Everything You Are: A Novel Page 16
At the center of the music, he is whole. All of his confusion—his anger, his grief, his guilt—turns to gold, a process of alchemy. He hears the audience sigh and weep as the music washes over them, feels their hearts lighten through the release, knows that this is what he was called into the world to do.
Chapter Eighteen
ALLIE
Allie wakes to music, Bach’s cello Suite in C Minor, the Braden Healey version. No two cellists play it alike, no two cellos sound alike, and she knows the voice of this cello under the touch of her father’s hands.
Her head throbs, dully, as she pushes herself up to sitting.
She’s still fully dressed. For a moment she’s disoriented, and then the memories come back in bits and pieces. The party. The cops. Her father and the Uber and Ethan.
Ethan. Where is Ethan? Did he get arrested? Did she?
The music is an affront to her aching head and to her heart. What the hell, anyway? Braden must be playing the recording to punish her for getting drunk. Or maybe he’s drunk himself. Either way, she needs to make it stop.
Shivering with the transition from warm bed to the nighttime chill, she pads out of her room and follows the music. The door to the music room is open.
Light from a streetlamp spills in through open blinds, pooling on the floor, illuminating her father and the cello. His eyes are closed. His face looks otherworldly and ethereal in the dim light, his lips parted. His body is fluid, graceful, he and the cello one soul, the music swirling around them, around Allie, real and true and not the product of a fevered imagination.
Time ceases to exist as the music draws her in. She stands there long enough for him to reach the third movement. Long enough for her bare feet to grow icy on the hardwood floor. Long enough for guilt and grief to escape from the spell that holds her entranced. She remembers what she has done and what he has done and why the music has to stop.
“Braden.” She whispers his name first. Then, louder: “Braden!”
His body jerks. His eyes fly open. The bow clatters to the floor.
He stares at her, at the cello, as if he’s never seen either of them before.
The music lingers, just for an instant, and then it slips off into the corners of the room and disappears into the shadows.
The loss of it stuns her. It’s hard to breathe. She’s aware of tears on her face, of the pain building in her chest, powerless to stop any of it.
“What are you doing?” Her rising voice breaks on a sob.
“I was dreaming,” her father says, as if he’s having to invent each word as he says it. “I was dreaming I could play, that my hands were healed, that—”
A choking sound in his throat. A great, shuddering breath, a single sob, torn up from the depths of him. His skin is ashen.
“You were playing like you used to.” Allie’s voice is accusing, sharp. “Flawless. I thought it was the recording.”
He shakes his head. His lips shape the word “no,” but no sound comes out.
“You lied!” All of the years of hurt and rage come tearing out of her at once. “Your hands are fine. You just needed an excuse so you could go be an alcoholic.”
An excuse to leave me, her heart cries.
“No,” he says. “My hands—”
“There’s nothing wrong with your hands.”
“They’re numb. I can’t—”
“Bullshit. Mom told me. It’s all in your head. The doctors said.”
“That’s not true!”
“Play,” she orders harshly. “Play it again.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t.”
“You can. You just did. Do it!” She picks up the bow and shoves it at him.
“Allie. Stop it!”
His hands are shaking. She can see the torment written on his face as clearly as if he stood in a ring of hellfire, but she stares him down, rage filling the emptiness in her belly.
She thrusts the bow at him again. “Play!”
He accepts the bow, draws it across the strings, tentative. Plays the first few notes of the Bach, and they are discordant and wrong.
“Stop it! Play it right!” She hurls the words at him, weapons, but his hands fall to his sides, useless.
“Maybe you could play something, Allie. I saw the music on the stand. I’ve always hoped—”
“No! I learned to play because of you. I wanted to be like you. I thought maybe you’d come home and be proud of me.”
“I am proud of you.”
“Right. You don’t even know me. You didn’t show up to meet me.”
A wracking sob doubles her over, nearly drops her to her knees. Her father doesn’t move. Just sits there, frozen.
When she can catch her breath, get control of her voice, Allie straightens and delivers her condemnation. “I hate the cello, and I hate Bach, and I hate you. I want the cello out of the house. Get rid of it.”
Her father looks like she’s stabbed a knife into his chest and twisted it.
“I can’t. You don’t understand.” His lips are white.
“No, you don’t understand. I need it gone. Craigslist. Goodwill. Whatever. Just get it out of this house.”
There’s an empty, dead look in his eyes, and she has the horrible thought that she’s killed him, too, along with the rest of the family, but still the ugliness pours out of her.
“Mom was right about you all along. You’re a terrible father, a horrible, selfish human being. Are you done? Can we sleep now?”
“Are you sure?” he asks, very quietly. “That you want the cello gone?”
“Oh my God! Yes. I’m sure.”
Allie turns away from the expression on his face, from the reproach of the cello, but music follows her to bed and into restless dreams of destruction. In her dreams, she wears a military uniform and stomps on the cello with her boots, splintering the wood beneath her feet. Strings snap and break. A wailing of agony fills her ears. This is not enough, and she drenches it with gasoline, lights it with a match. And still the perfect tones of the C Minor sarabande drift upward with the smoke of its burning.
Chapter Nineteen
BRADEN
Braden is afraid to sleep.
He craves the oblivion but is too shaken to risk another episode of sleep playing, or whatever the hell just happened. He feels shattered and shell shocked, the walls of the forbidden dark territory in his mind breached, memories scurrying like roaches, in and out of consciousness.
He paces the living room, unable to sit for more than a minute before grief and restlessness drive him back to his feet.
Phee’s words and Allie’s run counterpoint in his head, twining around each other, all wrapped in the song of the cello that will not stop.
You have to play.
There’s nothing wrong with your hands.
Get rid of the cello. I want it out of this house.
You swore an oath.
In the wakeful dark, the oath and the curse take on weight and substance. As dawn breaks, at last, and light seeps into the room, Braden swallows scalding black coffee and anchors himself back into logic.
Allie is right. The cello has to go. He should have sold her years ago. One thing he knows for certain—he can’t handle another midnight concert, and the only hope of repairing his relationship with Allie follows this path.
Allie is everything. All that is left of his life, and the only thing that matters. He wants to soften life for her this morning, but that’s not the answer. If there’s one thing he’s an expert on, it’s drinking, and what he does today in response to her drinking last night will have a lasting impact.
When he looks into her room, she’s lying on her side, still asleep, and he steels himself for what he is about to do.
“Morning, sunshine.”
She moans and pulls the pillow over her head.
He lifts the pillow away from her. Opens the blinds to let light pour in.
“Go away,” Allie croaks, retreating under the covers.
&nbs
p; “It’s time to get up. School today.”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. God, if she hates him already, she’s really going to hate him now.
“Come on, Allie.” He strips the blankets off her and dumps them at the foot of the bed.
“Seriously?” Her eyes open and try to focus. She covers them with her hands. Swallows hard.
“Trash can’s by the bed if you need to puke.”
“Sleep.”
“No, you need to get up and go to school. Sit up.”
She struggles upright, squinting against the light. Her little moan as she puts her head in her hands goes straight to his heart, but he holds the line.
“No school. I’m sick.”
“No, you’re hungover. Which is not an excuse for missing school. Now—do you need the bucket or can you walk to the bathroom?”
“Give me the blankets.” She reaches for them again.
Braden bundles them up and dumps them in the far corner of the room.
“Get up, Allie.”
“I hate you.”
“All the more reason to go to school. It’s a beautiful day.” He opens the window. Fresh air flows in, smelling of rain and wet grass.
Allie shivers, presses her palms over her eyes. “Oh my God! What are you doing?”
But she swings her legs over the side of the bed.
“There’s ibuprofen in the bathroom. Take two and drink some water. Have a shower. If you’re going to drink, you need to face up to the hangover.”
She mutters something he doesn’t understand and runs for the bathroom. He’s won round one, but this fight is far from over. Despite the fan, he can hear her heaving, and his own stomach rolls in sympathy.
Even so, he moves on to round two.
When he hears the shower shut off, he stands outside the door and calls, “Breakfast is ready. Come get it while it’s hot.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Breakfast. Then school.”
He walks back to the kitchen, holding his breath. This is the tricky part. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she retreats to her room and barricades herself behind a locked door. She’s too big for him to drag her anywhere, and he’s not prepared to kick in a door.
But she walks into the kitchen looking pale and fragile. Slumps into a chair. Braden sets a plate in front of her.
“Eat.”
“I hate you.”
“Best thing for a hangover. This is the one thing I’m an expert on. Trust me.”
She picks up a piece of toast and nibbles at the corner. Small victory, but he’ll take it.
He sits down across from her, takes a bite of his own eggs and toast, even though he’s far from hungry.
“Now, do you want to tell me where you’ve been all week?”
“School.”
“No. You haven’t.”
Allie’s eyes meet his, then drop away. She pokes at the eggs with her fork. “I thought we agreed that you weren’t going to do this parental bullshit.”
“Because you were going to be responsible and not need a parent.”
“Fine. I’ll go to school.”
“Breakfast first.”
“Whatever!”
She swallows coffee. Breaks off a piece of bacon. Progresses to eggs. When she’s cleared about half her plate, she pushes it away and looks at him again. Her eyes are clearer, her color better. There’s also more fight in her.
“Can I go now?”
“Sure. Get dressed. Then school.”
Braden cleans up the kitchen while she changes, dreading the next phase of his plan. Maybe he should stop here. Count this as progress and let her off the hook.
But that’s the cowardly thing. When the cry of outrage comes, he’s ready.
Allie stalks into the kitchen, fully dressed, still a little pale and puffy but with makeup on and her hair combed.
“Where are my car keys?”
“Better question. Where is the car?”
He meets her glare with one of his own.
“None of your business where it is. It’s my car!”
“And if the cop last night hadn’t been so sympathetic, you’d be without your license for a year.”
“You can’t—”
“I can. We could get you a bicycle, if that would make you feel better.”
The exaggerated shock and horror that meets this statement would be funny if it wasn’t pounding the nails into the coffin of their relationship.
“Now, since the car isn’t here, if we’re going to make it to school on time, we need to get going.”
“What do you mean, we?”
“I’m walking you to school.”
“How about you walk me to my car—”
“I’ll be walking you to school for a while, I think. Your driving privileges have been revoked.”
“I don’t believe this!”
“Which part?”
“Any of it! I bought the car with my own money! I’ve been driving to school for over a year!”
“Yes? And how much school did you skip? How many parties did you get arrested at?”
“That’s not fair! None of this is fair!”
“Let’s go.” Braden walks into the living room, jingling the keys in his hand. He hears her footsteps behind him, hears her stop short when she sees the cello case waiting by the door.
“Maybe you can drag me to school, but you can’t make me go to orchestra. I’ll—”
“You want me to get rid of it, right? You need to go to school, I need the car. I’ll walk you to school and then go get the car. I will also pick you up after school. You’re officially grounded.”
She stands there, like he’s hit her with some sort of stun gun. All of the breath whooshes out of her in one long sigh.
Her eyes meet his for a heartbreaking moment before she turns away.
“Fine.”
Watching her walk out the door, Braden thinks she looks smaller, defeated, even though she just got what she said she wanted. Doubt hits him. The cello weighs a ton.
Dead weight, he thinks. It’s a long walk to the school, and he’s feeling less than marvelous himself.
“You could text me the address. Of the car,” he says, after he locks the door and takes a few running steps to catch up with his daughter.
“Parked on Ballard, outside Caffe Umbria.”
“Unless it’s been towed,” Braden says. “By the way, any particular reason why you don’t return any of my texts?”
“I lost my phone.”
“I’ll get you a new one.”
“No, thanks.”
“You’re kidding, right? How does a kid navigate without a phone?”
His question is met by silence.
“I would like you to have a phone so we can communicate. I need to know where you are and when you’re going to be late.”
She glances at him out of the corner of her eye. “Are you going to track me, then?”
“I was thinking you could text me.”
“Oh please. Ethan says all cell phones are just tracking devices.”
Braden bites off a retort, shifts the weight of the cello case to his other hand. Choose your battles, Healey. School today. With any luck, Ethan didn’t get bailed out last night. Ordering Allie to stay away from him will push her into mutiny.
“Look. I don’t want to track you. I want you to let me know when you’re going to be home late. I’d like to trust you. I worry.”
“You are so full of shit!”
“Elaborate.”
Allie stops walking and turns to face him. “What’s so different now? I mean, you’re fine going for, what, eleven years at a time without knowing where I am, and now you want to know every single minute?”
“I always wanted to know where you were, Allie. I just—”
She starts walking. “Right. I know. You were drunk. Forget it.”
There’s an opportunity here, of some sort, to teach her about addiction, but he doesn’t
have the heart for it, and they walk in silence until they’re a block from the school. Allie stops walking.
“You can leave me here.”
Braden keeps right on moving. After a minute, she runs to catch up with him, stage-whispering furiously. “You are not walking me in the door like I’m in kindergarten!”
“I am walking you in the door.”
“I said I’d go! You don’t trust me.”
“Should I?”
“All right. You’ve made your point.”
“What’s your first class?” he asks.
“You are fucking kidding me.”
“Not remotely. First class.”
“It’s English. And you are not walking me to my classroom. You’re not even allowed in the school without a pass. I’ll go to English if you just leave me the hell alone. And get rid of the cello.”
Braden can feel the waves of fury wafting off her. God, he’s bad at this. Doing everything wrong.
“I take your word as a contract,” he says. “Have a good day, Allie. I’ll pick you up after school.”
Curious stares and whispers follow them to the front door, and when he opens it for her, Allie stalks away from him without a backward glance.
Braden wants to stand on guard at the door, but he knows he can’t push it that far. Also, there’s no point. There are other doors. Not a thing prevents her from walking through the school and out the back. He has no power, no leverage. He’s barely her father, certainly not her jailer, and the time for enforcing parental control is long past.
The cello by now weighs a ton, and the music in Braden’s head has switched from Bach to dirges. By the time he makes his way to Ballard Avenue, his arms are aching and the blister that started on his heel yesterday has worked its way into a full-on throbbing pain. He deserves it, of course, every bit as much as he deserves his headache and the way the light spikes into his skull.
When he sees Allie’s car, still parked in front of the coffee shop, relief and resolve join forces. He loads the cello into the hatch, wishing it was an honest-to-God old-fashioned trunk he could lock her into, like a mobster hiding a body. What he’s about to do is going to be hard enough without listening to her pleading.