There Will Come a Time (23 page)

I stand behind the bass and start plucking, playing a counter rhythm to what Sebastian's doing. By now a couple more models have started walking the runway. When the last model has done her thing, I give the guys the signal and all the music cuts out. The audience starts clapping because they think we're done. I wait a couple of beats before I start playing. It's a melody that came to me after Thanksgiving.

It was late, or rather early—four in the morning early—and I was tired of tossing. I got this memory of Grace and me. It wasn't anything special, just a night when we were at home together, watching Fern. Nothing looked good on TV, and we were bored. She found a deck of cards, so we decided to play a
game of War. I got out a tub of our favorite ice cream, salted caramel chocolate. We played for a good hour. In the end, she may have beaten me, or maybe I beat her? I couldn't remember, but I did remember how happy I was just hanging out with her. That was the feeling I tried to conjure with my bass.

Onstage I close my eyes and I can see Grace, sitting across from me at the table. Her long hair frames her face and she's chewing on a stray piece. She's humming as she looks at her hand of cards. I try to put that humming into my bass, moving the bow slowly across the strings, capturing the low alto of Grace's voice.

I open my eyes just as Lily steps out and starts dancing. Her movements are slow and stretch across the stage, becoming a visual representation of what I'm playing. Sebastian adds a hip-hop rhythm. Lily looks to the right and then the left, and as she does, the other dancers enter. Brandon comes in with the voice of the cello, and I start plucking. The mood changes, becoming more upbeat, more tribal.

I signal for the last count, and after the final note resonates, the audience goes crazy. They give us a standing ovation. The dancers take a bow, followed by the models, and then the musicians. The last one to come out is Pete. He runs up and bows, then joins all of us in a line and we all bow again. You'd think we just completed a Broadway show.

I look out and see Dad, Jenny, Fern, Hanna, and Hanna's mom in the audience. They've all got big smiles on their faces. I imagine Grace being there, right next to Hanna, cheering just as loud.

•  •  •  •

“You guys were so good,” Jenny says, and hugs me. I pat her a little on the back.

“Your piece was compelling,” Dad says. “Never would have thought to combine orchestral variations with hip-hop. Well done, Mark.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Not bad,” Hanna says. She also hugs me. I untangle from her quickly, feeling awkward in front of everyone, not that I have anything to feel awkward about. We've hugged as friends forever.

“Loved it,” Hanna's mom says.

“Thanks, guys.”

I see Pete on the side of the stage talking to some man I don't recognize. They're shaking hands. It must be the guy from Otis. From what I can tell, Pete will have no problem getting in.

“Mark?” I recognize the voice before I turn. She stands with her hands folded in front of her. Her hair is longer than the last time I saw her.

I don't say anything and it gets uncomfortable, like being in a
too-hot room. Dad and Jenny say hello and something about being happy she came. I didn't tell my mom about the show, so they must have. Betrayed by my own family. I need to get out of here.

“I've got to take care of my bass,” I say, and walk away, but I don't go to the stage. Instead, I head outside. I look around, but where am I going to go? I sit on one of the benches.

“Mark,” Mom says as she approaches me. “Can I sit down?”

I shrug, but move over to give her room.

“When you were little, you looked so tiny playing your bass. You loved it. You'd spend hours. . . . I knew you were good, but I had no idea how good.”

I study the ground.

“I'm so sorry about dinner,” she says. “I know that doesn't fix it, but I'd like to take you out tonight. I'll make it up to you.”

“I have plans.”

“Mark, I'm trying here—”

“It's a little late.” I cross my arms protectively, determined not to let anything she says penetrate.

“I know. I said I was sorry about dinner.”

“This isn't about the stupid dinner,” I say. “This is about how you just left us. I mean, what kind of mom leaves her kids? You didn't even look back. For years you didn't want anything to do with us. And now—now I'm supposed to be all happy that you want to be in my life? I'm supposed to just forget? It doesn't
work that way.” I stand up. I know I'm being disrespectful and Dad will be upset, but I don't care.

“You're right,” she says. “Please don't walk away. Please.”

Something in the way she says “please” makes me hesitate. Her voice rises a little in the end, the way Grace's used to when she really wanted me to do something. I sit back down.

“You're absolutely right. It was horrible what I put you and Grace through. There's no explanation or excuse I could give that will take that away. But I would like to say something if you'll listen.”

I stare at the ground, so she keeps going.

“I was in a bad place. I know that now, but at the time, I couldn't think clearly. I felt trapped by everyone and everything. I was terrified I was going to do something awful to you, to myself. My only option, I thought, was to leave. I convinced myself that I was sparing my family, that it would be better for you and Grace—and even your dad—if I left. I was broken. I eventually found a therapist who helped me work through some of my issues, but by then, there was this strain between us. I didn't want to cause any more damage, so I stayed distant.”

“I was just a kid,” I say, remembering how Grace and I would hold each other at night, wondering what we'd done to make Mom so mad that she left.

“Oh, Mark.” Her voice catches. “I have so much regret. So
much regret. I wish I had done things differently. I wish I could take away all the hurt that I've caused. I wish I were a better mother to you and Grace, or even a decent one. I always thought I'd have more time. I'd tell myself that I'd explain when you were older. That you'd understand that sometimes we come to the end of ourselves and it takes courage to find our way back.

“But then Grace died and the illusion that you can always do something tomorrow was shattered. Though we did connect a little in the end, I never got the chance to make things right with Grace. That's something I'll always live with. But I'd like to see if we can move forward. I'd like you to give me another chance.”

My first inclination is to leave her on the bench, alone and hurting like she left me all those years ago. It would be good payback. But Mom wanting to make things right, I get that. I've caused my share of pain. It's the worst feeling. I remember how good it felt when Sebastian and Hanna forgave me for being such a jerk.

I wish Grace were here. I wouldn't have to shoulder so much on my own. I could follow her lead. But she's not. There's only Mom and me and the quiet sitting between us.

Mom's eyes are on her hands, clasped together on her lap. They remind me of Grace's hands. They're small but surprisingly strong. When I was sick, Mom would place her hands
on my forehead. They felt so cool against the heat of my head. She'd tell me stories of giants and dragons. She called me her little prince. Sometimes she'd sing me a lullaby called
Uyayi
, which she said her mom sang to her, until I'd fall back asleep. Even now I can hear her voice, faded like a memory you are uncertain was real or part of your imagination.

Matulog ka na, bunso (Sleep now, youngest one)

Ang ina mo ay malayo (Your mother is far away)

At hindi ka masundo (And she can't come for you)

May putik, may balaho. (There's mud, there's a swamp)

I don't have the words to say to her. They'll have to come later. There will be a lot for us to work out. You can't fix a lifetime of hurt in a couple of minutes. But I can do something. I reach out and place one of my hands over hers. Mom's body shakes a little and she clasps one hand over mine. It's cool and soft like I remember.

A
t 5:01 the next morning, I watch Hanna open her front door, zip up her jacket, throw a bag over her shoulder, and walk across the street to where I'm waiting with my car already running. I point to the time on my dashboard when she's settled in the front seat.

She groans. “Don't start. You're pulling a Sebastian.”

I laugh. “Is that what we're calling it now?”

She puts her feet up on my dashboard and laces her sneakers.

I point at them. “Really?”

“Oh yes, the sacred new car. Just think of it as me breaking
it in. What is that smell? I'm going to get a headache.” She rips off the little tree hanging from my rearview window and throws it onto our lawn.

“Wow. You're really not a morning person.”

“Shut it. I'll pick it up later.”

“Okay. No talking.” I turn on the stereo and a Mozart sonata I'm working on for school fills the car. I move to change it, but she says, “This is nice.”

We drive the ten minutes to the base of the mountain trail with Mozart guiding our way. Everything is dark and quiet. The freeway is empty, which feels kind of ominous because when is the freeway ever deserted in LA? But it's also peaceful. I glance at Hanna out of the corner of my eye and her scowl is gone. Her head leans against the window and her features are soft, as if she's going to fall back asleep.

I park alongside the road near the entrance to the trail and get out. I adjust my beanie and button up my jacket. I wish I'd brought gloves. I show Hanna the two water bottles that I brought for us, which I offer to carry. She stuffs her bag underneath the front seat of the car.

“All right. Let's do this thing!” Hanna says, all smiles as soon as she's out of the car.

“Did you take your happy pills?”

“The music. It always sets me right.”

I know what she means. I love all kinds of music, even a little country, though I would never admit it. But classical music takes me to another place entirely. It's probably because I've studied so much of it.

I lead us on to the path with a flashlight guiding our way. We walk side by side along the narrow trail, brusquely, heads down, fronting the cold.

“So, you want to talk about it?” she asks.

“What?”

“Last night. Your mom.”

“Oh, that. She wants me to give her a chance.”

“Wow.” Her voice is full of concern. “What'd you say?”

“I told her I'd think about it.”

“Really?” Hanna glances at me sideways, probably surprised because she knows the history.

“Not in those words.”

“How do you really feel about it?” She asks the question like she's choosing her words carefully. I want to tell her she doesn't have to tiptoe around me. I offer the truth.

“Weird. But I'd like it if I weren't so angry anymore. No matter what, she is my mom. I can accept that she's different now and sorry for what she's done, but it's not like you can go back in time and change what happened.”

“Unless you're a terminator.”

I'm thrown off and kind of impressed. “You've seen
The Terminator
?”

“It's a classic. A little dated with cheesy music and acting, but the concept still holds up. Sebastian made me watch it with him in exchange for his help with chemistry,” she confesses.

Figures. The Terminator movies are in Sebastian's canon of SF films.

“Well, time travel could never work anyway,” I say. “Too many paradoxes.”

“That's only if you see time as linear. It's kind of like the multiverse thing. You have to think of time as cyclical.”

I stop and stare at her. “Wow, you and Sebastian did get close while I . . . you know.”

“While you were being Jerk Mark?” She keeps walking.

I catch up to her quickly, wondering if I should apologize again and if Sebastian helped her with anything else. It's good they're becoming friends, but I don't want them to get
too
friendly. He was there for her at a time when I clearly wasn't, and I can't change that, but I can make sure I'm the one who's there for her in the future.

“Um, yeah,” I mumble. “I said I was sorry.”

“I know, Mark. I'm just teasing.”

“If you're still upset, I understand. You can tell me.” My voice is shaky.

“We're good.”

Relief sinks in, though I still feel on edge. There's a conversation I need to have with her, but I don't know how to begin.

“Besides, that's only if you go back in time,” she says. “What if you could travel to the future? Then there's no problem with changing the past.”

“Except you're changing the future.” I can stay here, safe within the context of the time-travel conversation. It's easier than discussing our relationship.

“Well, that's only if you believe events are predetermined. You know, fate and destiny and all of that. Is it going to be uphill the whole way?” Hanna sounds winded already.

“Yes, but it switchbacks, so it's not in one long hill at least.”

“Switchbacks or not. This sucks.” She sighs loudly. “How many miles is it?”

I ignore her whining. “I like the idea of fate, but I don't think it's real. It's a cop-out. It's the word we use when we can't explain something or when we want to give up our responsibility. We choose the life we live.”

It's true. Even though Grace was taken from me, I still have the choice about how I'm going to live. I don't believe it was her destiny to die at seventeen. I believe a man made a bad decision. The consequence was that Grace lost her life. And her death affects all of us. But it wasn't fate. My life isn't mapped out for me. I can choose
how I want to live. I can choose to be angry or not. Or I can choose to love. I look at Hanna, but she's focused on the path.