“You wouldn’t have been happier playing guitar?”
“I didn’t let it bother me. I figured Dale called dibs, it was his instrument, so be it.” She attacked the wall with her paint roller, a new vigor filling her. “Ever since Dale died—these last two leaps, at least—I thought it would be betraying his memory to take it up. Like I was saying, Oh good, now that you’re dead, I can do this thing I’ve always wanted to do.”
“But if he held you back from something you were so passionate about, maybe he was the one betraying you.”
Madeleine’s words were featherlight but detonated within Oona, sending her reeling forward. Palm to wall she caught herself as the epiphany ricocheted through her. While she’d held their love story as epic in her heart, part of her had been pretending with Dale, too.
She might be decades late, but at least there was one charade she could resolve.
When she finished helping her mother, on her way home, she picked up a copy of The Village Voice. Oona flipped through the back pages, checking the ads, until one caught her eye:
GUITAR LESSONS
ALL SKILL LEVELS
Reasonable Rates
Ask For Peter
16
How do I know this is the right Peter?
The question orbited Oona’s thoughts as she made her way down Seventh Avenue and crossed Flatbush into Prospect Heights.
Since the start of her leap, she’d wondered about this second name the woman on the subway had mentioned. Maybe 2003 Oona hadn’t wanted to spoil the surprise of taking up the guitar, but changed her mind at the last minute in order to reunite her with her music teacher. Except this Peter hadn’t recognized her name over the phone when she set up the appointment. Would he recognize her in person?
Either way, the ad in The Village Voice had to be a sign.
Her hands were slick with sweat, and the guitar case nearly slipped out of her hand as she approached a beige row house. A few steps down to the garden level and she faced his apartment door.
“Are you Oona?” a male voice called out behind her.
She turned as an Asian man in black jeans and a leather jacket approached. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, and his hair, which was overdue for a cut, flopped across his forehead.
“Sorry I’m late, subways were a mess. Hope you haven’t been waiting long. I’m Peter.”
Though he showed no recognition as they shook hands, she was immediately drawn to him. Yes, he was attractive, his frame long and lean, his mouth full and faintly smiling, his eyes kind. And yes, there was the leather jacket. (Just like Dale’s. Just like mine.) But it was more than that.
When she stepped into his living room, the first image that greeted her was a giant poster of a yellow banana on a white background: Andy Warhol’s Velvet Underground album cover. And when Peter took off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his sweater, along his forearm was a tattoo, a vertical row of glyphs Oona couldn’t decipher.
“It’s Korean,” he said, noting her curious stare. “It means ‘everything has its time.’”
The hair on her arms stood on end, and she knew. An unresolved puzzle in her life had been decrypted.
This had to be the right Peter.
That first lesson, when he put his elegant, tapered fingers over hers to demonstrate correct positioning, something within her began to glow. And when she played a series of chords that added up to an actual song—Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin’”—her veins surged with a brand-new high. Inspiration and creative satisfaction were tinder, igniting dormant desire.
From then on, her days took on a new brightness and ease.
“Your strumming patterns are getting better.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
Oona didn’t mean to flirt with Peter, but it came naturally to her, just as learning the guitar did. Not that it was easy. At first she struggled to pluck out a single note correctly, then a scale, then open chords. In the first few weeks, more than fifteen minutes of playing left her hands aching. Sometimes she played through the pain; other times she had to set the guitar aside. But the better she got, the more she wanted to play, and the more she looked forward to her twice-weekly lessons. By early February, her passion for the instrument verged on obsessive.
“You must be practicing a lot,” he said halfway through their lesson.
“Hours every day. I keep picks around everywhere and leave the guitar out, like you suggested.”
“I wish my other students had your level of dedication.”
“But then I wouldn’t be your favorite student.”
“That’s true. How are the hands feeling?”
“Okay, but my wrist is a little sore.”
“You’re bending it too much.” He massaged it with his thumbs, pressing into the upper bulb of her hourglass tattoo.
It wouldn’t be fair to Edward. A persistent, pragmatic mantra. After the debacle with Crosby, a determination to keep libidinous impulses in check. She told herself it was displaced affection, like a patient falling for her lifesaving doctor. The guitar was her compass and light. The routine of practicing, the sense of purpose, the normalcy of it—all were tonics. As was the promised continuity. Regardless of her age or the year, she could play for the rest of her life. Given such a gift, naturally she’d feel a kinship with the man who gave it to her.
No, this is a gift I gave myself.
Peter knew she was married, though Oona wore her wedding ring only to the first lesson, found playing without it more comfortable.
“Let’s take a five-minute break.”
“Sounds good.” She set the guitar down and turned to face him on his lime-colored retro-space-age sofa. His entire living room was decorated in a sixties vision of the future—boxy furniture with curved edges in soft blues and greens.
Oona always looked forward to these breaks. “What song completely out of my skill range are you gonna play today?”
“Let’s see if you recognize this one.” Picking up his own guitar, he launched into a jangly melody, upbeat on its surface, with a melancholy thread running beneath it.
“The Smiths, ‘Girl Afraid,’” she said when he finished. “God, I wish I could play something that advanced.”
“Keep going at the rate you’re going, and one day you will.”
A teasing grin. “Funny, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Smiths fan.”
He chuckled. “Why’s that?”
“Because you laugh and smile too much to be a Smiths fan.”
“The Smiths got many teenagers on this planet—myself included—through some tough times. And Johnny Marr is my personal music hero. My Lou Reed, you could say,” he added with a wink.
“Why are you wasting your time teaching beginners like me, anyway? How are you not out there playing with your own band instead?” Was she leaning in too much?
“I tried, but could never get over my stage fright. Can’t play in front of more than a dozen people without getting paralyzed.” A kaleidoscope of emotions played across his eyes: frustration, disappointment, resignation. “But I’ve been lucky to get steady session gigs and to make a living doing this.” He motioned to the space between them. “Which, for the record, is not a waste of time. It’s a privilege. What about you? What made you take up the guitar?”