Aria

I moved the piano bench back a little, sat down, and decided it had probably been fine where it was.

Mom waved from the third row. Dad sat beside her with his phone raised, and I hoped he’d remembered to turn the sound off this time. I smiled at them before looking down at the keys.

The piano felt different from my keyboard at home. The keys were heavier, and the first few notes came out softer than I’d intended, but I adjusted as I went. By the end of the opening, my hands had settled into it.

I’d practiced the whole piece enough times that I didn’t need to think much about what came next. At home, I usually kept the volume on my keyboard low. Even from my room, I always felt like I was bothering everyone if they could hear me playing.

Mom hated when I turned it down. She always noticed anyway and told me to turn it back up because she liked listening.

Now she was listening from the third row.

I let my hands keep moving.

My foot shifted on the pedal. Somewhere beyond the piano, a program rustled, but I kept my eyes on my hands. The next phrase went well. So did the one after it.

Is my heart beating fast?

I kept playing while I tried to feel whether it was. That seemed to make it more noticeable. I could feel it high in my chest, almost in my throat, and it didn’t settle when I took a breath.

Maybe I was just nervous.

Heat crept up beneath my collar. The lights above the piano suddenly felt much warmer than they had a minute ago.

Has it been this hot the whole time?

I wanted to pull at the front of my dress, but both hands were busy. There wasn’t a good place to stop yet. I could get to the end of this section, let the last chord ring, and take a second then.

A tight, unpleasant feeling started in my stomach. I pressed my knees together beneath the bench. Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten before we came. I hadn’t eaten much, though. Had that been the problem?

My right hand missed a note.

I knew where I was supposed to go next, but I was paying more attention to my breathing now. Each breath seemed to stop before I’d finished taking it. I tried drawing in a bigger one and caught the wrong keys with two fingers.

The sound made me look up. Rows of people faced the stage. Nobody was doing anything unusual, but I suddenly couldn’t look at them without thinking about how far away the door was.

What if I’m going to be sick?

I tried to find Mom. The lights made it hard to see past the first few rows, and looking up had made my head feel strange. When I turned back, the keys seemed farther from me than they should have been.

My hands were still moving. I couldn’t work out how.

Then my left hand stopped, and my right followed it. The last notes lingered until I lifted my foot from the pedal.

I needed a second. I could start again if everyone would just wait a second.

Except my fingers were shaking now, and the feeling in my chest was getting worse. I tried to swallow. My mouth had gone dry.

“Sorry,” I said, so quietly I doubted anyone heard.

I put my hands back in position. The keys wouldn’t stay clear. I blinked, leaned closer, and stared at my fingers while their edges blurred against the white.

What’s happening to me?

That was a little over a year ago.

Now my hands rested in my lap, half hidden by the sleeves of my pink pajamas.

I’d never finished the piece. Mom had come up to the stage and helped me off while I tried to explain that something was wrong with me. I knew what to call it now. A panic attack. At the time, I’d been sure I was about to collapse.

At first, I stopped doing recitals. That seemed reasonable enough. I could still play at home, and nobody was going to make me sit on another stage.

Then I started worrying about being far from the house. A long drive meant a long drive back if something happened. Sitting in traffic meant waiting until the cars moved, whether I could breathe properly or not. I began asking where we were going and how long we’d be there before deciding whether to come.

Usually, I decided not to.

School got harder too. I watched the clock in class, wondering whether I could make it until the bell. The bus felt worse because I couldn’t ask it to turn around. Eventually, I stopped going altogether.

It wasn’t that I thought the bus or the classroom would hurt me. I was afraid that feeling would start again and I’d be stuck there with it. I’d have to explain why I needed to leave, or wait for someone to come get me, while everyone watched me struggle with something I couldn’t even explain to myself.

My room was where I wanted to be whenever that happened. The farther away it was, the harder it became to think about anything except getting back to it.

After a while, even downstairs felt farther than I wanted to go.

I still felt panicky in here sometimes. But I could lie down, shut the door, and wait without anybody looking at me. I didn’t have to figure out how to get home. I was already there.

A knock came at the door.

“Aria? You awake?”

“Yeah.”

“I made you a sandwich. Ham and cheese.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“I’ll leave it here.”

A plate touched the floor outside. I listened to Mom’s footsteps move toward the stairs before getting off the bed.

The mirror beside my dresser caught me on the way. My pale-green hair had flattened on one side and stuck out on the other. I was seventeen, short and thin, wearing pajamas that made it look as though I hadn’t quite finished growing into them.

I hadn’t bothered getting dressed. There wasn’t much reason to.

The door was about six feet from my bed. Beyond it were an empty hallway, some family pictures, the bathroom, and a sandwich. I knew that before I got there.

My hand still stopped on the knob.

I listened until I was sure Mom had reached the kitchen, then opened the door just enough to look out. The plate sat beside the frame. I crouched, picked it up, and slipped back inside before closing the door with my heel.

Only then did my shoulders loosen.

I’d successfully retrieved lunch from six feet away.

Huge day for me.

Mom had cut the sandwich into triangles. I hadn’t asked her to do that since I was little, but apparently she’d decided it was permanent.

I sat on the bed and started eating. Voices drifted up from downstairs while I was halfway through the first piece. Dad said something I couldn’t make out, followed by Mom, much clearer.

“Not so loud.”

“I’m not trying to start anything. I just don’t see how this is getting better.”

“Then lower your voice.”

A chair scraped across the kitchen floor. I stopped chewing.

“It’s been over a year,” Dad said. “She barely comes down here anymore.”

“You can go and see her.”

“I do. I ask how she’s doing, she says she’s fine, and then I stand there until I can think of something else to ask.”

Mom’s answer was too quiet to catch.

“I know she’s not fine. That’s what I’m saying.”

I should have put my headphones on. They were right beside me on the bed, but I left them there.

For a while, I heard nothing except the kitchen tap running. Then it stopped.

“I just want my daughter back,” Dad said.

“You have her.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. I miss eating together too. I miss a lot of things.” Mom paused. “But she’s still Aria. Don’t talk about her like she isn’t.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“That’s what it sounds like.”

Dad didn’t answer immediately. When he did, he sounded tired.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore.”

“I don’t have some magic answer either. I’m just trying.”

His keys jingled. “I have to go. I’ll be back before dinner.”

Mom said something else as the front door opened, but I couldn’t hear it. Then the door shut, and the house went quiet.

I’d crushed one corner of the sandwich between my fingers.

I want my daughter back.

I knew who he meant. I used to complain when he interrupted my piano practice, even though I’d been waiting for an excuse to stop. Sometimes he’d sit on the end of my bed and ask me to play something he knew. I’d tell him I wasn’t taking requests, then try to remember one anyway.

Now, when he came to my room, most of what I could think about was how worried he looked.

I missed talking to him without having to explain how I was doing.

The keyboard stood beside my desk, with dust between the keys. I looked at it until my eyes started burning, then set the plate down and wiped my face with my sleeve.

I didn’t finish the sandwich.

Maybe half an hour later, Mom knocked again.

“I’m going to shoot a few arrows out back. Will you come sit with me for a bit?”

I looked toward the window. From there, I could see most of the yard, including the target Mom kept in front of the earth bank at the far end. I’d watched her practice from up here plenty of times.

“You don’t have to shoot,” she added. “I just thought we could spend a little time together.”

I wanted that. I wanted to sit beside her and hear about something that had nothing to do with how I was feeling. Maybe she’d complain about Dad leaving dishes in the sink, or tell me about a show she’d been watching.

The thought of actually going downstairs still made my hands tighten around my sleeves.

“I… I want to.”

“Then come down and see how you feel. We don’t have to decide anything else yet.”

My eyes went to the photo near my desk. Mom at nationals, with a bow in one hand and a medal hanging around her neck. She couldn’t have been much older than me in it. She was smiling so hard her eyes were almost closed.

I’d been meaning to ask her about that day. There were plenty of things I’d been meaning to do.

“What if I need to come straight back?”

“Then you can. I’ll still be glad you came down.”

I rubbed my palms against my pajama bottoms. She wasn’t asking me to get in a car or go anywhere unfamiliar. Just downstairs, and maybe through the back door.

I wished knowing that made it easier.

“I’ll… get dressed.”

“Okay, sweetheart. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

I waited until her footsteps moved away before putting my face in my hands. Part of me was already trying to find a reason to call her back.

I didn’t want to spend another afternoon listening to her through the window.

Black gym shorts, a T-shirt, then my oversized black hoodie, even though it was too warm outside for it. I put on socks and shoes, then spent a few minutes brushing my hair until most of it stayed where I put it. My hands kept slowing down whenever I thought about what came after getting dressed.

When there wasn’t anything left to fix, I opened the door.

I went to the stairs and wrapped one hand around the railing. I could hear Mom moving around in the kitchen, but I couldn’t see her yet.

I could see the carpet beneath my feet. I knew exactly how many steps there were.

Still, I stood braced against the railing as though something was trying to push me back. Just lifting my foot took effort.

In my head, the staircase narrowed to a path cut into the side of a mountain. Wind drove snow across it, hiding the next place to put my foot. The railing became a frozen post beneath my hand, slick enough that I couldn’t trust my grip. There was barely room for my feet, and beyond the edge, nothing I could see through the storm.

I leaned into the wind and made myself take the step.

My foot came down on carpet.

I was one stair lower than I’d been before. Somewhere downstairs, Mom closed a cupboard.

I eased my grip.

One stair. That’s all.

The image didn’t leave all at once. I stopped twice on the way down, waiting until I could make my foot move before trying again.

Mom looked up when I appeared in the kitchen doorway. An open bow case lay on the table in front of her.

“Hey. Come sit with me while I finish getting this ready.”

I took the chair nearest the doorway. She put a glass of water beside me and went back to the case. For a while, I watched her fit the pieces of her bow together, grateful that I didn’t have to do anything else yet.

Then she reached for a little box on the counter.

“I found something the other day. Thought you might like it.”

She held out a bracelet made from thin strands of braided silver, with a dark-red bead set into the middle. One side of the braid pulled tighter than the other.

I took it and turned it over in my palm.

“You made this?”

“Yep. When I was about your age. I used to wear it before competitions.”

“Why?”

“Gave me something to mess with while I waited, I guess. Better than picking at my fingernails.”

I rubbed my thumb across the bead. It was smooth and cool.

“You don’t want to keep it?”

“I haven’t worn it in years.”

I looked up at her. That didn’t quite answer what I’d asked.

Mom smiled. “I want you to have it.”

I held out my left wrist, and she fastened the bracelet around it. The bead settled just below my palm.

She studied it, then slowly lifted both hands and curled her fingers toward me.

“Be careful, Aria.”

I looked between her hands and her face.

“The poweeer,” she said in a low, dramatic voice. “That thing’s magical, ya know.”

A smile slipped out before I could hide it.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“You’re welcome.”

She put the empty box aside and finished getting the bows ready while I drank some of the water.

Mom opened the back door and carried the bows and arrows outside, then came back for the case. I got up to follow her.

A garden chair stood beside the back step, with another against the wall a little farther along. Beyond them was the patch of paving where she normally stood to shoot.

I stopped inside the doorway.

The yard hadn’t changed. The target was where it had always been. Our fence still needed painting. I could see the corner of my bedroom window above me if I leaned forward a little.

My stomach tightened anyway.

Mom put the case beside the bows and came back. She waited beside the chair rather than reaching for me.

“Just come sit for a minute,” she said. “I’ll stay right here.”

I looked behind me, toward the hallway. I could go back upstairs, change into my pajamas, and stop trying to do this.

“Could you… leave the door open?”

“Of course.”

She moved it all the way back and set the doorstop against it.

I kept one hand on the frame as I stepped outside, then sat before I could change my mind. Mom brought the other chair over and sat beside me.

For a while, I watched the open doorway. My heart was still beating too fast, and I kept rubbing the bead beneath my thumb.

“Sorry,” I whispered.

“What for?”

“Taking so long.”

Mom glanced toward the target. “I’m not in a hurry.”

She stayed beside me until I finally looked away from the door.

“Are you… going to shoot?”

“Sure. You okay here?”

I nodded. She got up, picked up her bow, and moved to her usual spot a few steps away.

I watched her raise the bow. She held it steady, drew the string back, and let the arrow go. It landed near the middle of the target. She studied the target, then reached for another.

I’d seen her do that through the window so often. Down here, I could follow her fingers as she drew, trying to see exactly when she let go of the string. By the next shot, I was leaning forward in my chair.

“Is it hard?”

“Getting them all in the same place? Very.” She lowered the bow and looked at me. “Getting started isn’t so bad.”

I glanced at the smaller bow beside the case. Mom had brought it out without asking me to use it.

I wanted to know what it felt like to shoot one myself. Just once. I could try holding the bow first, and sit back down if it was too much.

“Could I… try?”

“Of course.”

She set her bow beside the case and came over to help me with an arm guard and a little leather tab for my fingers. When I was ready, I got up and followed her to the spot where she’d been standing.

My hands weren’t very steady. Mom handed me the smaller bow and waited while I settled my feet, then showed me how to hold it and draw it without an arrow, easing the string forward afterward.

“Like that. You don’t have to rush.”

She let me try a few times before helping me nock an arrow.

I glanced back at the open door once more, then raised the bow toward the target.

I pulled the string back, but my fingers slipped before I’d drawn it far enough. The arrow lurched through the air and stuck into the grass a few feet in front of us.

We both stared at it.

A small, embarrassed laugh escaped me. Mom looked over, and the corner of her mouth lifted.

“At least it went forward.”

I laughed again, covering my mouth with my sleeve. It hadn’t even made it halfway.

“Here,” she said. “Let’s try that draw again.”

She stayed beside me while I practiced the movement. On the next shot, the arrow made it all the way to the target and caught its lower edge.

I kept looking at it after I’d lowered the bow.

“That counts, right?”

“It absolutely counts.”

I smiled down at the bow. My hands were still trembling a little, but I’d put that arrow there.

Mom held out her hand for the bow.

“Want to sit for a bit?”

I gave it to her, then looked back at the target.

“Could we do another after?”

“Sure. I’ll go get those first.”

She laid the bow beside hers while I took off the arm guard and finger tab. I left them on the open case and turned toward my chair.

The paving seemed to tilt beneath me.

For a second, I thought I’d moved too quickly.

Oh. Please, not now.

I reached for the chair back and missed it.

My balance went with it. I dropped hard onto one knee and caught myself with my hand against the paving. The scrape across my palm stung immediately.

“Mom?”

She turned before she’d stepped onto the grass and hurried back toward me.

“What’s wrong?”

“I feel…”

I didn’t know how to finish. My head felt strange, but the sick feeling I expected didn’t come with it. Neither did the sudden need to get inside.

This doesn’t feel like a panic attack.

Mom knelt beside me.

“Stay there, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

I tried to sit back, but I couldn’t seem to hold myself up. She eased me onto my back with an arm beneath my shoulders.

“Can you hear me? Aria, look at me.”

I could hear her. I just couldn’t make answering as easy as it should have been.

My left hand rested against my chest.

My heart isn’t beating fast.

Actually… I couldn’t feel it at all.

I waited for the thought to frighten me. Instead, the tightness that had been there since I left my room was gone. My fingers loosened against my hoodie.

Mom reached into her pocket with her free hand. A moment later, her phone was on the paving with the speaker on, and she was telling someone that her daughter had collapsed.

Her voice sounded scared. I wanted to tell her I was still here.

“Mom…”

“I’m here, sweetheart. Just keep looking at me.”

I tried. Her face stayed clear for a few seconds, then softened again. Beyond her, I could see my bedroom window.

I’d been sitting up there earlier, listening to her through the door. Now I was outside with her. I hoped she wouldn’t think she’d pushed me too hard.

I’d wanted to come. I wanted to stay a little longer.

My hand slipped from my chest, and Mom caught it. The bracelet shifted between our fingers, pressing the bead against my wrist.

It was warm.

I looked down as the warmth spread into my hand, then farther up my arm. The bead had been cool while I sat beside the door. It shouldn’t have felt like this.

“Aria? Honey, can you squeeze my hand?”

I tried, but I couldn’t tell whether my fingers moved.

The warmth kept spreading. Even the sting in my palm had faded. Mom was holding me, and for some reason I wasn’t afraid, even though I knew something was wrong.

“Keep your eyes open for me.”

Just a second, Mom. I’m trying.

I wanted to tell her we could shoot again tomorrow, that she should leave the smaller bow out for me.

My eyes closed before I could say it.

In the darkness, something pulsed crimson.

Once, faint and distant. Then again.

Mom called my name, and I tried to hold on to the sound until I couldn’t anymore.

Then everything went quiet.