I

 was not a mute, but I might as well have been. I controlled nothing in my own life, but I never protested about that. When someone asked me to do something, it was done. It’s not anyone’s fault. I guess some people are just born that way, submissive and well meaning. Some are born loud; I was born silent.

I did cry, of course, when I was born, as everyone does. I learned, however, from a young age, that tears wouldn’t get you anywhere in my house. My mother ran the show; she gave the orders, and we all followed. My older sister, Taylor, moved out when she turned eighteen and never looked back. She was one of those people who possesses total awareness about who they are and what they want. Her and mother fought all the time, always about silly little things that I’d given up arguing about. After she graduated, she moved straight into a dorm. She’d been gone almost two years before she came to visit.

I’ve always been submissive, though I respect Taylor’s bravery. If mother wanted me to wear a dress, I wore one. It didn’t matter that I hated all my dresses, or that we would be playing in the snow that day. I wore it anyway. Fighting about it seemed pointless. Why would I waste my time arguing about a dress?  It wasn’t until my freshman year that I realized all the little things she made me do added up to her controlling my life. My classes, my extracurriculars, they were all dictated by her. 

Looking back, it surprised me that I ever managed to get into band. In fourth grade, when we were first informed that we could learn an instrument, my mother told me not to even bother.

“Band takes up a lot of time, Paula,” she tsked, “I think it would be better for you to get involved with more…intellectual clubs.”

It was the one thing I didn’t give up on. I did research, I even squeaked out questions to my music teacher and told my mother about how music improves brain function. She finally conceded and let me join, so long as I didn’t play the drums.

“I don’t want racket in my house all the time. You have to practice softly, and you have to do it in the basement. And the second your grades slip, you’re out. Do you hear me Paula?”

My friend Franca decided to play the trumpet, and it went well with her brassy personality. I kind of wanted to join her, but I was drawn to another instrument.

I’ll never forget the first time I heard the French horn. I was walking through the high school before the meeting about band when I noticed the music hall. I meandered past a practice room, and a melodious sound floated past me. The gorgeous velvet cushioned my ears. It was the push that got me so fixated on band. I knew right then that I wanted to do the same thing. It would be a long road, of course. Beginners never sound nice on their instruments, but I worked as hard as I could to get better.

Middle school was a blur. I was in band, science club, and chess club, doing continental math on the side. My mother shoved me into as many advanced classes as she could and had me take a year of each of the three foreign language classes in order to “decide which one I liked best.” That was an outright lie; she told me to take German in high school, and I, of course, accepted it. I liked the sound of Spanish a little more, but Franca was taking German, so my mom didn’t have to push me too hard.

When I reached high school, I was immediately thrown into any class that was marked “Accelerated” or “Advanced Placement.”  I could’ve gotten more done if I’d had a study hall or more time after school, but Mother had me continue with math and science clubs and join the Stripes of Pride club, which was basically a volunteer/be smart club. Franca joined Stripes of Pride too, but she took a pass on math and science, spending her free time practicing her trumpet, starring in whatever show the drama club was putting on, and hanging out with her friends.

My junior year started off relatively normal.  Well, normal for me. I had three APs: physics, chemistry, and history. I was also in precalculus, Accelerated English and German 4. My only reprieve from the avalanche of homework was band. Our band was tiny. We didn’t even have enough people for a marching season, but everyone in it was truly dedicated. Zared had been playing oboe since he was seven and Melanie knew piano, violin, clarinet and flute. While I didn’t have excessive experience and could only play one thing, I was right up there with the rest of them. Band was my last class of the day, and from 2:00 to 2:50 each day, I could calm down and just play. I played for fifty minutes every day until November.

November 7th was when it happened the first time. I had gotten pneumonia a few weeks earlier and was finally feeling mostly better, although I did get some bad coughs
occasionally. I was about to begin practicing “Nocturno” by Strauss after school for the Solo Festival in March. I grabbed my instrument and began to play. Everything was fine until I got to the forte part in the middle. It was like someone stole my oxygen; I couldn’t get my wind back and began coughing. I snatched my water bottle from the floor, trying to calm down, but couldn’t. After seven minutes, I regained my breath, but decided to put my horn away for the rest of the day.

The next day at band, we got new music to play: a march, a song based off a gypsy dance, and a smoothly soft piece called “Sheltering Sky,” by John Mackey. The trumpets had a great deal of complaints regarding the Mackey piece, almost the whole thing was pianissimo,  – a true nightmare for them. I liked it though; it was the first piece we played, and I got through the whole thing completely fine. The gypsy song, however, caused me to break down after only around twenty measures. Our teacher, Ms. Melburn, let me sit in a practice room for the rest of class.

What’s wrong with me? I wondered. My coughing was weirder than normal. It didn’t just come and pass; once I started, it was hard to stop. I went straight home that day and told my mother about it. It was one of the few times when she looked at me with true sympathy. A quiet pain shone in her icy blue eyes and her eyebrows furrowed gently.

“Paula…I think we should take you to see a doctor,” she said worriedly. Before I went into the office, I hear my mother speaking to Dr. Ravan in a hushed voice: “…worry it’s been passed…” and “…I hope it’s just…”

Dr. Ravan had always been one of those cheerful doctors that makes you laugh and gives you candy, so you forget you’re even at the doctor’s office, but that day he looked serious.  He gave me some of the standard tests, even checked for asthma, and one other that was a little unusual. He took a blood sample for DNA testing. I asked why, but he didn’t really give me a straightforward answer.

A few days later, however, I found out the reason. I had been sitting out of band since my second coughing attack, and was impatient to get my results so that I could go back to
playing. My mom was the one to break the test results to me. 

“They tested your DNA for a protein deficiency…ATA1.  Honey, I’m so sorry,” she said with tears in her eyes.  I looked at her, unclear of what she meant, but knowing that whatever it was wasn’t good.  “It’s a genetic condition called Alpha One Antitrypsin Deficiency.  It causes…lung problems. Your pneumonia hurt your lungs enough and with all the dust in the basement…”

“Mom,” I said, one of the few times I ever called her that, “what does that mean?”

She told me that ATA1 can cause irreversible lung obstructions, and it would be a while before we’d have enough money for the medication.  There was always the possibility that the medicine wouldn’t help.  She tried sugarcoat it as much as she could, but the only thing I cared about was this:  I had to stop playing.  A year, she said, at the least.  I’d have to stop for at least a year.  It would help, she said.  It would get rid of some of the exertion my lungs faced. It probably would get better, she said, and maybe someday I could continue.  I don’t remember crying, but I do remember sitting in my room.  Sitting there, listening to music.  I couldn’t play it anymore, but I could still listen.  Then it came on.  Mozart’s “Concerto No. 1 in D Major.”  My solo freshman year.  I snatched my iPod from the dock and threw it against the wall.  Who knew when I would be able to play it next?  Who knew if I would even be able to play it again at all?

It seems like such a silly thing, not being able to play, and when I told Franca, she felt bad for me, but in the end, she didn’t see it.  No one saw it. 

Everyone has things that they care about, people, activities, subjects.  Then there’s that one thing.  That one thing that you care about more than anything else.  It’s the thing that keeps you going and gives you hope.  When you have the world’s worst day, there’s that thing you can do or that person you can see that suddenly makes the world okay again.   My thing was music.

I got mountains of homework in classes I cared nothing about.  My mother dictated how I dressed, what I ate, my curfew, my whole life.  My classmates used me as an answer sheet, their professional tutor, because they knew I’d help them if they asked.  The kids in my German class never bothered to bring a pencil; they just grabbed one of mine.  After school I made my way to clubs full of people I had nothing in common with.  Even Franca, my best friend, had a tendency to step on me when a decision had to be made.  None of it mattered though, because if I played a piece, and it would all disappear.  I could be part of a chord that conjured up memories.  I could melt the world with a Beethoven sonata, or destroy the universe with a fiery Mackey piece.  When I played, I was in control of everything.  And suddenly, it was gone. 

I felt like Sisyphus every day at school, pushing a boulder up a hill with no hope for a break.  Tests and quizzes were shoveled at me at the pace of coal into a train engine.  Labs in chemistry became their own brand of torture for me; Franca and Melanie were my lab partners, and all they could ever chat about was band – it had a fun subject at one point, but now was just a pin poking me until I bled.

“Oh my GOD,” whined Melanie one day, “did you see the high notes in the Hindemith?  Like, are you kidding me Ms. Melburn?  It’s gonna take me forever to learn that piece!”

“Ugh, I know,” groaned Franca, without even a glance my way.  “I’ll have to work on it a ton with my lesson teacher.”  I scowled.  Franca was constantly talking about how she took private lessons.  I’d asked my mother if I could take them once; she said it wasn’t worth the money, that it took too much time. 

“And the clarinet section this year is terrible,” pointed out Melanie.  “They’re never gonna be able to learn their parts.”

“If you thought they were bad, you should’ve heard the other trumpets on those high notes.  It’s terrible!  Robert and Andy can’t do anything right.” Franca glanced up at me, suddenly remembering I was there.  “Sorry Paula.  I…kind of forgot.”

I kept hearing that.  “Sorry Paula.”  Franca said it.  Melanie said it.  Ms. Melburn said it.  My mom said it.   And every time, all I wanted to do was stand up and shake them.  

Second semester began, and my new teacher assigned partners.  I was stuck with a kid I didn’t even know named Danny. 

“Or Daniel,” he said when we introduced ourselves, “it doesn’t really matter.  I have no preference.  So…Paula.  Are you any good at chemistry?”

I glared at him.  The kid was trying to make small talk, which I was not in the mood for.  “This is AP chem, Danny-Daniel.  If I wasn’t good at chemistry, why would I be in here?”

“I don’t know.  My brother only took it because it was an AP.  I thought maybe you had the same reasoning,” he shrugged and looked down.  The small talk was over.  Good.

Introducing ourselves was all we had to do right away; we would start on a lab tomorrow.  I made my way back to my desk.

“Wait,” said Daniel, “you didn’t tell me your name.”  I rolled my eyes, but he gave me a look that said he’d only keep asking until I told him.

“Paula,” I muttered, “Paula Peterman.”  I turned around in one swift motion and slumped down into my seat.

The next day we had to do an equilibrium lab, which, in the beginning phases, basically involved mixing things together, seeing what would happen and recording the results.  It wasn’t my favorite thing to do, but if we were busy working, I figured Danny would stick to chemistry things. 

“Hey Paula,” he greeted me when I got to our station.  He had already gotten started on cleaning the glassware.  “Whoever’s at this lab station is completely ignorant about how to clean up after.  I bet it’s some chem one students.”  He gave me a smile as though we were old friends or something; I responded with one that clearly told him I was not happy. 

We went through the lab in near silence with only quick little comments to decide what would go on our written report.  I usually kept things simple, with basic color descriptions.  Danny had this tendency to compare things.

“I want to remember exactly what shade it was.  You never know what he might quiz us on.”  I thought he was being ridiculous, but I had to admit I could remember the reactions a bit better.

The lab took three days to finish, so I had to spend a lot of time around Danny.  He’d kind of given up on talking to me; but even without words, I got to know him a bit better.

He was cute, I guess.  That’s a lie.  I don’t guess.  He was adorable.  He had sandy brown hair, smooth skin, and dark caramel eyes.  He was very smart; he never had to ask me how to do something or what a word meant, but he didn’t have that conceited air about him like some people do.  We worked silently, but on the third day, I was sick of the quiet.  The only problem was, I couldn’t think of what to say. 

We compared our responses when we finished, making sure we had been detailed enough.  We didn’t say anything to each other until the next lab.

It was a review lab on thermodynamics. We were supposed to test out chemicals and decide, knowing their costs per mole, which would make the most effective handwarmers.   I was surprised about how much I looked forward to it.  We sat down to start, and I glanced over at Danny’s silent self.  I mustered up all my courage, all my confidence…and couldn’t say anything but, “So, should we start?”

Danny surprised me over the next few days.  Wednesday he arrived with a chart, a paper full of roughly scribbled equations, and a head spinning with ideas.  We discussed things thoroughly, then even took some time to come up with a brand name and logo. 

I hadn’t colored in what felt like forever; I was filling in a tree when Danny said,   “Whoa, that’s the exact same color as the neck of my violin.”

His words made me glance up right away. 

“You…you play violin?” I asked.  

It must have surprised him that I spoke; he jerked his head toward me.  “Yeah, since…well, I dunno, around third grade.”  I think he could sense my interest, he asked, “Do you play anything?”

“Yeah,” I responded excitedly, “I play-” I could feel my excitement deflate.  He gave me an expecting look.  “I played.  I played the French horn.”

“Played?”

“Yeah.  I…I don’t right now.”

“Why not?”

“I have breathing problems,” I disclosed, “It’s too hard on my lungs.  It’s been almost three months.”

I can’t describe the look on his face.  Every time I told someone about my situation, a look of pity crossed their face, but his said something different.  It had real sadness in it.  It wasn’t just sorrow for me; he felt for a second what it would be like and all the horror flashed through his mind in a second. 

“I’m sorry, Paula.” 

I gave a weak little smile and we both turned back to the lab. 

We worked hard all week, helping each other and being civil.  There were no more conversations; neither of us was really quite sure what to say.

There weren’t any more labs for a little while, so Daniel and I didn’t really speak.  A few weeks later, though, we had an activity.  It was some molarity thing that we finished quickly.  Not quite sure how to pass the rest of class, we stayed by the lab station.  Daniel pulled out a paper with staff lines all over it.  He stared at it for a minute or two, added some notes to it, and then he stared at it some more. 

Finally, he sighed and turned to me.  “What do you think of this?” he asked.

I looked at the sheet.  “What is it?”

“You know that Solo Festival next month?  Well, I decided to write my own piece for it, but…I’m not sure what to do now,” he explained.

I looked over his sheet.  “This is all wrong,” I told him.  “These crescendos?  They won’t sound good there.  You should put them somewhere where the notes are moving up, it’ll sound better.  And that forte piano?  It’s in the middle of a melodious part, save it for a more energetic section.”  I gave him a few other tips, just basic things.  He looked deep in thought, scribbling in my suggestions. 

“You’re right,” he said, “that would sound better.”  I looked at the piece again and could hear every note in my head.  “I don’t know why I thought I could compose anything; I suck at it.”

“You don’t suck,” I encouraged, “I mean…you have a nice melody going for you.  The chords just sound a little…”

“Stupid?”

“No, just…they just sound like they could be better.”  I winced at my awful explanation.  I didn’t know how to balance honesty with kindness, so I just opted to sugarcoat it a bit.

“Ms. Melburn didn’t have any violin solos, so I told her I had one that I wrote myself, you know, trying to sound prepared and all, but then I…well, I actually had to write one. Do you think you could help me out a little?”

I looked over at him.  Help him write a piece for the solo festival?  He looked at me with genuine helplessness; he had dug himself a hole he couldn’t get out of.  I glanced at the sheet and to my surprise, real ideas were whizzing through my head.  I nodded and grabbed the paper, pointing out little things, phrase shaping, rhythms that could be improved and how to vary the melody so that it didn’t just repeat itself continuously.  

By the time class was over, the piece was dramatically changed.  

“It does look better,” Danny praised me. 

I smiled.  “Thanks.”

“Hey…why don’t you?” His face had the look of a scientist who, after years of hard work, has finally come up with a life altering theory. 

“Why don’t I what?” I asked.

“Why don’t you compose?  You’re good at it, like, really good.  And, I mean, you can’t play anything at the festival, but you could write for it.”  I gave him a look of disbelief.  He had to be kidding.  I didn’t know anything about composition.  I was just working off his melody; I’d never be able to actually think up one of my own.  It was ridiculous, yet the look on his face gave me confidence.

“I don’t know,” I said. “…I’ve never composed anything before…”

 “Are you kidding?  You just composed this.”  He waved the sheet.  “You made this out of my crappy melody in an hour.  Imagine what you could do with a month.”  He paused.  His eyes got somber, yet diligent.  “I’m serious, Paula.  You can still be a part of this.  I’ll play it for you, whatever you write.  I’ll perform it at the festival,” he said eagerly.  The wheels were turning in his head; he was making plans already. 

He does need a piece, I thought. Even with all the adjustment, his song still isn’t up to festival standards.  Although who says I could get to those standards?  His eyes were pleading with me.

“Fine,” I sighed.  “I guess I could write something.  But hang on to that one,” I said, gesturing at the paper, “in case I screw it up.”

“You won’t,” he smiled.

Writing a song doesn’t only take knowledge of music.  It’s kind of like writing a story.  Just because you know grammar doesn’t mean your story is going to be good.  You have to inject your own feeling into it, or it won’t have any effect on anyone.  I tried to write
something quick and light for Danny’s violin, but I just couldn’t.  It was kind of unfortunate; he was such a light person. 

My piece for him was worthy of a tragic opera.  Written in a minor key, to make sure it sounded melancholy, the piece had long, stringendo whole notes, falling glissandos and pianissimo.

There was only one loud part.  Right at the end, I changed the key into major and put in a slight allegro.  It wasn’t bright, it didn’t even go to fortissimo, but it got louder.  It grew, and it sounded all the more positive. 

I watched Daniel perform the piece at Solo Festival.  I sat through brass, percussion, and woodwinds, the knot in my stomach getting tighter as the string performances got closer.  I clenched my hands when he walked up to the stand.  Everyone was going to hear this thing.  What if they didn’t like it?  He caught my eye and smiled.  When he introduced the piece, he said that the composer wished to remain anonymous.  He played it with as much emotion as I would have.

It didn’t receive a standing ovation, but they clapped.  They clapped harder than for the other pieces, but their applause wasn’t what mattered to me. What mattered was what happened during the song itself.  When I sat there listening, I heard my life in the chords.  When I looked around, I saw the audience listening too.  They gazed intently at the stage, hearing every note that rang through the auditorium.  A few of them even looked genuinely sad.  They heard my weariness, they heard my tears, they heard everything I had to say.  They heard my heart when it splintered and they heard it begin to get stitched back together.

I smiled to myself.  I was still silent.  But now I could speak.