Principal Giroux wanted to know if Theo thought the environment proved too overwhelming for the symphony violinist. Theo replied, “She did okay with the kids. She did her part in other ways. I think it was me that she had issues with.” Principal Giroux made an interesting remark, “Whatever the woman’s shortcomings, she knows herself. Behind-the-scenes support is more in Ms. Klein’s wheelhouse than up-close encounters.”
It’s been several days since Theo’s trip to Mass General. He’s not heard from anyone about Sam or his blood test. Theo is antsier about the result than he might have imagined. Claire has called, wanting to have lunch this Saturday. But the idea of lunch strikes him as incredibly frivolous. He is more confounded about what he might tell Claire about Olivia or Sam Nash. If all this happened in high school, even college, she would have handled the fallout. Theo corrects the conclusion: Claire would have run interference, made certain he stayed grounded. He can only imagine how far she would have gone to keep news from Theo that she deemed distressing.
Theo’s just about to reach for his violin when there is a knock at the door. So lost in the hazy craziness of recent days, Theo doesn’t take the precaution of peering through the spy hole. He opens the door. And twice now Theo is confronted by a dream. India stands across from him. He steps back. “He’s dead. Isn’t he?”
“What?”
“Sam Nash. Did you come here to tell me he’s dead?”
India shakes her head. “No. I mean, I don’t know how he is aside from when I left Olivia the other night. Wasn’t it a match, your bone marrow?” She asks this while coming inside the apartment, and Theo closes the door.
“How do you know I went for the blood test? When you left here . . .”
She turns. Her red hair and fair complexion, her steadiness, it contrasts and complements everything in his life. “I know you, Theo. You were angry. But no matter the circumstance, you’re not going to let a man die, not if you can help it.”
This would be the easiest of conclusions for India to draw. She knows him better than anyone. In fact, it’s India he’s wanted to talk to about the whole Sam Nash, Olivia Klein situation—not his mother. And not because the news would upset Claire, but because India can grasp things about Theo from the proper perspective. He’s a grown man. He doesn’t need protection from the truth about his biological parents. He perhaps needed time to absorb the erratic way in which he learned the story. But it’s hardly cause for warm cocoa on the couch of his childhood home and his favorite meal being prepared, all of which would have been Claire’s response.
“I went for the test. I haven’t heard any results.” He walks to the violin and plucks at a few strings. And instead of asking India why she’s come, he grabs onto the thing he wants most—the right person to confide in. “I went there, to Mass General. I met him.”
“Did you?” India says, shrugging off her coat as if her presence is as natural as when she lived there. “And what was that like?”
“Weird. Uncomfortable.” Theo snickers. “I didn’t think of it until just this second, but in any other circumstance I would have been meeting a baseball legend. That part never crossed my mind.”
India smiles. “So do you want to go back, ask for his autograph?”
“No. But I can’t say having another conversation with him sounds as horrible as I would have thought.” Theo stares into India’s eyes. “I wonder if that will happen.”
“Do you want it to?” Theo doesn’t reply. “Olivia didn’t seem to know an exact timeline if there’s no match. But if it’s what you want, I would think there’s a window to talk—get to know one another a little.”
Theo lets go of the violin. “Guess I shouldn’t take too much time to think it over.”
“He’s not David McAdams, Theo. He won’t ever be that. But not too many people get a second chance at having a father.” India’s arms are folded. “And one who’s a baseball legend, of all things. I have to admit; it’s fascinating—seeing where all your gifts come from.”
Theo crosses to a Power Rangers Megazord tin box. From inside, he withdraws a Sam Nash baseball card. “I knew I had this card. Lifetime ERA, 2.35.” India crosses to stand beside him.
“Is that good?”
Theo smiles. “Uh, yeah. The word elite comes to mind.” He stares at the card. “No wonder I could thread a lacrosse ball between two tight midfielders, past the goalie, and right into a net.” They both look at the card, and he hears India’s breath catch. He sees it; she sees it—Theo’s eyes. “It’s, um . . . it’s interesting. To live a quarter of your life before seeing someone who looks like you.”
“Kind of like my hair,” she ponders. They trade a glance. “Haven’t you ever noticed? I’m the only redhead in my family. At least the only one I’ve ever seen.”
“I never thought of it. I just saw it as one more thing that made you special.” Theo places the card back in the tin box. It’s quiet for a moment. They both speak at once before India quiets. “India, what are you doing here?”
A tremulous breath rises from her chest. “Olivia, for all the turmoil she’s caused . . . She and I had a long conversation the other night. She gave me some good advice.”
“There’s a surprise.”
“Mmm . . . I can’t totally disagree. I won’t go into all the details. I’m not sure that matters, not right now. What matters . . . The reason I’ve come, is you and me.” Her sweet face turns grave. “I kissed someone else, Theo.”
A hurt that had faded rises like a blister, although it’s not nearly as painful as India having left him. “Old news, don’t you think?”
“And you also know how sorry I am that it happened—however it happened.”
“I knew that too, the same night you called to tell me.”
“You forgave me, Theo. But I couldn’t forgive myself. And because I couldn’t do that, I let myself be manipu—” She stops, examining the wooden flooring beneath their shoes. “I convinced myself that the only fair way out was to let you go. Olivia pointed out that you don’t get too many turns at happiness. In fact, you might only get one. So I’m here . . .” Theo inches closer and listens harder. “If you’re still offering me a second chance, I’m taking it.”
Seconds later Theo is kissing India. The two of them are moving toward the leather sofa. The bedroom is too far away. His hands don’t know where to move first—winding through her hair, touching her face, reaching for the buttons on the shirt she is wearing. Throaty little hums vibrate from India. Her body is trembling. Thoughts of the first time they had sex skip through Theo’s head. He’d like to say he remembers all the times, but it would be like saying he recalls every beautiful sunset he’s ever seen. Yet this does remind him of the first time. Confident India was nervous then, admitting that wanting something and having it were often two very different things. Months later, she told him the reason she was so nervous was because she kept thinking, “What if it ends . . . What if he goes away . . . ?”
Back then, Theo dismissed any such idea, but now he shudders too knowing how close the thought came to pass. “Theo, are you all right?” He pauses, poised over India on the sofa. He looks down into her hazel eyes, the lashes tinged red like her hair. They are wet—so are his.
“Promise me that no matter what else, these past months . . . Promise me nothing like that will ever happen again. The you leaving me part, I mean. I don’t think I could survive it twice, India.”
“I promise.” She says this as if it is the simplest assurance, like saying she will meet him for coffee or reminding him of an appointment. “I . . . do you have any idea how much I love you?” And Theo believes her, not because India’s current declaration is so amazing, but because it’s the past seven months that have felt like a lie.
Soon there is nothing but India’s bare skin on leather, the old sofa playing its part and joining in the rhythm of their reunion. The sofa makes sounds Theo hasn’t heard in a long time, the crunch of the cushion as their weight sinks into it. There i
s the more humorous second as the legs of the sofa eek along the hardwood floor. Theo drowns in the scent of India—ginger tea body wash. It soaks into his brain, which grabs at it—the sense of belonging for which he has been searching. There is the taste of all of her as Theo makes a rapid but thoughtful descent from her mouth and beyond her stomach. India shifts and Theo catches a glimpse of her fingers, reaching and finding the plusher throw pillow. Theo indulges in a level of intimacy that his dreams have begged for night after night. The vibrating hum from her throat heightens, crashing into a lovely lingering gasp. India’s entire body trembles in a very different way.
Moments later he hears, “Theo, please . . .” India speaks in an urgent whisper, reaching for his pants, which are the only remaining item of clothing between them. The rest plays out not so differently from all the other sunsets experienced on this leather sofa—Theo seeing brilliant hues, fiery oranges and reds. Some are India’s hair; others are attached to the feelings that rush him during a heated and well-executed act of emotion. In the end, Theo is breathless and happily lost, happier still for India to tell him what comes next.
An hour later they are dressed, having talked a bit about the everyday things they missed. India’s applied to several different graduate programs. She wants to be a school psychologist. Theo says this is wonderful. He always knew she would decide on a career perfectly suited to her ability and agility for guidance. At one point, Theo casually remarks that his mother will be surprised by their reunion. To his amazement, India says she already knows. She went to see Claire that morning—just to keep her in the loop of her son’s life. India smiles. “She adores you, Theo. I only thought it fair to let her know how I will never let anything come between us again.”
Just as India asks what Theo thinks of his position at Braemore, his cell rings. It’s the hospital and the woman from the blood and bone marrow donor center. With no more fanfare than telling him that his blood type is B positive, she informs Theo that he’s not a match—not even good enough for a half match. Theo imagined he might feel bad if he wasn’t a match, but he doesn’t expect such a punch of disappointment. India is right there, her arms bracing around him, telling him how sorry she is. Without Theo saying a word, she understands the angles of awfulness the news brings.
“Should I go see him?” Theo asks, his glance trained on the Power Rangers Megazord box. Like David McAdams’s driver’s license, Theo senses the baseball card will become an odd treasure. “What if he’s angry? What if he only really wanted to know me because I could have saved his life?”
India considers this for a moment. “I don’t think that will happen, Theo. Remember, you were as much of a surprise to him as he was to you. And Sam Nash knew the odds of you being a match were small. Things being what they are, I’d think a chance to get to know his son would be a silver lining inside a pretty dark cloud.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Olivia
I’m sitting in a small waiting area outside Sam’s room. I am supposed to be at symphony rehearsal. I’ve missed four in recent weeks, finally telling conductor Manuel Gutierrez I have a family emergency. Manuel is unsympathetic, telling me what I already know: symphonies suffer when even one violinist is not on par with the other musicians. People pay good money to hear a finely tuned orchestra, not one with a violinist that has come unstrung.
He asks if there is any possibility I will miss our upcoming performances. We have several this weekend. I’ve seen other orchestra mates miss practices and performances—births, deaths, even miserable breakups. Aloofness, which best describes my New England Symphony persona, is at the root of his cold reaction. Manuel can be empathetic—he’s just not going to do it for me. He likely believes Olivia Klein is impenetrable, whether by music or emotion. I sniff at the assumption and purse my lips. It keeps my chin from quivering. Yet I stand my ground. I honestly cannot answer him about practice or this weekend’s dates. He presses for details: Is my mother ill? (No, she’s fled to Florida, thrilled to learn her favorite masseuse is available year round.) Is my husband injured? (No, he’s fled my life, thrilled to be rid of the mayhem I bring to his.)
Nevertheless, I insist it’s a grave family matter that will keep me from my orchestral obligations. We end the call on an unpleasant note, with me wondering how rusty my dog-walking skills are. If I lose the chair I will never get it back. My career, at least in Boston, will be over. I imagine how disgusted my father would be. On the other hand, I’m aware of a new threshold of not giving a damn—one where the response is not to run away or act out. It’s about fulfilling obligations that I perceive as more critical than the expectations of others. There’s a lot to be said for deciding what’s most important to you. I glance at my phone. The doctor’s been in with Sam for some time, nurses coming and going.
The elevator continues to ding. This time the one-note noise lands on my last nerve. I reach for my purse and iPod. If I can’t practice The Planets, I can listen to the fifty-minute orchestral piece. I’ll do what I can to meet the professional commitment I’ve made to a talented ensemble of musicians. I pop in earbuds and skip over movement one, “Mars, The Bringer of War.” There has been enough of that. I also scroll past “Uranus, The Magician”—a section dedicated to deception. Ditto on that. “Neptune” doesn’t work either, morose and unsettling. Absently, my thumb connects with “Jupiter”—the most popular movement in Holst’s Planets. It is the happiest part of the entire work, a joyous piece of music.
As the measures rise, notes build and the elevator doors open again. It’s the lack of a one-note ding that makes me focus on the flood of occupants getting off. Upon seeing Theo, I lurch so forcefully from my seat that the earbuds tear from my ears. India’s with him. They are holding hands. The sight evokes a smile from me. “Theo. You came back. You, um . . . you both did.”
“I’m not a match.”
“I know.” I glance at their hands, clamped so firmly it is as if they are made from one mold. “Does, um . . . I guess this means the two of you have worked things out.”
India answers. “You made some good points the other night, about the rationale of what things cost and the price that should be paid. You were right.”
“That’s, um . . . Won’t Theo’s mother be surprised?” I say, smiling curiously at India.
“Very,” India says. “She was the first person I told.” She glances at Theo, whose face grows questioning at the odd exchange. “I know how despondent Claire was over our breakup, so I stopped on by her house on my way into the city and shared the good news.”
“And Claire was . . .”
“Speechless,” India quickly says. “Thoroughly speechless.”
I assume India’s beaming smile says she’s given Claire notice, let her know it is no longer Claire and Theo’s life, but India’s and his.
“I . . . I’m very glad to hear all that.”
“How is he?” Theo asks.
“Uh, puking his brains out last I checked.”
A nurse approaches, interrupting. “Dr. Chang says you can visit for a few minutes if you like.” Dr. Chang is the oncologist who’s taken over Sam’s care, working in tandem with Dr. Bogart in California. She points to what, in my mind, looks like a hospital butler’s pantry. Every time someone goes into Sam’s room they visit this station first, gowning-up from head to toe.
Theo crunches his forehead. “Did they start another round of chemo? The people I spoke with said that in a case like Sam’s, a trial chemo treatment would be the next option, something he’d have to qualify for. Did that happen?”
“Uh, no. This is the conditioning phase for a stem cell transplant. Sam has a donor.”
Theo’s eyes go wide. “But I thought I wasn’t—”
“You’re not. A PI Sam hired ages ago found his brother, Tate. He was in Wyoming working on a cattle ranch. He was agreeable. He had the blood drawn there. It was a match. They say this phase takes about week. Then they’ll do the actual transplant. They’re harvesting the ste
m cells right in Wyoming, shipping them here. The doctor can explain the medical particulars better than me, but—”
“They have a match and you didn’t call to tell me?”
“Sam asked me not to. He said if you knew there was a chance he’d live it’d be so much easier to come back. But knowing you weren’t a match . . . he thought it would tell you more about how you felt. Seeing Sam under those circumstances, it’d have to be something you really wanted to do.”
For a moment, he doesn’t reply. “Huh. He’s right,” Theo finally says. “It was harder to come here knowing that I wasn’t a match. But it also made me think about exactly what it would mean if I did.”
Theo exchanges a glance with India, who asks the waiting nurse, “Can he have another visitor?”
“It’s really only supposed to be family.”
Theo is quick to reply, “I’m his son.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
FOUR WEEKS LATER
Olivia
It’s late at Mass General, too late for visitors. But since when have rules stopped me? It’s shortly before midnight on New Year’s Eve. I’m here at Sam’s request. He grows a bit stronger every day. His initial test results are promising, white cell counts are up. According to Dr. Chang, the bone marrow transplant appears to have triggered another remission. It is not a cure—it’s an optimistic extension, at least that’s how a cautious Sam describes it.
Sam appeared more amazed that, once located, his brother was agreeable. I suggested that people change; sometimes they’re not the same as they were in their hotheaded youth. I don’t know if I’m right or wrong about this when it comes to Tate. He’s only called once, and that was to bitch about the procedure involved in the harvesting of his stem cells. I shrugged at Sam. “How much of a miracle did you anticipate?”
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