“Well, if you’re okay, I have to get to work,” Kat says, folding the magazine closed and stretching as Mom comes into the room. Between all of them, I haven’t been alone since I got here, and it’s starting to irritate me just a little bit. That, and the fact that I haven’t seen Griffon since he ran out of here two days before.
“Call me if you get out today,” she says, gathering up her bag. “If not, I’ll come by tonight.” She bends down and gives me a peck on the cheek. The accident seems to have brought out the big sister in her, and I don’t completely hate it.
“Thanks,” I say, watching Mom start her shift in the still-warm chair. “Can I have another drink?” I ask, flicking through the TV channels, trying to find something decent to watch. My left arm is still suspended in midair; it looks like it’s frozen in a permanent wave. I can’t move very far without being detached, so going to the bathroom involves moves that are similar to untying a very tangled marionette.
“Sure, baby,” Mom says, bringing me the milk that’s sitting on the bedside table.
“Thanks,” I say, wishing it was Pepsi. I take a sip and glance at the still-full lunch tray that’s next to the bed. The view out the window isn’t so bad—I can even see the top of the Golden Gate Bridge if I crane my neck just right—but the food is inedible. Two days of picking mysterious things off my tray has been enough.
Mom sees my glance. “Are you sure you don’t want something more to eat?”
“No. Besides, they said I might be able to get out of here today.” I smile sweetly at her. “And if I don’t, will you please, please get me some calamari and plantains from Cha Cha Cha again?” My favorite Cuban restaurant always goes a long way toward making anything better.
“That would be awfully nice of me,” she says, coming around to my back to fluff up my pillow. “We’ll see.” Apparently now that my death is no longer imminent, I don’t get everything I want.
On the other side of the curtain, I can hear the hallway door open and the squeak of Dr. Shapiro’s shoes on the polished floor. He knocks on the side of the door before pulling the curtain back.
“How are things today, Miss Ryan?” he asks, glancing at the computer screen next to the bed.
“Better,” Mom jumps in. “She seems to be getting some feeling back in the tips of her fingers,” she adds. “And the color seems to be better too. We’ve been keeping a careful eye on that for the past twenty-four hours.”
“Thank you,” he says brusquely to Mom, and then turns pointedly toward me. “May I have a look?”
I nod and take a deep breath. When it’s wrapped up tight in white bandages, I don’t have to think too much about what’s going on underneath, but whenever he wants to have a look, the reality of what happened sets in. Dr. Shapiro tries hard to be gentle, but just a bump sends a shooting pain straight up to my shoulder.
“Let’s see what we’re working with here,” he says, unhooking my arm from the sling that keeps it upright and unwrapping the bandage. My arm looks small and bright yellow, which he said is from the antiseptic they use during surgery. Running straight down the inside of my arm from wrist almost to elbow is an angry red line covered in shiny black stitches. I can hear Mom sharply inhale.
Dr. Shapiro doesn’t say anything, just looks at the scar from several angles. He gently pinches the ends of my fingers. “Can you feel that?”
“Some,” I say.
“Still feel a little numb?”
“Kind of. Mostly from my middle finger to my pinky.”
“Hmm,” he says. “Let me see you move them.”
The fear that it is going to hurt is worse than the actual pain as I carefully bend my fingers down as far as they’ll go.
“Well,” he says, opening up some new gauze to put over the stitches, “the wound is healing nicely, and I don’t see any signs of infection. Which is great.”
“What about the nerve damage?” Mom asks anxiously. “Will she have the same range of motion as before? You know that Nicole is an exceptionally gifted cellist, and I can’t imagine what it would do to her career if—”
“We’ll have to wait and see, Mrs. Ryan,” Dr. Shapiro says sharply, cutting her off mid-sentence. It’s so embarrassing that she doesn’t see how much she annoys him. “Right now I’m more concerned with infection and saving her life than I am with some of the fine motor skills she may lose,” he continues. “The ulnar nerve was completely severed, along with extensive tissue damage. At this point, she’s lucky she gets to keep her hand.” He smiles apologetically at me. “The scar shouldn’t be too bad,” he says. “I’m good with a stitch, if I do say so myself.”
I look at my arm, all packaged up tight, as he hooks me back up to the pulley system. From the outside, it’s all going to look completely normal, but I know with stone-cold certainty that it will never be the same. The thought that I won’t be able to play again feels like a big empty space inside, as if more than just some nerves and tendons have been severed. I’ve been feeling guilty about making the cello my career since I found out the truth about my “gift.” Maybe now, I’ll have no choice.
“I think we can let you go later today, if you promise to keep it elevated as much as possible.” Dr. Shapiro turns to Mom. “I’ll give you some information about physical therapy and rehabilitation before she’s released.”
“I want the best therapists in the city,” Mom says as I cringe from embarrassment. “Nicole has a promising career ahead of her, and to have something like this end it would just be so … tragic.”
Dr. Shapiro smiles a tight smile. “I’ve done everything I can do. Now it’s just a waiting game to see how well the nerves react.” He squeezes my foot through the covers. “I’ll check back in before you go.”
I wait until the door shuts behind him to say anything. “Do you even hear yourself?”
“What? It’s true! In order to become a truly world-class musician, you need to have quick reflexes and strong fingers. If you don’t get all of the feeling back, I just…” She puts her head in her hands. “I just don’t know what we’ll do.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” I demand. “Didn’t you hear him? I could have bled to death, and all you care about is whether I can play the cello again! Sometimes I think you don’t even care about me. Just what I can do.”
Mom stands up and takes a step toward the bed. “How can you say that? After everything we’ve done? You know we love you.”
“I know you love the fact that I can play the cello. And that you get to be the mother of a child prodigy,” I say, anger and frustration spilling over into my words. “But guess what, Mom—you can’t be a child prodigy if you aren’t a child anymore. And I’m not. Pretty soon, I’m just going to be a regular adult who happens to be good at the cello.” I wiggle my fingers in the bandages. “Or at least that’s what was going to happen. Face it: I’m not that special anymore.”
Mom makes a move to touch my shoulder but I shake her off, so she takes a step away from the bed. “You know you don’t mean that,” she says, struggling to keep her voice even. “I know how upsetting this is. We’ll get the best therapist in the city and begin right away. If you want to be truly world-class, you can’t afford to lose too much ground, or else—”
“You’re not listening, Mom!” I shout. “You have to accept the reality that it might be over. I might never play again.” Even as I say the words, I try not to concentrate on them, to fully comprehend that I might never pick up a bow again.
“You listen to me,” she says. “You are special. You’ve always been special. Cello has been your destiny ever since you were a tiny child, and we’ve done everything we can to make that your reality.”
“Well, it looks like destiny has other ideas now,” I say.
Mom is just gearing up for a repeat performance about my wasted talents when there’s another knock on the door.
“Can I come in?” Rayne asks from out in the hallway. I can’t tell if she’s overheard us or not.
“Pleas
e,” I call out. Mom seems to deflate into the chair by the window, aware that our “discussion” is over, at least for the moment.
“How’s it going?” Rayne asks, stepping further into the room, her eyes flickering momentarily to my bandaged hand and then to my face.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I get out of here today.”
“Awesome,” she says, bending down to give me an awkward hug. “What time?”
I glance at Mom. “Did he say what time?”
“No,” she says. “Probably before dinner, I’d imagine.” She stands up. “I’m going to get the nurse to start the paperwork so that it doesn’t take all day.”
I breathe a sigh of relief once she’s gone and the door has thunked closed. “Mom wants me to stay home all week, but I can’t wait for things to get back to normal,” I say. “I’ll probably miss school again tomorrow, but I might be able to go back on Wednesday.”
“Good,” Rayne says. She looks back at my arm again. “Is it going to be back to normal?”
“Sure,” I say, sounding more confident than I feel. “It just might take a little while to get all of the feeling back in my fingers. It’ll be fine.”
“Will you be able to … play anymore?”
“I don’t know,” I say, trying to sound indifferent. “And if I can’t, who cares? You’re the one who’s always saying there’s more to life than practice. Maybe I need to take a break.”
Rayne studies my face. “Yeah, but forever? You can’t give up on your gift.”
“So now you’re on Mom’s side too?”
Rayne sits down on the edge of the bed. “I’m not taking a side.” She grins. “Especially your mom’s. But there must be a reason that you’re so good at cello. I’m not good at anything, but if I was, I’d make the most of it.”
If she only knew how close she is to the truth. The reason I was so good at cello. I realize that I’m already thinking about it in the past tense. Something I used to do. Something that used to define who I was. And for the first time since I woke up and saw Griffon sitting by the bed, tears spill over my lids and down my face before I can do anything to stop them.
“Oh crappity crap crap,” Rayne says, lunging for the tissue box and handing it to me. “I totally didn’t mean to do that.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say, losing myself completely into blubber mode now. “It’s just something I have to deal with.”
“But maybe it will be okay,” she says eagerly. “They can do amazing things these days. Maybe it’s just going to take a few weeks or a few months and everything will be just like it was.”
“Nice try, Mary Poppins,” I say to her. The tears that haven’t made their way out of my body seem to be congealing into a tight, hard ball in my chest. “But you know and I know that it will never be the same.”
“I refuse to know that right now. And so should you.” Rayne gets up and starts poking at the cards and flowers that are set around the room. “You sure got a lot of stuff,” she says. “Too bad nobody likes you.”
I laugh, because the biggest and craziest bouquet of wild-flowers is from Rayne and her mom. “Yeah. All of a sudden I’m the most popular person around. I guess almost bleeding to death has an upside.”
“Must have been some mess,” Rayne says, and makes a face. I’ve been trying not to think about that too much. By the time I’d woken up in my hospital room, my clothes were gone, and I’ve been wearing this hospital gown and my robe ever since. I realize now that they were so covered in blood Mom probably threw them away.
“Who sent you bamboo?” Rayne asks, looking at a small red pot with some green stalks in it.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t remember seeing that before. Is there a card?”
Rayne peeks among the leaves. “Nope. This pot has three stalks growing in it. That means long life for Chinese people.”
“How do you know all this stuff anyway?”
Rayne shrugs. “You know cello. I know rocks and flowers.” She rubs a silky green leaf with her fingers. “Weird. I wonder who it’s from?”
Long life. And he’d said he’d been Chinese a few lifetimes ago. I smile, knowing exactly who the bamboo is from.
Seventeen
Gabi closes her locker with a bang and I jump. “Nervous?” she says, and laughs.
“No,” I say. “I was just thinking about something else.” All week, the smallest sound or movement out of the corner of my eye causes my heart to race, and I’ve been imagining I see Veronique everywhere.
“I think I know what that ‘something else’ is,” Rayne says. “Or, rather, who that someone else is.”
“Not true,” I say, automatically feeling for the outline of my phone in my pocket.
“Going to see him today?”
“No,” I said. “Probably not until tomorrow. I haven’t seen him since I got out of the hospital.”
“Well, it’s too bad you didn’t screw up your right hand,” Gabi says, looking at the splint on my arm. “Then you wouldn’t have to do Ms. Lipke’s famous timed essay this afternoon.”
“I’m seriously beginning to hate that woman,” Rayne says. “Did she give you one first period?”
“Yup,” Gabi says. “Sixty minutes of writing on one of the books we’ve read so far. We did Their Eyes Were Watching God, so at least you know it won’t be that one.”
“I’m so not in the mood,” Rayne says. “It would almost be worth slitting my wrists to not have to do that today.” She looks at me. “Crap. Sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”
“It’s okay.”
“See you guys later,” Gabi calls, rushing down the opposite hallway.
Just as the bell rings, I slip through the door of the orchestra room. I’ve felt so out of place here the past few days, just being able to watch and not join in. I start toward my usual chair on the end of the cello row, but then hesitate. I have no cello with me, and I can’t play even if I did. At the last second, I head toward the back of the room and settle into one of the stools near the percussion section.
“Nicole?” Steinberg asks, looking out over everyone as they get out their instruments and start tuning up. In addition to teaching me privately, he’s the orchestra director at school. I miss our afternoon sessions at the studio, but without being able to play, there’s no point in showing up. “You don’t have to sit back there, you know,” he says. “You can stay in your usual position as long as you like. Did the doctors say when you might be able to play again?”
I shake my head. “Awhile.” Despite the fact that the sounds of tuning echo through the room, I’m acutely aware that everyone in the orchestra is paying attention to our conversation. Claire White ducks her head, pretending to concentrate on her bow, but I know she’s thinking the same thing that I am. “You should give my chair to Claire.” She’s sat next to me for the past three years, always ready for any challenge opportunity.
Steinberg glances back at my row. “You don’t need to decide that now—”
“I already did,” I say. “I’m no good to anybody at the moment. Claire deserves it. She’ll be great.”
“For now,” he says.
“For now,” I agree. “Then I’ll come and challenge to see if I can win it back. Someday.”
“Someday soon,” Steinberg says. He gives me a barely perceptible wink before walking briskly back to Claire to whisper in her ear.
Claire looks back at me, and I give her a little wave of encouragement as she slowly gets up and shifts her music onto my empty stand, the red spots of embarrassment on her cheeks almost matching the red in her hair. I keep my head up and look straight ahead as the rest of the row realizes what’s happened.
I sit motionless through warm-ups and Beethoven’s Coriolan Overture, a piece that I’ve played a thousand times before. The fingers on my left hand twitch as they sit mostly unfeeling, weakly mimicking every single note of a piece that I know deep down I may never play again. As the music from the orchestra cascade
s over the small room, I start to feel the now-familiar break from reality as a memory begins.
Strong hands hold me up by my arms as my legs buckle. My face is wet with tears as I struggle to get the image of a broken Alessandra out of my mind. Signore Barone speaks to the policemen who crowd the rooftop in a language I’ve come to recognize as English, his eyes shining with tears as he points his finger repeatedly in my direction. They begin to jerk me roughly toward the stairs, their faces masks of disapproval and contempt as I begin to comprehend what’s happening.
“I did nothing wrong!” I cry, panic filling my body, but the men holding me up obviously do not understand my pleas. “It wasn’t me! Please, won’t somebody listen? Won’t somebody listen to what really happened?”
“It can’t be!” Paolo cries, rushing through the door and onto the roof, pushing past us as if we are invisible. “They say she has fallen! Where is Alessandra?” His face is filled with pain and disbelief as he rushes to the crowd surrounding the edge of the roof, below which she lies broken and bloodied. He peers over the side of the building, then falls to his knees, his hands over his face and a guttural, keening sound coming from his throat. “She is not gone! She can’t be gone!” he cries over and over, rocking back and forth with the rhythm of his words as Signore Barone puts a protective hand on his shoulder.
“Somebody help me!” I cry, but my words are useless as I am dragged roughly to the doorway. Paolo glances up as the door closes, his eyes gleaming with hatred.
I look around the music room as the last notes from the Overture fade away, still filled with the panic I’d experienced that night on the roof. Alessandra died falling off the roof, and I was accused of doing it. My memories don’t go further than the stairwell, but I somehow know after that night in that lifetime, I never played the cello again.
“It’s just so incredible,” Rayne says, taking a bite of the apple we swiped from the kitchen and pulling her books out of her backpack.
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