Unstrung

by Laura Spinella

  “Right,” he admits.

  “So did Sasha.” He continues to look queerly at me, like he can’t follow the conversation. “In your travel bag.” I fold my arms, the raw scrapes showing. “There was a shoe shine cloth, compliments of the romantic boutique hotel.”

  “So?”

  “The same night you came home, I had dinner with Sasha. She spilled a bunch of junk on the table. There was a claim check from The Bed—the date stamped on it. Same date you were there. She also had a boarding pass. Care to explain that?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No, because I have no idea what the fuck Sasha was doing with a claim check from . . . that hotel.” His mouth gapes for a moment before continuing. “Look, Liv, as far as Sasha and I currently . . .” His blue eyes blink into mine and he appears truly at a loss for words. “It’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it? You take an impromptu trip to New York; stay at a boutique hotel that is so not your usual choice . . . She’s all but unreachable for the same amount of time. You both show up with souvenirs, hers stamped with the date. You stand here, look me in the eye, and tell me you’re not sleeping with Sasha. Stand here and tell me you never—not once—have fucked her.”

  Then it’s like a murder confession when a stunning “Yes . . .” seeps from his throat. “Once.”

  On the confirmation, I take a step back. “Once . . .”

  “Jesus, Liv, I had sex with Sasha once—seven years ago.”

  “Seven . . .” I’m suddenly as flustered as he looks.

  “Yes. It was the chemical equivalent of trying to light a match under water. It was enough to . . .”

  Now it’s my head that’s vibrating. “You and Sasha . . .”

  If Rob didn’t look caught before, he does now. “Christ almighty . . . I didn’t . . .” His full lips purse and he takes a turn in what suddenly appears to be a tight space. I have a much clearer picture of where those lips have been. Now I’m wondering for how long. “But it’s ancient history. You’re standing here now, accusing me of . . .”

  “Sleeping with the woman who introduced us,” I deadpan. “My God, how far back do the lies go? Both of you went a mile out of your way to swear it was never any more than a good-night kiss.”

  And now he’s stuck explaining the past and the present. “Liv. Listen to me.” He’s back to negotiation mode. “After one . . . one date with you, I called Sasha. I said I felt sure there’d be another. She laughed. She said you’d already called her and said the same thing. Is that untrue?”

  “No. But apparently I’m the one who was given a different version of your date.”

  “I said you were everything she warned me about—fiery, challenging, irreverent, and dazzling in so many ways that I’d never want anything ordinary again. She was right about all of it. I can’t argue Sasha’s on-point predictions.”

  “Damn, Rob, I’m not sure talking her up is a great idea this second.”

  He holds up a hand. “In that single conversation Sasha and I made a pact—maybe not the most honest one, but we thought it was in all our best interests. We dumbed down a meaningless one-night stand to a one-time-only kiss.”

  “And you think that’s commendable—particularly given the moment?”

  “What moment?” he fires back. “I told you, Liv. I’m not sleeping with Sasha.” He takes an angry breath. “Ask her yourself. Ask her who she’s been . . .” A growl erupts from his throat and his face angers. “I’m not going to defend this. I’m not the one who just rolled in from a night with their ex—whatever.”

  “No. If I recall, you’re the one who didn’t even suggest having sex on our first date—unlike Sasha, who nailed you out of the gate.” I turn and start up the stairs. “Go ahead and add that to the list of things Sasha does better than me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Olivia

  Rob and I spend the rest of the weekend avoiding each other. When we are in the brownstone together he’s in the basement. I assume he slept on the futon; he only went up to the bedroom after I vacated it in the mornings. At lunchtime on Sunday, he heads into the kitchen; I retreat toward the music room. On the hall table is his phone. From the kitchen I hear a knife clink in a mayonnaise jar, a plate making contact with the counter. I eye the phone.

  Over the years, I’ve inadvertently heard the large and small jealousies that invade the personal lives of my orchestra mates. I scoffed at their rocky romances, rolled my eyes at the drama—artistic types can be high strung, many thoroughly distrustful. Despite my flaws, I’ve never viewed myself as prone to these capricious emotions. So when I pick up Rob’s phone, I tell myself it’s merely my right to know. Interesting. He hasn’t changed the pass code. I scroll through his texts. The only one from Sasha is months ago. She asks where he’s left the key. I was out of town with the symphony; Rob was away on business. Sasha was going to take in a package I was expecting. It doesn’t matter; both are far too clever for such a pedestrian trail. There could be a disposable phone I know nothing about.

  However, there are several calls. The first is from Friday night, their balcony chat—perhaps Rob and Sasha decided the need for complete discretion has passed. The next is from much later that night, most likely the two of them discussing my disappearance and what it might mean. I imagine their spy-like chatter:

  “Do you think she knows?”

  “She might. Listen, Rob, if you want to come away from this with the shirt on your back (which I’ll be glad to remove later) call the police, play the concerned husband—for now.”

  Four more calls followed. It explains why I have not heard from Sasha—not to inquire if I turned up, not to ask what’s happened. Clearly, she’s been updated. Besides, I’ve purposely let my cell die. She’d have to call the house phone. How ironic would that be?

  I continue on to the music room. Focusing on Holst’s Planets is my plan. I don’t want to wallow in the one I’m stuck on. I practice more than I have in ages, moving from The Planets to Brahms’s Symphony no. 4—stunningly emotional music from a man best known for a lullaby. Rob won’t interrupt the sanctuary of this space, certainly not the fervor of the rehearsal. For a time, music becomes a Band-Aid. Interesting. It’s so often been a weapon.

  The Amati was precisely that the day I tried out for the symphony, not long after my father died. I did not endure the arduous, sometimes humiliating hurdles and hoops of the audition because it was a lifelong goal, but rose to the occasion motivated by retribution. I remember my surrounding competitors, their nervous chatty whispers and them shuffling shoeless onto the partitioned stage. Several hopefuls threw up before and/or after. I never flinched; I just walked out there, barefooted, and delivered the performance I’d been trained for my entire life. As I recall, mine was the only audition that drew audible murmurs from the judging panel. For any other musician, triumphing would have earned a magnificent burst of pride, the culmination of years of dedication. As it was, I managed a pleasant “Thank you” to the symphony’s front office director, who delivered the news of my win. I exited the building and nearly stumbled into traffic, blindsided by my immense lack of satisfaction. Later that evening, it was Rob who turned things around, pointing out an alternative perspective: “Forget your father, Liv. His demand died with him. Take the chair and opportunity and make a fresh start with music.” To a limited end, I have tried to follow through.

  I segue from one piece to another now, going from the baroque era to more modern compositions, even deviating to classical Indian music. I stop and start, on a search for the comfort Theo and his great-grandfather derived from music. Not a weapon, but a way to uplift myself from swirling turmoil. Another few minutes pass: clearly, I am a more skilled violinist than I am a person. The refuge Theo described and the optimism of music that kept my grandfather, his great-grandfather, alive does not materialize for me.

  Eventually I give up on the violin and decide that instead of lunch I want a drink. While standing at the wet bar, Rob comes
down the stairs, which I never heard him go up. He’s changed—Sunday bar wear. He stops in the foyer and pauses, staring into the empty music room. I keep silent in a darker corner of the living room, which he doesn’t turn toward. He puts on his jacket, all the while staying focused on the music room. He punches his fists into the pockets. Heaving a sigh that is hard to read—more thoughts about denial or just the exhaustion of not wanting to go another round—he leaves without a word.

  For a moment, I listen to the silent, music-less brownstone. With a wineglass in one hand, I pick up the Sunday Ledger. I aim for pedestrian distraction, aided by aged Bordeaux. Shep Stewart has a big piece on big city construction. I rehash my conversation with the reporter, his promise to pen a tabloid-type book about his 9-11 kids. In the midst of my current crisis, I haven’t forgotten the book. I just can’t concoct a reasonable way to stop it. More to the point, a confession from me wouldn’t stop Shep—it’d just be a road map. Any action would seem out of place. I think of Claire. What would she do? I imagine Shep Stewart swinging by his balls.

  Of course, that’s not to say it would be kudos to Claire for protecting Theo. Between Shep’s insights and Claire’s harsh judgments about India, appearances may be Claire’s strongest motivator. Granted, having caught India red-handed, kissing an old boyfriend, Claire’s anger was understandable. India is responsible for that. But tacking India’s family history onto her crime, making her accountable for the future, seems wildly unfair. I know Theo well enough to surmise how he’d feel about Claire’s conclusions. He’d be angrier with her than he ever was at India. The whole sordid story makes me ponder Theo and India’s breakup—a girl he was prepared to forgive. A girl he still loves. With a near-empty glass in hand, I retreat to the computer where I Google Miss Church.

  There isn’t much—though I did imagine an online snippet, maybe a social media post. I hear Facebook can be as regrettable as it is engaging. Perhaps there’s more, like a circulating photo of India kissing her ex-boyfriend. Nothing so damning appears, but what I do find are published engagement announcements. It produces a lump in my throat. India is a sweet-looking girl, freckled, with a brilliant smile. I squint, envisioning hair redder than the black-and-white photo allows.

  I run my fingertips over Theo’s picture. I am drawn to the intricate combination of Sam and me. Mothers and fathers must marvel over markers like this, one at a time, at appropriate stages. I imagine their exclamations about a similar chin or a mirroring nose, an allergy, or inherent gifts like the ones Theo possesses. My intense fascination is a cumulative response, years of pent-up wondering. I force it quiet and read a little more about India.

  She has a degree in humanities from UConn. I half smile. Humanities . . . No wonder she ended up working for her parents’ catering company. While a humanities degree from UConn is commendable—and more than I accomplished—I don’t believe it will feed you. But the short blurb also notes that India will pursue her master’s in clinical psychology. I wonder if she’s done this. I wonder if Theo was right about his phone call with India. Does she miss him, or has she gone on with her life? What’s more obvious are Claire’s feelings on the subject. She’s satisfied much the same way my mother was when Sam and I ended things. Future calamity averted. I click off the webpage, sipping on mixed memories and wine.

  Just as I’m about to leave the computer, Skype buzzes in. It’s Phillip. I’d avoided telling him about my dubious choice, to serve community service hours in Theo’s classroom. In order to do this, I would have to explain how I got there, really got there. While Phillip knew my best-kept secret, he didn’t know about the orchestra funding. It seemed small and sort of “so what” compared to Phillip’s life, which is dedicated to service.

  About a week ago—before all hell broke loose with Rob and Sasha—I e-mailed my brother and divulged the Theo part of the story—every detail, including the endowment. When I didn’t hear back, I concluded that perhaps, he too, finally had enough Liv in his life.

  Cautiously, I answer the Skype call. “Phillip,” I say too cheerily. In only a way Phillip can, he reads my tone, which translates like the pop of a flare gun. Yet I stick to my cordial greeting. “How are you, besides tan?” Phillip has been perpetually tan and happy since relocating to New Zealand. Not even a fuzzy feed affects his rugged good looks, and I am reminded of the throngs of disappointed girls from his high school days.

  “I’m good, Liv.” He leans closer to the screen. “What the hell happened to your face?”

  “I fell.” He cocks his head. “I was drunk,” I state more plainly.

  He only nods in reply. “Sorry it took so long to get back to you. Scott and I were away, barely electricity, definitely no internet.”

  “Visiting another school?”

  “Actually, a refugee camp in Nauru, an island north of the Ditch. A tentative agreement with the Australian and New Zealand governments will allow a limited number of approved applicants asylum—mostly Syrians, as you can imagine. Scott and I volunteered to assist during the process.”

  “Of course you did,” I murmur. I shake my head at my snarky tone.

  “I think Granddad would be all for it.”

  “Yes, he would . . . And that’s wonderful, Phillip.” It is. Regardless of any orchestra funding, it’s also a reminder of how removed Phillip’s life is from mine. Scott, a New Zealand native, is a pediatrician. Together, he and Phillip have devoted themselves to causes like this. Phillip is a teacher, though his inability to secure a teaching position stateside helped to facilitate his move abroad decades ago. It was a time when elementary schools found more reasons to deny an openly gay man a job than to give him one. Between this, my parents, and the luck of finding Scott, his ticket to a new life was easily punched. “So along with this latest project, I assume you continue to spend your inheritance on the needs of others?”

  “Where it’s most beneficial . . . yes,” he says. “Not that I don’t get some serious surf time in too.” Phillip smiles, a feature that does not belong to either of our parents. It’s our grandfather’s smile—a man who took care to live a meaningful existence after his unjust imprisonment. Once stateside, Jacob Klein made his fortune by writing musical scores for big Hollywood productions—a stupefying twist compared to his past. He also made connections, turning his earnings into even bigger money, ultimately giving a huge portion of it away. Despite Phillip’s tin ear, they are alike, in temperament and in purpose. Conversely, I suppose it’s obvious who takes after our father. When it comes to Granddad, I also like to believe he would have responded to Phillip’s sexual orientation by saying: “Abi gezunt!”—“As long as you’re healthy.” I smile at Phillip, who says, “Sounds like you’ve been doing some philanthropic spending of your own.”

  “Nothing compared to yours, but yes. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the orchestra endowment sooner. I just, um . . .”

  “Didn’t want to brag?”

  I smirk at his teasing reply. “How did you know?”

  “Experience. Better still, I know how you don’t see yourself.” A few seconds of silence passes before he says anything more. “That was a hell of an e-mail you sent. I’d congratulate you on your endowment endeavor, ask the details, but you kind of eclipsed it with your Theo news.”

  “You know what they say about no good deed going unpunished.”

  “Interesting choice of words, Liv.” Phillip shakes his head. “All these years. Except for what happened to Theo on 9-11, you haven’t said a word about him. What were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t thinking, hence the current mess.”

  “And how long have you been ‘helping out’ in his classroom?” Phillip puts air quotes around the phrase.

  “Since mid-September.”

  “Thanksgiving’s next week. Telling him a while back might have been the smart move.”

  “So did you just Skype in to reiterate what I know—I’ve exceeded all expectation in terms of fucking up?” I pick up my near-empty wineglass and
cheer it toward the screen. “Maybe you do have a little of Mom and Dad in you after all.”

  He doesn’t flinch at the dig, but his face sobers. “I don’t think you have to be them to agree this is a bit of a . . . predicament.”

  I make the cheering motion again. “Fair enough.”

  “Here’s a thought. Why don’t you try confiding in your husband? He might have a reasonable solution. Granted, it’ll all come as a bit of a surprise, but Rob—”

  My posture pulls pole straight. “I can’t do that. Not now.”

  “Why not?”

  I draw the wineglass to my nose, breathing in alcohol-filled air. “When I sent you that e-mail, things weren’t great between Rob and me. Now . . .” I linger for moment. “Let’s just say we’ve gone from bad to worse inside a week.” For a brief second, I toy with the idea of spilling everything. I can’t. It would cross a new threshold of humiliation. “We’re, um . . . Rob and I aren’t really speaking at the moment.”

  His sober look morphs to concern. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No,” I say emphatically, downing the last mouthful of wine and placing the glass on the desk.

  “Okay . . .” he says carefully. “But, Liv, when it comes to Rob—”

  I slam my hands on the desktop and jerk closer to the screen. It’s abrupt enough to startle Phillip, nine thousand miles away. “Oh my God, if one more person points out how Rob is so well suited for me, I swear—”

  “Liv,” Phillip says in a loud but calm tone. “If you’re finding that statement overplayed, it’s because it’s true, and something you already know.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He leans back, lacing his fingers behind his head and shifting ridiculously broad shoulders. “Okay, let me take a page from the Liv handbook of blunt: Accepting everything Rob has to offer means accepting yourself, admitting that you’ve earned that kind of happiness—a man for whatever his flaws, loves you a great deal. For reasons maybe only you and I can understand, I get why acceptance is a monumental task—more so than playing a Bach minuet at the age of five.”