by Daisy Allen
He stops in his tracks for a moment, and then walks past it and into the bedroom, as if it's the most normal thing to happen in the world. Having a cello appear out of nowhere.
I give him a few minutes and then follow him into the bedroom.
He's sitting on the bed, shoes kicked off, flicking through the channels on the TV.
He doesn’t say anything, even as I slide onto the bed next to him and tickle his stomach.
Barely a smile.
"Hey. So, um, I don't know if you noticed but, um, someone must've planted a cello seed in the middle of our foyer during the night and... well, it's sprouted."
He just keeps flicking through the channels, barely giving each one more than half a second before he's flicked to the next one.
"I wonder who sent it."
He just shrugs.
I raise an eyebrow. "Do you want to..."
"Nope.” Click. Click. Click.
"Okay. I mean, maybe just take it out of the case and look at it?"
"Nope."
"Okay. Just a suggestion." I go into the bathroom for a few minutes, just sitting on the stool in front of the dressing table.
"Fucking Dennis," I hear him mumble after about five minutes.
I walk out and stand by the bed. “What did you say?”
"The cello. I know it's from him. He's trying to force me into playing again." He throws the remote onto the bed and glares at the wall.
"Maybe he's just trying to encourage you. How does he even know you're here?"
"Oh, he knows. He knows everything. He probably knows what we're going to have for breakfast tomorrow morning."
"Oh really. Could he tell me? I have such a hard time deciding between the crois-..."
“Bah!” He grunts and reaches over and picks up the phone.
"What are you doing?"
He shakes the phone in front of him, "I'm calling him to yell at him."
"Jez, is that really necessary?"
"Yes! He said it himself, he should give me some time to recover! Why is he pushing this? I've only just left the hospital. Give a man some time!"
I watch as he punches a number angrily into this phone. Shit.
"Wait," I say, putting my hand on his arm.
"Not now, Emmie. I just need a minute.”
"Put down the phone, Jez."
"Why?"
I grimace. "Because. Ugh. It wasn't Dennis. It was... it was me. I called the concierge and asked them to organize a cello rental. They must’ve brought it up while we were out."
"What? WHY?" He’s angry. He was angry before, but now it’s directed at me. And I guess he has a right. But that doesn’t mean I’m not right as well.
"Because I want you to stop thinking you can't do it, Jez. Not until you've actually tried."
"Noémie. You... you had no right." He shakes his head, running his hand through his fringe.
"No right to what?"
"To do this! I'm not ready!"
"Oh, you mean no right like you had no right to force me onto the stage with Celine Dion and in front of thousands of people? Well, let me remind you, I sucked it up and did it anyway, because I knew you would never do something to hurt me, humiliated me. Well, it goes both ways, asshole." He huffs and throws the phone across the room. We watch it crash against the bureau and land onto the ground.
I shake my head at him. "I was wrong. You don’t underestimate people, Jez. You just underestimate yourself.” I get up and walk over to the window, watching his reflection in the window for a moment before I turn around, swallowing before I deliver the next line.
"Or maybe you don't underestimate yourself. Maybe you really are just done.”
There’s a pause and then he gets up and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him, leaving me watching Jimmy Kimmel lip syncing along to Tupac.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Jez
The cello is talking to me, mocking me.
I'm laying here on the couch staring out at a view of the replica of one of the most beautiful manmade objects in the world, and all I can hear is, “Fucking coward."
I turn to face the inside of the couch, pulling the cushion over my head, trying to drown out the taunts.
"Yeah, a cushion is going to drown out a hallucination. You're dumb and a coward. Geez."
For fuck's sake. I can't even blame it on alcohol. I'm completely, utterly, sober
And a pile of wood and strings is mocking me
Fuck this. I jump up from the couch and walk over to the cello. I grip the handle as tight as I can and drag it back to the couch with me.
"Alright, you and me, we're gonna talk," I tell it, my voice only wavering a little.
I lay the case down onto the floor and push down on the latch.
Click. Click. I ignore the shiver that travels up my spine.
I lift the lid and there she lays. A cello. A stranger, but beautiful. Familiar. I run my fingers along the smooth, polished wood and lift it from the case, ignoring the twinge in my wrist.
It's not too bad.
But it's there. just reminding me. It's there.
I release the bow from its hold.
A smile spreads across my mouth before I can stop it.
"Hello old friend," I whisper. It's not mine, but it doesn’t matter. We'll all old friends.
My right hand grips the bow. My fingers are a little stiff but I bend them anyway, breathing a sigh of relief when it holds. Loose, but not falling from my fingers like in the early days of trying to hold the pen.
"That was the easy part," I say to the cello. Who's stopped taunting me, by the way; instead I feel it now urging me on. Rooting for me.
I position the cello between my legs, letting it fall back to rest against me. A musician's relationship with his instrument is one of symbiosis.
Give. Take. Forward. Back. Play and be played. Life and birth. Of music.
My hands run up the strings all the way up, to curve around the neck. I grip the fingerplate tightly. It hurts, but it is bearable.
One more step forward.
My neck cradles the neck of the cello. Partners in arms.
I lift the bow and take a breath.
Have courage, Jez. I say, but it's Noémie's voice I hear.
If not for you, do this for her. Like she did for you on that stage. Believed in herself. And trusted you.
It's time.
I don't have to tell my fingers what song to play.
They know.
It was always going to be this song, always.
I pull my bow.
The first note screeches, protesting. Months of rust clinging to movements.
I ignore it.
I play another note.
The bow moves more smoothly, my elbow bearing the brunt of these first few movements, my wrist still wary, stiff. The tuning is off, but I don't care.
I'm playing.
I'm playing the cello.
My fingers press down on the strings, the pads causing a deliriously satisfying deep tremor in the sound. The vibrato echoing my jagged breath. I pull the bow faster, my wrist pushing through the pain, to flex and bend. Taking point, dictating the sound.
The song takes form.
Johnny Cash's arrangement of Nine Inch Nail's Hurt. My anthem of hope, of recovery, of reclaiming of self.
I just play. Ignoring the hesitant notes, the accidental screeches, the fumbled melody.
I just play. And the gaps in the perfection fill up with the broken pieces of my soul.
And I just play. Play until the tears from my face drip unashamedly onto the wood of the instrument.
Until my fingers feel raw and torn.
Until the pain in my wrists is from fatigue not injury.
Until every lyric I sing along in my brain becomes the reality.
Until hurt is just a word.
I drop the bow when I'm done and it clatters onto the marble floor, the hairs pulled loose in the chaos, tousled, used.
The cello slips down my bo
dy gently on its end piece to lay on the ground, spent.
And I stand, towering over it, master once more.
I can play.
I walk over to the bedroom door and press down on the handle gently pulling it toward my body and peering into the dark room, expecting to see a moonlit silhouette asleep on the bed.
But she's awake.
Sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, her knees bent to her chest, her head tilted, staring out the window, the lights dancing in the white of her eyes.
She doesn't move as I approach her. Not even the rise of a breath.
I reach out and touch her cheek. It glistens. I lift it to my mouth, and taste it.
Saltwater.
She turns and stares up at me.
"Beautiful. It was beautiful," her lip quivers and another full tear falls down her cheek. And I fall to my knees in front of her, taking her hands in mine.
"I owe you my life. Be with me for the rest of it."
My breath stills in my lungs until she answers.
"Yes."
***
She’s wearing white. The very first white dress we saw in the very first store we came across.
She pointed at it in the window, and I couldn’t do a thing but nod. Yes. Wear that.
I’m dressed in whatever the hell I was wearing when I dragged her from the hotel room.
And now we're here, standing outside this chapel, like we're drunken strangers on a dare.
Except, we're not. We're just in love.
"So, on a level of one to ten, ten being chased with a butterfly net by men in white coats, how crazy are we being right now?" She asks me, as we wait for them to ring up our chapel costs. Elvis is very present, and I’m trying not to wonder if they charged us extra for an officiant in costume.
“Well, from now on ten will be, ‘as crazy as Jez and Noémie were in Vegas,’” I answer and she laughs. “"Are we really doing this?"
"Do you not want to?” she turns to me. “Say it, and we're out of here."
"No. I want to," I lean over and kiss her. My soon-to-be wife.
"Not more than me." She smiles. "But... okay, let's be serious. Aren't there things we need to know about each other?"
"Like what?" I shrug.
"I don't know! Kids! Money! How you eat your hot dogs!" she asks, pulling things out of the air.
"Well, 1) sure, someday; 2) I have lots; and 3) mustard and onion with coke from a glass bottle."
She pokes her tongue out at me, “I said be serious!”
"I'm not kidding! Don't even think about putting ketchup on my hot dog!"
"Jez!”
I pull her to the empty seats in the waiting area. "Okay, what do you want to know that you don't already?"
"I don't know..." Her eyes are erratic, trying to think.
"Exactly," I lean over and kiss her. "Wait... how do YOU eat your hot dogs?"
"Ketchup all the way, baby."
"I have made a grave mistake." I hang my head.
"Seriously though... Jez. I don't have money. Like I so much don't have it, it's not even funny." She looks serious, so I want to reassure her.
"Noémie? When I met you, you had worked a sixteen-hour shift scooping beans. I didn't think you were doing that for fun."
"Don’t you want a... what are those things called...?”
"A pre-nup?"
"Yeah."
"No." I frown.
"But..."
"Shhh. You can have it all. All my money. I'm serious. Or we can give it all away and live in a shack in Barbados and eat with our hands and swim naked in the surf for the rest of our lives. It's just money. Anything else?" I brush the hair from her face, and she smiles, a little more relaxed. I’m glad, I don’t want this to be something she regrets. Ever.
The chapel door opens. "It's time for you guys."
"Now or never, Emmie,” I stand, holding out my hand to her.
She grins and jumps up from her seat, “Now!” She runs to the chapel door, turning around and shouting at me, "Hurry up, man. You're going to make me late for my own wedding."
I grin and chase after her down the aisle, coming to a skidding stop when we reach the end.
The officiant lifts his book and I reach for her hand. We’re in this together.
Out of nowhere, there's a loud slamming of a door, and the sound of voices yelling, "STOP!" The three of us turn back. But I don’t need to. I would know those voices anywhere.
The question is, what are they doing here?
“What the fuck?” I shout, as I see my bandmates, Dennis, and Anca come running into the chapel and up the aisle.
“Stop, you can’t do this.” Sebastian pants, out of breath and comes up to stand in front of me. "You can't marry her, Jez."
“Who are…?” she turns to me, her eyes filled with as much confusion as I feel.
"They're... my friends, Noémie, although what they're doing here, I don't know. How did you even know I was here?"
"Jez, come on." He rolls his eyes.
Because Dennis knows everything.
"This is none of your business." I reach for Noémie’s hand again, turning back to the officiant.
"I'm sorry, but it is, man.” Sebastian turns saying to Noémie, “Tell him.”
Her brow furrows, perplexed. "What?"
"Tell him. Tell him everything." Sebastian demands.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Tell him... why, why you were in the hospital!"
"You don't have to, babe," I move, pushing myself between them, protecting her. Her fingers dig into my back, she's scared. Confused. I don't blame her.
"No, she has to. You have to know!” Sebastian shouts, his face turning a deep red.
"I...” She starts, but doesn’t seem to know how to continue.
I spin around, gripping her shoulders with my hands. "Ignore them."
"No. You can't ignore us.” Dennis finally steps out from the group. He looks as serious as he ever has. “You both need to know what's going on!"
She pats my hands, and nods. "It's okay, Jez. I don't mind. I was in the hospital because I had a brain injury."
"Why! Tell him why!" Sebastian shouts and I glare at him.
She waits until I turn back to her before she continues. “I mean, I don't remember any of it, but... I was in a car accident. I was in a coma for over a month. When I woke up, I was in the hospital and they told me that's what happened. Like I said, I have no memory of it at all."
Dennis looks at me, pity and sadness in his eyes.
So what? She was in a car accident.
It can’t have been the same…
No.
“How long ago, Noémie? I mean, when did it happen?” I ask, already afraid of the answer.
"The accident was three months ago."
I suck in my breath.
God, please no.
"Are you, are you sure?" I ask, for once hoping to find a lie in her eyes. But it’s all truth.
"Well, like I said, I don't remember, but yes, it was three months ago. I know, because it was my birthday."
And every single blood cell in my body freezes.
And then shatters into a million pieces.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Noémie
Everyone is quiet. And looking at Jez, and then me, and then back at Jez again.
He's running his fingers through his hair. Something’s wrong. Something’s horrendously wrong.
"What happened… with the accident?" he asks me.
"I don't know. I don't remember." I repeat. He knows this, why is he asking.
"Try. Try dammit!" He raises his voice, dropping my hand.
"Jez...?”
"Just please, try," his voice lowers but still tight.
"I don't know! I just now that they said I was driving the car and I must've hit someone. I hit my head on the steering wheel pretty hard, I fractured my skull and I was in a coma! I don’t know anything else." My head is starting
to ache, a thudding behind my eyes, and a sharp pain where my scar is. "I don't know I'm sorry, I’ve told you everything I know. I don't remember getting in the car, I don't remember driving, I don’t remember hitting anyone, I don't remember anything! I don't even know what happened to the other person. Paige took care of all that while I was out."
Jez's back is turned to me and everyone is watching him. No one is speaking, it’s completely silent.
"Jez..." I reach out, touching his shoulder.
He wrenches it away and spins around. His pupils are almost completely dilated, dark, angry, hard.
"Look," he says.
And he pulls on the hem of his white T-shirt, tugging it over his head. Why is he doing that?
"Look." he says again, and takes my hand and runs it over his chest.
He has scars on his chest. I know them well. I've kissed them countless times already.
"These are from where the hood of the car ripped the skin from my chest and broke my ribs which punctured my lung in two places. And these," he moves my hand so my fingers run over the length of his arms, the pads of my fingertip feeling the soft, shiny bumps of the scars on his arms, "are from when the bones broke in my arms and pierced through my skin, when I fell on the asphalt road after being flung ten feet into the air."
Oh my god.
I can feel my eyelids blinking, as my brain tries to make sense of what Jez is saying. Of why he’s saying these things.
And I think it’s dawning on me.
No.
No, no, no, no, no!
He moves my hand to his right wrist, and he tries to bend it, and I can feel a clicking under the skin, "that is from the clean break of my wrist when I tried to break my fall.” Then our hands move along the length of his fingers, thin and frail, "And these are the three fingers that fractured so badly, they had to operate twice just to align the bones right."
“All in all, seven broken and fractured bones. One punctured lung. One ruptured spleen. Two pints of blood transfused. Two weeks in a coma. Three months in the hospital. One, two, three, four,” he points to each of his bandmates, and then himself, “lives put on hold until further notice. That, Noémie. That is what happened to the 'other guy' that you don't remember hitting. With the car you drove that night. Drunk."
He looks at me, like he doesn’t recognize me. Or worse, like he wishes he’d never met me.