The Color of Sound by Emily Barth Isler

Author:Emily Barth Isler [Barth Isler, Emily]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction - Middle Grade, Fiction, Middle-Grade Fiction, Middle-Grade Novel, Middle-Grade Novels, novel, Novels, synesthesia, music, violin, Holocaust, magic, time travel, family saga, friendship, senses, family secrets, alternate universes, Alzheimer's, memory, generational trauma, improv, contemporary
ISBN: 9798765612033
Publisher: Lerner Publishing Group
Published: 2024-03-05T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

obbligato: part of a piece of music that should not be left out or ignored

Dad arrives late that night, but when I come downstairs on Saturday he’s at the breakfast table, having coffee with Grandpa.)

“There’s my girl,” he says, and I give him a hug. I’m happy to see him, but I can’t help missing my breakfast rituals with Grandpa. We’ve perfected every note, every measure. Now Dad comes in like a woodwind section that’s in tune with the rest of the orchestra but not previously part of this particular piece.

“Have you started playing again?” is the first thing he asks me. Not “How are you?” or “What have you been up to?”

Every response that comes to mind is rude. He knows that if I’d started playing again, he would’ve already heard about it. I’m certain he and Mom have a dedicated message thread labeled Rosie Violin and Mom updates him constantly, even when he’s in surgery. Before this spring, it would’ve been full of schedule-related things, like the dates of my soloist gig in Pittsburgh or my symphony appearances in Boston, audition schedules for Carnegie Mellon’s Junior Virtuoso Competition, Peabody’s master classes. Lately, I imagine it’s just been a constant back and forth, Dad sending her a single “?” and her replies: a rotating selection of angry, frustrated, and devastated emoji faces.

Grandpa shoots Dad a look that I wish I could capture in a song; it’s admonishing and stern but also sympathetic—or maybe sort of wistful? I’m not even sure what color it is—it’s not something I’ve really seen before.

“Rosie and I have been swimming a few times a week,” Grandpa says, giving me a wink. “She’s got a fierce backstroke.”

“And I walk to the library every other day,” I add meekly. I don’t want Dad to think I’m being lazy.

Dad smiles, but it’s just the tightening of his lips, not a complete facial transformation. “Well, I hope you’re enjoying this little . . .” He pauses, searching for the word he wants to use to describe my choices. “Detour,” he says finally.

After breakfast Grandpa swims, but I don’t join him because it’s a million degrees outside. The thought of walking all the way to the pool is too much, even if the water would feel good. I sit with Vienna and watch the light make colors dance on the one white wall of the sunroom.

When my parents announce they’re going to run some errands and then get lunch, just the two of them, I know what I’m going to do.

Grandpa naps in the afternoons, and as soon as I’m sure he won’t hear, I bring Vienna with me into the guest suite where my parents are staying. It’s not hard to find my violin; Mom has put it in the walk-in closet, because it’s temperature-controlled and has a light-tunnel instead of windows, so the sun can’t bake anything inside.

I wasn’t sure how I would feel when I finally reunited with my violin. The last time

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