“I can deal with it,” I say, trying to convince myself as well as him. “It’s just a cello lesson. And Mom’s home.”
“Okay,” Griffon says. “As long as you can deal with it, you’ll be able to go out with me tonight.” He says it lightly, but without his customary smile. “Just for an hour or so.”
“What makes you think I don’t have other plans?” I hadn’t made any on purpose, hoping I’d see him, but I don’t want him to think I’m waiting around for him. Which I am.
“Do you?”
I grinned. “I do now.”
“Good. I’ll come up and get you after Veronique leaves.”
I glance up at our window, already trying to figure out how I’m going to get out of the house on a school night. “I’d better go and set up. Veronique’s going to be here any minute. Are you sure you don’t want to come up?”
“I’m sure. I feel better keeping an eye on things from down here.”
It’s me who leans in this time, kissing him harder on the mouth, not caring if anyone sees us. It’s so difficult to untangle my fingers from his and walk up the stairs alone, and I hope the lesson goes quickly.
Veronique is uncharacteristically late, so when she finally does arrive, we go straight to work, with no mention of Griffon sitting outside. I try to keep my mind on the notes, but I keep glancing at Veronique, hoping to find a flicker of recognition.
We play together for a while, me taking the more difficult melody parts and Veronique working on the easier harmonies. I feel myself starting to relax a little bit.
At the end of the last bar, we both reach up at the same time to turn the page, but as our hands brush, a sense of doom and anger flashes through the room for just a second, and I sit back hard in my chair.
“You okay?” Veronique asks, watching me with concern. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
I blink and shake my head. The panic is gone now, as if the wave has curled over, saturating everything around me and then retreating. I inch away from her, the echoes of what Griffon has said about her racing through my mind, and suddenly I know that the visions aren’t random. Touching Veronique is what has caused them the past two times, and Alessandra in that life must be how I’m connected to Veronique now. “I’m fine,” I say. “Just a little dizzy.”
“Are you still getting headaches?” Concern flashes across her face. “From the accident last week?”
I realize I don’t want her to know what I’ve been feeling and seeing. Janine’s right—as long as she thinks I don’t have a clue, it’s probably safer. “Sometimes,” I say. “The bump only just went away.” Knowing Griffon is outside calms my nerves a little. Suddenly I want him closer without alarming her. “It’s kind of stuffy in here. Let me open a window.” Setting the cello down gently, I walk to the bay window that looks out over the street and unlock it. I peer through the glass down to the planter below, but I can’t see Griffon from this angle.
Grabbing the window pulls, I yank the bottom pane up, but it only tilts about half an inch before it sticks tight. Thanks, Mom, and your stupid antique houses. It would be so nice to live in a place where opening a window doesn’t take an enormous feat of strength. I pound on the frame a couple of times to try to shake it loose.
“Here, let me help you,” Veronique says, walking over to the window.
I glance down again, but Griffon is still nowhere in sight, and that makes me feel panicky all over again. I don’t want to look at Veronique in case she can tell what I know, that I’m starting to put the pieces of the puzzle together, and sometime soon I’ll know where she fits. “You grab that side and I’ll grab this side,” I say, pulling on the brass handle. “On three. One, two, three.”
In T.V. shows, when something bad happens they slow it way down so that you can see every detail with excruciating clarity. In CSI, when someone gets sliced by shards of glass, they show the stop-motion trajectory of the sharp edges as they slice through skin, muscle, and bone, the drops of blood falling like one of those splatter psychology tests onto the victim’s shirt. This isn’t like that at all. Everything happens so fast I barely realize what’s going on. The sounds of shattering glass fill the room, and there’s a flash of fear as my left hand crashes through the broken window. Without thinking, I quickly pull my arm back inside, not noticing the long piece of glass that’s sticking out through the bottom of the sill.
At first, I don’t feel anything.
“Oh my God,” Veronique says, grabbing my arm just above the wrist and holding it tight. “We need some help!” she shouts, without moving from where we stand frozen in place.
“It’s okay,” I say, trying to pull my arm away from her.
“We have to keep the pressure on it,” Veronique says to me calmly, her grip surprisingly strong.
“Nicole!” Mom says, appearing in the doorway. She rushes over to the window. “Oh my God! What happened?”
“The window broke,” I say, feeling hazy and confused. I watch as rivulets of blood appear from under Veronique’s hands and drop onto the floor. This is all going to make a big mess, not to mention the shattered window pane. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I say, my tongue feeling thick in my mouth.
“We need some towels,” Veronique says. Her voice is beginning to sound distant, like she’s at the end of a long tunnel.
“Let me see,” Mom says, trying to pull her hand away.
“Not a good idea,” Veronique says in harsh, clipped tones, as if I can’t hear her. “I think she may have severed an artery. You need to call 911. Now.”
Mom races out and Veronique and I are alone in the silent room. My skin feels warm and sticky, but when I look down, it seems like someone else’s hand that’s covered in shiny red blood. My eyelids feel heavy, and my ears are ringing. Before Mom can get back, I know my legs won’t hold me up any longer.
“I think I need to sit down,” I say, and slide against the wall, only partially aware of the red pool that’s forming beneath me. I can smell Mom’s perfume nearby, and that makes me feel better—like everything is going to be fine.
Dimly, I hear pounding at the front door and Griffon’s voice shouting through the glass. I know the door is locked, it’s always locked, but just lifting my head takes more energy than I have left, and all I can do is whisper his name. The wail of sirens sounds in the distance and I want to tell him that the ambulance is coming, that my mom is here, but I can’t open my eyes or make my mouth form the words.
The ocean air is tangy with salt as we sit on the stone stoop of the cottage, my arm wrapped in muslin and tied tight to my body. Looking up, I can see bits of blue sky through the long, brown grass on the roof.
“My poor bairn,” Mam says. “We’ll get this changed quick as a wink and have you on your way again.” She smiles at me, her blue eyes the same color as the sea that roils on the cliffs below us. The fiery red plait hangs down her back and looks like the setting sun against the whitewashed walls.
“’Tis paining me,” I cry, tears filling my eyes as she deftly pulls the bandage off the wound. Angry red skin punctuated by yellow blisters covers most of my arm, and the sight of it is almost worse than the pain.
“Dear, sweet Allison. Just a wee bit of salve and a clean bandage will have this right as rain in no time,” Mam says. A thick covering of ointment blocks out the air, and the relief makes me smile at her for a second, knowing that she is right.
The relentless beeping is driving me crazy. I wave my hand around my head, trying to find somewhere to turn off the repetitive noise that is piercing my brain.
“Cole?” My father’s voice is soft and full of concern. “Are you awake?”
“Hmm,” I say, trying to find the words I need. I run my tongue over my lips and try again. “Yeah.” My throat is drier than I’ve ever felt before. “Water,” I manage.
“The nurse is coming,” Dad says, patting my right hand.
Nurse? Where am I? I try to open my eyes, but the fluorescent lights make me shut the
m again. “Too bright,” I say.
I hear a click above my head and then Dad’s voice again. “Try it now.”
I open my eyes just enough to see the top of a curtain that hangs on a metal track from the ceiling. My head is throbbing, and without moving it I can see a bank of machines on my right, one of which is making the irritating beeping sound. “It hurts,” I say.
“The doctor says that once the pain medication wears off, your arm is going to hurt a bit,” Dad says. I tilt my head to the right just enough to see him. His face has more wrinkles than I remember.
“Not arm,” I say, barely able to form the words I need. “Headache.”
“I’ll ask about that just as soon as they come in,” Dad says.
I look around, remembering the pounding on the door and feeling frustration that I wasn’t able to let him in. “Griffon,” I say. “Where …?”
“He’ll be back,” Dad says. “Close your eyes and get some rest.”
The effort of speaking is too much, and relief overwhelms me as I let myself slip into a dark stream of unconsciousness.
Sixteen
Griffon’s curls are the first things I see when I open my eyes. His arms are folded in front of him and his head is leaning heavily against the bed railing. I can’t see his eyes, but his deep, even breathing tells me that he’s asleep. I watch him for a few minutes, his fingers twitching, acting out whatever vivid dream is streaming across his unconscious. He seems younger while he sleeps, as if the daily effort of keeping up some sort of barrier slips away in unguarded moments. I think about what it would be like to wake up one morning with him next to me, his curls resting on a pillow near my head, his fingers wrapped around mine.
With my free hand I reach up and gently touch his hair, then more boldly twist one of the curls around my finger, its silky curves hugging my skin. With a jolt, Griffon inhales and sits upright, looking around as if he doesn’t know where he is.
“Hey,” I say to him. My lips feel dry and cracked, and I’m sure that I look like a disaster. I’m still glad that he’s sitting next to me.
His eyes soften as soon as he sees me, the deep indentation in his cheek giving away the fact that he’s probably been in that position for a long time. “Cole,” he says. The corners of his eyes look raw, as if he’s been crying. “You okay?”
I nod, looking around the bed. My left arm is suspended from a pulley, white gauze bandages wrapping the entire length from fingertips to elbow. There are several bags hanging from hooks on a pole, leaking various fluids into my arm. The pain feels like it’s far away, tucked in a distant corner of my brain along with the fragmented memories of the accident. I lick my lips, my mouth feeling so dry I’m not sure I can speak again.
Griffon reaches over and pours some water from a pink plastic pitcher into a matching cup. “Here,” he says, handing it to me. “Can you get this, or do you want me to hold it?”
I reach for it with my right hand, the cup trembling as I bring it to my lips, but I don’t spill too much on the woven hospital blanket. As I drink, my body comes back to life, and I can almost feel the blood surging in my veins. “Thanks,” I manage, handing the cup back to him.
“God, I was so scared,” he whispers, sitting back down in the padded chair next to the bed. “By the time I got in there, I thought it was too late. She was sitting there in a pool of your blood, and you were so white…” Griffon runs his other hand through his hair, tugging at the curls, and I can feel the effort he’s using to control his anger.
“But I’m okay,” I say, feeling stronger already. I shift in the bed, my muscles stiff. “It was an accident—”
“That’s two ‘accidents’ in two weeks, Cole.” His whisper grows harsh, and he squeezes my hand for emphasis. His beautiful eyes are dull and desperate as he looks at me. “When are you going to realize she’s out to hurt you? When I think of what could have happened—of what did happen when I was standing just a few feet away…” He raises my right hand to his lips and kisses my fingers.
I can feel my heart rate rising and glance over at the monitors, hoping that they won’t give me away. I remember the flash of danger when my hand brushed Veronique’s that afternoon, but I don’t really remember the details of the accident. As glad as I am that she’d tried to help, it was a pretty huge coincidence that she was there when it happened. “Then why did she save my life?”
Griffon presses his lips together. “I don’t know,” he finally admits. “I’ve been thinking about it nonstop, and I can’t come up with anything that makes sense. She must have wanted it to look like an accident. Maybe she thought you wouldn’t survive, and helping you would throw off any suspicion.”
I stare at him, surprised at the passion in his voice. I’ve never had anyone worry about me so much.
“I’m supposed to protect you this time,” he says quietly. “And I’m screwing it up already.”
At first I love hearing those words. He wants to keep me safe. Who wouldn’t love that? And then I look at them a little more carefully. “What do you mean ‘this time’?”
He glances at me like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “I just mean now. In this lifetime. I need to protect you from Veronique.”
I wonder again, despite all of the things he’s said, if that’s all I am to him. He’s already out to save the world; why not save me on the side? “I’ve already told you, I don’t need protecting.”
Griffon glances at the machines behind me and the I.V. hanging from the pole next to the bed. “Yeah, you’re doing a great job at the moment.”
A door opens and Dad appears through the curtain, two cups of coffee in his hands. His tired eyes lift as he sees me, and Griffon has to reach out and grab the cups before they fall.
“Cole!” Dad says, his voice wavering. He clears his throat. “About time you decided to join us. It was getting pretty boring just sitting here watching you sleep.”
I manage a small smile. Dad is famous for handling difficult situations with stupid jokes, and for once I’m glad for the distraction. “Sorry I missed all the excitement.”
“Thanks for the coffee,” Griffon says. He grabs his jacket off the back of the chair. “I should get going.”
“You don’t have to,” I say. “It’s okay.” Just because I don’t want to be the helpless female in his hero movie doesn’t mean I want him to go.
“Your dad’s back. I just wanted to check in and see how you were doing. I’ll call you later.” The door thunks behind him as Griffon practically sprints out of the room, and I know that I’m going to spend the next several hours repeating his last sentence to myself. He’s going to call me later.
Dad leans over to kiss my cheek. He smoothes the hair out of my face like he used to when I was little and he was putting me to bed. In that one gesture, I realize how much I miss sitting and reading with him at bedtime every night. I used to make him read the same books over and over again, every night for weeks at a time. With a sudden rush of sadness I realize that he won’t be my dad next time. Someday I’ll be a little kid again and someone else will read me stories and put me to bed. And I’ll remember this Dad and this lifetime, but he’ll be someone else too and won’t have any memory of the little girl who was me. I wonder how Griffon does it, starting over with new people every lifetime, like a new cast of characters in familiar roles. It must be lonely.
“You gave us all quite a scare,” Dad says. He nods toward the door. “I’ve barely been able to get Griffon to leave your room since you got here.”
I can feel my face getting warm, ridiculously happy at the thought that he sat here the whole time. Dad smiles at me. “We can talk about that later,” he says.
There is a twinge of pain in my left arm, like you get when you bump your funny bone. I look up at where it’s hanging over my head and try to bend my fingers. They twitch in response, and the feeling isn’t so much of pain as it is like my whole arm’s asleep. I notice Dad watching me.
“Do you want me to ge
t more pain meds?”
“No,” I say. “It’s okay right now.” I pause, needing to ask the question, but not sure I want the answer. “Is it bad?”
“Honest?”
“No, Dad. I want you to lie to me. Yes, honest.”
A look of pain crosses his face. “It’s not good. The glass severed everything right down to the bone. They did surgery to repair as much of the damage as they could.”
I think about the complicated fingerings in Meditation. In any piece worth playing. The strength you need for the fortissimo and the control you need for the pianissimo sections. “Can I …,” I begin, but have to breathe out quickly and start over at the thought. “Will I be able to play again soon?”
“I’m sure it will all work out.” Dad’s words say one thing, but the fact that he won’t look at me when he talks says something else. He looks me in the eye and grabs my other hand. “The important thing is that you’re going to be okay.”
It’s almost cute that he thinks that this is most important thing. I know better.
Dad stands up and pulls out his phone. “Right now, I’ve got to call your mother. I finally sent her home to get some rest, but I promised to call the second you woke up.”
I look out the window and realize it’s dark outside. Veronique’s lesson was at four o’clock, which means I’ve been out of it for hours. The last thing I remember is the sound of pounding at the door and the ambulance in the distance. I try to sit up more and am rewarded with woozy spins for my efforts. “What time is it?” I ask.
Dad looks up from his phone and glances at the clock. “It’s almost midnight.”
I let my head flop back on the pillow. Just the effort required to hold a simple conversation is exhausting. I yawn. “I’m so tired. How long have I been asleep?”
He puts the phone up to his ear, and I can hear a distant ringing. Dad puts one hand on my good arm and gives it a squeeze. “Honey, it’s almost midnight on Saturday,” he says as he waits for Mom to pick up. “You’ve been asleep for two days.”
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