Tone Deaf(48)

I raise an eyebrow in surprise, but don’t say anything. I don’t want to interrupt her.

She takes a shaky breath and says, “When I was about four, my mom enrolled me in lessons. We were totally broke, but I loved playing, and she didn’t want to keep me from my passion. She was the best mom ever. I mean, she gave up so much for me, and . . .”

She clears her throat and shakes her head, like she’s trying to shoo away the past. She sits a little taller and continues. “My instructor called me a prodigy the moment he saw me first play. He had me get an IQ test, and I scored within the ninety-ninth percentile. I was admitted into Mensa, and from there, things just took off.

“I started with little performances, but I quickly started getting into larger venues. People were interested in seeing someone as young as me perform. Within a few years, I managed to get invited to play at Carnegie with a group of other students who were considered prodigies. After that, I could pretty much get into any venue I wanted.”

She’s breathing fast now, like the memories are starting to overwhelm her. Without thinking, I slip my hand into hers. Ali jumps, startled by the contact, but she doesn’t pull away. I’ve never noticed it before, but she has the hands of a musician—wide palms and long, delicate fingers.

“I loved it. And my mom was awesome about the whole thing,” Ali murmurs as she runs her thumb over the back of my hand. “I mean, she could have exploited me to make money. But she only let me perform when I wanted to, and she made sure I also focused on things like school and Girl Scouts. You know, normal stuff for kids. She didn’t want me getting a big head.”

A long moment passes, and she doesn’t say anything else.

“What happened?” I ask again.

“Right about the time I turned ten, I started getting really bad headaches,” Ali murmurs. “My doctors figured out I had a brain tumor. It was benign and not all that dangerous, but it was right against my temporal lobe—the part of the brain that lets people hear.

“If it got any bigger, it would have destroyed my hearing, and my mom didn’t want that to happen. We didn’t have insurance, but she still decided to pay for an operation to have it removed right away.”

I hold her hand tighter, silently encouraging her to finish the story.

Ali takes another deep breath and then says, “When I woke up from the surgery, I couldn’t hear a thing. Ends up, the tumor was worse than they’d thought. They had to cut away part of my brain to get it all out. Chances are, the tumor will never come back, but the surgery left me permanently deaf.”

A tear slips down her cheek, and she quickly brushes it away. “A nurse wrote all this down for me to explain what had happened. All I remember is sobbing, and thinking how creepy it was that I couldn’t hear my own crying. I just kept asking for my mom, but she wasn’t there.”

“She left you?” I say, trying not to show my surprise.

“No,” Ali says, shaking her head fiercely. “It wasn’t her fault. She was so stressed about my surgery, and she’d barely gotten any sleep, and . . .” Another tear escapes, and this time Ali’s hand trembles as she scrubs it away. “There was a café right down the street from the hospital, and my mom walked there to get some coffee. A drunk driver hit her. It was a freak accident, but by the time my surgery was over, she was in critical condition.

“My mom was in a coma for a couple of weeks after that, and then she died, and . . . well, you know the rest. I was sent to live with my dad. And here I am now.”

I shake my head, having no idea what to say. How the hell am I supposed to reply to that kind of story? Saying sorry doesn’t cut it.

Ali shakes her head just the tiniest bit. “Sometimes, I still want to blame myself for it. If I hadn’t needed that surgery, my mom never would have been on that street, and she never would have gotten hit.”

“You can’t believe that,” I quickly sign. “Fate’s a bitch, but that’s not your fault. And I think that if your mom had to die, that’s probably exactly how she would have wanted to go. Taking care of you. Loving you.”

A fresh flood of tears trickles down her cheeks, but she doesn’t break eye contact with me as she signs, “You know, you’re the first person to ever tell me that.”

I clear my throat uncertainly.

“So,” she says slowly, “did I answer your question?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you regretting asking?”

“I don’t know.” I leave it at that, unsure how to say the rest of what’s going through my mind: that it’s thrilling to finally understand her better. But, at the same time, I’m hurting from the pain I imagine she feels every day.

Ali lets her gaze wander to the notebook I dropped next to her. She stares at it for a long moment, and her smile takes on a slightly impish look. “So did you like my adjustments?”

I cup her face in both my hands, stroking my thumb over her cheek. For once, she doesn’t pull away, and I swear the pain fades from her eyes. Now there’s a gentleness in her expression, timid and hesitant, but trusting. She’s let her guard down because of me. Maybe even for me.

I lean forward, until the gap between us is closed, and press my lips against hers.

At first she freezes, unsure how to react to my kiss. But then she kisses me back. Her lips are soft and delicate, but there’s a strength to her kiss that surprises me and makes me want more. More of the kiss, more of her lips, more of Ali.