The Gift, page 18
When I move my shifter to park outside of our apartment, I debate how to enter the once safe place. What do I say to Christian? How will he be? Which personality will be present tonight?
Well, I can’t sit here all night, so I gather my items and head to the door while my belly starts to churn.
Nala greets me as I walk inside and put my cello down next to her.
“Buonasera, principessa.” I love how she reacts when I say good evening to her in Italian.
She brushes against my leg, back and forth, then drops to the floor, her whole body flopping on my foot.
I crouch down to pet her as our interaction allows a moment of escape from reality. But when I stand up, I see Christian watching from our bedroom door frame.
“How was the family?” His monotone voice matches his hands-in-his-pockets posture.
“Fine. They all send their regards.” I cease to make eye contact with the person who I thought knew me and who I thought I knew. Now, I’m not sure about either.
“I’ll see them next week.”
He’s confident about the future, as always.
I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with water from the fridge, still avoiding eye contact. So many thoughts are spinning in my head that I can’t make sense of them. And I definitely don’t need to face him and allow a view into my daze.
Christian continues to linger.
Both of us remain silent.
The hum of traffic on the road beside our apartment complex provides a constant melody complemented by my staccato gulps of water while Nala’s metal tag hanging from her collar pings against her ceramic water bowl. If the air wasn’t filled with tension, I’d be enjoying the impromptu concert.
“Why aren’t you talking to me?” he asks.
I don’t know what to say.
“Tone Tone?”
I’m not trying to ignore him, but the more he urges me to act as if nothing happened this weekend, the more nausea strikes. “I’m not not talking to you. I’m drinking water,” I say, setting the glass down on the counter when one of my larger-than-life sneezes happens, and Christian chuckles.
I didn’t mean to break the awkwardness, but I have to admit, my body is relieved, in one way at least, so I grin.
Christian walks over and scoops me off the ground into a tight hug. “That’s more like it. I don’t like when we fight.”
From this high angle, I notice my work tote is different than how I left it this morning. I know I folded over both straps toward the front since I didn’t want Nala to pull it off the chair and spill everything. What’s going on?
With my arms still glued straight to my sides in his grip, he places me down on the floor.
Did he even notice my stiffness?
Usually, I bounce back after humor breaks the ice, but this repetition of fighting and making up without solving anything is becoming all too common. Our friction persists, despite these reprieves, and I’m still in a void of emotion, feeling numb to my husband’s affection. That can’t be a good sign, so I ask the question of the moment. “Are you still angry with me for going to Temecula Valley with David?”
“I’m not happy about it.” He backs away and leans on the counter of the island.
“You’re really off about him. He’s just a great friend. And I’m the one who asked him to go with me. It’s not like he begged.”
“You don’t know how guys think. But the bigger issue is that you thought we would move all the way down there. And you don’t even know what’ll happen from your audition yet. You could make it in LA Phil! Have you really thought about that?”
“Yes. Kinda. My head’s been a tangled mass of goo, so I didn’t connect that piece about distance. I’m sorry. I really am. You know how I get swept up. But it can work, like I said.”
“It can’t. End of story.”
His finality sends me deeper into the void then points me to fury. I can’t keep living this way. He doesn’t have a right to tell me what my story is, even if he is my husband. What, are we living in the 1950s?
Instead of saying something I may regret, I walk to the couch, grab my laptop, and lie on my side, getting cozy under my chunky knitted blanket.
He comes over and stands by my head. “You have nothing to say?”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore right now. Let me be.” If I were a phone, I’d be on power-save mode. No one has energy for Christian’s constant bossiness.
“If that’s what you want. It’s always what you want anyway.” He stomps off and shuts our bedroom door.
The word manipulative wafts into my head of goo, and I shake it to stop the intrusion.
“Yeah, this is definitely what I want—to have a husband who makes things harder instead of easier. That’s exactly what I imagined married life to be when I was a little girl,” I whisper to no one.
Walking over to my work tote, I spread its sides and find all contents in place. But wait… Papers sticking out of my planner look fishy. I open it up and see my reminder notes I purposely stuck in next month’s section stuffed between the front cover and first page.
Is Christian going through my stuff now? Has he always and I never noticed?
My throat feels tight so I grab that glass of water from the counter and swallow all that’s left in it.
I must be imagining this. He wouldn’t do that. Or would he?
I make it back to the couch with weakness in my legs and cover them up to resume the last position. Nala jumps up near my feet, making a home halfway under the other side of the blanket. This couch is our safe zone for now.
I move one foot over to feel her soft fur on my toes. Her warmth fills my gaping emotional hole an ounce. Maybe all a girl needs is her cat. Nobody needs a fulfilling career or a respectful husband.
My fingers type the words Temecula Valley commercial realtors into Google, and I keep clicking links until I find a company specializing in vineyards and wineries. Every website I view makes my ticker beat faster. These photos of the special land shine on the screen, and I feel their welcoming presence calling to me.
After a little while, I settle on scheduling an appointment with someone named Lesley for this coming weekend. It’s true that I don’t know what’ll happen this week with my final audition, but something tells me to keep pursuing being a vintner.
Christian isn’t going to stop me.
Chapter
Thirty-Three
The second final audition is today, but where are my nerves? Who am I anymore? I should look behind my shoulder to search for the Toni who would’ve died to be in a final-final audition for her dream Phil (yes, I made up the phrase final-final, but I think it’s catchy, don’t you?).
All week, I practiced each of the new excerpts repeatedly from the moment I got home to the second I went to bed. But even those times were different than the past. I wasn’t a disaster of self-doubt with sloppy movements and mistakes. The melody sang through my soul to my fingers and out into the soft air of my apartment as I reverted back to the days when competition wasn’t a part of my musical experience—the carefree days of running to my room after school or waking up on weekends and racing to the corner of my bedroom, where my cello lived, just to hear its rich, full sound existing in solitary bliss, instead of the later years where I had the musician label on my identity. I never imagined that carrying around a privileged title would lead to a life stymied by my own choice. Though, having been offered a spot in LA Phil when I started my career could have changed everything.
“Toni, they’re ready for you.” The proctor interrupts my last seconds of daydreaming, instead of practicing, in the room provided.
I’ve mastered the pieces as much as possible in the span of a week, so I’ve done all I could now. My head raises as I realize this thought and that this moment is final in another way. No matter what happens, this will be the last time I audition for LA Phil.
Walking on the stage this time, there isn’t a screen between myself and the judges. All five people introduce themselves as I sit in the chair off to their side and position my cello in front of me while trying to maintain eye contact for politeness. Even meeting the music director and assistant principal cello player doesn’t spark panic. Calm, cool, and collected Toni has entered the building.
“You may begin when ready,” the music director informs me with a huge smile.
“Thank you,” I reply to him.
Whizzing through every excerpt, I’m again taken on a ride through time. The feeling that swept me up last week on this Walt Disney Concert Hall stage strikes again and carries me through effortless bowing with soft, relaxed fingers. Between each break, I glance up and notice straight but pleasured faces on the judges. By this point in my life, I can tell when someone dislikes my playing from a mile away.
Once the time of performing passes and I halt, I rest my hands on my cello and look directly into each of the judges’ eyes, waiting for more instruction. Some of them could be my future friends and colleagues as section cellists. My—what am I thinking? First, don’t get too ahead of yourself, Toni. Second, now you want this job again? What happened to it being second fiddle these days? Maybe Flora had a point about counseling for yours truly.
Tuning in to the whispers amongst the judges snaps me out of my madness. Some people on the panel nod to each other and look like they’re in agreement, while others stay stoic. Which way will this go?
The assistant principal player finally makes an announcement. “Toni, we need a little more time before a decision is made. Please follow the proctor back to the waiting room, and we’ll be in contact shortly.” Compassion projects from her soft facial expression.
Waiting on the familiar blue leather couch, I take out my phone and see a bunch of texts. Flora, Mom, Dad, and David all wished me good luck. Guess who didn’t text.
We remained distant this week, me in music world and him in who knows what world. All I know is we still aren’t acting normal, and he barely said he hoped today’s audition goes well when he went to bed last night. Then, since he works close to home, he usually sleeps later than me, but not today. He escaped before I woke up.
Whatever. I don’t have time to think about him right now.
I click on a few of my social media apps, since they’re a surefire way to pass time. Ooh, there’s an event coming up at Little Street Wines where people can stomp grapes, wine taste from a new vintage, and get a tour of the winery. I’ve always wanted to crush grapes with my feet, ever since seeing the episode of I Love Lucy where Lucy did it. I don’t plan to get into a grape fight, though—well, only if it’s against Christian.
A giggle releases at the same moment feeling like a traitor on sacred land arises. I don’t want to disrespect the walls of this musical masterpiece or my fellow musicians by paying more attention to another dream. Yet, anything related to wine absorbs my focus lately.
Right before the increasingly familiar foe of guilt returns, the proctor enters the room. “Ms. Agosti, there’s good news for you again. The judges would like you and one other candidate to play with the orchestra for a trial week in the holiday shows. You each will play in two performances in separate weeks, then the spot will be offered to one of you.”
My eyes open wide. “I’ve never heard of a trial week, but yes, okay, that sounds good.” My words gush without thought. The prospect of playing with the LA Philharmonic for a final-final-final (yeah, I went there) audition would be an honor for any professional musician, let alone being an inch away from being accepted as one of them. Obviously, I’m excited. I’m also…well, you know. Is confused the word? I’m even confused on whether confused is the word!
“We’ll reach out to you with the dates and times of the shows and send you the music you’ll need, with a rehearsal schedule ahead of the shows. Let me walk you out.”
Leaving the doors of the concert hall, my legs feel like jelly. They still do their job of carrying me to the car, supporting my arms to lift my cello into the trunk, and hopping in the driver’s seat, though. Like last week, I wait to start the ignition, taking a moment of silence to comprehend what just happened.
What will everyone say? Fear of my loved ones shattering my winery dream overtakes the gratification of this achievement. I know they’ll be ecstatic, but hopefully they won’t try to persuade me to abandon new desires—Dad especially comes to mind. But when it comes down to reality, I’m certain all of them will only want me to be happy, no matter what I choose.
“Pietro, I thought you wanted me to follow in your footsteps,” I say in jest to the warm car air.
Well, at least until I receive the next set of music, I can pretend there’s only one direction for my life. Meeting Lesley tomorrow in Temecula Valley will help too. Now, bringing David again and telling Christian about it? That should be fun. But there’s no way he’ll go with me a second time.
I start the engine and take a deep breath, pushing aside tomorrow morning’s problem. Tonight, I celebrate.
“Call Flora,” I instruct my Bluetooth.
“Calling Flora,” she repeats.
“Yo,” Flora says.
“Have any good bottles of wine we can share tonight?”
Chapter
Thirty-Four
With riding a high from being asked to play with the orchestra of my dreams and Flora’s encouragement to express my feelings to Christian, I clear my throat and spit it out. “I’m meeting with a broker today in Temecula Valley, and David’s going with me.” The words almost don’t have spaces between them so I can sustain my bravery.
“You’re what?” He whips his head around from sitting on the couch to look at me in the kitchen.
“He’ll be here soon.” I can’t make eye contact with him, but hey, I’m halfway to living my truth.
“I have news for you.” He shifts his body to the side, one arm relaxing on the top of the couch with a smirk. “I visited our bank this week, being the good husband that I am to help you, and found out there’s no way you can start your business—in Malibu or anywhere else.”
A sharp pain shoots through my chest, and I crinkle my eyes. “What are you talking about?” The sounds coming out of my mouth are pointed as I get the courage to raise my head.
“I thought I’d finally see if this whole thing was even possible, since you insistently refuse to listen to me about—”
I swear I heard him mumble the word reality laced with disdain under his breath, but Nala tossed a toy with a bell at the same moment, leaving his probable insult inaudible.
He continues, “The odds of getting a business loan are extremely low, since we don’t own anything. The person I spoke to said that even though we have a relationship with the bank and do have a good amount of money saved—to us, not them, and that would have to be used for the real estate, not startup costs—we don’t have enough assets. We’re too big of a risk for a loan.”
“What are you talking about?” He must be losing his mind. “We have good credit.”
“Yeah, but we don’t own a house…”—he pauses and tilts his head in attitude—“or cars, or any other businesses. The banker basically said sorry and good luck.”
Why is he sneering while giving me this information? He probably wanted to drop this news at the right moment—for him—like a bomb. And he got his wish.
Now the shooting pain turns to heaviness in my stomach. Well, if Christian is trying to ruin my day, he’s been successful. And it’s only 8 AM.
Wait, no, he won’t! I won’t let him.
“That person…they, they, they have to be wrong.” I grip the side of the counter, leaning forward so it can catch my limp weight.
“Doubtful. This is why you should listen to me. I know more about the world than you. I had to leave my artist dream and get a real job.”
“Christian, that’s enough. I don’t need your condescending words right now. I also don’t need you telling me to lose hope on something because of one person’s opinion.” My arms regain strength, and my body props itself up once again.
“You’re a step away from your ideal job, so why are we wasting time on this topic anymore? I’ve humored you for a while, but it’s over. You’re lucky I’m still even talking about it with you.”
“It’s far from over!” Steam must be coming out of my ears like you see in cartoons.
“Toni, you’ll probably get the LA Phil job this time,” he says with an irksome serenity. “Just stay home today, and we’ll go see a movie or something. Text your little boyfriend to stay home too.” He turns back around.
I don’t even know where to start to respond. In his mind, I easily get the job I’ve been trying to get for a decade, I give up on a lifestyle change that sounds like the perfect fit for me, and I cancel plans with my closest friend to spend time with my husband who’s a dictator? Uh, no thank you.
“I love how you assume what the future holds for me. And how you shatter my plans and act like it’s a normal day.”
“Excuse me for wanting to spend time with my wife and help her do what’s right. You obviously need my help.”
He doesn’t even turn around to insult me this time.
“And I do this because I love you,” he adds. “It’s not my fault you can’t recognize how I show you.”
“I can’t… I— See you later.” I grab my handbag and slam the door behind me.
When I walk to the entrance of the apartment complex, I take a seat on the curb, knees locked. Tears burn my face as I try to pinpoint the exact reason for them. There’s just so much.
By the time David pulls into the complex, I’ve wiped most of the wetness off myself but still sniffle as I slide into the passenger seat of his car. “Hey. Slight change of plans.”
“I see that. What’s going on?”
