Mullis: From the roadie’s POV, the show was perfect

My college daughter announced she was leaving, looking artsy in her skirt and heels. She was going to play piano for a nursing home, one of several “gigs” she jammed into her holiday break.

I was annoyed. How was she going to carry a microphone with a stand, a full-size keyboard with another stand, two bags of books, a stool, and a speaker by herself?

She was annoyed that I was annoyed and even more so when I insisted on coming as her roadie.

We didn’t speak on the way there. She hummed, warming up her throat. I closed my eyes. When we arrived, she hugged me.

“I’m glad you came.”

The woman who greeted us said there was a change in plans. My daughter would play in one room for one hour, instead of 30 minutes in two separate rooms. My daughter smiled. I frowned. She only prepared 30 minutes of material. I’d been hearing her practice the set for days. When the lady left, I asked my daughter what she was going to do. She shrugged.

“I’ll figure it out.”

Lugging in the equipment took multiple trips. I opened the keyboard stand, apparently upside-down. My daughter righted it, wiring everything to everything else in minutes. I looked at her sparse audience, most of whom were asleep or in their own worlds, and took a seat. My daughter smiled and started to play.

Occasionally a resident would cry out – a greeting, a plea, a misremembered word – prompting a caregiver to slide close, rubbing a back, taking a hand, giving a tissue. Occasionally buzz from the room’s other activities overtook the music, jarring the ear.

Still, my daughter played.

The resident in front of me was curled over a baby doll, apparently asleep. During “Frosty the Snowman”, her toe started tapping. Eventually, she picked her head up, kissed the baby doll tenderly and laid him on the table. Her beautiful hands, bent with life, folded, the fingernails painted like jewels.

The song ended. The jeweled hands clapped.

The residents asked her to play “Silent Night.” She did. They asked her to play “Silver Bells”, which she didn’t know. She played it anyway, still smiling, even when the book pages wouldn’t stay open, or she bumped the microphone, or she missed a line.

The residents clapped and asked for “Silent Night” again.

“She’s good,” an older man barked from the corner.

Having run out of prepared material, my daughter sang an Italian aria acapella. The last note reverberated in a room gone silent.

“Is that Italian?” the older man shouted.

My daughter nodded. He raised his arm, giving a thumbs up.

My daughter kept going, encouraged by an audience who, between songs, shared their memories as music teachers, choir members, even part of a barbershop quartet. When her hour was up, they asked the caregivers when she was coming back.

“She’s good,” the older man repeated.

And she was good.

Since she started college, I’ve only heard her perform in concert halls, singing with a large choir, playing a grand piano in a black dress. But this solo show in this obscure room was somehow a more stirring display of talent.

I stood to help with the equipment, surprised to see the audience had grown. My daughter unplugged the cords, her face pink with happiness, her voice low.

“I drew a crowd.”

You did.

She told me she liked playing nursing homes. The residents weren’t looking for the perfect. They just enjoyed the music.

Granted, I’m just a roadie, but it seemed pretty perfect to me.

Nicole L.V. Mullis is the author of “A Teacher Named Faith.” Contact her at nlvm.columns@gmail.com.