I wake from my doze to a light tap on the dressing room door. "Come in," I say as I sit up, and the door opens to admit Cynthia.

"How are--oh, my God," she says at the sight of me. She cradles my face in her hands and inspects my wounds. I look up at the ceiling while she does. "Phillip?"

"Who else?" She makes a small sympathetic sound, and I say, "It's all right, though. The manager got my nose back into place. He didn't think it's broken."

Cynthia releases my face. "Where was Lorraine?"

"With Dad." I look into her eyes. They're damp, which makes me flinch. I hate to make Cynthia cry. "She must be with Isabel now."

"She's not. I checked on Isabel, and she said you'd need me more." She gently hugs me around my neck. I'm as tall as she is now but I can still lay my head on her shoulder, which I do with a sigh. "We'll cancel the performance tonight. You don't even have to come to Dublin. I can take you both back to San Diego, and you could stay with Henry and me for a while."

"We'll be all right." I lift my head and smile at her, though even to me it feels forced. She strokes my cheek, a frown between her eyebrows. "We've come too far to cancel on short notice. Besides, I'd never miss out on the chance to record with the Quartet or to meet Thomas Costigan."

"You'll meet him tonight. You could meet him now if you want. He's in the audience--I could bring him here."

"After the show, please. I need to get ready." I step back from her embrace, go to the sink, and start the water running. I wash the dried blood from my face, then run my wet hands through my hair and finally look at my reflection. 

I flinch again. No wonder Cynthia was shocked. I look terrible. Broken blood vessels in my eyes, bruises blossoming around my nose. I touch my nose gingerly and hiss at the pain. 

"William," Cynthia says, "are you sure you can handle two hours on stage tonight?" 

"I'm sure." I have to, no matter how awful I look or feel.

She digs around in her little handbag. "Let me put a little powder on you. It'll tone down the bruising."

"All right. Thanks." She sits and I kneel at her feet, my face turned up.

Cynthia dusts powder around my face. "You've grown so tall." 

"I've outgrown all my clothes."

She huffs and smooths makeup around my nose. "I'll take you shopping before we leave London."

I shake my head. "Our train for the coast leaves at eight in the morning, and we won't have time after the concert tonight."

"We'll do it in Dublin, then, and drag Henry along." She smiles at me, and I smile back--and then wince at how it pulls on my sore face. "Let me find Lorraine."

"I don't--I don't want her." I take a deep breath as Cynthia gazes at me, troubled. "You know what she said when Philip hit me? She said, 'Not in the face.' Not in the face!"

"Oh, William," she says gently, and I lay my head on her knee. "How can I help you, dear? What do you want to do?"

"I want to get through the performance tonight, and then I want to go to Dublin and record the album with the Quartet."

"And then what?"

"And then more festivals and tour stops and albums, just like always."

Cynthia exhales slowly. "What would you do," she persists, "if you didn't have to do all that? If you had your choice?"

I raise my head. "Go back to San Diego," I say promptly. "Go to the beach a lot. Go to a normal high school and then go to college — and not a performing arts college, a normal college, where I can study anything in addition to music." 

"What do you want to study?"

"Everything," I say. "Music and history and art and dance and science and everything else. As much as I can. I want to cram knowledge into my brain until it overflows."

Cynthia smiles. "Including music."

"Always music."

"That sounds like a perfect life for you."

"Yeah," I mutter and drop my head. "It's a daydream. Philip will keep me touring and playing until they have to cart me around on a gurney and prop me up on stage."

Cynthia rubs the back of my neck. "You carry so much stress here." She pauses. "What if we could get that life for you, William?"

I look up at her. "What?"

"Henry and I are looking into a few things. We'll let you know what we find. But if what I suspect turns out to be true, there are going to be some changes."

"Oh," I say faintly. What could they be looking into? A dozen possibilities pop into my brain, each more fantastical than the next.  

Cynthia goes on, "Tomorrow you'll be in Dublin. Thomas is excited to meet you, and I think you're going to like his son, Oisín. He's about your age and a musician, too. You need friends your own age."

She hands me a tissue and I wipe my face, careful of the makeup she's applied. "Cynthia? The Quartet isn't doing this album because you're our friend, are they?"

"Nonsense, William," she replies. "We're doing this album because we want to showcase your talents. You're capable of much more than Philip has allowed the world to see."

"Thank you," I whisper, and swallow hard a few times.

There's another soft tap at the door. "Fifteen minutes, Mr. Tracy."

"Thank you, fifteen," I say.

Cynthia picks up her handbag. "That's my cue to leave. I'll be in the audience with Thomas, and we'll come see you after the performance." She pauses. "How honest do you want me to be with him?"

"I don't want to talk about it with strangers yet."

"Understood." She pats my cheek and leaves the dressing room.

There's no time to get emotional again. I put on the suit and knot my tie, something I've known how to do since I was six years old. My reflection in the mirror confirms my suspicions: the suit is ordinary, drab, and while the powder has reduced how noticeable my bruises are, it doesn't hide them. Nothing about me says "professional cellist." All it  says is "tired kid who's been in a fight."

Maybe the audience won't notice. Maybe between the distance and the lighting, it won't matter. Maybe everyone will watch Isabel instead, and I'll fade into the background. I haven't faded into the background since I was four, but there's always a first time.

I shouldn't kid myself. They'll all be here to see me. Isabel and I aren't even equally billed, not by my choice. 

The five-minute reminder comes as I'm putting on my shoes, and I'm ready to go when the house manager herself comes to bring me to the stage. Isabel waits in the wings, wearing her black velvet dress, her face minimally made up and her eyes red but dry. I take her hand and squeeze it, and she squeezes back.

The curtains part and the house applauds, and someone-- not Philip, who normally considers it his duty--announces, "Ladies and gentlemen, the Purcell Room is pleased to present William Tracy and Isabel Tracy."

We look at each other, put on our professional smiles, and go out onto the stage. 

At intermission, the backstage manager puts liquid bandages on my fingertips as I drink water and peek through the curtain to look for Cythnia and Thomas Costigan. I don't spot them, but most seats are empty as the audience takes advantage of the break. Isabel doesn't say much, nursing her bottle of water and doing finger exercises. There's no sign of Philip or Lorraine.

This happens a lot when Philip and I fight. Philip disappears, and Lorraine goes to find him; they agree that I'm a horrible, ungrateful child, and they devise new ways to ensure I know it.

It makes me long for Cynthia to join us backstage. I hope she's prepared him to deal with the parents. I'd hate for him to think I'm a terror before he meets me. 

Intermission over, Isabel and I stand together in the wings. "Ready for this?" I ask her.

"I wish the parents were here. It's the last show of the tour. They should see it through to the end."

"They shouldn't be," I say, and she looks at me. "No nerves."

Isabel nods and shrugs in agreement. The curtain rises, the audience applauds, and we walk out onto the stage once more. 

Like the first half of the concert, the second half is flawless. We've played these pieces hundreds of times, if not thousands, to the point we could play them in our sleep. Saint-Saens, Debussy, and Rachmaninoff are a few composers in our repertoire, and as always, my beloved Bach. 

After our last piece, we bow to a standing ovation. The house lights rise enough for us to have a good view of the audience, and it looks like Philip's fears are unfounded—every seat is full. I see Cynthia smiling proudly and the dark-haired man beside her, who must be Thomas, applauding and smiling, too. 

Isabel tugs my hand, and we hurry offstage. We hug each other in the wings. 

"Encore?" Isabel says.

"Yes! What should we do? 'Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring'?"

To my surprise, Isabel shakes her head. "You've been saying for months that you wanted to do something new for an encore. Now's our chance."

She's right. Pop pieces get reworked by classical musicians all the time. Philip has never let us do that, but I have a notebook full of arrangements that Isabel and I have rehearsed on our own that tonight's audience might appreciate. 

The house manager is waiting for us by the curtains. "Are you doing an encore?"

"Yes," I say, and Isabel beams as we retake each other's hands and return to the stage.

The applause goes quiet as we take our places at our instruments. Isabel looks at me expectantly, waiting for my cue. We could play anything from Elvis to Leonard Cohen and Cyndi Lauper to U2.

Then I see Philip standing at the top of the stairs leading to the lobby. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his face is full of thunder.

My hands are poised over the strings, the bow ready to play the opening notes to "With or Without You." If I play this song, even if the audience loves it, the black eye Philip gave me earlier will be just the beginning of my punishment.

I can't. I can't. I whisper, "Sorry," to Isabel and play the opening notes of "Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring." Isabel sighs but joins in, and the audience makes an audible sound of delight. They love this one; audiences everywhere do. It's a familiar, safe choice.

I shouldn't be safe. I should take risks and let the audience see what I'm--what we're--capable of. But it's not going to happen tonight.

The house manager takes us to the green room, and I collapse into the most comfortable-looking of the armchairs. Isabel sits on the sofa and takes off her shoes. We thank the house manager, and Isabel waits until she's left to say, "The audience liked the encore."

"Of course they did." I lay my hand over my eyes to shade them from the room's bright lights. "Everybody likes that song."

"Maybe next time--" She stops herself. "Will. I don't want there to be a next time. You and I, we need to get away.  We need to live our own lives."

"I know." I hold out my hand to her and she grasps it. Her fingers tremble with muscle spasms. "You can do what you like while you're away at school. I'll--I'll have to figure something out."

She looks pensive. I let go of her hand and go to the crafts table, which is laid out with snacks and bottles of water as requested by our rider. It's all healthy--cheese and crackers, fresh fruit and vegetables with onion dip-- and I think as I load up a plate that I would give my left pinky for a Twinkie cake or Oreo cookies. 

"Where do you think the parents are?" Isabel says as she joins me. 

"I don't want to think about it," I say. "They'll show up eventually. Though if they don't, Cynthia has offered for us to stay with her and Henry."

Isabel chuckles. "That sounds better than a hotel with the parents for six weeks."

We both turn, startled, when the door opens again. Philip enters, followed by Lorraine. They must have left the theater; their hair and the shoulders of their coats are wet with rain.

"You missed our performance," Isabel says before Philip can open his mouth to speak. "The last show of this tour and you weren't even here."

"We had to discuss William's behavior," Philip begins.

"William's behavior was fine. It's always fine." She lifts her chin. "I think we should discuss your behavior."

"Don't get sassy with me, girl," Philip growls, and Lorraine puts a hand on his arm. 

"Remember your blood pressure," she says.

"We could have done one of Will's arrangements as our encore tonight," Isabel says to Philip, ignoring Lorraine, "but he decided not to because of you."

"Iz," I say, "it's okay."

"You're classical musicians," Philip spits. "You're trained in classical music. You're above that pop garbage! It's not worthy of your time or talents or all the money I've spent to make you decent musicians!"

"What money?" Isabel shoots back. "You taught us yourself! And when William surpassed you, Cynthia wouldn't let you pay her to teach him! Everything else we’ve done, we did on our own!"

The rage is building in Philip again, and I put my plate aside so I can shield Isabel if he decides to get physical with her. “I got you here! I got you these performances! I found the producers and the studios and the music to play!”  

"No one should be screaming at a headlining musician about his choice of encore," Isabel says.

"And no one," says a soft, unfamiliar voice with an Irish lilt, "should be throwing punches over food."

The newcomer is the dark-haired man I saw sitting beside Cynthia in the audience earlier. Up close, he has a kind, craggy face, and keen blue eyes. He holds out his hand to me. 

"Hello, William. I'm Thomas Costigan."

Philip nearly rips my hand from Thomas's to shake it himself. "I'm Philip Tracy. This is my wife, Lorraine."

"And this is my sister, Isabel," I say.

"Pleased to meet you," says Thomas to Isabel. "Cynthia will join us shortly," he tells us all. "She's making a call to Henry. You both did lovely tonight."

"Thank you," Isabel and I murmur. Already I feel safer in his presence. It's a relief to let someone be a neutral party and stand between us and Philip.

"It's hard to go wrong with a beloved piece like that," Thomas observes. "May I?" He gestures to the crafts table and picks up a plate when I nod. "Cynthia tells me you write originals and arrangements of rock songs," he says to me. "I was hoping to hear one of those tonight."

"William fancies himself a composer," interjects Philip. "He's much too young to understand the intricacies of good composition."

"Mozart was six when he started composing," Thomas says, which silences Philip. "I was about William's age when I started writing my own music. We can talk about that more once we're in Dublin. What do you fancy doing while you're there, William? You, too, Isabel."

We look at each other. I say, "I thought we'd work on the album."

"We don't need to do that every moment of every day," says Thomas.

"I'd love to get to know the city," Isabel says. "Maybe we could find a place for me to sing while you're making the album. I love to sing."

"We can do that. Are you thinking of a career in singing, Isabel?"

"We want Isabel to graduate from college before she makes any big decisions like that," says Lorraine.

"Ah," says Thomas, "that's wise. I want my son to experience more of the world before he strikes out on his own, myself."

"What does he want to do?" Isabel asks.

"Music production," Thomas says. He tells me, "His name is Oisín. He's about your age. I hope the two of you will get along while you're in Dublin."

"I'm sure we will," I say without much enthusiasm. Aside from the Beechams, I rarely get along with the children of my parent's friends and acquaintances. Unless they're musicians themselves, we have nothing in common, and they never understand what it's like to live like me. 

"There are many pubs that do live music," Thomas says to Isabel. "I'm sure we can find some who will welcome you."

Isabel smiles with pleasure as Cynthia bustles in. "Henry says hello," Cynthia says as she hugs Isabel and me, and then she picks up a water bottle and cracks it open. I feel relaxed enough with her and Thomas there that I pick up my plate again, flop on the sofa, and begin to eat.

"Will." Cynthia swats my foot. "Your posture is terrible."

"But my music is amazing," I reply, wiggling my foot at her, and she laughs and tosses me a Flake bar.

"Here's your reward." I sit up straight and she sits next to me. Isabel joins us at Cynthia's other side. "It was an amazing performance. Your technique is improving every day."

I unwrap the candy bar and take a bite, ignoring Lorraine's disapproving look. She's convinced too many sweets will make me fat, and being fat will ruin my career. "I sold my soul to the devil," I say with a mouthful of chocolate and honeycomb. "Me and Paganini will jam together in Hell."

"William!" Lorraine says, shocked. Isabel snickers and both Cynthia and Thomas laugh.

"I'm sure the practice helps. Let me see your hands."

I hold out my hands, palms up. Cynthia takes them to give them a thorough inspection. "No fresh blisters. That's good."

"The stage manager put this liquid bandage stuff on my fingers during the intermission. She said it wouldn't interfere with my playing."

"She was right about that."

Lorraine, self-conscious about Cynthia looking after me in front of Thomas, comes over to us. She takes one of my hands and looks over it like she knows what she's looking for. I watch her and wait for her verdict.

"Stop biting your nails," is all she says, and lets my hand drop.

Philip says to Thomas, "I hope you have a hotel reserved for us in Dublin."

I want to cringe, but Thomas merely says, "I do, for the two of you. I'd like William to stay with me and my son while you're in Ireland."

"And I want Isabel to stay with me," says Cynthia. "There's plenty of room in my flat since it will be only Henry and me this time."

Isabel almost bounces from her seat in excitement. "Cynthia, I'd love that!"

"Oh, no, we couldn't impose," says Lorraine.

"Isabel should stay with us," Philip says stiffly. "As should William."

"Oisín can show William the city and they can make music together,” says Thomas. “It's going to be a long six weeks if William and Isabel are trapped in a hotel between recording sessions."

Philip and Lorraine look at each other, helpless. This is an incredibly generous offer, and they want to impress Thomas, but it means relinquishing control of us and they hate that. I don't say anything, but I do clench my hands together in hope.

"I don't know," says Lorraine, looking at me. "William won't be sixteen until July. He's a child."

"Oisín is a good lad," Thomas says. "He won't do anything to lead William astray."

I don't care if Oisín takes me to dive bars and crack dens, I want to be free from my parents even if it's only for six weeks. I grip my hands together tighter. 

"We'll have to think about it," Philip says finally. "We should get to our hotel. We're up early tomorrow to catch the ferry to Dublin."

"What do you think, William?" Thomas asks me. "Do you think you'd enjoy staying with my son and me?"

"Yes," I say, and I can't help the surprised tone. I'm rarely asked what I want, and even more rarely listened to when I am. "I think I'd enjoy that a lot."

"There," Thomas says to my parents. "It's all settled. I've discussed this with Oisín, so all we have to do is get you there."

"But," begins Philip.

"It'll be much easier for us to collaborate and rehearse in my home studio," Thomas says. "I have a dedicated practice room William can use."

Philip tries again, "Mr. Costigan - Thomas —"

"I have a housekeeper," Thomas says, "to help look after him. I'm a decent cook, but Mrs. Leary is an expert." He says to me, "Oisín is learning a lot from her. He's learned to make some very tasty meals."

"I'd love to learn to cook," I say, glancing at Isabel. Philip has not permitted this for several reasons — I could burn or otherwise permanently injure my hands, cooking is women's work, we're not home enough for any of us to focus on cooking — and it's yet another thing I've chafed against. If Thomas Costigan, the former frontman of a punk band like the Liberties, could let his son learn to cook, Philip would not deny it to me because he thinks it'll make me effeminate. “The only thing I know how to make is pancakes.”

Oisín, I imagine, will look like those pictures of Thomas twenty years ago, with a mohawk dyed green or purple, a ripped T-shirt decorated with safety pins and anarchist slogans, tight jeans and work boots, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, and piercings in various parts of his body.

I shiver. Oisín is probably the opposite of me, and that sounds like someone I'd like to have in my life. 

"Wonderful. I'll call Oisín tonight to warn him to tidy the house." He stands and shakes Philip's hand. "See you in Dublin, Tracy family." He gives us all a friendly wave and leaves the green room.

Lorraine and Philip sit in shocked silence. Isabel and I steal glances at each other. I'm afraid they'll pack us onto the next flight to San Diego if I say anything. 

Meantime, Cynthia looks pleased. "Lorraine, you should look at this as a second honeymoon. When's the last time you traveled without the children?"

"A long time," Lorraine admits. "We've wanted to return to Ireland for years. Our last visit was too short to do much exploring."

"There," Cynthia says. "The two of you can visit historical sites, and Isabel can pursue her own interests while William is busy recording with us." She takes both mine and Isabel's hands and gives them a squeeze. "We should get you to the hotel and let you rest."

I dread what Philip and Lorraine might have done if Cynthia wasn't there, but since she is, we gather our bags. Isabel and I thank the backstage crew, and we hurry out to catch a cab that will take us to the hotel. All the while, Cynthia hustles us along, not allowing Lorraine or Philip to interrupt or slow her down. She leaves us with a cheerful, "See you in Dublin!"

The moment the door closes--Philip and Lorraine are in a room down the hall, no adjoining rooms in these old European hotels--I drop onto one of the beds with a groan. Isabel sits on the other bed and takes off her shoes, and massages her feet as she looks around the room.

"Someday you'll have your own room," she says as if to comfort me.

"I hope so. Knowing them, they'll start requesting trundle beds again." I lean on my elbow. "No offense, Iz."

"None taken." She takes off her coat, then opens her suitcase and hunts through it. I know this ritual: pajamas and a face wash, then she'll read while I get ready for bed. Unless we're fighting--which happens even between siblings who get along as well as we do--we tend to stay up talking after a show. She tells me about her book and I'll tell her about mine, or we'll discuss our performance, or we'll tell each other our plans for when we can decide our own lives. I've never told anyone but Isabel that I want to teach music as well as play in a symphony orchestra when I’m older.

When we're both washed up and in bed, we lie in silence for a while, tired out from our long day. "Iz?"

"Will." She yawns.

"Are you excited about Ireland?"

"More than I was before Thomas talked to us. Cynthia's not going to let Philip and Lorraine keep me cooped up in a hotel room. That's a relief." She sits up and wraps her arms around her knees. "What about you? Thomas seems determined to get you out from under the parents' thumbs."

"I bet Cynthia had a hand in that." 

"I bet you're right. How's your eye?"

"Throbbing," I say, "but bearable." Bruises tend to look worse than they feel because of my pale skin.

"I don't have aspirin, but I do have Midol if you need a pain reliever."

"I don't think I'll be desperate enough to take Midol."

"Don't be precious about it, Will. One pain reliever is just like another."

I mutter, "Thanks," and roll onto my stomach. I bunch a pillow under my chin. I feel better now that I know things will be different in Dublin, but I still wish there were someone next to me right now to stroke my hair and put me to sleep.

I close my eyes and imagine Oisín Costigan doing that for me--my imaginary Oisín, I have no idea if he's the hair-stroking kind--but then stop and remind myself that building someone up in my mind leads to disappointment. I'll be happy if Oisín wants to be my friend.

Episode 1 | A Prima Vista Home | Episode 3

Continuo: a prima vista © 2025 by Gaenor Gray is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0