Naked Hope

by Rebecca E. Grant

  His expression relaxed. “Are you any good?”

  Jill straightened. “I guess you’ll tell me.”

  He hesitated and then chuckled under his breath. “Yes, I guess I will. You may stay and listen if you wish, but try not to disturb me again.”

  He never did keep an appointment, but she always knew where to find him. Before long, she adopted the daily practice of slipping into the back of the auditorium, exhilarated about yet another opportunity to observe him doing what he loved—and what she loved—most.

  Then one day, he stopped and stared into the empty auditorium until he found her. “You there. Why do you always sit in the back?”

  “Me?” Jill’s hairline crawled.

  “I don’t see anyone else.”

  “II didn’t want to disturb you. I thought that if I sat in the back”

  “You wouldn’t disturb me.” Fairfield pushed away from the piano and stood, his legs slightly apart. “Well, you have. You’re where you don’t belong, so muster the courage to sit where you can learn something.”

  After that, she sat in the front row where she observed the way his jeans hugged his thighs and emphasized the roll of muscles as he worked the pedals, or the way the black t-shirt he typically wore defined his shoulders and cut away from his biceps. Sometimes he even acknowledged her.

  The morning of her midterm, Jill awakened with a deep sense of dread. She told herself that although the date was Friday the thirteenth, she wasn’t superstitious. Nothing could stop her from playing well, today of all days. As she had so many times, she sat in the auditorium—but nothing was magical about the man today. Demanding and impatient, he expressed himself with frank insensitivity.

  Students fled from their auditions in tears.

  When they called her number, apprehension stalked her like a shadow as she walked to center stage, her breathing so shallow, she had to fight the urge to flee. He looked beyond bored.

  He stifled a yawn. “Ah, Ms. Cole. At last, the time has come. Let’s see what you’ve learned.” He sighed and turned away. “You may begin. Watch for my cues.”

  Jill played the opening strains of a well-known piece by Shostakovich from memory. She could feel every fiber of her bow as it scraped the A string, cut across the D and G strings, resting heavily on the C string. Even some of the most elementary chords were stilted and sloppy.

  Fairfield silenced her after a few bars with a careless flick of his wrist. “Yes, yes, almost every hopeful cellist chooses that piece. But how often have you heard it performed? Almost never! Of what use is it?” He waved his hand. “Play something else. Anything else. Be creative, genuine. Don't just show me what you've learned, show me who you are.”

  Jill’s hands began to sweat. Her back creaked from the familiar strain so many cellists suffered sitting at a ninety-degree angle. In an effort to please him, she lurched into the first piece that flew into her mind. The cello squawked, making her hands sweat even more. Two miserable measures later, her bow suddenly sprang free and arced across the room, narrowly missing Fairfield. When the baton landed, it spun around and around on the floor as if the baton had a mind of its own.

  Humiliated beyond words, Jill sat motionless in her straight-backed chair, unable to think what to do next.

  With a graceful, sweeping motion, Fairfield retrieved the errant bow, walked it over to Jill, and gave another understated flick to indicate she should start again.

  Despite her determination, her nerves got the better of her ability and she played raggedly, as if the strings hurt her fingers.

  He waved his hands. “Stop, stop, not another note. Ms. Cole, where are you from? Farm country?”

  She bobbed her head and sputtered, “I—I’m from a little farm near Hope, North Dakota.”

  He sighed, examining the palms of his hands.

  Jill swallowed hard and fought against the sinking sensation of failure that settled in her throat.

  He had jabbed a finger at her cello. “Well, Ms. Cole, rather than cling to the unfounded belief that one day you’ll be a musician, the only hope for you is your farm in North Dakota—which is where you belong. I suggest you go back there.”

  Nona buzzed, breaking into Jill’s reverie. She glanced at her watch. “Yes?”

  “Ross just called. Says they’re about halfway through the tour. Wants to know how you’re coming along.”

  “Tell him not a minute before eleven thirty.”

  “What about that tall drink of water?”

  Jill shivered. “A little too much ice for my taste.”

  Nona chuckled. “Ice melts, honey.”

  Chapter Two

  Engrossed in Olivia’s file, Jill devoured every detail. While she wanted to avoid labels, Olivia had been, by any measure, a musical virtuoso. From the web articles and news clippings in the file, Jill learned that at age three Olivia played several instruments, at five she began composing, and at eight, just before the accident, she’d earned a reputation as a renowned concert pianist. From the various photos Jill observed that Olivia had developed quite a public persona.

  Olivia’s medical prognosis indicated a full recovery with the exception of her musical ability. No matter how much Olivia’s brain might adapt and regenerate over time, she would never again take abstract musical concepts and create patterns. Her career as a musician, her life as a musically gifted virtuoso, was over.

  Gavin’s words drifted back. Music is what she loves most. What if all she needs is for someone to believe in her? I can’t possibly accept defeat. Not when it comes to Liv’s music.

  Jill gave an involuntary shudder. As she read further, she discovered that various assessments completed by psychologists at three-month intervals over the last fifteen months confirmed Olivia’s loss of memory. Her inability to engage in any form of musical appreciation had left her frightened, resentful and angry. One of the reports hinted Olivia didn’t have the appropriate emotional nurturing from her family to make a healthy recovery, but didn’t indicate a reason.

  So that’s that. Even if I could make room, she’s not eligible. No child could be admitted into her program without strong empathic support from family members grounded in a realistic outlook, and realistic expectations consistent with medical fact. Gavin Fairfield was far from realistic and she had no reason to believe he would follow anyone’s protocol but his own.

  About to close the file, her gaze landed on a single sentence nearly obscured by a post-it note. “The father’s refusal to accept the patient’s musical limitations is damaging to the well-being of the patient.”

  When the two men settled themselves in her office, Jill began, “Olivia’s application indicates you’ve selected the institute’s advanced program. We have many programs here for children with TBI. Why have you chosen this particular program?”

  “Because it’s the one you designed.”

  “I design them all.”

  “But this is the one whose clinical trial results were recently published?”

  More than a little flattered that he knew about the early success of her program, she clarified, “Those were preliminary results. The trial is ongoing. This year’s results will be crucial to the future of the program.”

  Fairfield flicked his hand. “Yes, yes. I’m aware of that. Liv needs your program. No one else can claim your results.”

  “I see. You understand that particular program is reserved for students who demonstrate high levels of intelligence”

  “Yes.”

  “—creative ability”

  “Yes.”

  “—and where brain injuries have resulted in a minimal degree of permanent impairment—”

  “Which makes Liv the perfect candidate,” Gavin insisted.

  Jill scrutinized the maestro’s handsome face, all too aware of how used he was to getting his own way. “Mr. Fairfield, what do you hope this program will do for Olivia?”

  His eyes widened and he spread his arms. “What else? Save her!”


  Silence reigned.

  Jill hesitated, careful to keep her body language in check, despite her rising frustration. With quiet determination, she said, “We aren’t in the business of saving children”

  “No? What would you call it? My daughter is lost. We’ve tried”

  “We?”

  “Her grandparents and I. We’ve tried to help her but we’re as lost as she is. I’m convinced that you can help her find her way back.”

  “Back to what, specifically?”

  “To herself.”

  Ross shifted.

  Jill jotted a few notes while she chose her next words. “The students who do well in my program have strong emotional support from family members and caregivers who have realistic expectations. There are strict guidelines—an exacting protocol—boundaries. They can be challenging, even frustrating for family members, but they exist so that everyone can adapt to the many personality changes that accompany traumatic brain injury. My protocol allows the child access to what he or she needs without the pressure of expectation.”

  “Again, yes!” Gavin inclined his head.

  Jill leaned forward. “For example, you have an expectation of Olivia that medical evidence indicates she can no longer meet. You expect Olivia to think, act and perform as a musician. My program would require you to change that expectation. Olivia would not pursue any form of music because we would never reinforce what she can’t do. Instead, our focus is to help her discover what she can do, and find new interests. But I can’t imagine this being something you can support since earlier you stated you would never accept defeat regarding your daughter’s music.”

  Gavin’s blue-gray eyes flashed. “I believe in your program. I’m confident you know what you’re doing.”

  Jill smoothed nonexistent wrinkles out of her skirt and looked to Ross for support.

  Ross avoided her gaze.

  “And I believe in my daughter,” Gavin stated in a quiet tone.

  After a long moment, she said, “The program you’re interested in is full.”

  Gavin gripped the chair arms and opened his mouth.

  Jill held up her hand. “We employ a meticulous process when we select our students to ensure the greatest likelihood of success for the student, and for the program. The success of one depends on the success of the other. The information in Olivia’s file is a start. We’d never make an admission decision without conducting interviews and assessments—I would need to administer tests—observe Olivia in her home environment, none of which I have time for.” Jill smoothed more nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt. “The deadline for admission was four months ago. What reason can you give me for taking on an eleventh-hour effort like this?”

  Fairfield reached into the pocket of his buff-colored sports jacket, withdrew his phone, and set it on Jill’s desk. “Take a look. Her grandmother took this. It’s a daily occurrence—often as many as half a dozen times a day.”

  The video streamed. A thin child with lifeless hair and hunched frame sat at the keyboard of a piano, stabbing the keys. The sound was staccato, atonal, and nonsensical as she cried out in a voice as attenuated as her twig-like body, “Listen, Dad. I’m doing it. Can you hear me?”

  The camera caught Olivia’s face full on. Despite the dogged determination in her eyes, she wore the same haunted look as her father. The frame widened to include Gavin whose face was crippled with self-recrimination. Did Gavin feel responsible for Olivia’s condition? According to the news clippings, he hadn’t been in the car, or even anywhere close by at the time of the accident. What did he have to feel guilty about?

  Fairfield’s hand shot through his hair. “Look, I know I come off a bit high-handed at times. I’m not asking you to consider Liv because of who I am, or who she is…” His fingers raked the flawless cut. “I’m saying this badly. What I mean is that I understand deadlines—I respect them. Regarding quotas, I guarantee you’ll have whatever funding you need to more than make up for a stretched budget…” He paused.

  Jill straightened her back and stood as tall as her five-feet-five frame plus heels allowed. “Mr. Fairfield, we would never make a decision based on the promise of an endowment.”

  Fairfield retrieved his phone from her desk, his thumb running over the display which still projected Olivia’s face. “You asked why my daughter deserves an eleventh-hour effort. I’ll tell you why. Because she hasn’t given up. You saw for yourselfshe still wants to be a musician. Every day she tries, and the effort is killing her.” His knuckles whitened at his tight grip on the phone. “If what I’ve read about you is true, now that you’ve seen her, you won’t walk away without giving her a fair shot.”

  The full impact of his words settled around her. She leaned back in her chair. “Mr. Fairfield, if you’d give us a few moments, please.”

  Fairfield rose. “Of course. I’ll just be outside. Waiting.”

  Waiting. The word was laden with expectation.

  When the door closed behind him, Jill said, “Ross, I may not have the kind of objectivity about Fairfield or his daughter necessary to make a fair decision.” Slowly, she met the dean’s expectant gaze.

  “Looks to me like you’ve already made up your mind. What’s the problem?”

  “We’ve met before.”

  His eyebrows drew together. “Go on.”

  “Gavin Fairfield was my advisor in college.” She took him through the details as the familiar humility enshrouded her, making her speech difficult.

  Ross nodded, tapping his fingertips together.

  Finally, she said, “I should have had a back-up plan. He should have advised me to have a back-up plan.”

  “So you didn’t make it?”

  “He told me I had no talent and should go back to the farm where I belong.”

  Eyes wide, Ross jerked forward. “He said that?”

  “He did, yes.”

  “But the two of you acted as though you’d just met.”

  Jill crossed her arms in a vain attempt to comfort herself. “I’m sure he doesn’t remember me. I considered bringing it up when you introduced us. Frankly, I couldn’t warm to the idea of reminding him I was one of his colossal failures.”

  The clock in Jill’s office chimed the hour.

  Ross drummed his fingers and studied Jill. “Let me bottom-line this thing. The Dr. Cole I know is a scientist and healer. Your life’s mission is to find breakthroughs that will help these kids get back their lives. So the guy was a crap-bastard.” He shrugged and shook his head. “If you were a cellist, neither of us would be here. I’d still be litigating corporate lawsuits, and you’d be living in some cheap flat abroad somewhere feeling miserable and making lousy money since you weren’t very good.” He chuckled.

  Jill rolled her eyes. “Everyone’s a critic.”

  “Too early for jokes? Okay.” He took a deep breath. “Do you trust me, Jillian?”

  Jill’s mouth twisted. “About as far as I can toss you.”

  Ross grinned. “Something tells me that one day soon, the maestro Fairfield will be vastly grateful you didn’t take his advice.”

  “Oh, I went back to the farm all right. I didn’t have any choice. I was out. I lost my scholarship.” Jill winced, remembering that endless arctic-like winter.

  “Okay, but how much does that matter, today?”

  Jill sat back and crossed her legs. “Point taken but even if I were to consider her, there isn’t time. I’m leaving for a vacation in Baja with friends and then the fall term starts.”

  Ross shrugged. “Baja’s overrated. In all seriousness, Jill, I can’t believe you’d punish the girl for her father’s crimes.”

  Jill shook her head. “No, but she doesn’t meet the criteria.”

  “At first glance, she might not meet the criteria,” he corrected, pointing to the file. “You yourself said a review of her file isn’t enough to make a decision.”

  Jill’s gaze drifted toward the window. “You don’t think this represents a conflict of inte
rest?”

  “I’ll confer with counsel but from my perspective, it’s a moot point. One could claim discrimination if you don’t admit her, or later, if not satisfied with her progress…” He left the rest unsaid.

  “I think you just said we’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t.” Jill stood, hugging Olivia’s file to her chest.

  Ross rubbed his right eye. “We live in a litigious society, so yes. That’s the reality we face every day. But, that’s why the institute pays such a large professional liability insurance premium.”

  Jill threw wide the door. “Mr. Fairfield, won’t you join us again.” He rose with the grace of a panther awakening from a nap. She avoided his predatory stare just in time.

  “If I’m to consider your daughter for enrollment, we’ll need to begin right away.” She glanced at her watch. “This afternoon. Now, in fact. The process will require you to clear your schedule for the next four days. I’ll need total access to you, your daughter, and any other family members who are a part of Olivia’s support system. Are you prepared for such a commitment?”

  He stared as if he didn’t trust his words—or maybe it was her words he didn’t trust. Still hugging Olivia’s file, she said, “If you agree to this—if you’re willing to make my work with Olivia your only priority, I’ll cancel my plans and make this my priority as well.”

  “Olivia is my only priority.”

  He spoke in a tone so low, she almost couldn’t hear him. “Good. If all goes well, we can be done by Sunday or Monday. I can be ready to leave in short order, I just need to gather a few things. My car is in for servicing so I’ll need to ride with you, although that means you’ll have to bring me back tonight. I noticed from Olivia’s file that you live in Shadow Hills. That’s about an hour’s drive from here, right? Have a seat,” she said, pointing to an empty chair.

  Fairfield flashed her a dazzling smile.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  “I’ll be happy to drive you. Or, if necessary, Baines can drop you back.”

  “Baines?”

  “Oh, Baines has been with us for a lifetime. The drive will give us a chance to get to know each other better.”