rim line as we set off on the 150-mile drive back to Duluth. I didn’t say anything either. What could I say, really, after what I’d done? I knew how hard Dad worked to scrape together enough money for my accordion and lessons. But the one time he was able toe to apetition, I let him down.
The farther we drove, the more the silence in our station wagon grew until it stood like an imprable wall between Dad and me. It seemed an especially cruel punishment considering music had been our deepest connection.
By the time I came along, the last of five children, my father was worn out from the demands of supporting a large f***ly. My brothers and sisters and I tiptoed around him when he came home from his shift at Jeno’s Pizza factory. But on Sunday afternoons, Dad would sit back in his recliner and ask me to play for him. He loved the music of the Big Band era, and none more than the song Twilight Time. I taught myself the tune from the sheet music, just for him. It didn’t seem to matter that my rendition was lacking in style. My father would hum along, his eyes closed, tears escaping from the corners as if I’d transported him to some magical, heavenly place.
Dad never said a word the entire way home, never again attended one of mypetitions. I never got over the hurt of having disappointed the one person I’d most wanted to make proud. I’d lost more than myposure that afternoon. I felt as if I’d lost the key to my father’s heart, and he died before I could find it again.
Why did you let me fail my father? I’d often wondered to God in the years since. Couldn’t you at least have given me a chance to make it up to him? “Mom, this is it.” My daughter’s voice snapped me back to the present. I parked in the lot at Central High. “Good, I have time to warm up.” Liz said as we walked into the school.
In the practice room, Liz took her flute out of its case, unfolded her music and ran through her piece flawlessly. Just before we stepped into the recital hall, I gave her a hug. “Relax,” I said. “You’re going to do great.”