worst. Both of their minds were imagining a new nightmare—shaved eyebrows or missing teeth. But, when she ran into the kitchen, they saw something quite the opposite had happened to their daughter.
“Look!” Antonia shouted, running her hands through her dark wavy hair. “It grew back!” She was beyond herself with joy, and couldn’t help but rub her hair into her cheeks.
“What—” Ava reached out and touched her daughter’s head. “You see this, right Terrance?”
He nodded, reaching out to feel his daughter’s hair.
While Antonia was completely thrilled, her sudden growth of hair raised some concerns among her parents. The last they’d seen her she had been completely bald. In the morning her hair was down to her shoulders. Hair didn’t grow overnight like that. It was impossible.
The internet wasn’t very helpful, pointing them mostly to growth products and new styling trends. Professional help didn’t have any professional solutions, only skeptical questions.
“You sure your daughter isn’t taking any growth supplements?” one specialist asked.
“Of course not,” Ava repeated, a little more tiredly.
“And even then,” Terrance added, “would it work overnight like that?”
The specialist agreed that one night was too short for any supplement he knew of, and came up with no other theories.
So, back at home, Ava and Terrance watched in confusion as their daughter caressed her hair.
“I’m going to have to cut it every week if it grows like this,” Ava commented.
“We’re going to have a lot of hair to donate,” Terrance added.
But, Antonia’s circumstances met another bump when stray hairs followed her everywhere she went. A few days after it had grown back, she found it coming out in clumps or webbing her clothes.
“You shed more than the cats,” Terrance muttered as he picked up another ball of her hair.
Ava scowled at him while Antonia rested her cheek on her fist and anxiously ran her other hand through her hair.
“Don’t touch your hair like that,” Ava reminded her, watching as dozens of loose strands fell out at her touch.
“I can’t just not touch my hair!” Antonia wailed, her eyes brimming with hopeless tears.
In the morning, Antonia refused to leave her room.
“Did it fall out again?” Ava asked after knocking for the third time.
She heard a muffled mumble, which sounded like a “yes.”
“Oh honey,” Ava sighed, “it’s not so bad, you remember how much your friends liked the wig?”
After that day, which passed as smoothly as a train on the highway, Ava and Terrance needed a real solution. Whatever was happening was serious, and they couldn’t find any reason hair would fall out, grow, and then fall out again so quickly. They raised several theories, all of which were bizarre but none of which they could afford to ignore. After logical minds had given up, bizarre was all they had.
“Why don’t you play the piano before bed?” Ava suggested after Antonia had bid them a defeated “goodnight.”
Antonia ignored her as she made her way to the stairs.
“Please?” Ava added.
Antonia stopped at the base of the steps. She caught something different in her mother’s tone. It sounded less like a teacher than it usually did.
“For me?”
That was very different.
“Can you show me what your dad taught you?” Ava finally yielded.
This made Antonia connect eyes with her mother and then lower her brows over them.
“Please?”
In the next few minutes, they were both seated at the piano. This time, Antonia was much more nervous to replicate her father’s genre. Her mother, a stout champion of classical piano, didn’t seem like she would or could enjoy jazz. At least, Antonia didn’t think so. But, she plucked up her courage and put her fingers to the keyboard.
It was a bit bumpy at first but, once she tapped into the emotion, Antonia was gently swaying along to the music. Her mother—though seated right beside her—disappeared. So did her baldness, both figuratively and literally. The next morning, she woke to a full head of glossy dark hair.
“I knew it!” Ava exclaimed after Antonia had begun bobbing her head to feel her hair dance around her. “It’s the piano!”
Terrance gave her a look that suggested she be taken to a specialist next.
“I’m serious!” she continued, desperately pointing to their daughter. “She played it before bed and woke up with hair, just like last time!”
“But—”
“I know it’s nuts,” Ava groaned, “but it’s a better solution than we’ve got.” She paused and corrected herself, “actually Terrance, it’s the only solution we have. So unless you find something else, a little piano before bed is what we’ll be doing.”
“What if she’s not near a piano?” Terrance whispered, “what about when she leaves home? What about—”
“Terrance,” Ava stopped him. “Listen.”
Lively notes streamed from the piano room, accompanied by an occasional hum from Antonia as she played.
“I think she’ll be able to handle herself,” Ava smiled. “Besides, being bald isn’t the end of the world.”
Having found a remedy, Antonia’s life progressed much more naturally. As naturally as any other sixteen-year-old, that is. She played piano before bed, usually thirty minutes to an hour, and always woke up with hair on her head. There were several things to learn about her solution, of course. One was that the length of her hair depended on how long she played. After spending the majority of her spare time at the piano—secretly hoping that enough playing would scare off her ailment altogether—Antonia woke up to much more hair than she’d ever had at one time.
“I kinda like it,” Antonia said, stretching out her long strands. After she had spread her arms as far as she could, she released her locks and let them sway back.
“Honey, it’s down to your knees,” Ava pointed out. She knew what her daughter was thinking. “I’ll cut it for you.”
“No,” Antonia pulled away, hesitant to let go of her hair after only just getting it back.
“What are people going to think if your hair is different lengths every day?” Ava asked as the two stood in front of the mirror.
Eventually Antonia agreed to have it cut and kept at a moderate length: near the middle of her back. As she trimmed it, Ava paused a moment.
“What?” Antonia’s eyes were splashed with concern, afraid her hair was already beginning to fall out.
“Nothing,” Ava smiled, “I just—” she put her scissors to her daughter’s hair, “you have very beautiful hair, Antonia.”
Antonia quickly learned how to balance her piano playing so that her mother didn’t have to cut her hair every morning. There were times—many times—she lost track of the time and her hair was several inches longer than it had been the previous day, but she never went under her time requirements. The piano became more than medicine. The more she played and explored jazz, the more attached to it she became. She listened to less of the bands her friends raved about and spent hours soaking in the rich swells of Art Tatum, Bill Evans, and Thelonious Monk. Her friends didn’t share her enthusiasm, but their hair didn’t fall out if they forgot to play the piano, either. As music began to consume every aspect of her life, Antonia became a bit of an oddity at school. She listened to it, talked about it, and thought about it almost constantly. Even during conversations, her friends would catch her side-railing into something jazz-related. Her parents said she needed balance, maybe some hobbies outside of music, but she knew she just needed to be able to play more piano.
Weekends with nothing planned were when she was able to really indulge her passion. With nowhere to go, she let loose on the piano late into Friday night and throughout the majority of Saturday. Sometimes, when he didn’t have work on Saturdays, Terrance played with her. The two worked up a jazz duo that rocked the house to its core. Antonia never felt happier than when playing with her father.
Ava loved to see Antonia happy, but she couldn’t help but be a little envious whenever Terrance sat down with her. The two bonded over the piano in a way Ava had never been able to, despite spending much more time at it with Antonia. At times, when no one was around, she would put her fingers to the piano and study a jazz piece. She would start, but her fingers found something difficult, almost impossible in the way the keys were spread out. So she waited patiently, hoping that she could find some other way to connect with Antonia.
Antonia, of course, didn’t notice her mother’s attempts to connect. She carried on with her life as busily as any other teenager. By the time she was seventeen, she didn’t pay much attention to her mother at all. She focused on her jazz, friends, and keeping her baldness at bay.
One night, however, as she was going to the piano room, Antonia heard several soft keystrokes. Thinking her father was playing, she picked up her pace. She stopped at the door when she saw her mother at the piano.
Ava didn’t notice Antonia at the door, and sat with her hands resting on the keys. Antonia hadn’t seen her play in a long time, the piano had practically belonged to her ever since her hair had begun falling out. So she watched and waited, curious to see what the Ivory Queen could still do.
Ava shut her eyes and touched the piano. She played three high notes, one after the other, so softly that Antonia had difficulty hearing them. She played the three notes again and then her left hand moved to the lower side of the keyboard, where she struck decidedly yet softly.
At first, Antonia scoffed inwardly. She decided that—if this was classical—jazz was much more complex and interesting. But she stopped when her mother’s finger slipped and hit the wrong key. Ava had taught her well enough to hear a note that didn’t fit.
Ava scoffed at herself but kept the piece moving. Antonia watched her hands, noticing now that they had begun to shake. There was a tremor, a difficulty in playing that she had never witnessed. She turned her mind less to the piece and more to the one playing it. As she did, the music intertwined and amplified her curiosity. It was somber, giving Antonia a glimpse at what might be going on inside the woman at the piano. Yet the piece was optimistic as well, it contained a shred of hope that stopped it from being difficult to listen to. Antonia heard a sniffle. Her mother’s breathing changed slightly as a tear dripped from her cheek onto the piano.
Antonia's vision blurred as she felt tears in her own eyes. The music, the way it touched her mother moved her. As she slipped quietly away from the piano room, Antonia felt that—once again—the world of music as she knew it was expanding. What’s more, she saw her mother differently. She couldn’t explain it, and it didn’t immediately change the way she interacted with her, but it made her want to understand Ava better—who she had been and who she now was.
Of course, she still stuck to jazz for the most part. Every now and then she peeked at some classical books but didn’t go back to playing any. She’d decided to close that chapter of her musical career.
“You have to sign up,” Mel insisted, slamming a flyer down on the cafeteria table. Antonia turned it around and read it aloud.
“Autumn Jazz Fest?”
“That’s totally your thing.”
“I don’t know,” Antonia said, her eyes glued to the flyer.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Mel scoffed, “all you do is talk about jazz, you were probably thinking about it right before I came over. And I know you can play.”
“Well—”
“Give me one good reason why you shouldn’t,” Mel demanded.
Antonia thought for a moment, soaking in the details of the flyer. There really wasn’t any solid reason not to. Sure, her hair would grow an obscene amount leading up to the event, but she could just cut it. Of course, the idea of playing before dozens of people felt like a good enough reason.
“See?” Mel crossed her arms, “you have to.”
By the end of the day, Antonia was on the list of high school musicians set to play at the event. By the time she got home, however, she was certain she’d made a mistake.
“It’s alright to be nervous,” Terrance assured her, “every great musician got nervous before their first performance.”
“I’m not nervous,” she mumbled, face buried in a pillow. “I’m terrified.”
“Oh come on, I’ve seen you play,” he said, nudging her softly. “You’re going to do fine.” He paused and added, “better than fine. I bet you’re better than nine out of ten of the kids that’ll be there.”
“What about the one?” Antonia turned her head so she could see him.
Terrance winked.
“That one’s you.”
“Thanks dad,” she said, smiling briefly.
The next topic to work out was what to play. Since she'd discovered jazz, she had amassed a variety of favorite musicians and was at a loss at which one to represent. More recently she’d found herself stuck between classic jazz and contemporary, which only complicated things. She wanted the foundation of the old as well as the more experimental direction of more recent artists.
“Why not combine them?” Terrance asked after she’d explained her dilemma.
“I can only play one song,” she replied with exasperation. She sighed and fell backward onto her bed, a tidal wave of hair rippling after her.
“I mean mix them into one song,” he clarified.
Antonia picked herself up until she was resting on her elbows, intrigued but confused.
“Look,” Terrance leaned forward. “You’ve been studying these musicians like crazy. You know what they sound like, how they play—everything you play is heavily inspired by them.” He paused and smiled. “Why not make something instead of playing someone else’s song?”
“An original song?” Antonia lowered her brows.
“Yeah!” Terrance held out his hands as if he was catching the genius of his own idea. “Mix old jazz with new jazz, give everybody something!”
“I don’t know…”
“Give it a shot,” he begged. “For me?”
Within the hour, Antonia set to work on an original piece. Every weekend until the performance was spent in rigorous preparation. Her fingers flew over the keyboard and her brows lowered further and further down her face as she connected everything she loved about the genre. Needless to say, several large donations to Wigs For Kids were made over the course of those weeks, although her hair had begun to grow less consistently.
She completed her piece several days before the performance—just enough time to feel comfortable with it. Comfortable at home, that is. She knew it would be entirely different playing in front of an audience. Terrance suggested she ignore the audience for the moment.
Ava was as present as she could be but, seeing as Terrance was the jazz expert, she rarely got called on for advice. When she tried to give it, Antonia responded indifferently or not at all. It seemed that, now that she had begun to truly use it, her daughter was taking the piano away from her. Although she was much more frustrated than her daughter knew, Ava remained patient.
“I just want to be a part of this with her,” she expressed to Terrance as they got ready for bed.
“I know,” he said, oblivious as to a way to console her.
“I love piano, she loves piano, I don’t see why she doesn’t want to include me.”
“It is jazz,” Terrance said, squinting slightly. “A little different than what she’s heard you play all her life.”
“But it’s not like it’s another instrument! If I hadn’t taught her, she wouldn’t be able to play jazz!” Ava sighed. “I mean, I like jazz—who doesn’t like jazz? Does she think I don’t like it?”
Terrance chuckled a little as he pulled the comforter over himself.
“What?”
“Come on,” he smiled, “that was our first real argument, remember? Jazz versus classical?”
Ava sighed, but smiled and laid her head back.
“I remember.”
“Give her time,” Terrance concluded. “She’ll come around. Maybe this performance is her way of proving herself to you.”
Ava was silent for a moment.
“But she doesn’t have to prove anything,” she added heavily. “She knows that, right?”
Terrance didn’t answer. After a moment, gentle snorts signaled that he had left the conversation.
Ava sighed and turned to her side. She wasn’t anywhere near giving up, but she hoped Antonia would come around before long.
Before she performed, Antonia was met with another surprise—one that almost stopped her from going. She was at school, grumbling over the quality of cafeteria lunch with Mel when a lull entered the conversation.
“Are you dying your hair?”
“No,” Antonia scoffed. “This jet black is natural,” she added, whipping her hair across her shoulders.
Mel was quiet a moment as she studied her friend’s locks.
“How is your hair graying this early?” she murmured, leaning forward to get a better view.
“What?”
“Look,” Mel took hold of a portion of her hair and sorted through it until she found several silver strands.
Antonia was dumbstruck as she held the gray hairs in front of her eyes. Back at home, there was only one possible conclusion.
“It has to be connected to the way it falls out all the time,” Ava repeated.
“It could be a more serious problem,” Terrance argued, also repeating his theory.
“It’s too coincidental,” Ava shook her head. “The first thing we asked the doctors about was prematurely aging hair. And besides, you know I’ve kept her healthy enough to avoid anything like that. It’s—” she paused as the beginning notes of Antonia’s jazz piece jingled from the piano room. Ava sighed worriedly.
“So, what,” Terrance lowered his voice. “We just wait and see what happens?”
“I don’t see what else we can do,” Ava shrugged. “In the meantime, I’ll learn how to dye hair.”
And so, as often as gray strands appeared, Antonia’s hair was dyed to match her natural color—the color that had been natural until now. At the time, she was too worried about her jazz performance to pay this new development much thought, which both her parents considered a blessing. Considering how volatile she had been at first, they kept track of it while encouraging her to worry focus on her piece.
“Your legs look like they’re about to fall off,” Mel said bluntly as they met at the entrance of the jazz fest. For some reason, the comment reminded Antonia of the way her hair was constantly falling out.
“No they don’t,” Terrance scoffed, “your legs are fine.”
Mel leaned closer to whisper.
“If you don’t stop your legs from shaking you’re not going to be able to press the pedals.”
“I know!” Antonia burst out. Several heads glanced toward them as they made their way through the scene. Terrance noticed several strands of hair silently wandering from the flock.
“Just relax,” Terrance said. “Hey, Mel, why don’t you find us some seats?”
Mel lowered her thin brows but—catching his stern tone—obliged.
“Good luck Tony,” she said before disappearing into the crowd.
“You won’t need it,” Terrance said as he nudged her forward.
Waiting for the day had been agonizing, but waiting for her turn to play was even worse.
“The waiting is actually the worst part,” Terrance commented after her leg had started shaking again. “Once you get through this you’ll be fine.”
As she listened to the other high schoolers, Antonia wasn’t so sure. Every other pianist had picked a famous piece, something every jazz enthusiast knew. The audience nodded, smiled, and clapped when they heard their favorites. Antonia couldn’t imagine what they’d do when she played her piece.
By the time her name had been called, Antonia was certain her legs had left her and that she’d gone fully bald again. It seemed so hard to move and she felt so wobbly as she stood up. A hand—her dad’s—patted her back, followed by “break a leg,” which she’d never heard him say. Antonia stumbled up to the stage, looking much worse in her own mind than she actually did to anyone else. Once she made it to the piano seat, she breathed deeply.
“Antonia, age 17, with—” the announcer paused, “an original?”
Antonia’s head snapped up and down in short nods.
“Alright!” he continued, “Antonia, 17, with her original piece: Til It All Falls Out!”
Hearing the name read by someone else, Antonia’s ears grew read. It had sounded much better when she had been alone in the piano room.
“Whenever you’re ready, Antonia.”
Her fingers hovered above the keys, shaking slightly. She remembered what her dad had suggested: “just focus on the piano, the rest will take care of itself.” She breathed heavily. Til it all falls out. Her mind went to the day she’d first gone bald, the shock in her parents’ eyes and the hours she’d spent sobbing in her room. Til it all falls out.
Antonia’s fingers eased onto the keys. As smoothly as her shaking hands allowed, she worked her way into the piece she had labored over for weeks. In the dim yellow light falling down around the piano, the white and black keys became more than keys. They were doors and windows that, when opened, brought back glimpses of history. Hair, so much hair, laying scattered across her bed. The dry feeling of sandpaper she felt when she rubbed her hand across her bald head. How much larger her eyes had seemed without hair surrounding them.
Antonia smiled as she relived the feeling of waking up with hair attached to her head. The piano spoke for her, telling the audience what she was feeling without a word crossing her lips.
Ava was silent as her daughter played. Whenever Terrance made a comment on how well Antonia was playing, the only response she could offer was a nod. Her eyes were glued to her daughter, to the way her fingers worked and how fluidly her body moved with the music. There were two instruments at work, and—while she could hardly even play one anymore—Ava had understood them both at one time. She let several tears dance beneath her eyes but refused to let them wander down her cheeks. She didn’t want Antonia to see her crying.
By the time she reached the middle segment, Antonia had forgotten the audience entirely. Everything within her was given to the piano, to the soft yellow light on deep brown wood, and the gentle atmosphere she had created. There was nothing but her and the piano.
As the piece struck a bit of dissonance, the keys shifted. Their doors opened up to different memories. She remembered piano lessons, a stern yet gentle teacher sitting beside her as she learned the fundamentals of the instrument that now bore her soul. The memories didn’t seem to fit, they didn’t connect with the music or the atmosphere she was building. They reminded her of a different kind of music, one that brought her less joy and freedom. She shut her eyes and pulled up another memory—her father sitting down and playing Art Tatum. The song began to shift. In a split-second decision—based entirely on emotion—she improvised. She leapt off the somber segment she composed and back into a lighter and more carefree set of notes. Her fingers missed a key or struck a dissonant note several times, but she continued the improvisation until it felt natural. Her mind and emotions worked their way past her planned piece and into a new one.
“Unbelievable,” Terrance murmured. Ava was still too spellbound to say anything, so he continued. “This isn’t the piece she wrote,” he explained in an urgent whisper. “It’s nothing I’ve heard before. It’s all improv, it’s—” he paused and shook his head proudly, “it’s jazz.”
“It’s beautiful,” Ava finally murmured.
Terrance smiled and glanced at her. He hadn’t heard her complement jazz in a long time, never so sincerely. She congratulated Antonia’s playing often in the hope that she would realize how proud her mother was, but Terrance could see that this was different. It was both the music and their daughter working in perfect harmony—they were speaking to Ava.
“Better than Liszt?” Terrance whispered.
Ava smiled but didn’t answer.
As she brought the new and unexpected piece to a close, Antonia felt the room return. After the last note glistened off the piano strings, she remembered that there were dozens of people seated offstage. She abruptly pulled her hands off the piano and sat still, anxiety slipping over the confidence she had worn a moment ago. But then she heard someone clapping—two people. She turned and watched as the crowd followed her parents and rippled into applause. Antonia smiled wide. Whatever she was feeling, however it was created, she wanted to keep it. In that moment, Antonia realized she wanted to play piano for the rest of her life.
“Wow!” the announcer exclaimed. “I don’t think I’ve heard anything like that since—” he paused, “ever!” He joined the clapping and gestured to the young pianist. “Thank you, Antonia, for sharing your original piece with us. I see a lot of jazz in your future!”
Antonia took her seat proudly, carrying his words and sealing them deep into the memory of the evening. As far she was concerned, jazz was her future.
“What was that?!” Mel shouted after the event was over. “You said you weren’t that good!”
“I—”
“Don’t even try to come up with a humble comeback,” she said as the two left the scene. “You know I won’t believe it.”
After the event, Antonia’s love of jazz only increased, shifting from listening to experimenting. When she wasn’t at the piano, working out new pieces or ways to improvise, she was scouting out local contests or events to play at. Her parents, having realized that piano was the only career she would consider, gave her the fuel she needed. Terrance helped her find joints looking for young pianists, and did what he could to help her learn. She was quickly surpassing him, however—a milestone he was proud to admit.
Despite Terrance's specialty in jazz, it was Ava who made it possible for Antonia to pursue her developing dream. She went from full to part-time so she could be everywhere her daughter played. Ava sacrificed time, personal funds, and her energy to keep Antonia’s dream on the rails. Where Terrance inspired the dreamer, Ava helped make her dream more than a dream.
Antonia’s hair continued to gray but, next to her unfolding career, that seemed irrelevant so long as it was dyed and still coming back. Ava couldn’t help but worry at the strangeness of the color, however. It was beginning to look almost sickly, as if dyeing it wouldn’t work forever.
By the time she was considering colleges, Antonia had enough of a reputation to be considered seriously at a music school. But she didn’t really think much about the specifics of her career. She had the confidence that comes with youth, meaning as long as she played she was certain she could make it anywhere. Both Ava and Terrance saw the potential she had to grow her abilities and become truly extraordinary, but Antonia had a much simpler and accessible plan.
“I got offered a job!” she shouted as she rushed through the door. “A real job that pays and everything!”
Ava and Terrance stopped what they were doing and looked to their daughter as she flew into the dining room.
“A job?”
“At Blue Rock,” she explained, her eyes wider than the door she’d left open.
“Blue Rock—” Ava paused, “the restaurant?”
“Yeah!” Antonia nodded, “isn’t that great?!”
There was a split second of hesitation.
“Yeah! Yeah, of course!” Terrance answered. “That’s incredible girlie!”
“I know!” Antonia started pacing, her mind filling with the idea of playing professionally every day.
“I'm happy for you, but—” Ava began after she had calmed down, “just make sure you consider all your options before committing to anything.”
Antonia lowered her brows, realizing they weren’t as excited as she’d expected.
“Your mom’s right,” Terrance added, “there are a lot of great schools out there that could take you further with your music.”
“I don’t think I want to go to school,” she said somewhat flippantly, “I don’t think I’d really need to either.”
Ava froze. Her mind went to the years she spent studying and perfecting her abilities at university. Months of torturous professors and pieces that made her question her dreams. Finally standing in the symphony, looking back on the hours and tears she'd spent in practicing.
“I mean, if I was doing classical, I would probably have to go to school.” Antonia was oblivious to anyone else in the room, completely talking to herself now. “But I don’t do classical piano, so I don’t need to go to college!”
Ava knew that well enough. The stacks of classical books on the floor beside the piano were proof of her rejection of the fundamental genre.
“As long as I get to play, I’ll be happy anywhere!” Antonia shouted as she ran eagerly out of the kitchen.
For the next few days, Ava and Terrance disagreed heavily on her taking the job so quickly. Ava, being classically trained, saw the benefits of taking Antonia’s natural ability and pressing it further. After all, that was what she had done and she had been quite pleased with her schooling. Terrance saw things a little differently. Ava called it being shortsighted, but he said it was letting their daughter pursue her dream—which he was sure was to become a jazz pianist in some band eventually. Or a solo musician, that was certainly an option as well. In the end, they knew they had to let Antonia decide what to do once she graduated, promising to support her whatever decision she made. With the opportunity right in front of her, she chose to jump straight into the workforce. As she sat in the corner of the Blue Rock and played improvised jazz pieces, her world seemed to be coming together.
Her hair grayed much more frequently as the months carried on, but—so long as she was able to dye it—Antonia didn’t see it as much of a problem. Especially once she graduated from high school. Adults weren’t so nosy and didn’t catch on to her fading hair so easily. Sometimes, as she studied it in the mirror, she even thought the color wouldn’t look so bad on her. Although she tried to ignore it, she knew it was becoming a more serious aspect of her life.
For a time, she was perfectly content at the Blue Rock. But, as it always does, life contained several unexpected turns.
“Why are you going so far away?” Antonia scoffed after Mel explained her college plans. “You could do online or something.”
“Online?” Mel almost laughed. “Come on Tony, this is—” she paused and released an excited sigh. “This is life! I finally get to go off and start building something!”
Antonia lowered her brows.
“Not everybody’s as lucky or gifted as you,” Mel continued. “I’m going to have to work hard to be able to do what I want.” Her face took a disgusted expression. “Probably have to pick up some loans too…”
“I had to work to get where I am,” Antonia said, catching on how simple her friend had made it sound.
“Not really though,” Mel argued. Being a close enough friend to be blunt and honest, she continued. “I mean, yeah you had to learn piano. You probably practice every day. But your mom’s like an expert, so it’s gotta be some kind of family trait too. And your job just—”
“I didn’t learn jazz from my mom,” Antonia cut in.
“My point is that you didn't have to go to school to learn this stuff,” Mel leaned forward slightly. “It just—” she shrugged, “happened for you.”
Antonia was still stuck on the last comment.
“My dad taught me jazz,” she clarified.
“I thought your mom was the one that knew piano,” Mel lowered her brows. “Wasn’t she in a big-time orchestra?”
“Yeah,” Antonia shrugged, “but I got jazz from my dad.”
“Okay, fine.” Mel backed off, surprised that the topic was such an issue. “Back to the beginning of this conversation: I have to go to school—a good school—so I can learn how to be a lawyer.”
Antonia was silent. She knew Mel was right, and that it was perfectly natural for high school graduates to leave their homes and start building their careers. It was expected. What she couldn’t figure out was where it would put her. Mel had always been her closest friend to the point that she had become her only real friend. She wasn’t sure what the small town would be without her.
Antonia put the issue aside for the time, sure that she and Mel would keep in touch. If not, surely another friend would come along. If that didn't happen, at least she’d have the piano.
As she played, Antonia wondered if this was what it felt like to be left at home while everyone else went to war. Everyone her age shipped themselves off to a foreign land and she was left playing peaceful tunes to the children and older people left in the restaurant. She didn’t think she would mind so much, piano was everything to her, after all. But, with Mel gone and no one to replace her, everything seemed a little different.
To make matters worse, her hair situation grew worse. Not only was it continuing to gray, it was weaker and becoming—for lack of a better word—old. Some days, Antonia woke with nearly a full head of gray hair, its strands stringy and breaking easily. It was frustrating and Antonia grew more and more conscious of it with each weary hair that drifted to the keyboard. Her interest in the piano began to return to its purpose as a medication rather than what she felt when she played. She tried to fit more notes in tighter spaces, as if the increase would force her hair to stay attached to her scalp.
“Hey, Tony,” the Blue Rock’s manager caught her as she was leaving for the evening. “Can I talk to you a second?”
Antonia stepped back in and waited.
“Do you think you could pep things up a bit?” he asked, narrowing his eyes slightly as if he was afraid to ask.
“Pep things up?”
“Yeah,” he nodded and then shrugged, “lately your songs have been getting a little too—” he paused, “moody, for the Blue Rock.”
“Moody?” Antonia lowered her brows.
“Don’t get me wrong, it’s still great,” he clarified. “It’s just not the kind of atmosphere I want for the Blue Rock. Understand?”
Antonia nodded. Of course she’d noticed the slight shifts in mood and tone, the different sound that had begun to develop. But she hadn't chosen to change it, she wasn't sure she even knew how.
The short walk home came with a new set of revelations. The town was empty, the street lights guiding her along cracked sidewalks and past walls whose faded paint had begun to shed like tired old snakes. A chill breeze trickled down the dry bones that made up the town. If it could play the piano, if its roads and buildings were keys, Antonia wondered what it would sound like. She wondered whether it would play jazz, classical, or something else entirely. Although she wanted it to play jazz, she could see and hear it playing many different things. And while it could play many things, she wondered if there was only one it was supposed to play.
For the next several weeks, Antonia tried to “pep things up” as she’d been requested to. She tried listening to peppier jazz in the hopes that it would inspire her, but that only reminded her of when she’d first started playing. Her hair had come back so full and healthy then. It reminded her of Mel too, how she’d pushed her to sign up for the jazz festival that had kickstarted her career. This led to her getting fed up and going to the piano to work out an improvised piece that didn’t sound anything like her first performance. No matter what she did, she could see she wasn’t creating what the Blue Rock wanted.
“Are you doing alright?” Ava asked after Antonia had stumbled out of a somber piece. She had been lost in the music and jumped a little at the sound of a human voice.
“Yeah,” she answered, moving her fingers to a different key, “why?”
“Your jazz isn’t—” Ava paused and shrugged, “it’s not as peppy as when you started playing it.”
“So what?” Antonia shot back, “who said jazz has to be peppy?”
Several tattered strands of gray hair fell to the floor as she turned to glare.
“I’m sorry,” Ava stepped into the room, “I just worry about you.”
“Why?”
Ava scoffed before answering.
“Because it’s my job,” she answered, stepping beside her. “No matter how old you are.”
Antonia was silent. She felt the atmosphere open to reveal something she hadn’t seen in a long time. Guilt crept in as she wondered if she’d ignored it.
Ava put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder—just for a moment. The touch was almost musical, something both could understand. She quickly pulled it away and turned to leave. As she did, Antonia caught her.
“Mom—” she paused, eyes still on the keyboard. She sighed and continued. “Things aren’t going so well at the Blue Rock.”
Ava lowered her brows in concern and waited, grateful that her daughter was opening up to her.
“I—” Antonia paused as a hair sailed lightly down from the rest. “The manager says my music is moody, that it doesn’t fit the Blue Rock.” She shrugged, “I guess you can hear it too.”
Ava sat down on the piano bench. She wanted to stroke her daughter's hair but resisted, knowing the damage her loving gesture could cause.
“Is that wrong?” she asked.
Antonia looked at her.
“Do you know what my favorite piece to play is?” she asked with the hint of a smile.
“Something by Liszt?” Antonia recounted all the times her mother had expounded on his skill as a pianist.
“Nope,” Ava seemed pleased that her daughter hadn’t guessed. She lifted her hands and let them hover over the keyboard. “It’s called Spiegel im Spiegel, and it was composed by Arvo Pärt. It’s a contemporary piece.”
“Mom,” Antonia’s eyes widened as her mother prepared to play. “Your hands, should you—”
“I’ll be fine,” Ava said, somewhat indifferently.
Antonia studied her for a moment. Something had changed, almost instantly her mother had shifted into what seemed like a separate person. She was focused, serious, and silent as she prepared to play. Yet there was a softness to her as well, something that wasn’t focused on Antonia.
“Close your eyes,” Ava said before she put her fingers to the keys.
Antonia obeyed, and let stillness set in as she waited. As the first few notes were gently introduced, Antonia recognized it as the piece her mother had been playing that evening so long ago. It was gentle and soft, yet it contained something that kept it from being fluffy or stiff. There was something in it that connected to her and pulled her in. It acknowledged something she had been asking herself and—while it didn't have the answer—assured her that she was alright. She would be alright. Before she could stop them, Antonia felt tears welling up.
“I connected with this piece after my accident,” Ava explained.
Antonia kept her eyes shut as her mother continued playing.
“They said I wouldn’t be able to play the piano.” The piece softened. “I was so desperate to prove them wrong.” Antonia could see a thoughtful smile. “I tried and I tried, but I eventually had to accept that I could never play Liszt again. I couldn’t spider up and down the keys like I used to.” She paused, “like you and your father do.” She continued playing without speaking for a moment. “Eventually, I stopped playing altogether. I gave up.” Antonia couldn’t imagine her mother giving up, least of all on anything music-related. “But one day as I was driving home from work, this piece came on over the classical station.” She paused. When she continued, Antonia could hear that she had tears in her eyes. “When I heard it, it spoke to me. It told me what I needed to hear, brought me closer to—” she paused and sighed, “to what I needed.” The piece was slowing, reaching an end. “It made me realize that I would be alright,” she concluded. “And that it was alright to feel the way I felt.”
Antonia opened her eyes. Her mother had finished and was looking down at the keys. She glanced at her hands. They were shaking slightly but Ava looked peaceful.
“Music is expression,” she nodded. “It changes with us, with what we need to express.”
“But what about my job? My manager wants me to play a certain way. I could get fired if I can’t play what he wants me to.”
“Maybe it isn’t the right job for you,” Ava suggested. “Maybe music is more than a job to you.”
Antonia was silent. She was starting to see that music had been much more than a job to her mother. It had been much more than an art she had wanted to transfer to her daughter. To lose the ability to release everything that words couldn't must have been painful.
“I’d say you have a deeper connection to it than most people do.” Ava smiled and added, “just look at what it does to your hair,”
As she went to bed, Antonia wondered at her parents and the perspectives she had formed on their musical tastes and abilities. She started to wonder whether she really knew all that much about music at all. Or them. Or herself.
After almost a year, Antonia realized she had to quit her job. Her music continued to sway and drift from lows to highs, never maintaining a steady emotion and eventually sounding less and less like jazz or any other genre. That just wasn’t what a restaurant like the Blue Rock was looking for, no matter how skilled the pianist.
Antonia drifted about for a while, looking for work but never really wanting to find anything. She still knew what she wanted to do—that had never changed—but she wasn’t sure how to achieve it now or even what it looked like.
At nineteen, no matter how much piano she played, Antonia’s hair was effectively dying. Long patches of it stopped growing altogether and what did grow was less than pleasant to look at. The clear decision was to be done with it and accept a wig, but Antonia was hesitant to let it go. So she woke up looking older and older, a soft young face surrounded by uneven threads of dusty yarn. The more she stayed indoors the more her hair grayed, split, and withered. In a subconscious act of submission, she started to dye it less and covered up her mirrors. She never went outside and sat at the piano all day. She didn’t know what she was playing anymore, it was no longer jazz but it wasn’t classical either. It was something only she could play, yet it spoke to both of her parents as they watched her fade.
“Something has to change,” Ava told her as the three of them sat together one evening.
Antonia didn’t offer a response. She hardly heard her mother at all. The sound of the piano was much more prominent in her ears and mind. Even without anything playing, she was working through compositions and the hybrid of genres that was developing.
“Your mom’s right,” Terrance added, “it’s not healthy for you—for anyone—to live like this.”
Antonia looked at him for a moment. He seemed different, less entertained and enthralled by her music.
“I can’t go out,” Antonia finally said, “I can’t—” she paused and held her dry and ragged hair. “I can’t do anything like this.” Her eyes started to water.
Terrance was silent, but Ava leaned forward.
“But you do!”
Antonia lowered her brows and held back her tears.
“Every day, I hear you play that piano like no one has ever played it,” she said sternly. “You play it better than I ever did, Antonia. And I am so—” tears welled in Ava's eyes, “I am so proud of you.”
Antonia was surprised by her mother’s statement. As far as her musical ability, she'd always believed her mother considered her style as beneath whatever she'd played when she had been in the symphony.
“Remember the Blue Rock?” Antonia whined, returning to her situation. “I couldn’t play—”
“You couldn’t play what someone else wanted you to play,” Ava nodded. “Only because you had to play something else, something that meant everything to you, even if you didn’t know what it was.”
“So I can’t get a job,” Antonia argued. “And even if I could—” she shook her web-like strands of white hair angrily, “who would hire me?”
“Antonia,” Ava shook her head sternly. She had been gentle long enough. “You have potential, incredible potential. But more than that, you have a need to play the piano. Your father and I see it—” she paused and gestured to her wandering eyes, “you’re thinking about it right now!” She sighed and took a moment to study her daughter. “No, you might not be able to work another job like you did at the Blue Rock. But that doesn’t mean you can give up—it doesn’t mean I will let you give up.”
Terrance nodded his approval.
“What,” Antonia sniffled, “college? Like you?”
“It’s an option,” Ava replied. “Do you have anything else you'd like to try?”
Antonia said nothing more. She looked from one parent to the other. She could see something, something that had always been there. It had outlasted her hair, was more stable than the piano, and was ready to do whatever it needed to whenever it was needed. As she studied it—and continued to over the years—she realized she’d missed something. But she wondered if it was too late, if there was still time to tap into this source of stability she was only now discovering.
It took a little more persuading but, eventually, Antonia applied to several prestigious musical schools. Ava gave her every pointer she could, every trick she knew and, after Antonia got accepted, watched nervously as she drove away. There was little more she and Terrance could do but watch, wait, and keep talking with her.
Ava and Terrance made their way to their assigned seats, glancing about the auditorium as they walked.
“This is huge,” Terrance whispered. “Almost as big as the one you performed at when—”
“It’s bigger,” Ava clarified, taking in the ornate and refined atmosphere. It had been far too long since she had been to any kind of musical event, she had missed it terribly. Every time she saw another pianist take their seat on that majestic instrument, she couldn’t help but remember her time in the symphony. It had been too much to take after the accident and, once she’d started teaching Antonia, she let it slip further and further away. But now, on this day, she had a reason to attend—something that let her look past herself.
This was a special evening dedicated to the highest performing student the college had produced. A single player would step onto the stage and perform before a collection of musicians, university supporters, and faculty. After six years, the student who had earned their Master’s degree would prove their mastery over their instrument.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer nodded after he had acknowledged special guests and students. “May I present this year’s highest achieving student: Antonia Wesson, on the piano.” He gestured to the side of the stage.
Ava and Terrance caught their breath as a bald, slender young woman in an elegant black dress made her way toward the piano. They gripped one another’s hands, eyes pinned on their daughter.
She smiled and addressed the crowd, not verbally but with a wave and a graceful bow. And then she sat down at her weapon.
Terrance glanced at the program.
“Donna Lee by Charlie Parker!” he whispered to Ava. “Did you know she was going to play this?”
Ava shook her head, never taking her eyes from her daughter.
“This composition is for my father, Terrance,” she said, nodding toward him.
There was a moment of silence as she hesitated above the keys. Ava saw it and remembered how she had hesitated, how hard she had to push herself to prove that she could do it despite everything and anything that told her she couldn’t. Finally, her hands eased and the silence was filled with a burst of music.
The composition was energetic, bursting with the same emotion that had inspired its composer while colored with Antonia’s unique flair. It was quick and complex, neither Ava nor Terrance could imagine trying to work through it. Yet it flowed so smoothly from her heart and to fingertips that she looked at ease—completely absent from effort. Every flux and peak of the song presented a new trill or progression that she had worked in. The audience was spellbound. Any who had heard Donna Lee knew that Charlie Parker would have been proud, and any that had never before listened to jazz knew that they had found something worth studying.
Ava saw a smile flash across her daughter’s face as the piece came to a dramatic and verbose conclusion, the piano itself dazzled by her performance.
The audience laid the auditorium low with applause. Everyone clapped, many for different reasons, but no one had heard and was untouched. Once they quieted, she moved to the next piece.
“This piece is for my mother, Ava,” she said, nodding toward Ava.
Ava smiled and felt tears rise as she held onto that moment of eye contact. Terrance looked to the program.
“La Campanella,” he whispered.
“Liszt?” she almost gasped.
“Yeah!” Terrance smiled, “looks like—”
Ava silenced him with an arm on his shoulder as their daughter prepared to play.
She eased in, starting softly and in a somewhat simple composition. As she continued, she took what Liszt had created and pressed it further—in a way that she understood and connected to it. She wove her way through the piece, no key pressed out of place, time, or in a way that disturbed the dynamics Liszt had composed. The instrument became a liquid, something for her hands to run across and splash in as a child at the beach. The child was focused, intent on whatever purpose she had decided the beach would serve. She controlled it, pulled in the waves and then sent them forth again. She was no longer a child but Poseidon, the lord of the seas.
Ava could not move, she could hardly breathe. She shut her eyes and listened. Her daughter’s composition brought back every memory she had of performing in the symphony. She felt the keys moving and yielding to her instruction, synchronized with every piece of the instrument. But then, just when she was tempted to pity herself, she opened her eyes. She saw her daughter, bald and beautiful with her soul on display. Seeing her—not as Ava's replacement—but where she wanted to be, melted any thought of self Ava had held onto.
Once the last note was struck, the pianist took her hands from the piano and breathed deeply, her shoulders gently rising and falling as her tempest calmed.
The auditorium again erupted, applause billowing forth and filling the air like ash. Ava let several tears fall as she clapped, too proud to care what anyone would think. But the pianist wasn’t quite finished yet.
The applause gradually died down, and she moved to address the audience.
“If I could, I would like to perform one last composition,” she began. “This piece means a lot to me, and—” she paused, “I think it serves as a testament to the piano's ability to bring us together, no matter our experiences, background, or preferred genres.” She turned to the piano and lifted her hands.
Terrance looked to the program but saw only the two pieces she had played. He looked to Ava in confusion, but she shook her head.
Once she began, however, Ava recognized Antonia’s final piece.
It was simple, so incredibly elementary in comparison to the previous ones. Antonia’s hands moved slowly, adding no creative frills to the original work. She knew the piece needed nothing more than it had already been given. It spoke to the entire audience. It reminded a man of the love he had shared with his wife before she died. It reminded a woman of her childhood, of a friend she had treasured and lost later in life. It connected each individual to another as if reminding them that they were a part of a whole. Whatever they had experienced separately, they were not alone. They were heard, known, and understood by the music weaving through the air above and around them.
Ava’s cheeks were stained with tears as she watched her daughter. She felt closer to her than ever, as if she was sitting there playing a duet beside her. Ava saw a new light in her daughter's expression. It surpassed any joy the piano brought and was far greater than anything she or Terrance could have given her. It required no hair, for it filled the heart.
There are no words to describe the atmosphere within the auditorium. There is only sound, the music that gently stirred the souls of each man and woman that heard it.
Antonia’s hair never grew back, not like it had the first time. It came every morning in scraggly white patches that morphed her into a grotesque image of the undead. But none could say that what she did, what she played—who she became—wasn’t beautiful. That was what she carried forward and what flowed from her heart when she sat down at the piano. That was what everyone who knew her saw. And that is what Antonia wanted her music to express.
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