Fighting for Arielle

by Karina Sharp

  “Can we watch Clueless?”

  “You’re pushing your luck.”

  I laugh and even let out a tiny snort, but I know I will get him to watch it with me, and he will snuggle with me through the whole thing, allowing me to live out my teenage fantasy.

  I pause a moment, then ask with hope, “Will you play your violin for me when we get home?”

  His face lights up, and his smile brightens as his earnest and beautifully dark eyes look directly into mine. Kissing me on the forehead, he says, “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Those things are precisely what we do. He holds my hand as I smile and cry and thrash about during recorded episodes of So You Think You Can Dance. He also listens intently as I give my self-professed expert opinions and explain what was great, or not as great, about the technique, performance, and choreography of each routine. He continues to snuggle up to me as I bounce around the bed, singing and tapping my feet along with Ruby Keeler in the original black and white movie of 42nd Street. He also does his best to not roll his eyes as I quote every line, with accurate inflection, of Clueless. He listens to my argument that I once heard that the characters are saying, “I’m Audi,” but that I refuse to believe it and insist that the line is, “I’m outtie.” And he doesn’t even make fun of me when I cry like a big baby at the end of the movie.

  Of course, he plays the violin for me. He doesn’t just play the violin for me, he speaks directly to my heart. With every movement of the bow across the strings, the vibrations combining to emit sounds are not simply notes being played. Each note is the release and presentation of his emotions: his love, his loss, his mundane, his past, his future, and his present.

  As I listen to him emote and tell more stories via those strings than he could ever tell with words, I close my eyes and imagine what it must feel like to give up something you love because of the intense emotions it causes. I picture him, a beautiful man, but someone’s little boy, standing alongside his brothers and cousin, giving his mother a tribute of his love, sorrow, loyalty, and gratitude the best way he knew how at her funeral. The pain and resentment he feels toward his father and guilt within his heart, placed aside for a few minutes, so that he can direct his energies toward the remembrance and celebration of his mother’s spirit and legacy.

  I breathe in all of his emotions and let them course through my veins, all at the same time. I open my eyes and gaze upon his face, deep in concentration and full of experience, and I think that every time I believe it is impossible to love this man any more than I currently do, I prove myself wrong. In that moment, our souls are connected and fully entwined for eternity. For at least one small hiccup of time, I experience true vulnerability and bliss. I realize that the love you share with another, and the connection you feel with them, does not always come in the most obvious of ways.

  When McCrary and I make love, my heart is filled with his dedication and admiration for me, and in those moments of beautiful rapture, I know I am whole. However, this seemingly benign moment unexpectedly tells me that he is what my life has been missing all along. He is indeed my missing piece. My one. My only.

  When the last vibration of the last note he plays dissipates in the air around us, he looks over to me, his face earnest, and I cannot help but beam with both pride and gratitude.

  “Those are the most sincere and stunning words you’ve ever shared with me. Thank you. I love you more than my limited vocabulary can articulate.”

  He places his instrument gently on the piano bench and comes over to me on the couch, places his hands on my cheeks, and pulls my face into his. I note the similarity of our current position to the first time I ever came over here. It was the first time I was afforded a glimpse into my future and my home. Our home. McCrary lifts my chin, and his wide eyes sparkle.

  “Your eyes, your smile, your body- the way it reacts to me -and your spirit articulate everything perfectly. I love you more than I thought humanly possible, ‘my dearest and most beautiful,’ Arielle Abbott.”

  I catch his Jane Austen reference and use of Mr. Darcy’s line to Elizabeth Bennett, and I think, yet again, I fall in love with him just a little bit more.

  ***

  It’s not hard to put the real world out of your mind when you’re holed up for a week recuperating with McCrary Ashby doting on you and being by your side just about all day, every day. I was supposed to dance in another show over the weekend, but missed it. I tried to convince McCrary I was fine and perfectly capable of dancing, but he just pulled out the paperwork with the discharge instructions that ordered me to rest and abstain from “vigorous activity.” Instead, we watched 80’s movies involving dancing, which was fun, but in a completely different way.

  My shoulder is almost healed, my headaches almost gone, and my bruises have all but disappeared from my skin. It is our last Sunday before McCrary has to go back to work and life as we know it now ceases. Tomorrow, we will return to him being LCDR McCrary Ashby, JAGC, and I- Arielle Abbott, married woman. Once again, we will have to be together in secret. I’ve gotten so used to him being in my daily life that I almost forget how our circumstances make our relationship against the rules.

  I’m told that Macy brought Swanks over to McCrary’s house and fed him while I was in the hospital. She stopped by a few times while I was recovering out of the hospital, but I could tell that she wanted to speak with me alone. I made a date with her to come over tomorrow, when McCrary goes back to work.

  McCrary is outside taking a phone call. As I play some of the sheet music I downloaded and printed, I can see McCrary’s face from my vantage point, and he appears agitated. I wonder what the party on the other end of the line is saying. I don’t think I’ve ever seen McCrary truly look angry. I know he can be hard-nosed in the courtroom, but full-on lawyer McCrary is a side of him I have yet to see for myself. I’ve overheard comments and conversations from his co-workers and others in passing at the gym, and rumor has it that he can be really intimidating. To me, he’s just a kind, loving, and gentle person, although he can be a bit commanding in the bedroom, but admittedly, I rather like it. I remember the animalistic growl I heard as he burst through the door to my apartment and the reports of the injuries Brody sustained that night, but I did not see any of it. I giggle to myself with pride as I think how he saved and protected me. Then, I remind myself to warn others to not get on his bad side.

  McCrary ends his phone call and comes back into the house, still looking unsettled, but his face is warmer than when he was on the call.

  “Porgy and Bess,” he says.

  “Hmmm?” I look up from the notes on the page. “Oh, Porgy and Bess... Correct as always.”

  “’Summertime,’ to be exact.” McCrary sits on the piano bench next to me. “In a lower key.”

  “Yes it’s ‘Summertime,’ and in a lower key because I can no longer sing as strongly as a soprano.”

  I play on, but am distracted by his close proximity.

  “You know when you sit next to me, you limit my arm space, and I can’t reach all of the notes with my tiny hands and fingers.”

  I accidentally, but not really, jab him with my elbow as I move my hands along the keyboard.

  Nudging me back, he says, “I’ll compromise. You play the right hand, and I’ll play the left.”

  “You’re giving me the easy hand. Deal.”

  We play the remainder of the song together. His fingers touch the keys far more deftly and gracefully than mine. I’m glad he elected for me to play the right hand. I’m sure he sees how I fake and fumble over the left hand notes most of the time. He also takes a few liberties with the music, which are far beyond my ability to play.

  I realize this is the first time he’s played or touched his mother’s piano since she passed away. He is constantly doing things that confirm my love and adoration for him; however, this time, I’m not only wrapped up in my love for him, but also so incredibly proud of him. He has made so many strides toward healing and forgiving himself fo
r her death, which was something not even he could have predicted or prevented, and he’s beginning to accept that as fact. His bravery never ceases to amaze me as I know this is the most pain he’s allowed himself to feel. He normally just shuts his pain away, deep within himself, and doesn’t allow himself to grieve.

  We are about halfway through the song, and I begin to sing the words. McCrary eases his right hand over to my side of the keyboard and begins to take over the melody. I take my hand off of the keyboard completely and continue to sing. While I don’t think my singing skills are truly amazing, I can carry a tune and have some singing experience. I’m not usually shy when it comes to performing, regardless of how untrained I think I might sound or look.

  The song ends with the words:

  So, hush little baby

  Don’t you cry

  That is the exact opposite of what I feel I might do. I’ve turned into a real sap lately, but every little step that McCrary makes toward redemption from himself is an accomplishment, and something that releases the self-imposed chains of guilt he carries, an ounce at a time.

  McCrary begins to play a classical piece, and it’s one I recognize and know well, although I can’t play it myself. It’s Chopin’s Etude Op. 10 no. 3. It’s one of my favorite piano pieces that starts out slowly, builds up in speed and volume, then slows again to an end that seems to linger and makes you want more. I watch his fingers move across the keys as if he’s not had a break from playing. My focus moves from his fingers, up his arms, and to his face. His eyes are closed and his face haunted. The speed in which the notes are played increases as he opens his eyes and focuses on his hands while he plays loud notes that stretch his hands and fingers almost completely across the piano. Watching the care and passion he exudes while playing makes me want to hug him and never let go.

  This is why I love this man, not because he’s gorgeous and smart and can speak four languages and play any instrument, but because he’s showing me his soul, surging it through his fingers to the black and white keys below. This is his expression of his raw feelings that he’s been fighting so long to forget. When he played the violin for me, it was wonderful and expressed his pain and regret, but his playing this piano and this piece of music is hauntingly beautiful.

  As the music slows and decrescendos to its quiet last note, I see McCrary’s eyes are watered and downtrodden. I sit next to him, placing my arms around him, and kiss his cheek. We remain in that position, silent for some time. I want to talk about what he’s feeling or say something funny just make him smile, but I know he needs this catharsis in order to find solace.

  After a while, he smooths my hair with his left hand and breaks our palatable silence. “That was my mother’s favorite piece. I practiced and practiced it so I could perfect it. She would sit in our music room as I played it for her. She said when I played it, it was magical.”

  I take a slow breath to gather my thoughts and ponder what he just shared.

  “It was magical, McCrary. It’s also my favorite piano piece, although I never had the mental fortitude to make myself learn it.”

  I pause again, trying to find the right words, but feel at a loss. I think I should tell him how much I enjoyed it, or how skilled he is, or how it brought me to tears, but I settle for, “Tell me about her.”

  McCrary’s breath hitches and he clears his throat.

  “Her name is Lisa, and she was the most wonderful mother anyone could ask for. She was always smiling and affectionate to us. She supported us in all of our endeavors, even when I wasn’t so sure I wanted to go into the Navy. She made sure that we knew we were loved and to never take anything for granted. She was a strong woman who supported my dad and still managed to take three boys to all of their music and language lessons, and she was in the stands cheering us on at every single athletic event or academic competition. She was a lot like you, actually. She was loud and let everyone know we were her sons, even if we were making fools of ourselves on the field.

  “My mother always came up with creative ways to motivate us to reach further and try harder. She never let us settle, but she pushed us with respect. She’s the reason I know and appreciate musicals and classical music. On Sundays, she would play classical music throughout the house or we would catch matinee shows of any musical production around, including local children’s theatre. As a matter of fact, she ignored our groans and made us participate in community theatre, but it turns out that some of my best memories were made participating in those shows. She was our only constant.”

  I feel McCrary’s body shudder in pain as he remembers his mother.

  “She sounds wonderful.”

  McCrary pulls me in closer to him.

  “She was. She would love you to pieces, you know. You two would have been two peas in a pod.”

  I look up to his sad face and feel his pain.

  “I know that if she’s up there in the big blue sky, chilling on her own cloud, she could not be more proud of you. She left a legacy in you and your brothers, and you have to keep sharing that legacy through memories and through her teachings. That’s how she will stay alive in your heart. I cannot say that time heals all wounds, and that she did not take a piece of your heart with her, but I do hope that in time, your positive and happiest memories of her will overshadow the sorrow and loss, gradually filling in that missing piece.”

  McCrary kisses the top of my head.

  “You always know the perfect words to say.”

  ***

  Morning comes, and I opt to not get out of bed with McCrary. I think my response to his invitation was a groan, a grumble, and a wave of my hand to indicate I was not feeling Monday morning. The bed feels so empty and lonely without him in it, but I manage to get in another hour or two of sleep before I am awake for the day.

  I commence my new morning routine, without much thought to the fact that this day means a marked change in our relationship, back to the way we were. I’m walking through the house with wet hair and talking to Swanks about what “we” might eat for lunch. For him it’s lettuce, veggies, and some protein as usual. I’m not sure what I might eat. My body is a little sore, despite my week of resting and recovery. Of course, last night’s events after the piano session probably didn’t help my cause.

  I hear a knock at the front door, and I freeze. I have never been here by myself with someone knocking at the door. Do I open it? Do I ignore it? I look to the door, then to the clock on the stove. It’s 12:01pm. It dawns on me- Macy; we made a date for today at noon.

  I open the door to two smiles dazzling before me.

  “Hey hooker!” Macy pulls me into a tight hug, and I groan a little. “Oh! I forget that you’re still in a delicate condition.”

  “I think that expression usually refers to someone who is pregnant, so I’m going to have to disagree with that and say that I am just still sore,” I explain to Macy.

  “Yeah you are…” Macy elbows me playfully and moves her eyebrows up and down in a playful suggestion.

  “No, not like that.” I roll my eyes. “Ok, maybe a little like that, but that’s not the primary source.”

  The other smile moves toward me.

  “Ari, I’m Ross. It’s so nice to meet you. She cannot stop talking about how great and funny you are.”

  He gives me a very light hug. Ross is blonde, like Macy, and tall and lean like her as well. He looks like he was an athlete of some sort in college. Together, they look like there should be pictures of them on the beach with the wind blowing through their hair in clothing catalogs or billboards.

  I shrug, feeling a little flattered.

  “Well, aren’t you going to be disappointed when you realize that I don’t ever talk and am the reincarnation of Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh.”

  They both laugh pristine and brilliant laughs. If I didn’t know any better, I could almost swear they are related. Together, they are almost too much gorgeous for one tiny room.

  “We brought food,” Macy Chirps.


  “Pasta salad and grilled veggies,” Ross chimes in.

  “You two are almost so cute, it’s sickening,” I say smiling, then I gasp.

  “What?” they ask, almost in unison.

  “I just realized that when you two, Macy and Ross, have children you MUST name them TJ, Dillard, or Penney.” I laugh, having amused myself.

  They look confused for a minute, then realization meets Ross’ face before Macy’s.

  “We never really thought about that,” Ross chuckles. “I choose TJ.”

  Macy wrinkles her nose. “TJ? Uh...no. It’s totally going to be Dillard.”

  “Go for broke and have twins named Neiman and Marcus.” I smile, looking between the two of them as they look at one another in a way that is described in storybooks and fairytales. They are the look and epitome of a prince and princess who ride off into the sunset toward their happily ever after.

  I disrupt their cuteness. “I’m hungry, so let’s kick this mule!”

  Macy, my new friend Ross, and I eat, talk, laugh, and coo over Swanks. He soaks up the attention by walking in small circles, rubbing his shell and head against the barstools and our feet, and lowering his head for them to pet him. Swanks has been a lot happier since he began staying at McCrary’s full-time. He’s a lot more active, and his eyes look brighter. I think I’ve even overheard McCrary talking to him every now and then. Macy and Ross seem to be pretty smitten with him as well.

  We decide to move out to the lanai to look over the water.

  Macy chimes, “This housing is much nicer than ours.”

  “Well, dear, he’s an O-4, going on O-5, and I’m an O-3. Plus, he probably had the means to wait for his choice of housing since he didn’t have a cute blonde bugging him every night about getting into housing quickly.”

  Ross pats Macy’s leg sweetly as she smiles at him, lost in his gaze.

  Macy turns to me with some trepidation showing in her eyes. “Speaking of housing and relationships, what are your plans, Ari? I mean, you can’t just keep holed up in here forever, can you?”