Awakening Foster Kelly

by Cara Rosalie Olsen

  She sucked in her bottom lip and spit it back out. “Well . . .” I was practically in her lap, leaning forward and trying to pull the words from her quicker. I smelled chili hummus on her breath when she exhaled. “Grandpa Giovanni has been a little tired lately. He’s been taking longer naps than usual and having difficulty rousing. Grandma called this evening to let us know he took a pretty bad fall a couple days ago. ” Her grip tightened involuntarily on my knee. I reached out, laying my hand over hers. She looked up at me, loosening her hold, and smiling wanly. Though I had immediately assumed the worst—entertaining thoughts of incurable diseases—this news wasn’t much better. Confirmation that my mom and dad weren’t in any danger relieved me, seconds before a brand new worry sprung up to replace it. I pictured my formidable Grandpa, his barrel chest and bowl legs, tan and muscular from the years spent working vineyards and riding horses. Even if I tried, I couldn’t picture a feeble, old man.

  “What worries Grandma most is that he didn’t trip over anything.” She paused, gauging my reaction. “He apparently fainted while replacing a step in the staircase. He didn’t roll down,” she rushed to say when I gasped, “but he did hit his head pretty badly.”

  “Has he been to the doctor?” I asked, bringing the pencil up to my mouth and biting on it.

  “No,” she grumbled, roughly smoothing down a pillowcase. “He refuses. Says he’s healthy as a horse.”

  That sounded like Grandpa all right. Tough as nails. He didn’t particularly enjoy being fussed over—a trait I’m told I’ve inherited directly from him—and for most of his life he hadn’t needed to be. The clumsy genes I espoused did not come from my mother’s side of the family—quite the opposite, really. Cantalupis were known for their agility and athleticism, and like cats, they always managed to land right side up. The same could not be said for me, who at the age of eleven months, kept my mother in a state of constant anxiety. I’m pretty sure I broke some sort of record the year I learned to walk.

  “Healthy or not, he’s going in for a check-up,” she said smartly. “I just got off the phone with Grandma and she said she’s giving him an ultimatum tonight.” My mom’s brow arched in approval. This ought to be good. If Grandpa was the nails, than Grandma was the hammer, pounding or plucking, whichever she deemed prudent. “And if need be, I’ll fly out first thing in the morning to back her up.” The superior tone of her voice was softened by the obvious affection behind it.

  I pulled the pencil from my mouth, now full of bite marks. “What’s the ultimatum?”

  “She told him, either he goes to the doctor on his own, or she’s drugging his Ensure and having him transported to the hospital.”

  My eyes widened. This sounded drastic—even for grandma. “Are you serious?”

  She chuckled, cupping a hand around her neck and rubbing. “Oh, yeah,” she nodded, letting her head rest on her shoulder. “I can’t tell you how badly I’d like to be a fly on the wall when she presents him with his options. He’s going to blow his lid,” she predicted. “I have to admit though,” she paused to laugh again, “It’s pretty drastic . . . even for Grandma.”

  I laughed. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  Her musing eyes sharpened, roaming over my face with wise inspection. She leaned in close, the corner of her mouth pulled up. “Speaking of what you’re thinking,” she announced, taking a deep breath through her nose. I hadn’t even seen that coming. “I believe we had a deal.” She didn’t gloat, as that wasn’t her style, but moved a few things out of her way to settle permanently on my bed. I may be good . . . but she was infinitely better. I nodded, willing to hold up my end of the bargain, but not ready to switch topics just yet.

  “I’ll tell you,” I promised right away. Learning of my Grandpa’s injury made my issues inconsequential. “But I—” My words hung in the air for only a second before my mom absorbed them. She squeezed my hand and waited until I was looking in her eyes.

  “Foster,” she began softly, “I truly believe he’s going to be fine. It’s just hard being so many miles away from them, and not being able to see for myself or help. But your grandparents are two of the toughest people I know. I’m . . .” she paused, thinking for a moment and sighing as she located the word she was looking for. “Mindful of all of this, and I’ll admit, a little uneasy, but I’m not worried. Like I said before, it’s still too early to tell anything. Your Grandma mentioned he stopped taking his blood pressure medication, claiming it was starting to make him forget things. I think he forgets sometimes he’s sixty-eight, not twenty-eight. It’s very possible that’s what’s causing all the trouble, and everything will go back to normal once he’s regimented again. Grandma’s already making sure he’s taking it and watching him like a hawk. Just to be safe, she wants them to run a few tests. But I believe he’ll go just for the opportunity to call Grandma a donna pazza.”

  Her laugh, like ice cubes clinking inside a glass, woke up Rhoda. Using the doggy stairs on the side of my bed, she lumbered up and into my lap. I stroked her, relaxing a bit more with every long sweep down her silky back. It was my mom’s laugh that truly relaxed me; the proof she wasn’t saying all of this to make me feel better. I wasn’t completely comforted, however, there were still tests to be run. And even more upsetting was the cruel reality that even if this particular concern ended up being nothing, my Grandpa wasn’t going to live forever. As hard as that was for me to swallow, I had to assume it was even more difficult for my mom. After all, these were her parents. I tried to imagine my dad being ill and me without the ability to help when he cut his finger on a glass beaker, burned himself with the Bunsen burner, or wedged a thorn into his palm. Not being near her father during times like these must fill her with a variety of toxic emotions. Well, I certainly wasn’t going to be the one to perpetuate those emotions. I would be what she needed most—a positive and supportive daughter.

  “I think you’re right,” I said with finality, leaning forward to kiss her on the forehead. “He’s going to be fine.”

  And whether it was because she believed this to be true, or was simply outsmarting me at my own strategy, she replied, “I know, baby. He will be.” She rolled onto her side, reaching forward to pluck a shimmery gold pillow with champagne fringe from the pile I wasn’t using, and stuck it between her knees. “Now . . .” she sighed contentedly, “spill it.”

  ~

  In the darkness I peered around, unable to see much of anything. Raising my arm, I put great effort into making it appear. No such luck. Strangely, I wasn’t afraid, only confused at how I had come to arrive on the stage of Shorecliffs’ auditorium. I didn’t remember walking in here—or even driving to school for that matter. One glitchy light flickered in the far corner of the room above a green exit sign. Only because I would know the feel of it anywhere, I ascertained I was seated before a piano. I squinted my eyes, trying to see if I was alone in here, or if other people were on the stage with me. As if sensing my struggle, bright spotlights from the ceiling soaked the room with clean, yellow light.

  The seats were empty, and from center stage I saw I was indeed alone. The last spotlight came on above me. It shimmered in a long, dusty ray of light, spilling over the surface of the black piano. This wasn’t the first time I sat behind this piano: I was sure of it. Mr. Balfy owned an identical one that remained in the back of his classroom. Only as I looked down at the middle C key, scrutinizing the slight fissure running up the left side, did I realize it was not a replica at all.

  My body jolted. It was as if someone had come up from behind and shook me, but when I whipped around there was nothing but the wooden stage. The glossy floorboards polished to a glowing amber, suddenly went dark where the light stopped. Blackness swallowed up that which remained invisible behind the purple, velvet curtain. Catching a glimpse of myself I gasped, sending an echoing hiss out into the crowd-less auditorium. If I wasn’t seeing this with my own eyes, I would never have believed it. My body looked almost sultry in the floor-length crimso
n dress. I touched the plunging neckline and my fingers met with a ruby pendant sparkling on my bare sternum. I raised my other hand, fingering the braided straps interwoven with gold string. My eyes rolled slowly over the slit down the side of my dress. One ivory thigh jutted out provocatively. On each foot was something I had never worn before.

  I will never be able to walk in these.

  Many questions filled my bewildered mind. Whose dress is this? What am I doing at school? Where is that music coming from? Another gasp. Up and down the piano, two very familiar hands told me exactly where the music was coming from. It was lovely, rich in all the low notes I favored when composing songs. Even more disconcerting were my nails, painted a vibrant red to match my dress. I ignored them, deciding my attention was better spent on the hands lapping over one another, elegant and confident as if disconnected from the rest of me. I tried to tug my hands free; however, some invisible force kept them rooted to the tops of the keys. I struggled, elbows flapping, torso twisting. All the while, my wrists and hands stayed perfectly calm, roaming the wide berth of the piano in a complicated format.

  In that moment I would have lost the small bit of composure I barely held onto, but just before I made the decision to start screaming, I raised my frightened eyes and found Mr. Balfy staring back at me. I blinked a few times, tilting my head and carefully looking him over. His hair, usually disheveled and coming apart like a ball of yarn, was arranged into a neat, sleek pony tail. And instead of the quotidian T-shirt and corduroys, he was instead dressed stylishly in a tuxedo, a purple handkerchief tucked smartly into the front pocket. Looking both sophisticated and jaunty, he stood off to the side of the stage holding back the curtain with one arm. I stared at him puzzledly, but none the less relieved to learn I was not alone in here. I called out to him, once again trying to break the hold this magic piano had on me.

  “Mr. Balfy!” I shouted. “Mr. Balfy, I’m . . . stuck.” I wrenched uselessly. “I don’t know what’s happening but I can’t—” A figure stepped out from behind the curtain. My tongue stilled, rusting in my mouth like a pair of wet scissors. It seemed unthinkable that anything more alarming could happen. I don’t know why I thought that. I was after all in an evening gown, wearing a stranger’s jewelry, and playing the piano against my will. Strangely enough, none of those absurdities—weird and confusing as they were—came even remotely close to Dominic’s imposing . . . eyes. To melt and freeze all at once was a bizarre sensation. I watched him, stupefied, until suddenly cognizant of the weight of his stare. Only my hands remained free of the stress shuddering up and down my backbone.

  What is he doing here? What am I doing here?

  I squeezed my eyes until my brain rattled, then flung my eyelids open. I hadn’t moved an inch.

  Neither had Dominic.

  He stood beside Mr. Balfy in a matching tux, the top of his head stretching a few inches taller. My eyes rested there for a moment. His hair was as dark as a bottomless pit, swept over thick, black eyebrows. Chagrined, I remembered I wasn’t making these observations inconspicuously and hurried to look away. As I did, I caught sight of the guitar in his arms. It hadn’t been there a moment ago. The long fingers of his right hand picked lightly at the strings. The left cupped the slender neck, moving up and down like a floating bracelet. Again I searched his face, looking for confirmation I wasn’t the only one perplexed, but he gave no indication anything was wrong.

  Mr. Balfy—I’d forgotten he was even there—laid a congratulatory hand on his shoulder. Dominic turned his neck and smiled—smiled!—at him, exchanging a mutual understanding I couldn’t begin to decipher. When he looked back at me I stiffened, awaiting the black hate that would surely replace the peace and contentment on his face.

  Dominic took a step toward me, then another, closing the distance between us. It became harder to breathe, as if the bottoms of his shiny dress shoes pressed against each lung with every step closer. I stopped caring about why I was here, unable to focus on anything but him. The eyes bluer than despair’s tears, the skin like autumn. I tried to stop. I couldn’t. It was no longer just my hands that held me captive. Pulled along by a leash, my eyes lingered on his cheeks, enraptured at how the golden flesh melted, darkening into a deep shade of pink. He stopped in front of the piano, close enough for me to fully appreciate the lips; smooth like rose quartz. I honed in on a shiny crease, running vertically down the middle of his slightly larger bottom lip. Not a crease . . . but a scar. Again, I tried to stop. The heady desire to know everything about both the scar and the one it marked, made me sway. His hold on me was potent, stronger even than the invisible chains that tethered me to the piano. I would not look away until he allowed it. That suited me fine; I no longer wanted to stop.

  The corners of his mouth rose and fell, taking my heart along for the ride. When he finally smiled, it was like emerging from the water after holding your breath, taking that first gulp of clean, life-saving air. I couldn’t get enough. Mesmerized, I marveled at the transformation of his face, amended by the tiny gesture. Stoic and scowling, Dominic was unquestionably beautiful. There was no disputing that. Only, it was a beauty that repelled me, a hostile wrath that made me want to shy away from the eyes that looked too closely at me, haunted and hateful. When he smiled, it was the complete opposite, a compelling force making it impossible to look away. Not that I wanted to.

  When he swung around to face the empty chairs, I winced. It was like having the hair ripped from my scalp. A raw throbbing chiseled at my heart, and I suddenly felt watery and inconsequential. Gradually, the balmy thoughts began to dissipate. Clarity was a strong wind, clearing the fog and muck away, and reminding me something was strange, if not dreadfully wrong.

  Once Dominic smiled at me, everything felt right and I had felt safe . . . didn’t I? Without a single granule of doubt, I would have said yes thirty seconds ago. Now, I wasn’t nearly as convinced and questioned the motive behind the smile. What if instead of sating he’d meant to starve me?

  I struggled again to wrench myself free from the imperious piano. In that tug of war I became aware of a stifling presence—a surrounding sough. The murmuring dense heat hadn’t been there a moment ago. I turned my head; not because I wanted to, but because Dominic wanted me to. As with Dominic’s face, the auditorium had transformed. Every seat was now occupied, filled with every person I had ever known: my classmates, my entire family, Jake, Emily, Maddie, my dentist, and . . . our mailman? People I’d said no more than three words to, or hadn’t seen for almost two years, stared back at me expectantly.

  This had truly reached a new level of bizarre—the stage, the fancy clothes, the instruments. It wasn’t difficult to guess that we were a part of a performance. Mr. Balfy, still standing off to the side, smiled back at me beatifically. I watched as he let go of the curtain, giving two eager thumbs up. “You’re going to be great!” he mouthed. Was this our Senior Piece? But I didn’t remember writing this song . . . I didn’t remember anything.

  Wake up, Foster! You’re dreaming. Just wake up!

  As if hearing my frantic pleas, Dominic’s head whipped around, a mixture of alarm and disapproval clouding his clear eyes. I flinched back, panic tiptoeing along the crown of my head. This face I knew well. He furrowed his brows, gesticulating at the piano with a sharp glance. I shook my head not understanding. He repeated the gesture and the mouth that was safe and comforting was no more, pinching into a crumpled white gash. In a rapid move, he wiggled his fingers over the guitar, emphasizing the motion. I studied them closely, pressing my lips together as I concentrated on reading his body language. Dominic’s face informed me just how daft I looked staring back at him. Exasperated, he snapped, “Play.”

  Immediately, I looked down and gasped. Just as I hadn’t noticed them begin, I hadn’t noticed when they stopped either. Peaceful and inert, my hands laid across my lap like two white rose petals folded into one another. Without delay, I moved to do as he said and play, praying the fingers would resume the song familiar only
to them. Though I tugged and yanked, my hands remained lifeless.

  “Foster,” a deep, foreboding voice whispered. “What are you doing?”

  “I- I don’t know . . . it’s my hands,” I continued to ogle them accusingly. “They won’t move.”

  “Just play something,” he commanded through gritted teeth.

  With more determination, I worked to get a response, jerking and thrashing about. It was no use. After all that exuberance, they were apparently exhausted and would play no more. The crowd began to murmur. A sound like a swarm of bees swept through the aisles until the whole place seemed to vibrate. I closed my eyes.

  It’s okay. This is just a dream. None of this matters because you aren’t even here.

  “What are you waiting for?” he demanded, no longer bothering to hide his anger from the audience. Everyone would see the indignation in his face, hear the asperity in his voice. “You’re going to ruin everything.” The strumming grew rough and impatient. The shrieking did not sit well with the crowd.

  Not here. Not here. Not here.

  “Foster. Open your eyes and do something!”

  All the soothing reassurances in the world were useless. It was like someone telling you to not be afraid of the snake coiling around your neck, simply because it wasn’t poisonous. Real or not, this could still hurt me. I did as he said, using every bit of strength I could summon. Deep breaths, gritted teeth, and a strain I thought would cause my eyes to sink into my brain, proved futile. Beads of sweat rolled down the back of my dress. I began to pant with exhaustion.

  When he stopped playing, I knew I had run out of time. I could only hope for mercy. “I’m so sorry,” I murmured. I lifted my head risking a glance, instantly wishing I hadn’t. “I’m sorry,” I repeated, my voice barely audible. “I tried.” He didn’t need to say a single word for me to know the apology was not accepted. Everything he thought of me was etched clearly on his face.