Rock Me: A Rockstar Romance (Rock Chamber Boys Book 4)

by Daisy Allen

  It's such a stark contrast to the busy activity of the day.

  I never come here.

  The only family I have visiting is Paige, and it's probably better to contain her within the four walls of my own private room.

  I choose a chair against the wall that looks out into the rest of the room and the window. There's something comforting about seeing all the empty chairs and tables, neatly set up, awaiting the break of day to welcome the loved ones. I smile benevolently out at them, seemingly calm in this environment. Away from the confines of my bed, but still safe within the walls of this hospital, with not another soul to bother me. To hear me.

  Just me and my ukulele.

  “Autumn Leaves,” I say softly, “Les Feuilles Mortes.”

  I don't know why he wrote that. But it's been burrowing into my brain since I saw those two words on the page.

  The burrowing of an earworm that just won't rest for the night.

  I untuck the ukulele from under my arm and rest it on my thigh, the neck firmly clasped in my hand.

  I've never played the song before.

  But that's never stopped me.

  Here goes.

  I sing the tune in my head first, just the first few notes, to get into the right mind frame. It rarely takes more than that. Then I hum it quietly out loud.

  And then I play.

  One note. At a time. Slowly.

  One clear note, held for just a split second too long, as I enjoy the reverberation of each pluck of my uke's strings, closing my eyes, almost imagining the notes traveling like waves out into the empty room. Ripples of sound.

  "Da, Da, Da, Daaaaa." I hum quietly along. So quiet I only know I'm humming by the tickling in the back of my throat.

  The song is so enchanting. Simple. Melancholic.

  I reach the chorus, and while almost every memory I have of the song has it increasing in tempo, it seems such a travesty to break the somberness of the melody. My fingers disobey the norm, and each note is plucked, singularly. Slowly. Meaningfully. Deliberately. Each individual reverberation living a complete life of its own before the next one fades into the world and then out again, at its own pace.

  What a masterpiece, I think to myself as I play.

  What a privilege to live in a world where this song exists.

  And before I realize it, I whisper a thank you.

  Thank you, mystery man.

  For the song.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Jez

  She's playing it.

  Like I knew she would.

  I knew she'd understand. If not the meaning, she'd be compelled, just as I am, to know what that song would sound like coming from her. From her own fingers.

  She's playing it.

  And it's everything I thought it would be, and more.

  I lean my head against the wall outside the family room, holding my breath, hoping nothing disturbs this moment.

  Her shadow across my glass window as she'd tiptoed down the hall had promised me something special. I'm glad I’d followed my instincts and followed her.

  Autumn, she said she always loved autumn. Autumn the season, Autumn the word. This song is perfect for her.

  I brace for the familiar chorus, wondering how she'll interpret it, hoping she doesn’t disappoint.

  And the notes lingering in the air, one by one. Giving my ears the space to enjoy it, before it begs for the next one.

  Perfection. She understands the pleasure of anticipation. Music is nothing but a reflection of humanity.

  Who is this woman? How can she read me with her eyes and write my soul with her music?

  Noémie, my brain whispers, rolling the letters of her name over in its cortices.

  I finally have a name for her. To go with the face, the laughter, the body, the memories.

  Noémie.

  How can you not remember me, Noémie?

  The memory of her face, completely blank at meeting me again, flashes in my brain, the way it has a hundred thousand times since yesterday.

  I don't know what's happened.

  But I'm going to reverse it.

  She will remember.

  The song finishes at her touch. And she sighs.

  Play it again, I want to beg her. But I can't. Not yet.

  I hear her shuffle inside and I quietly push away from the wall and jog back to my room.

  And play the song over in my head until I fall asleep to the scent of cinnamon and the sound of leaves falling.

  ***

  "Robbie, my man," I say to him, as I wave him into my room the next night.

  His eyes narrow and I imagine his hands would be on his hips if he wasn’t busy tidying up around my room. "What do you want?"

  "So jaded for such a young soul," I say, hoping he's forgotten the times I've teased him for his graying sideburns.

  "I am young and yet wise. Wisdom comes with a built-in bullshit detector, so I know of what I say when I ask you, 'what the hell do you want?’"

  I clutch my chest and drop my jaw. "I'm shocked that you would think of me in such a way."

  "You're a celebrity." It’s a statement, not a question.

  "Kinda." I shrug, not sure I want to commit in case I’m about to get in trouble.

  "You're used to getting what you want." Another statement. Again, true.

  "Also kinda."

  "So, it's almost like my bullshit detector goes into overdrive around you."

  "So rude, wait until I set my minions onto you!”

  He stares at me with a steely look in his eye, "Go ahead. I'm pretty quick with a needle."

  "Oh. Well, my minions are scared of needles. They're scared of a lot of things. Mostly they just talk a big game."

  "Like master, like minion." He’s grinning now, knowing he’s just won that round.

  "Hey!"

  "I apologize, please, Sir master of minions, what can I, the lowly nurse who once had to give you a lollypop after you complained about a butt injection do for His Highness?"

  "That's better. Um, I need another favor."

  "I live to favor you, Minion-whisperer.” He bows low and I bite my lip not wanting to give him the satisfaction of my obvious amusement.

  "Okay, knock it off, you're creeping me out. I need you to write me another note."

  There’s a micro expression of interest, but he hides it well. "Write your own damn note."

  "I... I can't. I tried."

  "Let me see."

  I point to the trash can, filled with scrunched up pieces of paper. He takes one out, looking it over.

  "Hmmm, looks like something my kid brought home from kindergarten."

  I grimace and he just grins and gives me a wink.

  "Hey, man, yesterday, you couldn’t even hold the damn pen. Now I can almost make out the letter H. I’m proud of you."

  "That's an N." I sigh, but secretly, I’m thrilled that he noticed I’m trying.

  "Exactly. You got something on the page. You're doing good." A warmth spreads through his eyes and I let myself enjoy it for one second.

  "Go back to being a smartass."

  "I will, once I write this note.” He pulls a pen out of his pockets and tears off a blank piece of paper from the notepad by the bed. “What do you want me to say?"

  "Write, ‘Ne Me Quitte Pas.’"

  "We already went through this yesterday, man. English or you’re on your own."

  "Fine, write ‘If You Go Away.’ But then I want you to write the other thing as well, I'll spell it out for you."

  He copies down the letters I dictate and holds it up, sounding out the words.

  "’Nee mah kwitte paz’. Would you look at that? I can speak frenchie."

  "Yeah, you speak French as intelligibly as I write it, right now."

  "Well, then, I deserve a thumbs up for trying."

  I hold up my hand, my thumb pointing sideways, while my other fingers curl into an ugly array of talons. But it’s something.

  "One day at a time, man. One b
loody day at a time." He pats my legs, reassuringly. “Hey, why don’t you try this for some motivation? Use your ding-dong like a squeeze toy, bet you’ll be grasping that thing so tight you’ll be able to pull it right off in no time.” He throws his head back and I’m pretty sure the whole floor can hear his deep, belly laugh.

  "Just go deliver the fucking note, Potty Mouth Postman."

  He gives me a wink before he strolls out of my room like he owns the whole damn place.

  I wait.

  I wait so long it feels like a whole week passes. I try not to watch the clock, but after a while my eyes get tired just from following the second hand around the numbers.

  At one point I feel like I dose off, but then I hear her. The sound of her door, far down the hall from mine, sliding open, and then a few second later, her shadow casting against my open door.

  I wait for a few moments, my heart already pounding in my chest. Then I slide out of bed, and take the same few steps I did yesterday, to lean against the wall outside the activity room.

  Waiting. Again, just waiting.

  It's like my whole life has been reduced to this.

  Waiting.

  Waiting to heal. Waiting to leave.

  Waiting for her.

  There's the sound of some soft strumming, as she tunes her ukulele. And then it starts.

  It’s the song. Ne Me Quitte Pas. She knows. Of course she knows the song.

  She was born to play music like this

  Music from the soul. Songs of heartache and yearning.

  I reply the lyrics in my head, words of promise and hope, of perfect summer days and nights.

  Change it to winter, and I'll understand every word of this song to a level that runs deeper than my bones.

  I lean my head back, closing my eyes, breathing in her music through my skin.

  I have the unique honor and privilege of creating music with some of the absolute best that the world has to offer. Within my own band. Sebastian is a once in a generation cello prodigy. What takes me hours or days to learn, he picks up in a heartbeat. Marius revolutionizes how the world views the viola, and Brad can make grown men cry with a single pull of his bow.

  I am blessed every day to have the very best at my fingertips. And they inspire me every time we perform.

  But this woman.

  She’s given me something I've missed for long.

  The element of surprise.

  She plays this instrument, this joke of the music world instrument, and creates stories of utter humanity. Out of songs I’ve heard a thousand times, she makes them new again, makes them hers.

  It takes everything I have not to go in there.

  Go in there and tell her - you're healing me. With every single note, you're single-handedly making me whole again.

  The song ends. and I know it's time to go again.

  I linger, hoping someone will intervene and bring me face to face again with her.

  I know she's not ready.

  But when she is, I'll be here.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Noémie

  Another evening, another delivered note

  Another night of no sleep until I give in.

  These songs, these songs of my childhood, that make up my DNA, how does he know them, know their effect on me?

  I don't know.

  But with scribbled pieces of paper - something is happening.

  The image of his face grows clearer. I might've only seen him for a few moments that day he came into my room, but it's like the lines that shape him in my mind are becoming more detailed. The green in his eyes are more pronounced, like they've been run through a color filter. Tiny creases appear along the very corner of his eyes.

  The reflection of gold from the strands of hair in his long fringe.

  It's like I've seen it all before, and it’s coming back to me. And if he’s to be believed, I guess I have. Somewhere. Sometime.

  And he's building it all back in my memory.

  Or better yet.

  He's making me draw it myself, stroke by stroke, note by note, conjuring from a past we shared but only one can recount.

  Who is he?

  And when is he going to come back for me?

  ***

  “How do you feel today, Noémie?” The psych resident asks me, as she does at the start of all of our weekly sessions.

  “Good. I think.”

  “You don't know?” She leans forward, her forearms on her knees, peering at me. Not harshly, caringly.

  “No. I mean, I'm not sure.”

  “What are you not sure about?” she prods. She’s good at that.

  “I feel like I know everything, remember everything. But I guess I don't. You don’t know what you’ve forgotten. It’s weird.” I shrug.

  “I guess it can be very confusing for you.”

  “It is.” I nod and stare out the window. These sessions are voluntary. They thought I might like someone to talk to, to try to help navigate my injury, my amnesia. Someone to help me deal with having a giant black hole in what I remember about my own life. I don’t know if she’s helped, but it’s good to have someone to vent to. “Do you, do you think you can retroactively create a memory? Something that never happened. Can you create a memory of that?”

  "I don't understand, how can you remember something that never happened?"

  "I don't know. But... suddenly, I feel like. I feel like I've known someone my whole life. But I have no recollection of them."

  "Maybe you have met them, you just don't remember?"

  "No, a person like this, I couldn’t ever forget. Maybe I've just always known him, I just didn't know I did.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe there’s something in your brain telling you that you want to know him now.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Jez

  It’s dark. Anca is asleep in the seat next to me. She’s hugging her bear. She loves that thing. She’s still so mad I tried to hide it from her yesterday, I don’t think she’s let it go all day.

  The car is going so fast, I can only just make out the moon peeping out through the tree branches.

  Whoosh, whoosh, whoooooosh. They’re saying to me as they whizz by.

  I’m glad they’re out there and I’m in there.

  It looks cold and lonely out there. It’s nice and warm and toasty in the car.

  Mom and Dad are talking about something in the front. Mom’s saying something, loud, like she’s yelling at Dad, but they’re both laughing.

  It’s probably about someone at Mom’s work or Grampa saying something silly. They like laughing together about that.

  The song in my ear phones ends, and press repeat.

  It’s a French song. One off Mom’s old cassette tapes that I used to hear her sing. She has a beautiful voice. Maybe I should ask if she will sing along with me playing cello again tomorrow. It’s been a long time since we did that. Maybe we’ll pick a song Dad likes and can make a surprise concert for him. He’d like that. Of course, Anca will have to be given something to do, maybe she can introduce us. Give her a chance to wear a pretty dress.

  I’m sleepy.

  We’ve been in the car for a while, we must be getting close to home.

  Maybe I can just close my eyes and have a quick nap.

  “Mommy?”

  “Yes, Jez?”

  “Wake me up when we get home okay?”

  Okay, baby. You get some sleep.”

  Mommy reaches out to pat me on the leg.

  Dad turns around and gives me a quick smile, “Sweet dream, Jez. Don’t worry about a thing. We’ll keep you safe.”

  I fall asleep to the sound of their whispers.

  Warm. Safe. Happy.

  I open my eyes, and I’m back in my white room. My pillow is soaked; from sweat, from tears?

  It doesn’t really matter.

  I just squeeze my eyes tight, and try to fall back to sleep.

  Back to my dream.

  [R4] CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 
Noémie

  "Your mom called today," Paige tells me, about an hour after she’s been here. She’s spent the time catching me up on her love dramas and how her Dad wants her to start thinking about working for him next year. She still thinks that’s pretty funny.

  "Mom called you?"

  "Yeah. She didn't want to disturb you in case you were sleeping. And um, I think she wanted me to be the one to tell you."

  "Tell me what?"

  "They, um, they're probably not going to be able to come visit next week, like they planned.” She crunches her face up, probably annoyed she had to deliver the bad news. “I’m so sorry, I know how much you were looking forward to it.”

  "Oh." The room suddenly seems darker, like someone's accidentally leaned on the light dimmer, throwing sinister shadows against the walls. I’d been counting the minutes until my family were going to come from Maine. They'd only been to visit once before, right after I was in the hospital. And even in those few days, everything was easier. "Did they say why?"

  "Yeah, um, your mom and sister couldn’t get vacation time off like their boss had promised. Something about one of the other workers having to take some sudden time off for sickness."

  "Oh." I nod, trying to understand.

  "I'm so sorry,” she says again. And I know she is. She’s always been a little envious of my family and loves having them around almost as much as I do.

  "It's... it's okay," I say, but it’s not. Suddenly the next day and week or however long I’m stuck here seems that much harder.

  "Hey, I'm sure they'll sort something out and come over soon."

  "Yeah, sure." I wave off her attempt to comfort me.

  "Aaannd, you might not even be here in a week!" Her voice is louder and higher pitched now, like she’s trying to lighten the mood just with her perkiness.

  "Yup. Maybe."

  "Has the doctor said anything?"

  "No, he's going to run some more tests next week to see how... you know, everything's working. And he'll decide then."

  "Okay, well, I can come tomorrow, if you want."