Prologue
It hadn't started out as a memorable day, as so many truly memorable days are wont to do. In fact, the sky had been rather gray and murky, a sky that didn't promise rain, but certainly ruled out sunlight. It wasn't a sky that Erin Benson was unused to seeing. In the small town of Heathrow, Rhode Island, the very place where Erin was born, overcast skies were certainly not an unusual occurrence.
She was eight years old, currently on summer vacation, and currently quite bored. All of her sisters were still asleep, and the treads of her tiny, bare feet on the linoleum floor of the hallway made a soft pattering noise as she ambled about. She was careful to be quiet. They always had to be quiet ever since the day their mother had come home looking gray and dried up. In fact, Erin couldn't help but see the resemblance between her mother and her old goldfish Figaro, the one who had managed to jump out of his bowl while she was sleeping, leaving Erin to find him the next morning shriveled and white, with a murky film over his eyes.
She wasn't quite sure what she was looking for, as children never are. The quiet of the house was almost unbearable and even then she wanted to shatter it. What she really wanted, even though she didn't know it, was an escape.
It was as though someone had read her small little mind, as sounds of barely audible tinkering notes filled the air, and like delicate wasps, the sounds buzzed in her ears. She quickly stopped her movements, intrigued and a bit afraid all at the same time. Certainly she was the only one of her sisters up. And her father certainly wouldn't be making that noise. And her mother would be resting. Yet a distinct noise was coming from the living room. It was a noise, a melody, that she had heard before but it was so long ago that she had a hard time truly understanding it. Still she was drawn to it, and like a moth to a flame, followed the noise.
Her ears led her to the living room, a rather spacious room with a TV that hadn't been used in months, and two comfortable leather couches. On the other side of the room, a grand piano was pushed up against the wall.
Her mother sat there primly, her back as straight as rod, in her pink bathrobe, as her fingers flowed seemingly like water over the tinkling keys. Erin watched breathless for a moment, shivering in her thin nightgown, even though it was June and she wasn't the least bit cold. The notes were a mix of light and dark, mingling into some gray area that mesmerized her. It had been so long since any music was played in their home, even longer since she had seen her mother play.
And even though Erin stood stock still and remained silent so as not to disturb the magic of the moment, her mother stopped playing and turned around, meeting her eyes.
Her mother's eyes were a deep brown, and in them was a sort of freedom that Erin couldn't understand at that moment. Her mother smiled down at her, which Erin wished she that wouldn't because it only made her look more like Figaro, with his misty eyes and crusty, open mouth.
"Good morning darling. You are up early," her mother said kindly, with an inquiring tone.
"And you are up," Erin replied, taking a step closer, although quite cautiously.
Her mother gave a weak smile. "I'm feeling better today."
Erin gave her a doubtful look, mostly because her mother certainly didn't look any better. Her mother seemed to notice because her smile became wider, and she let out a small laugh.
"Erin, would you like to sit with me while I play?"
It was the simplest of questions, yet Erin felt more joy in hearing it than she had in months, ever since her mother had first started feeling too tired to even move.
Erin nodded and approached the bench eagerly, as her mother scooted over to make room for Erin's small little body. She plopped down, and folded her hands in her lap, ready for her mother to release a little bit of the magic she had seen before.
Her mother's fingers were delicate and long, so much so that Erin had a hard time comparing them to anything else. They were pale, but smooth. They were the only thing about her mother that hadn't changed and grown ugly; they were the only thing that separated her mother from Figaro.
She hit the white keys, and then the small black ones so rapidly, the sounds gurgling out. Erin watched and listened in amazement as silence was transcended and transformed into something else, just by her mother's beautiful fingers. They could change things, make things happen.
Her mother finished her song. She looked to Erin again. "Would you like to play?"
Erin could hardly contain herself as nodded and extended her own fingers to touch the keys. She hit one; the sound was brutal and dark, forceful. It seemed to Erin that it was saying 'I am angry!'
She hit another further down. It was light, floating, without a care in the word. It seemed to say "I am a smile."
And as though her mother knew exactly what was going on in her little head, she asked, "The notes sort of speak to you don't they?"
"Yea, they do," Erin responded with a small grin.
"What does this say?" Her mother said as she pressed a note right in the middle.
The sound was pleasant and bright, leaving a joyfulness resounding in Erin's ears.
"It's like the sun. It's says it's sunny," Erin said quickly, and then felt a bit afraid at answering so fast. She hoped she wasn't wrong, because she desperately didn't want to upset her mother.
Her mother gave a reassuring smile. "I've never thought of the sun before, but you know, I think you are right."
Erin beamed.
"Would you like me to teach you a little song?" Her mother then asked.
"You mean play like you did?" Erin asked incredulously.
"Of course."
Erin looked down to her own fingers. They were quite stubby, not elegant like her mothers. She was quite positive that she would never be able to make the magic that her mother had. Certainly the piano wouldn't sound like that for her.
"You have beautiful hands. You can play just as well as me if you learn and practice," her mother said simply.
"What song will you teach me?"
"How about we do a duet? We can play together."
Erin liked this idea, and went about devouring every shred of direction that her mother gave her, right down to the name of each key, which were all letters. "Can we name them after how they sound instead?" Erin asked suddenly.
Her mother's soft smile returned. "Yes, I suppose we can."
Learning for Erin was quite easy after that, and she learned her simple part of the duet quickly.
They sat there playing their simple tinkling duet, until the sun rose high into the sky, and the other girls started stirring in their beds and making their way down the stairs for breakfast.
The other three girls entered the room, all so pleased to see their mother up, their pale faces beaming. She got up and made them breakfast like she had before, all while under the watchful stare of her husband. "Don't overdo it, Mel," he said, frowning as she flipped blueberry pancakes, much to the delight of all five of her daughters.
But Erin's father's warning was ignored.
Her mother not only made breakfast, but read to them all and played with them for a bit too. And all of the girls wondered if everything was alright now, if everything was going to go back to the way it had been before she had gotten sick. And just before their mother took a nap, she pulled Erin away and gave her a thin book.
"This is for you. They are my songs, and there are even a few empty pages for you to put your own songs."
Erin smiled up at her mother and embraced her with abandonment like she hadn't done in a while since she had been so afraid of hurting her. Her mother held her tightly and kissed her forehead.
"You never forget what those notes say to you, my little Erin. Someday, they will free you."
And although Erin didn't quite understand what her mother meant, she nodded. Her mother gave her another kiss, and went upstairs to sleep.
The next morning dawned gray again and such was a fitting setting. It was the day in which Erin's mother, the great pianist Melanie Benson, drew her last breath, and left her husband alone to care for five young, heartbroken girls, all under the age of eight.