Your Mark on Me

Chapter 19: The Competition (I)

Spring came. The snow was now long gone and it was that strange time of the year when trees hung still naked, but, judging by the freshness in the air and the brightness of the sun, every morning I expected them to have leafed overnight, and was disappointed to see they hadn't.

Mom was at home. We were packing for a week, making sure I had the right dresses, the right shoes, all the scores and the recordings for last-minute preparation, and the anxiety relief tablets. The following day she was driving me to Hilton Head Island, for the piano competition.

Mark wasn't going to be there. He was busy with work, and I didn't expect him to travel so far.

"You'll be fine", he had encouraged me for the millionth time. "I've heard you practice so many times! You just have to play the same, and there's no way that you won't impress. Trust me."

I sighed. He wasn't aware of the gravity of the issue. I'd always been too embarrassed to properly talk to him about it. That was the whole problem: I couldn't play the same.

My anxiety was not the kind that added emotion to the performance. It was not the kind that slightly impaired it. It was the kind that blanks your mind, locks your fingers and absolutely shatters and deems void all those hours and hours of practice.

It was the reason why, even though I was so passionate about the piano, I wasn't sure if I wanted to turn it into a full time career.

It was simply too uncomfortable. Recitals were something; with some effort, stomach sickness beforehand and after, cold fingers and cold sweat, I could manage them, while still not performing to my true potential. But competitions! Exams! Knowing that I'd be judged, everyone staring at me, my chest pounding, a lump in my throat, heat rising from my face as everyone waited for me to make a mistake, hunting for the weaknesses and writing down every hesitation!

Just imagining it made my skin crawl and my breath wheeze. I had no idea how bad it would be on the actual stage. And I was only willing to take the risk and put myself through all of this, because Mark believed that I could do it. I didn't want to disappoint him.

***

It had been half a year since dad had left us.  

I was only five and having my orchestral debut playing Beethoven's Piano Concerto No. 1 in C, with Mom's orchestra. Of that period, I remember very vividly hearing the word "prodigy" thrown around liberally when people referred to me. I knew it meant something good but didn't quite fully understand that most children my age weren't able to play a whole piano concerto by memory. I just knew that the piano was fun.

I was grateful dad had taken my side when I cried after yet another failed violin lesson — the teacher said I had no ear for pitch — and insisted that I try the piano. It was the best, or probably the only good thing he'd ever done for me.

I remember my light-pink princess dress, my hair beautifully braided with tiny plastic flower sprinkled in it. I wasn't scared. I didn't know what nerves were. I was just a child pressing the keys of the piano, enjoying the beautiful sounds it made. I could read notes before I could read or write. I could follow the score, and I knew that, when the bearded man nodded or pointed at me, that was my cue. Mom was also on the stage with us — the first violin.

If playing on my own was fun, it was even more fun when, at the rehearsal, the orchestra joined in. I was engulfed in the sound, music oozing all around me from the hands of so many people. And they were only to make my piano sound even more beautiful. It felt incredible.

After such successful rehearsals, no one thought anything could go wrong. Before the concert started, Aunt Helen came backstage to wish me luck. She and her husband, with a few of my Mom's friends, were in the audience, rooting for me. They'd kept a spare seat for dad.