FedEx Ground

Lang pressed a palm to the wall just inside her hotel room door and leaned into it. She wobbled as she toed off her black kitten heels and pushed them out of the way with her foot. Across the room, Sebastián sat on the bed watching her with an amused smile.

“I should have worn flats,” she mumbled as she turned around to lock the deadbolt on the door. Turning around again, she caught sight of her husband’s goofy grin. “What?”

“You’re like one of those toys Anneke had when she was a baby. They’re kinda round and when you push them, they don’t fall over, they just kinda roll around.”

She let the hem of her black satin ballgown drag on the carpet as she crossed the room. “You think you’re funny,” she said, standing directly in front of him. She ran the tips of her fingers lightly through his dark hair.

“I have my moments,” he answered, smiling up at her. Bringing both hands up, he put them on her belly and sat in silence for a moment, just looking. Then he said, “Very different from last year, isn’t it?”

“I was a lot bigger this time last year,” she said.

“Don’t let yourself think like that, Lang.”

“Well, regardless, it’s—“

He cut her off with a shake of his head. “No,” he said gently, “I like the way your body looks. I don’t see it as this or that.” He dropped his hands and stood up.

“What were you thinking, then?” she asked, looking up at him.

“Last year,” he said softly, “we were saying our goodbyes.”

She met his eyes with her own, but didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to break the moment. Here they were, in their most formal attired, after the event of a lifetime, and she shared it with her best friend. She was bursting with pride and love just thinking about how far they have come in the last year. They’re stronger than ever.

She draped her arms over his shoulders and pressed her nose to his cheek. His arms slipped around her waist and he pulled her a little bit closer. “We have an entire night to ourselves,” she whispered, “no children.”

“Hm… you’re right.” He pressed a kiss to her throat. “I have my phenomenal wife all to myself for a change.”

“Thank you, Sebastián, for being here with me. I needed you and you came through for me,” she said.

“I’m not going to let you down again, Lang.”

She cast her eyes down, at his tuxedo and her dress, her heart stinging a little with his words. But she quickly brought her eyes back up to his and said, “Let’s just pretend, just for tonight, that everything is perfect and that I don’t have to worry about all the what-ifs that come along with your promises of never-ever. Tonight, there is nothing else in the world except you and me and our marriage.”

She pulled a hand down from his shoulder and ran it over her belly, adding, “Well, and this little one.”

He smiled and pressed a kiss to her lips. “Deal.”

“I want you to look at something,” Sebastián said.

“What?” Lang grumbled, looking up at him from where she sat on the edge of the uncomfortable hospital bed.

He pulled over the bedside table and slapped down an 8” x 10” enlarged photo of herself and her father standing in front of a snow-covered hedge. The girl in the photo wasn’t more than 15 or 16-years-old. The man looming behind her looked angry and even though the photo was grainy, it was easy to see he didn’t want to be there. His jaw was clenched and his hand gripped the girl’s shoulder in a way that made Sebastián uncomfortable.

Lang gave the photo a quick look before turning her face up to her husband again. “Where did you get that?” she asked.

“Buried in a box in your mother’s attic,” he answered.

“Yeah, well, you should have left it there.”
( Read more... )

[cross-posted to getyourwordsout]

“Have you taken advantage of the piano that’s out in the common room?”

“No.”

“And why is that?”

“Because that’s not what I’m here for. I can do that at home.”

“But you aren’t at home.”

“Your point?”

“I want you to try something today. When you have free time, I want you to sit at the piano and not play. I think you use the notes to cover everything up, the same way you use a razor blade.”

Lang stared down at the keyboard cover on the old upright grand piano. The finish had worn off in places. She wondered how many patients had sat just as she was. How many other broken humans had opened the cover and laid their fingers on the keys?

It was an older Yamaha, but she had been listening to another patient plunk out Chopsticks the other day and knew the piano had been maintained over the years. There was not a single note out of tune. It reminded her less of her old piano and more of the one in her high school’s band room. The one she learned to play on.

( Read more... )

[a/n: this could count as a verrrrrry late entry to the Halloween comment fic party on openveinwriting but it wasn't intended to be]

Lang shoved her hands into the pockets of her tuxedo pants as she watched the stage crew rearrange the stage for the second half of the concert. The giant pipe organ’s central console was pushed off one side and the rows of chairs for the cellos and violas were given breathing room in the now-free space.

On the other side, near where she stood, she watched the big, black grand piano being pushed out onto the stage. It was such a commanding instrument and took up so much space on the floor. She felt in the way, like she was imposing on people. But it wasn’t like it was a cello or a violin. She couldn’t move it even if she wanted to.

She reached behind her head and pulled her hair around, over her left shoulder, letting the curls cascade over her chest. Her eyes turned toward what little of the audience seating she could see. Most of the patrons had filed out into the lobby for intermission but a few remained in their seats, chatting quietly or reading the programs. She had watched the first half of the concert from the audience side and knew it wasn’t a full house.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Hm?” Lang turned and saw her friend Keiko standing at her side. She hadn’t noticed the younger woman come up. “Oh.” She turned her attention back to the piano. “I was just thinking.”

“I noticed,” Keiko said, tucking her violin under her elbow. “Are you going to tell me what about?”

“What I’m going to do when this is over,” Lang answered.

Keiko cocked an eyebrow and deadpanned, “Most of us go home.”

Lang smiled. “No, I mean in the spring,” she said, shaking her head.

“I hope you realize there are a lot of people who want you to stay, Lang. Yannick being one of them.”

Lang looked beyond her friend’s shoulder to the man in question. Every so often, she could hear his voice or the sound of his bright laughter as he chatted with other members of the orchestra. He was their conductor and music director, but more than that, he’d become a friend and an advocate for everyone.

“Have you thought about just taking a leave of absence?” Keiko continued.

“No, I haven’t,” Lang answered, bringing her eyes back to her friend.

“Nobody figured you had, to be honest. And you should. You don’t need to leave outright. Have that baby, recuperate, do your rock thing. Then come back to us.”

Lang shoved her hands back in her pockets and stared at her shoes. She could almost make out her reflection in the black patent. “We both know I don’t really belong here, Keiko. I have a fake music degree—.”

“And half of us had heard of you before you even got here. Most of us don’t have the name recognition you have. You may have gotten here in an unconventional way, but that doesn’t make you any less deserving. And fuck, can you play. I can see it in your eyes, Lang, this is home to you.”

Lang stared at the old piano. Her arms were crossed over her chest defensively as if the piece of furniture had said something offensively insulting. In actuality, the piano hadn't spoken in months. And now, it couldn't speak.

She unfolded her arms and leaned over the keyboard, playing a riff from the first sonata that came to mind. Immediately, she was met with several dead keys and in frustration, smashed her fists on the keyboard. Those dead ones remained silent, almost like they were mocking her.

Pulling the bench out, she sat. In a lot of ways, this piano was the manifestation of her life. Worn, beat up. And now partially silenced. She walked her fingers along the keys, mentally keeping track of each one that didn't play. Her husband had made it seem like it was only a few notes, but as she reached the bass keys, she realized it was a significant number.

Lang bit the inside of her lip. Her pulse picked up.

She felt like her hands were tied.

This piano needed to be replaced. But she didn't really need to replace it with something as expensive as a Victorian-era Steinway. Or a Steinway at all.

Did she really feel so badly about herself as to think she's unworthy of a quality instrument? The voice in the back of her mind, the one she's constantly fighting against and gaining no ground, insisted she could get by with an instrument that doesn't meet professional standards.


Self-sabotage is passive-aggressive. She’s admitted and accepted she doesn’t want to play with the orchestra. Making do with a substandard piano would ensure the opportunity with the New York Philharmonic never comes to be. Or any other opportunities, for that matter.

She wants to tour. That bug got under her skin and she needs it. She needs the energy and the excitement and the ability to share her music with so many different people in so many different places.

But no, she had been talked into walking away from that life. She’d agreed to a temporary separation, but she knew that wasn’t the case. Deep down, she knew it was permanent.

She’d been bound to this piano for her own good. Handled with kid gloves and shackled up like someone deemed mentally incompetent. What made this better than the other? Who were they to make that decision for her?

It hurt, ached in her chest like a red hot clamp squeezing her heart and lungs.

Walking away from something that had been as much a part of her life as pianos had been felt like deciding to remove her left arm when the alternative was to remove the right.

Except she didn’t need the orchestra to survive.

She needed the piano and she needed the band. That’s all she’d ever needed.

And now she had neither.

Slow tears rolled down her cheeks and she grit her teeth. She wanted to rage against everything. Because it didn’t matter how many circles she went in or which direction she started out going, she always arrived back at needing to replace this old instrument.

New songs were born here. Melodies were sussed out of poetry. Until it had been silenced by weather and age and poor craftsmanship.

She felt like it deserved some of the blame. If only they hadn’t bought a cheap piano. If only it hadn’t broken. She felt like the only way she could justify getting a new one was to stay in job she didn’t want.

Her heart beat in her chest, rapid thumps against her ribs. She needed a release, a way to let the frustration and anger out. In the past, her first instinct would have been to take a razor blade to the flesh of her thigh and bleed out the agony.

But as she’d grown up, she’d learned to trade the razor for a pen and her skin for a pad of paper. She’d string words together, anything that came to mind, and then the notes followed quickly, one after another. She could hear all the parts in her head, the strings and the bass and of course the melody which flowed from her fingers and sung with the voice of her piano.

Lang swiped at a tear hanging from her nose and laid her fingers on the keys. She forgot, for a moment, about the broken keys. She played the first few bars of a song from the band’s unfinished album. Almost immediately, she ran up against those broken keys like a brick wall.

Quickly, she stood up, tipping the bench over as she moved, and as if on autopilot, she went to a hall closet. Buried in a dark corner amongst the winter coats and umbrellas was an old metal baseball bat from her days on a softball team.

She wrapped her shaky fingers around the neck of the bat and gripped it firmly. Her pulse raced. Her legs felt weak, like she might drop to the floor, but she returned to the piano. She blinked, clearing the tears out of her eyes, and with a scream from deep in her belly, took a swing. The bat connected with the front leg, sending it flying across the room. Wood splinters flew like confetti.

Lang adjusted her grip and adjusted her stance before taking another swing. The bat connected with the other leg, sending it in a shower of splinters to the other side of the room, tumbling end-over-end. It came to rest not far from the first.

Without pausing, she took aim at the front of the cabinet. The tears were making it difficult to see her target, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t care. She swung the bat again and again, screaming and crying each time the bat made contact.

Suddenly the front panel fell off, exposing the pin block, the root of all her problems. It was amazing how one piece of wood made so many keys useless. Just the sight of guts of the piano was enough to stoke the fire in her heart. She was just as damaged, never good enough.

Lang again adjusted her grip and started bringing the bat down on the keyboard. She could hear each dying note as she smashed the cheap plastic keys. The keys shattered with each blow, easily leaving the keybed and landing scattered across each other like black and white pickup sticks.

Another smash and another and another. She couldn’t catch her breath. With the next smash, the keybed let go on one end and hung at a slight downward angle, but it was enough to bring the destruction into focus. The bat fell to the wood floor with a clank-clank and rolled away.

Her heart was racing and she still couldn’t catch her breath. Lang pressed a hand to her chest and sank to the floor, defeated and crying. The more she tried to fill her lungs with air, the harder it got. Maybe it was time to call someone.