Sins

by Lee, Nadia

  More importantly, I want to fully regain my lost memories. But that’s something I’m keeping to myself. I don’t like to discuss the most significant effect of being comatose for a year—partial amnesia. It feels awkward and embarrassing, like undressing in front of an audience, to admit I don’t remember or know things I should know—favorite cartoons, the friends I had in high school, what prom was like and so much more.

  Of course, Sam is very much aware of my amnesia, but if he finds out I’m going to try to fix it, he’ll make himself sick with worry. I tried before, with therapists and specialists, and it went nowhere, just made me increasingly frustrated and angry. That’s one of the major reasons Sam made me travel so much, ensuring I’d have no reason to set foot in the States. He believes being surrounded by new people and new environments is helping me to heal, both mentally and spiritually, because there’s no pressure to remember things from my past. New people don’t know enough about me to sense that I have partial amnesia.

  But I’m not going to see any more specialists. It didn’t work back then, and I don’t think anything’s going to magically change this time. I’m trying something else—something totally new and inspired by my stay in Raiding, Austria.

  And the first step is living my life, rather than running away and calling it “travel.” Becoming gainfully employed is the perfect start.

  “You’re going to get a job?” Byron says. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I want to prove to myself I can. I can’t rely on my uncle’s generosity forever. I need to become self-sufficient and live a normal life like everyone else. Nine to five, you know,” I say, giving a convincing partial truth.

  Byron leans closer with a half-teasing, half-serious grin. “If Sam gets stingy, don’t worry. You have me, Rizzy. I have more than enough money to support you in the style you’ve become accustomed to.”

  I laugh, then pat Byron’s forearm to show my appreciation for his friendly offer, even if it was a joke. “And what happens when you get tired of me mooching off you?” I tease.

  “Won’t happen.” He puts a hand over mine. “I’ll never get tired of you, Rizzy.”

  I stretch my legs and look at him with affection. He’s so adorable and charming. He’s been an amazing friend since we met in Hong Kong two years ago when I went there to visit with his younger sister.

  And speaking of Julie… “You sure you’re going to be okay with me staying at your place until I find an apartment? Julie said I could stay at hers instead. She’s out of the country until next month.”

  He waves it away. “The penthouse is huge. Five freakin’ bedrooms and eight baths. Stay as long as you want. Besides, you won’t like her place. Not only is it small, but it’s messy. Pains me to say it, but the sad fact is my baby sister’s a pig.”

  I search his face. Julie is convinced he only offered out of some misguided sense of politeness. According to her, he’s very private and hates to share. He’s never let a girlfriend move in, claiming he doesn’t want another person’s mess in his space. He also spent a lot of money to soundproof his home because he hates other people’s noise. But nothing on his face makes me think he’s being polite. His blue eyes are too warm to be fake.

  “Thank you,” I say finally. “I promise to be the neatest and quietest roommate ever.”

  “No, no. It’s a cliché, but mi casa es tu casa. For real.” He glances to our right. “But…are you sure you don’t want anything from the store? That Steinway baby grand sounded great when you were playing it.”

  It did, but the one I really wanted to try was the Bösendorfer baby grand. Unfortunately, the Butcher of Liszt was sitting at it. “There’s no way I’m letting you buy me a Steinway. It’s crazy.”

  “Hey, Julie will play it, too.”

  Except it feels too much like he’s buying it for me, not for his sister. “The Yamaha upright at your place is fine.” It’s Julie’s, who’s an accomplished pianist. We actually met at a piano store in Austria five years ago. She was playing the “Black Key” étude by Chopin on a Kawai but kept messing up certain notes. I told her if she tried different fingering, maybe it’d be easier, Her hands are on the small side.

  She tried, played it perfectly, and shook her fists at the ceiling of the store. “I’ve been struggling for so long! My dickhead teacher told me I had to do it that way.”

  “Eh, ‘rules.’ You should do whatever’s most effective for you.”

  “You’re American too, aren’t you? If you don’t already have plans, I’d love to get a drink together.”

  And we discovered over a crisp Blaufränkisch that we had a lot in common—a love of classical music, the cities we’d been to, our favorite performers. We kept in touch, then started to visit cities at the same time to hang out together. She’s been such a friendly, lovely constant in my life since I woke up.

  Byron scowls. “Julie’s piano could use an upgrade.”

  “A piano is a piano. And the Yamaha sounds great. Better than the digital one I usually practice on.” I travel with a digital piano because it’s easier to ship than an acoustic. But when I want to feel real hammer action under my fingers, I go to a piano store to play on one of the display units. Most store owners don’t mind once they realize I can play well.

  Part of my plan is no longer hiding my talent. I know Sam’s going to hate it, saying I’m just showing off or drawing unwanted attention (his usual response to my playing where people might hear), but it isn’t like that. If I hadn’t lost my memory, would I be hiding my talent, mainly using digital pianos with headsets or with the sound set so low I can barely hear what I’m playing? Of course not. So I’m going to live my life like I somehow still have all my memories intact.

  And I’m going to pray that eventually a few good people from my past will find me and try to reconnect. Hopefully seeing them will trigger something in my brain. You never know.

  I wrap my hands around my cappuccino, now cooled enough that I won’t get burned. I look out the window at the people and cars, my eyes slowly defocusing.

  As much as I’m blessed to have survived the accident and have a couple of close new friends, there’s a hollow spot in my chest I can’t ignore. At first I thought it was from the loss of my parents, whose absence I feel keenly at times—on Mother’s and Father’s Days, on their birthdays and mine, holidays…or just because. Even though I’ve lost huge chunks of memory, I feel warm acceptance and love every time I think of them. Sometimes I feel like we had some conflicts too—again, over something I no longer remember—but what kid has nothing but rainbows and unicorns with their parents for eighteen years?

  But then I slowly realize the hollowness goes deeper than that, because even when I’m not thinking of my parents, my heart throbs with emptiness. It’s like I’m missing something so vital, so critical, that I can’t feel normal even though I have no idea what it is that’s gone from my life. Nobody does, not even Sam.

  When I woke up eight years ago, my memory was a chaotic mess. It took a while before I started to recall events and people—not always accurately. It was horrifying when Sam had to set the record straight.

  Then one day I discovered I could still play the piano. I remembered wanting to be a concert pianist, but after the coma, I wasn’t certain I could manage it. The realization that I could play compositions and advanced techniques was heady. I could swear I’d never, ever practiced them at tempo…but clearly I had.

  It made me realize not being able to consciously recall whether I’ve played something doesn’t mean it’s gone from my deep, subconscious memory. So I’ve been practicing relentlessly. Discovering new music or drills I can play effortlessly gives me hope that one day I might find all the missing parts of my other memory too, even though right now it’s like a million-piece puzzle with all the bits in the center missing.

  “Rizzy?” Byron’s hand waving in front of my face pulls me back to the present. He’s staring at me, eyes searching. “More deep thoughts?”

  “So
rry. Spaced out for a moment.” I give him a smile because I’ve learned that it’s the best way to stop people from probing too hard or asking questions I don’t have the answers to.

  “Want to get going?”

  “Sure.”

  His phone rings. He glances at it, then sighs with mild irritation. “I have to take this.”

  “Why don’t I stretch my legs a little while you do that?” I squeeze his shoulder and step outside.

  The sunlight feels nice, warming my skin. I stroll in the direction of Hammers and Strings. The Bösendorfer baby grand I saw there keeps calling my name. I don’t know why I have such a weird urge to try out that particular piano…or to own it. Maybe I can find out how much it costs and figure out how I can afford it. A girl can dream, right?

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Anthony

  As the Cullinan speeds toward Hammers and Strings, I rub the spot between my eyebrows—the place where I get furrowed lines when I’m having dark thoughts Ivy used to say—and try to lean back, draw in some air. My right foot keeps tapping the floor of the SUV, and every cell in my body seems to vibrate with restlessness.

  It’s not her, Tony. She’s dead. So why are you going?

  But I have to see for myself, in person. Crazy, I know. I’m sure she isn’t there anymore, so I’m going to be disappointed. Even if she is still there, I’ll be let down because she won’t be who I want.

  There are plenty of strawberry blondes in the world. A lot of them can play the piano well. Those two things don’t make the woman in the video Ivy.

  If they did… I run a hand roughly over my face. Jesus, I’d date strawberry blondes exclusively if I thought that would get Ivy back. But I know better. I’ve purposely avoided them for that reason—to remind myself I shouldn’t even think of chasing after a ghost.

  I press a fist against my mouth to stop myself from letting out a sound that will be half laugh and half sob. TJ doesn’t need to hear that. To him, I’m a cold-hearted bastard who pays him well to do whatever job is required.

  The second we pull up in front of Hammers and Strings, I hop out of the car. When I walk into the store, a thirty-something brunette hurries out from behind the counter, laminated employee tag bouncing around her neck.

  “Hi. Can I help you?” she asks, tucking a few wayward tendrils of hair behind an ear and smiling a smile that borders on flirting.

  The gesture’s wasted. “Yes. Earlier today a woman came by and played Grand Galop Chromatique in this store, right?”

  “Yeah, she did. She was amazing, wasn’t she?” She sighs dreamily. “I was surprised she isn’t a concert pianist. She plays better than some recordings I’ve heard. As a matter of fa—”

  “Do you know anything about her?” I don’t need her critique of the performance. To reassure her I’m not a deranged stalker, I give her my best harmless look, hoping my eyes don’t look too remote as they often do these days. “Is she a regular here?”

  The saleswoman shakes her head. “I’ve never seen her before. But she came in with a guy. Probably a boyfriend.” She grows starry-eyed.

  The unexpected revelation punches me in the gut. “Boyfriend?”

  “They seemed very close. He’s the one who put the video up. And when the jerk who started the whole thing started to get a little nasty, he stopped him.”

  Now there’s a hole in my chest. Idiot. Ivy’s dead. The girl who played Grand Galop Chromatique with such spark and brilliance isn’t her. If Ivy were alive, she would’ve come back to me. I would’ve found her somehow. And there wouldn’t be a boyfriend.

  “If you’re interested in the piano she played…” The clerk gestures at a glossy white Steinway baby grand, the same as Ivy’s practice piano in Tempérane.

  The sight of it scrapes an old wound that hasn’t quite healed. I blurt out, “You don’t have a Bösendorfer Imperial?”

  “No. We only have a Bösendorfer baby grand over there. Not a concert grand like the Imperial, but still really nice. But if you’re looking for a concert grand, we have a Steinway you can try. Black. Very classic.”

  “It’s all right. I don’t want a Steinway.” I manage an even tone. What Ivy wanted was a Bösendorfer Imperial. Except there’s no reason for me to ask the woman about it, not when Ivy’s gone.

  “I can give you a catalogue of what we can order for you. Just give me a second.”

  Before I can tell her it won’t be necessary, she vanishes into the back. A tight fist wraps around my neck, and suddenly I can’t breathe. I have to get out of here.

  I turn around abruptly and bump into a woman coming in—hard. She loses her footing on the steps to the store, her body tilting backward.

  I instinctively grab her wrist and wrap an arm around her waist to stop her from falling. Her body’s soft and slim, and I tense at the familiar scent of tiger lilies. When she turns her face toward me…

  Holy mother of God…

  Long strawberry blond hair tumbles around a face that is the exact replica of Ivy’s—the same gently arched eyebrows, the clear, intelligent gray eyes, the small nose and the siren’s mouth… I blink to clear my vision, convinced I’m seeing a mirage. I’ve been thinking about Ivy almost nonstop since Harry showed me the video.

  But no. Her face is still there. She’s thinner now, and it makes her cheekbones more prominent, almost stark. I drop my gaze to the spot below the center of her lower lip, my heart thundering.

  Jesus. The mole.

  Stop projecting onto a woman you don’t know. It could be a food stain. A scab. Anything but a mole. You’ve made this mistake before, remember?

  I have. And God, how bitterly that ended—with me being completely disowned by my parents and Ryder as a sworn enemy for life.

  “You have something on your face.” I swipe the pad of my shaking thumb over it. Her lips part, and I can smell faint coffee, cherry and caramel. Her soft breath fans my skin, making my entire body prickly and hot.

  The mole’s still there.

  The wrist in my hand is her left one. Wound tight enough to burst, I turn it to see the tattoo. Instead of the small tiger lily and the initials T and I entwined, I see an old, jagged scar.

  Of course this woman isn’t Ivy. If she were, she’d have the tattoo.

  Disappointment and denial seep through my veins. I run my thumb over the scar and feel the taut, uneven skin. Her hand—with exceptionally long fingers—is loosely curled, her fingernails neatly trimmed, just like Ivy’s nine years ago. I stare at her face. She looks back at me, her eyes curious, but devoid of recognition.

  Still… Those long fingers, that face…the mole…

  My head says I’m projecting what I want to see because I miss her so damn much. My heart says, This is Ivy.

  I’m unwilling to sort them and take a side. I feel like I’m in a dream—a cruel, painful but lovely hallucination. It’s all I can do to hold her, scared that if I blink she’ll vanish.

  A couple of tears fall from the woman’s eyes. The sight is jolting, reminding me of the tears Ivy refused to shed during our last, horrible argument. This can’t be Ivy. Ivy didn’t cry. She straightened her spine and called me on my bullshit.

  Although my mind is still a mess, I move on autopilot.

  Wordlessly, I reach into my pocket, pull out a handkerchief and dab at the tears.

  She stiffens, finding her balance. “I can do it.” Her voice is slightly different from Ivy’s. More mature, with a hint of huskiness. She takes the handkerchief from my hand. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Rizzy!”

  “Thanks for the handkerchief.” She tries to give it back, but my attention is elsewhere. I’m looking at the man who called out her name. Byron Pearce. The Five-Year-Long Thorn In My Side, all because of a business partnership I had with his brother once.

  I don’t think he really sees me, his eyes only on her as though she’s the center of his universe.

  “I have to go,” she says suddenly, shoving the handkerchief
into my hand. She runs toward him and the black Maserati he’s standing beside.

  My jaw tightens until my teeth ache. I hate the warm, overly friendly way he smiles at her. I hate his casual, lazy stance. I hate his face. And most of all, I hate it that he called her Rizzy. It’s all the proof I need to know she isn’t Ivy.

  Come on. You knew she wasn’t Ivy.

  I clench the handkerchief, wet with her tears. The salesclerk returns with the catalogue and says, “Oh, there she is!”

  “What?” I say, my eyes on the Maserati.

  “The pianist. The one who played Grand Galop Chromatique. That’s her.”

  What the fuck…?

  My legs move of their own volition toward the car, but it’s already weaving through the traffic. Coming to an abrupt halt, I put a hand over my eyes. What the hell am I thinking?

  Don’t do it. You’re about to go down another self-destructive path…except this time, you have so much more to lose.

  Except I don’t know what I have left to lose. I don’t have a heart…or a soul. Haven’t experienced true light or warmth in almost a decade. And all the money and power I have can’t bring them back in my life.

  Chapter Thirty

  Iris

  As Byron drives, my mind is on the man at Hammers and Strings. My heart is still racing from the encounter. I got so flustered, I forgot to ask about the Bösendorfer baby grand.

  I can’t decide if I would prefer to have fallen than be caught by him. His arm was wonderfully strong as it wrapped around my waist and pulled me upright. Even now, the area tingles.

  And when I lifted my head, I saw the most arresting male specimen ever. Everything else seemed to fade into sepia tones.

  Tall, at least six three. An expensive charcoal suit over a broad, hard frame. The only thing soft about him was his glossy black hair. His face was boldly cut, everything proportioned and coolly masculine—cheeks high, a blade of a nose and the kind of mouth that can be both sensual and cruel.