Austen Box Set

by Hart, Staci

  “You can’t actually be serious!” Fanny hissed half under her breath as if we weren’t all sitting right there.

  Frank looked at her like she was crazy. “Of course I’m serious. It’s not your concern, Francis.”

  Her face somehow soured even more, but she shut up.

  “Good!” Susan said.

  No one asked Elle what she wanted, and I watched her, wishing she would meet my eyes so I could comfort her, but she was refolding her napkin with the focus of a Tibetan monk.

  “So,” Susan started, “I don’t know if you all know, but Annie is quite the pianist. She played for us and was brilliant. I must say, she blew me away and down Fifth!”

  Everyone looked at me with interest, and I smiled, fully prepared to tap-dance until Elle felt more like participating.

  “Annie, you have to play for us. John! John, tell her how much you’d like to hear her!”

  He chuckled and smiled at me. “Would you do us the honor?”

  “Of course,” I answered.

  Susan clapped her hands together and held them. “Oh, wonderful! I think we’re all quite through with dinner. Come, come, we’ll take dessert and coffee in the music room.”

  We all stood, except Mama. Everyone’s eyes drifted to her for a simultaneous millisecond before shifting away. Regardless of the brevity, Mama saw it.

  I motioned for Meg to take the wheelchair and hung back for Elle, taking her hand. In the shuffle, we’d been left in the back of the pack.

  “That was awful,” I whispered. “Are you okay?"

  Before she could answer, her gaze shifted to look past me. I followed her eyeline to find Ward.

  He merged with us, his handsome face apologetic. “I’m sorry about my mother. I’d like to say she’s not always so…”

  “Rude? Condescending? Snobbish?” I offered.

  Elle pinched my arm. “Annie!”

  But Ward laughed. “All of those things are true, and I’m sorry for each one.” He paused, his eyes moving to Elle. “But mostly, I’m sorry that no one asked you if you wanted to work at the magazine.”

  I nearly sighed with thanks that someone else had noticed, keeping my thoughts to myself with some difficulty.

  Elle didn’t answer right away. “I…I do want to find a job, and I did enjoy working as a secretary, very much. But…”

  He waited for her to speak as we neared the music room where Susan was already arranging chairs and ushering everyone around. And on observing his patience and thoughtfulness, I decided I liked him very much.

  “I have the same fears as your mother,” she finally said. “I don’t know if I can do the job well.”

  “They say there’s only one way to find out,” he suggested with his lips turned up in a quiet smile. “If you’d be willing to try, I’d be willing to help. No strings; if you’re overwhelmed or unhappy, you can go without any hard feelings. What do you say?”

  She brightened and blushed all at once. “I…I’d like that very much.”

  At her answer, his smile opened up. “Monday morning then, at eight.”

  She nodded, smiling back. “Thank you.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine,” he said with a slight bow, stepping away when his mother called his name, motioning for him to come sit by her.

  When Elle glanced at me, we both nearly broke out into a fit of giggles, our hands squeezing together once before I split off to head to the piano.

  “What would y’all like to hear?” I asked as I sat.

  Meg opened her mouth, but Elle whispered in her ear. Meg closed it again, looking none too pleased with having to keep quiet.

  “Play something from Songs Without Words,” Mama said, her expression and tone encouraging.

  I smiled at her. “I know just the thing, if it pleases y’all.”

  Everyone nodded, except Fanny—hateful bitch that she was. But I couldn’t be bothered with her, not when I began to play Opus 19, No. 1. My right hand danced across the keys as my left played the slow melody, the gentle wave of the music rising and falling, the motion swaying my heart, swaying my body gently. I felt the music with an unfathomable depth, in a language I couldn’t verbalize, couldn’t translate in any way other than through my fingers on the keys.

  And when my fingers stilled and I turned to look at the people in the chairs at my side, I found some level of their understanding on their faces, even Fanny, who looked almost soft. Mama’s cheeks were shining with tears, and Meg was tucked into Elle’s side, their faces rapt. Aunt Susan’s arm was hooked in her husband’s, their fingers wound together, tears clinging to the edge of her lids.

  “Should I play a little Billy Joel to lighten the mood?” I joked through my own tight chest.

  A chuckle rolled through them.

  “How about this?” I asked and launched into another Mendelssohn, a bouncing, lilting piece that seemed to lift everyone’s spirits. After that was Beethoven and a little Chopin.

  And then I was ready for cake, which everyone else had already eaten.

  When I stood, they rose with me, speaking at once.

  Uncle John looked at me like his gears were turning in his brain but said nothing more than, “Congratulations,” did nothing more than smile and offer me a hug.

  The hubbub died down, and when Mama mentioned she was tired, she and I excused ourselves, our evening was blissfully over.

  We said goodnight to the Ferrars, leaving them with Susan and John for after dinner drinks.

  Mama’s silent room felt like a sanctuary.

  “Are you all right?” I asked after a moment as I slipped her nightgown over her head.

  She sighed, threading her arms through the openings. “Yes, I’m all right.”

  “That woman is horrible. I can’t believe Susan tolerates being in the same room as her, never mind inviting her into her home.”

  “He’s John’s oldest friend, and they came up together, worked together all these years.”

  “Did you know him?” I asked tentatively. “Before?”

  She nodded, reaching for me when I bent to lift her. “Yes, we were all friends. Susan, too.”

  I paused, considering my question. “Why didn’t you take John’s help? When your parents disinherited you, why didn’t you accept his offer?”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment. I hoisted her up to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching for her legs, the limp, useless things like exclamation points on her losses.

  “It was easier to disappear, to lose myself in my life with your daddy in Texas, to pretend like everything before didn’t exist. Looking back only hurt me, and we didn’t need money. We had the store; Daddy had his workshop. We had you girls. We had each other.” The words trailed off, rough and pained. “It was just easier to cut ties than live half in two worlds. I chose one world—his world.”

  My hands trembled as I pulled up her covers, my heart thumping and aching and sore. “But John could have helped. My medical bills, college for Elle, piano lessons, the mortgage. You and Daddy worked so hard just to make ends meet. It could have been easier.”

  “We were happy, and we did just fine on our own. But the truth is that it wasn’t just my pride that kept me from taking the money. If I’d taken a penny from John, our parents would have punished him for the betrayal. We were still young, John still new in the company. They would have taken it all away, stripped him down and turned him out. Our parents…they’re rigid and proud, and they never go back on their word. It’s not in their nature. Fanny is right; we really are very lucky to have John and Susan. I only wish we hadn’t needed them like we do.”

  I laid my hand on hers. “It’s gonna be okay, Mama.”

  “I want to believe that, baby. I do. I just don’t know how to convince myself it’s true.” She pulled in a long breath and let it out in a sigh. “So I try to remember that you girls have chances here you never would have had back home. Especially you.” She clutched my fingers and looked into my eyes. “Life is full of contradictions
. I want you to be happy, but I want you to be safe, too. I want you to be self-sufficient, but thinking of you on your own scares me. You see? It’s not simple. Life never is, even if it looks simple from the top down.”

  I nodded, unable to speak.

  “But we have an opportunity here, now, and even though it’s scary and strange, it’s wonderful, too. Fanny aside.”

  I smiled a little at that. “She really is a miserable cow.”

  “She is. But I have a bad feeling she’s not going anywhere. We’ll just have to endure her, and we will, just like we’ve endured everything else.” She cupped my cheek. “I love you, Annie.”

  “I love you too, Mama.”

  She let me go, her face soft and pretty and sad. “I’m gonna read for a little bit before bed.”

  “Let me know if you need anything, all right?”

  “I will. Night, baby.”

  “Night,” I said as I left her room in search of Elle.

  I found her in her room, turning down her bed.

  “Hey,” she said with a smile. “Mama okay?”

  “Sorta. She’s trying to be at least.” I climbed into her bed, and she shook her head, smiling at me. “Are they gone?”

  “No, they’re still out there. Meg and I didn’t stay long.” She slipped in next to me so we lay facing each other. “Well, it was an eventful night.”

  I snorted a laugh. “If by eventful you mean unbearable, I completely agree.”

  “It wasn’t all bad. You played for us, which was the highlight of my night.”

  “Only because Fanny shut up for a whole thirty minutes.”

  She chuckled at that.

  “And anyway, you mean to tell me that Ward wasn’t the highlight of your night?”

  A flush crept into her pretty cheeks. “Annie, don’t be silly.”

  “You like him!” I crowed. “I knew it the second you said hello. I think he likes you too.”

  “I don’t even know him. We only exchanged a few sentences.”

  “Why should it take more than that? I think, when you find your someone, it happens the second you see them. Like getting struck by lightning or hit by a bus.”

  “So falling in love is a lot like dying, right?”

  I rolled my eyes. “You know what I mean. That moment when you meet him and time stops and the sun shines on you and the angels sing the hallelujah chorus.”

  “I think two people need time to feel affection for each other. You’ve got to get to know each other, learn what kind of fabric the other is made of, what they love and what they don’t, what they believe and what they want out of life.”

  “I think to love is to burn, and I want to set my heart on fire. Like Tristan and Isolde or Romeo and Juliet.”

  She snickered. “All of those people died.”

  “But it’s in how they died,” I insisted. “They couldn’t live without each other.”

  “And Romeo and Juliet were teenagers,” she noted.

  “Romeo and Juliet were fictional—and not the point.”

  “Right, the point is that you think Ward and I should jump into a volcano together.”

  I shrugged my free shoulder. “I mean, if the spirit moves you.”

  “He might be my boss come Monday morning.”

  “So use the opportunity to get to know him so you can maybe, possibly decide if you think he’s amiable or affable or perfectly fine or some other dull thing.”

  She laughed softly and let it go without even trying, whereas I would have liked to argue until the sun came up. “I might have a job, and you’ve already gotten one. Meg loves her school, and Mama seems to be doing better. Things are looking up. I mean, think about it, Annie. You’ve got a real job.”

  “I know! What is my life? I live in New York in a fancy penthouse with a cook and a maid, and I got a job at a bookstore. This has to be a dream.”

  “We have a lot to be thankful for,” she said quietly, her smile fading.

  Mine slipped away too. “We really do. It’s easier to see now that we’re here. If we were back home…”

  “I’m glad we’re not.”

  “Me too. There was nothing left for us there. And here, we’ve been afforded so much. You’ve got a job too, if you want it. I mean, not just any job—a job at Nouvelle. It’s got to be one of the most famous fashion magazines in history, next to Bazaar and Vogue.”

  “It’s madness,” she said with wonder. “We’ll see if I can actually do it.”

  “You can. I know you can.”

  “Look at us, a couple of independent women,” she joked.

  “Daddy would have been proud,” I said softly and took her hand.

  She smiled and said, “Yes, he would have.”

  And that almost made the pain a little easier to bear.

  The List

  Annie

  I’d never been afraid of hospitals.

  I knew people had this thing about them because, unless they were having a baby, most people would only go there when something bad happened. It was associated with anxiety, even for happy occasions like having a child—What if something goes wrong? What if the baby is sick? What if there are complications?—but worse than that, it was associated with death.

  People went to hospitals when they were going to die. And even the people who weren’t dying were afraid the doctors would find something to change that.

  But I’d never been afraid. Because those hospitals would save me if something went wrong.

  Being born with a congenital heart defect was scary, but I wasn’t scared. I could have been afraid, could have made myself even sicker from worrying, but I had faith. I believed the doctors who had treated me over the course of my life were as magical as fairies or wizards, but instead of using spells or magic dust, they used science.

  I wasn’t even afraid of needles. I’d watch, wide-eyed, as the needle disappeared into my skin, watch my blood fill up the syringe, or feel the chill of fluids as they rushed up my arm, freezing me from the inside.

  It just never bothered me, not the machines or the sterile smell or the needles or the hospital itself.

  That was, until my new doctor walked through the door the next day.

  It was something in his face that set my heart skipping, something in the tightness at the corners of his mouth and the almost invisible crease between his brows.

  He took a seat on his rolling stool and began to type at the computer.

  Mama took my hand.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you here all day, but I’m glad you were able to stay for the MRI and results. After seeing your echocardiogram, I really wanted to get a better look and compare them to your scans done six months ago.” He turned the computer screen to face us, displaying two scans illuminated in blue-black and gray. “This is your heart six months ago, which matches the scans from six months before that almost identically. This,” he used his closed pen to draw a circle around my heart in the new scan, “is from today. Your tricuspid valve—the leaky one—is allowing too much blood into the right atrium, dilating it, and in turn shrinking the right ventricle. Notice the difference in size. It’s slight for now, but it’s very likely it will continue to expand. I think it’s time we talk about surgery.”

  My palms were damp, my breath short.

  “Has anything changed since your last scans, Annie? Are you still taking your medication regularly?”

  “Yes, of course, but…my father died last month, and we moved here.”

  He frowned, concerned. “That’s a lot of change at once. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” I said quietly.

  “Have you felt any different? Noticed any new symptoms?”

  I considered it, my brows drawing together when I realized the truth. “Not new, but more frequent.”

  Mama looked up at me from her chair. “Annie, you didn’t tell me.”

  I tried to smile, squeezing her hand. “I didn’t realize. Mostly, I’ve felt fine, just little bursts of
dizziness or shortness of breath. And my arrhythmia has been a bit more…vocal than usual.”

  Dr. Mason’s frown deepened. “Annie, I want to see you immediately if you have any increase in symptoms or frequency. Without scanning you, your symptoms are the only way we know if something has changed, and your condition could escalate very quickly, too quickly for you to be able to act.”

  I nodded dutifully.

  “Truth be told, if I had been your physician all along, we would have done the surgery before now. My recommendation is to correct your valve using the cone procedure and repair the hole while we’re in there.” He grabbed a model of a heart off the counter and held it up in display, using his pen as a pointer again. “Your tricuspid valve is in the wrong spot. It’s here,” he pointed, “instead of here. In this procedure, we’ll separate this part of the valve from the wall of the heart, rotate, and reattach it.”

  “Is there any reason not to do the surgery, Doctor?” Mama asked.

  “Not one.” He set the model down and turned to me again, hands clasped in his lap. “And while I don’t see any reason to panic, I would like to schedule the surgery as soon as we can get the authorization from your insurance.”

  Mama’s fingers were clammy in mine. “And how long will that take?”

  “A couple of weeks, surgery scheduled a week or two after that. The mortality rate of the surgery is less than one percent, but it’s still open-heart surgery. The recovery will be long, so I’d like for you to plan for that. But, otherwise, it’s the gold-standard procedure for this condition, and our department at Columbia has a lot of experience with it. My colleague—the surgeon who will perform the procedure—has done more than just about any doctor in our field and was a pioneer in the research.” He said it all without saying anything truly comforting or scary, just with that distant, clinical tone that lends nothing but facts.