Whisper to Me(97)

And here’s the thing: you were amazing. Technically, of course. But also, the instrument, it was like it breathed with you. Like you made it live, made it want to pour out its own song. You were impressive at the pier, when you were playing what people called out, on the electric organ, but when you played that ukulele … it was like I was hearing your soul.

Okay, now I’m the one being poetic and sickly.

Anyway.

As you hummed, I don’t know, I guess it was that faulty inhibition thing again, but I began to sing. I knew all the words. I sang the first verse, and then the chorus. You looked up at me, and I stopped, embarrassed.

You put aside the ukulele. “Hey,” you said. “Don’t go all shy on me. Keep singing. I like hearing your voice.”

I don’t like hearing my voice, I thought. I shut up.

“Oh, come on,” you said. “You have a beautiful voice.”

“No, I don’t. I’m barely in tune.”

A pause. “Yeah, okay, you don’t. But I still like to hear you sing.”

I made my eyes mock-wide. “Asshole! You don’t think I have a beautiful voice?”

“I—I just wanted to be honest with you; I didn’t want to give you some romantic bull**** and … ugh, I don’t think before I speak sometimes. Sorry.”

“It’s fine. I was messing with you,” I said, elbowing you.

You smiled, relieved.

“Anyway,” I said, “you’re incredible. You really should be in a band. Or, I don’t know, uploading videos on YouTube.” You were looking at me skeptically. “I’m serious! You have talent.”

You shook your head. “Can’t.”

“Oh please. I saw the look on your face when you were playing. You love it.”

“I do.”

“So do it. Go to college or whatever, but do the music thing as well.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then tell me.”

You took a long breath. “My mom played. She was actually kind of a star in the seventies. I mean, not a big star. But she supported Simon & Garfunkel. Kind of a guitar, singing, folk kind of thing. She gave it up, the performing, when she met my dad. He was a mechanic in a small New Jersey town. It was like the most unlikely romance, you know? Anyway. She got me into it. When she died … I stopped playing. At home anyway.” Your hand went to your chest as you said all this, and I realized something, something about the necklace I had seen around your neck.

“That’s her necklace, right?”

You looked at me, surprised. “Right.”

You took your hand away, very self-consciously. Laid it on the white tiles by the pool.

“So, you stopped playing music at home because it was too painful?”

“No.”

I thought for a moment. “Oh. Your dad doesn’t like it? It reminds him of her, that kind of thing?”

“Uh-huh. He cleared out all the instruments. Gave them to Goodwill.”

“So you swim instead?”

“Yeah.”

“But you don’t love swimming. You don’t even like it that much.”

You sighed. “No, not really.”

“Come on,” I said. “You can’t let your dad take away something you love. And when he’s not there … I mean, you could still—”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is. Tell him how you feel. Tell him you—”

You raised a hand—like, This conversation is over. Then you forced a smile. “But me and you, we can come here again, if you like? I’ll play, you sing. Deal?”

“Deal,” I said.

Then your radio crackled. “714, come in.”

“Time’s up,” you said. “I’ll close my eyes while you get out.”





I’m telling you all this, even though you were there, for two reasons.

1. The whole thing with you and swimming and music? That’s going to come up again. When I see your dad, later in the story. I want you to understand it all from my point of view. I want you to see why I did the things I did. I told you: I want you to forgive me.

2. I didn’t say it then; I mean I would have been too embarrassed, but that day on the roof of the Flamingo Motel … that was the best day of my life, since my parents took me to Disney World for my eighth birthday. I think it was the day I fell for you, properly. It was like a game of tag. You tagged me—and after that I had no choice but to follow you. Anyway. I thought I would write about it. Because it’s all pretty dark from here on in.

Hey!

I said two reasons and I actually gave two reasons!





Dr. Lewis had been crying.

I was less surprised than I was by Dr. Rezwari, but still, it was pretty remarkable. I mean, he wasn’t her family, he wasn’t a friend—he was a psychologist. But four days after Paris had disappeared he was still crying.

We didn’t really talk about me, we just talked about Paris, tried to convince each other she was still alive. I didn’t tell him about what you and I were doing, about our private investigation. I thought he would probably tell me not to do it. Which would have been good advice.

DR. LEWIS: And how are you? Generally?