That Irresistible Pull by Karen Skalitzky

Photo by Kilyan Sockalingum via Unsplash

“I want to be more interesting,” I tell my friend two days after I turned 55.

We are sitting in the balcony at the Chicago Symphony Center, eager for a brilliant young musician to take center stage and command our attention. Being here is a birthday present to myself. My 12-year-old son is at home with the dog, and I am bubbly with anticipation.  

My friend looks at me and nods, but she says nothing more. I fidget in my seat. Conversations simmer around us as more patrons find their seats. An elderly couple, a mother and daughter, a gay couple holding hands. My friend and I have not seen each other in many months. Our text chains are rarely revealing. “How are you?” I pivot. 

“Oh, I’m fine,” she replies. “I like my life.”

She tells me that her two teenage daughters are fine. Her husband is fine. Her job, her garden, her dog, her morning walks, her glucose levels are all fine. Even the addition and second-story deck she is getting designed after a decade of talking about how much she wants to move her ailing mother in with them—the addition, that too, in a word, is fine. 

“I am happy for you,” I say, lying.

I remember when we used to slip into the pre-receptions here. We’d sip cheap chardonnay, half-listen to the lectures about classical music and rock-n-roll and then try not to giggle during the performances. We were young then, single, drinking in each other’s lives. She was traveling the world for her job. I was launching my own business. Fine was what we feared most: settling. 

Now we are mothers, bound by a role we both coveted. Nine years ago, in the swirl of my son and I adopting each other, in between the thrill and the exhaustion, the omnipresent demands of solo parenting usurped all other aspirations. My writing fell silent, but the ache throbbed beneath the surface for years. Against that irresistible pull of sand as the ocean tide rushes past, I curl my toes and resist. I work and I mother. Who am I to want more? And yet, I do.   

Thankfully the lights dim. My friend and I glance at each other. The pianist enters stage left. He bows to the crowd as his slicked-back hair falls forward and then back into place. Clad in all black, he takes his seat and then suspends his fingers, slowly and deliberately, above the white porcelain keys. I lean forward. My friend leans back. The notes explode into the air.

One moment, he is pounding out low notes, deep and reverberating. The next, a twinkling of treble clefs. In no time, the start of my grocery list evaporates. The three-day search for my son’s lost soccer cleat disappears. My to-do list, gone. His hands fly up and down the keyboard, moving with stealth and precision. The music swells, filling the hall and bringing me to my knees, hoping, pleading, imploring the notes to not stop. 

I think of my dad. He introduced us to classical music. My older brothers hated it, appealing to our mom who gained notoriety for playing the 98ROCK radio station, and singing along no less, when she drove carpool. For most of my young life, classical music was nothing more than a passing thought, something my father loved, and we endured.

Then the mother of one of my childhood friends died from cancer. She was a musician and a composer and the only artist I knew. I envied her. I did not know how to be like her. Her son gave her eulogy. I had an endearing crush on him, and his repeated mention of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony needled me. I found the cassette in my dad’s collection. 

Three weeks later, as my father drove me back to college, I confessed to him in the middle of the Ohio Turnpike that I was taking his tape with me. I had no intention of giving it back. My father looked at me sideways, and then I believe he smiled. 

Now at 88, my father tells me not to cry at his passing when it happens. He has had a good life. Like my friend, his self-assuredness unnerves me. I wish 55 did not sound so established. 

The next sonata is enchanting, and it pulls me back into the present. I never imagined myself at 55. I didn’t plan for it. All those five-year planners seemed too neat, too predictable. And yet, it’s as if the next five years want something specific from me. They crave more creative expression, less work. More stories, less routine. An everyday kind of commitment to what captivates me, far fewer excuses. And of course, more writing. 

No sooner than I think this, then my critics rise up in protest. The timpani, the cymbals, even the handbells clamor all around me, a cacophony of unworthiness and not-enough-ness. Least I forget it’s been 18 years since my first book, 12 years since my second manuscript failed to find a publisher, and two years since I stopped writing a monthly reflection. 

I want to share all of this with my friend, but during intermission, we eat chocolate-covered almonds and chat about track meets, soccer tournaments, and vacation plans. All safe subjects. I am eager to return to my seat.  

The next sonata is Chopin, and the young pianist delivers the famous contrasts with ease: the powerful opening followed by the light and calming melodies. Then the funeral march that is oddly familiar: stark and demanding, serene and melodic, solemn, and inevitable. The ups and downs in the music pass through me, like my own fears and desires, reminding me that this is what it is to experience life.  

I watch his fingers and the remarkable muscle memory that brings forth such emotions. There is something so vulnerable about what he is doing, alone on that stage, exposing such passion. It is real, tangible, and I want it. I am there with him, riding the notes, never knowing the end. That, I realize, is how I want to live: open and free.  

I look at my friend, her eyes are alive now. We have walked together into the unknown before. It was here, in this same symphony center, that she announced her first pregnancy 17 years ago. It was unplanned and joyous. I threw my arms around her. And even though far too many doctors had told me otherwise, I believed I was a mother too. 

That night, as the orchestra played, I couldn’t stop the tears from escaping. My friend rested her head against mine. “I’m sorry,” I mouthed. “Don’t be,” she whispered back, never doubting. 

Now to my surprise, the pianist strikes the final chord. He draws up his hands one more time, lingering there, unmoving, before placing them in his lap. My friend and I lean forward, and the hall erupts with applause.

After multiple encores, we step out into the late afternoon sun. Walking toward our cars, my friend stops me. “I want to be more interesting, too,” she says softly. I slip my arm into hers, and together we stroll down Wabash Avenue, beaming.

Karen Skalitzky is a writer and proud mother. She currently serves as a communications director for an international nonprofit. Her writing has appeared in Motherwell, HerStry, U.S. Catholic, and RAISE. She lives in Chicago with her son.