by Rico, Lauren
“Thanks again for seeing me home, Jeremy,” I say, holding out my hand to take the cello from him. But he’s still looking up.
“Jeremy?”
“Oh, yeah. Sure. Here,” he says, pulling the strap from his shoulder.
“Goodnight,” I say with a small wave.
“Hey, you don’t really think that no one notices you, do you?” he asks.
I sigh. It’s not what I think; it’s what I know from years of experience.
“Goodnight, Jeremy,” I repeat, ignoring his question and turning my back on him.
Carl the doorman has come out to usher me and the coffin/case in.
“Goodnight, Julia,” Jeremy says from behind me.
I hold up a hand without turning.
“Carl?” I ask when I’m safely in the lobby and out of earshot.
“Yes, Miss James?”
“Is that guy still out front?”
He gives a quick, stealthy glance over my shoulder, trying not to look too obvious.
“Yes, Miss. He’s watching to see you’re safely inside. Seems like a gentleman,” he says approvingly.
“Yes, he does,” I say to myself as the elevator doors slide closed and I push the button for the sixteenth floor.
5
When I push open the doors to the performance hall, I’m almost knocked over by the cacophony. It sounds as if every musician in the orchestra is playing something different, all at the same time. The noise doesn’t usually bother me, but I’m running on not much sleep, and I’m more than a little anxious about seeing Jeremy again after our impromptu meeting last night.
I’m breathing hard as I slip into my seat on the hardwood stage and get my cello situated between my knees. Bow bow bow. Pluck pluck pluck. That’ll have to do for a warm-up today. From next to me, I feel a jab in the ribs.
“Hey, look!” Mila says, thrusting her chin toward the front of the orchestra.
And there he is. Jeremy Corrigan, horn under his arm, strides up the steps to the conductor’s podium… and makes a turn to the right. Wow. He’s actually going to pass by the cello section. I hunch down a little, grab a pencil and pretend to be absorbed in writing notes on the music in front of me.
“Hi.”
He’s stopped beside my chair.
“Hi,” I say, putting down my sham pencil and sitting up straight.
“Nice talking to you last night,” he says just loud enough so that I can hear him. “I’m sorry if I was a little… pushy with my opinions.”
“No need to be sorry,” I say with a genuine smile. “It was an interesting night. And hey, thanks again for walking me home.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” he says. “This time, anyway.”
Can this guy say anything without it sounding like a sexual innuendo? Before I can reply he’s gone, moving on to take his seat with the horns.
“What the hell was that?” Mila asks in a hushed squeal. “He walked you home? From where?” she demands.
Oh, this might get a little bit ugly.
“It was nothing. I stopped by the diner after practicing last night and he was there. He asked me to sit with him, and he made sure I got home safely. He was just being polite.”
“Since when are you even interested in him?” she demands, shaking her head at me in disbelief.
“Mila,” I say, trying to diffuse the situation, “It was nothing. Really. I went to the diner, where I often go, and he just happened to be there. I didn’t go there looking for him, he didn’t go there looking for me. It was a total coincidence.”
She cocks an eyebrow skeptically and I’m reminded of my conversation the night before. This girl isn’t my friend. Not really.
“You expect me to believe that?”
I sigh and turn back to the music in front of us.
“I really don’t care what you believe,” I say.
I can tell the comment has surprised her. She’s not used to me having an attitude with her, and now I can feel her staring at me in disbelief. I have to say, I kind of like it. So this is what it feels like to actually say what you’re thinking!
By the time rehearsal ends, Mila has given me no fewer than ten loud sighs, twelve sidelong glances and one ‘humph!’ I don’t give her even a moment’s notice. Aside from the counting, that is. She’s quick to flee the cello section when we’re finished, and I decide to give her a few minutes to clear out. We’ll sort it out later when she’s had a chance to calm down.
“Nice job today, Julia.”
The unmistakable voice, his voice, is coming from behind me. I turn around and see him coming toward me on his way off the stage. Mr. Smarty Pants wants to let me know he hasn’t forgotten my name.
“Well, thank you, Jeremy,” I reply, with equal emphasis. “Twice in one day!”
“What?” he stops and asks.
“You. You never come past the cello section… but here you are.”
A wicked little smirk crosses his face.
“Why Julia, I had no idea you kept track of my movements so closely.”
Ugh! I walked right into that one. He starts to leave, but then stops and turns back.
“You know, next time you come across me in the practice rooms, you should stop in, instead of just lurking out in the hallway,” he says, then resumes his trip off the stage without waiting for comment.
I can’t help but notice the fact that Jeremy Corrigan looks just as attractive going as he does coming.
6
“You’re sure you’ll be okay?” Matthew asks as he zips his tux in the garment bag and hangs it from a hook on the back of his bedroom door.
I roll my eyes at him.
“Yes, I think I can manage without you for a few nights.”
“It’s not a few nights, Julia, it’s a few weeks. And you don’t have to be so damned independent, you know. A guy likes to feel he’s needed,” he says with faux indignation.
I walk up from behind and give him a bear hug.
“I do need you. We need each other. But we’re both going to be just fine. Matthew, this is your first tour as a full-fledged member of The Walton String Quartet! You’ve worked your whole life for this. Why are you worrying instead of being excited?”
He pats my hands around his chest.
“I’m excited. It’s just a long time to be away from… home.”
“Well, you go ahead and be homesick, but I’ll be busy here. I have a competition to prepare for,” I say, letting go of him so he can finish packing his overnight bag.
“Yes, you do,” he replies as he grabs socks and underwear from his dresser drawer. “But I hope you’re going to do more than just live in the practice rooms while I’m gone.”
Despite my protests, Matthew has the smaller of the two bedrooms in our apartment. That’s not to say he’s living in a hovel or anything. Our two-bedroom apartment is large and sunny with windows that run from floor to ceiling. At night, the city view is spectacular. There’s a gas fireplace in the living room, and the kitchen is like a little oasis of stainless steel and granite. My favorite amenity is the small balcony overlooking Lincoln Center.
I can’t tell you how many nights we spent as kids, lying out on the lawn of the North Fork Children’s Home, looking up at the stars and planning what our lives would be like when we “grew-up” which, in the case of un-adoptable foster kids is eighteen. Up until that time, we had no control over where or how or with whom we lived. We swore it wouldn’t be like that forever. And it hasn’t been.
Unlike most kids coming out of that living situation, Matthew has money. Lots of money. When he came of age, he was finally able to take control of the estate his parents left him when they were killed in a boating accident. He doesn’t like to take rent from me, but that’s non-negotiable, as far as I’m concerned. I may not be rich, but I do well enough teaching lessons on the side.
“So what are your plans for the weekend?” he asks now as I perch on the edge of his bed and watch him collect his toiletries.
“Well, you’ve always been a hopeless romantic.”
I giggle.
“Nah. I think I’m probably going to plant myself in a practice room for the next couple of days, depending on how my lesson goes this afternoon. Dr. Sam has made it very clear that if I don’t get my act together on the Rachmaninoff Cello Sonata, I can’t use it for my audition.”
“I thought you had that one down already. You’ve been working on it for months,” he says, tossing some T-shirts into the suitcase.
“Yeah, I thought so too,” I sigh, watching as he adds jeans and a wad of socks to the heap.
“So, what’s the problem then?”
I start pulling the clothes back out and folding them.
“Oh, you know Dr. Sam. He’s big into the meaning behind the piece. The composer’s intention, blah, blah, blah…”
“And he doesn’t think you know the meaning behind the piece?”
“You’d think, right? Nope, he wants me to spend some time with the third movement in particular to see if I can find an ‘emotional connection’ to it,” I say, with rolled eyes.
“Could he have been a little more vague, do you think?” he asks with a sarcastic smile.
“Tell me about it!”
I return the newly folded items to his suitcase. He looks down at them appreciatively, and then joins me on the edge of his bed.
“Does it have to be this piece? I mean there are hundreds of other sonatas and concertos you could do instead.”
I sigh and look hard into his golden brown eyes, the color of amber. They are clouded with concern. I hate to worry him about this stuff, but it’s impossible to get anything past him. He knows me too well.
“Matthew, this is the one,” I say finally. “With the Rachmaninoff and the Bach, I think I can win the cello category.”
He nods firmly.
“Okay, well, there it is, Julia. If you feel that strongly about it, then the answer is somewhere in here,” he says, tapping his chest over his heart. “Not,” now he taps his head, “in here. Get out of your head and trust your heart.”
“I know you’re right,” I whine, “but that’s easier said than done.”
“Of course I’m right!” he quips as he gets to his feet again. “And no one ever said it was going to be easy, Julia. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my driver will be here soon and I’ve still got things to do.”
“Ah, yes. I’m sure your adoring public will be waiting for you at the airport,” I tease. “Are you going to wear sunglasses so you won’t be hounded by the paparazzi?”
I duck with a squeal of laughter as he throws his deodorant at me.
7
The stove and I are not friends. Right now, it seems to be mocking me as I stand in front of it, thinking about how much I’d love a grilled cheese sandwich. It’s just a frying pan, two pieces of bread, some cheese and butter. How much damage could I do? I turn back to the fridge with a sigh and pull out some turkey. Cold sandwich it is. I’m just a terrible cook, so it’s Matthew who ensures there’s a meal on the table once in a while. But now that he’s away for the next two weeks, I can see a lot of diner meals in my immediate future.
He’s only been gone a couple of hours, and the apartment already has a strange, empty vibe. How is it possible for me to live in a building with hundreds of other people, in a city with millions of other people and still feel alone? Well, I won’t be here for long anyway. I’m going to have my lunch and head over to McInnes. I don’t have any time to waste with that Rachmaninoff if I plan to have it ready to go on Monday.
DING!
I jump at the sound. My phone, sitting on the breakfast bar, is suddenly bright with a text message.
Coffee on the counter. Microwave dinners in the freezer. Don’t use the stove!
I have to laugh. Like I said, he knows me too well. Maybe this won’t be so bad, after all. I send back a smiley face and locate the carafe. He’s even set my favorite mug out for me. I add sugar and cream to the cup and start to pour in the coffee, but the lid isn’t quite tight enough and the scalding hot liquid wicks underneath the carafe and down my hand.
“Ouch!” I yelp loudly, putting the coffee down hard on the counter and rushing to the sink.
As I hold my hand under a stream of cool water from the faucet, I’m almost knocked over by a sense of déjà vu. I’ve been here before, in almost this exact position. The smell of the coffee, the spilled drops on the counter, the sting of the burn, they all take me back nearly two decades to our ramshackle little house in one of Long Island’s seedier neighborhoods. My mother was gone by then, leaving me scrambling to keep my father happy. Even at the age of six, I knew that keeping my father happy was crucial to my wellbeing.
The early morning hours were the best. I’d wake up with the sun streaming into my tiny bedroom. The sheets were warm, my pillow was soft and I enjoyed several groggy minutes in that state between asleep and awake. Minutes that didn’t involve pain or hunger or cold, minutes that ticked by without threats of violence or humiliation. They were the best minutes of my day. And, they were swiftly followed by the worst minutes. My father banging around the kitchen, demanding I get out of bed and make him a cup of coffee.
I remember having to pull a chair up to the counter to stand on, just so I could reach. The image is frighteningly clear in my mind. Me, teetering on the chair, pouring the water and measuring each spoonful of coffee.
“Please, God, let Daddy like the coffee today. Please God. Please,” I would pray.
And, if God didn’t happen to be listening on that particular day, I would find myself just as I am now, watching the angry red welts rise on my stark white hand. Only, back then, it could’ve just as easily been my arm, or my face. Rex James had no patience for the daughter his wife had saddled him with when she ran off.
In those days, it wasn’t hard for a quiet little girl to fall through the cracks and, the truth is that by the time I was six, I had become an expert at hiding in plain sight. I knew just how to fade silently into the background, a survival skill that served me well at home. On the days that I actually managed to get to school, things weren’t much different. I was silent. Unremarkable and unnoticed until, one Tuesday afternoon in December, someone finally saw me.
Miss Evans blew through my elementary school like a breath of fresh air, taking over after the crotchety old Miss Smith broke her hip. The young teacher watched me. And the more she watched, the more I willed myself to disappear. It didn’t work, though. Jen Evans wasn’t like the other teachers who saw only what they wanted to see. She noticed as I stood by the heater on the far end of the room every chance I got, teeth chattering and shoes soaked trough from the slushy snow.
The day I came in walking slowly, wincing with nearly every movement, was the day she stopped watching and did something.
“Sweetie, is your back hurting you?” she asked softly, squatting down next to my desk so the other children wouldn’t hear.
I nodded.
“Did you hurt it?”
I nodded again.
“Can I see?”
A sickening wave of panic seized me. I knew my father would be furious if I told.
I shook my head. No.
“Please, Julia, just let me take a peek.”
When I finally nodded my consent, she ushered me to the small bathroom in the back of the classroom. After a brief look she pulled it down gently and smiled reassuringly.
“Don’t you worry about a thing! Everything is going to be okay,” she promised.
I was not convinced. And for good reason. Even at the age of seven I had the definite feeling that everything was about to change.
What Jen saw when she lifted my clothing was a huge bruise, already turning a rainbow of purples, yellows and blues. It took up most of my back and was in the perfectly outlined print of a size ten work boot.
While we waited for Chi
ld Protective Services to arrive, Jen took me to the nurse’s office and brought me a tray from the cafeteria. After I gobbled up my own lunch she passed me hers so I could eat that one as well.
“Sweetie, what was the last thing you had to eat?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
I shrugged.
The rest of that day felt as if it was stuck on fast forward. A blur of doctors and police and social workers peppered me with questions about my home life and my parents. Terrified of the beating I’d get from my father, I never uttered a word. But I needn’t have worried about my father because I was never going to go home again.
That night I was brought to an emergency foster home and a kind woman called Miss Mavis.
“Why, you’re just as quiet as a little mouse,” she said, as she gently washed the grime from my body and combed the tangles from my hair.
In the bedroom where two older girls were already sound asleep, she tucked me in tight under the covers and picked out a teddy bear for me to cuddle from a shelf on the wall. A pink princess nightlight glowed in the corner. Miss Mavis brushed the unruly hair back from my forehead and kissed it tenderly.
“Everything is going to be alright, sweet little mouse. You hear me? You are going to be alright.”
Somehow, when she said it, I believed it, and for the first time in my short life I felt warm and full and safe.
“These are good minutes,” I thought as I drifted off to sleep that night.
Now, so many years later, sitting in a safe home of my own, I put a hand to my cheek. I’m surprised when it comes away damp, covered in salty tears.
I do understand why my mother left my father; I just don’t understand how she could have left me behind.
8
I have to get out of the apartment. With Matthew gone, I’m better off just jumping into my practicing than sitting around, watching television and letting my mind go to places that I have locked away in the deepest recesses. When I get to the McInnes lobby, the night watchman barely looks up as I come through the front lobby door.