“Breathe in, breathe out” Tom muttered to himself as he stood in the wings of Carnegie Hall, looking onto the stage. This was the big day, everything he had been working towards since he started piano lessons when he was 6. Tom followed all the steps. Lessons three times a week, practice an hour every day, undergrad at Juilliard, and pianist for the New York Symphony Orchestra. Now, overlooking the battlefield for his first professional solo performance Tom was, for the first time, nervous. His heart was beating a little too fast, and his palms were a bit too sweaty, but he was adamant that it had nothing to do with the presence of his father in the 3rd center row. Of course not! Why would that matter? It’s just the person who introduced him to piano, taught him at school, and expected. His father expected, and he expected, and he expected.

So, Tom walked onto the stage. His ears and eyes were registering sounds and images, but his brain wasn’t. The waves of the clapping from the crowd, the bright lights straining his eyes, the look from his music director telling him “Now’s your moment”. Tom felt as if he was underwater hearing muffled sounds of kids running around and he was just holding tight to the ladder.

He sat at the piano bench. He adjusted his seating and pulled the fabric caught at his thigh down. He put his sheet music at the stand and laid his hands above the keys. His hands were trembling, but looking up as if crying for help, the conductor waved his wrist and Tom began. 

First measure, second measure, 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4. Hold. A minor. B flat. D sharp. Down and up. A scale. He was doing it. Then a crescendo, some staccato and oh no. Ok, so he played a wrong note? Keep going. F, C, 1, 2, 3, 4. Is it B or is it F? Play F, no that didn’t sound right. The conductor is looking at you weird, your band is concerned. Keep going and look at your father in the crowd. He’s getting up, he’s leaving, he’s gone. You keep going, second page. Third. It’s over. The clapping is polite.

From his bench, Tom gets up fast. Too fast and treads to the bathroom. Not to shed tears or chuck some stuff over the sink, but just stare at himself. Tom was a pianist and nothing more. Without piano, where was he? Who was he?

As Tom contemplated himself, the bathroom door opened and his father walked in. The musicians surveyed each other. 

“We’ll practice tomorrow”. The older man said. 

“Ok,” Tom replied.