Everything After(24)

* * *



—

The night of the show, I dressed in what had become my usual performance attire—black pleather pants, a tight black tank top, and heels. Your dad gave me a good-luck necklace to wear, with a four-leaf clover charm on it that fell right between my breasts. I braided my hair into its half crown, the rest of it long and wavy.

“You ready?” he said.

“So ready,” I told him. I flexed my fingers. They ached. But it would be okay. I kept telling myself that it would be okay. I popped two extra-strength Tylenol before I left the room.



* * *



—

The guys and I all downed a good-luck shot before the show, and then we started playing. For the first forty-five minutes, everything was great. Then my hand started to throb. By an hour and ten minutes in, I couldn’t stand the pain anymore and started playing one-handed. Your dad noticed the difference in the music and looked over at me, raising an eyebrow as he kept singing. I lifted my hand and shook my head. Sympathy radiated from him to me, but we both knew we had to keep going. The set went on for another twenty minutes, and we’d make it to the end.

When that song finished, your dad looked at all of us and nodded twice. That meant he was adding something to the set list.

“I’ve got a new song I want to try out for you all tonight,” he said into the mic. “My band doesn’t even know it yet, so I’ll give them a short break.”

He looked at me and winked.

I love you, I mouthed back.

Your dad was always working on something new, and this song was fun, with a great upbeat rhythm and an earworm-y melody. The lyrics needed some work, but he had the audience dancing and clapping along by the second verse.

I wanted so badly to ice my hand—the only thing that seemed to provide any relief once the pain started—but didn’t think that would look too great. Nor would walking off the stage while he was performing. So I stayed and listened and danced and felt my hand throb.

The one song break wasn’t enough, but I knew it was all he would be able to give me. I played through the pain for the next two songs, and then it was time for our duet to close the show.



* * *



—

“Only love can break your heart,” your dad said, walking toward me. “But you know I love you.” And then he bent and kissed me—way before it was choreographed. “I’ll have to say I love you in a song.”

I turned away from him, the way I was supposed to. “Come on, Rob, not this again.”

The audience cheered. We had real fans now, and they loved this part.

“Go, Queenie!” someone yelled from the crowd. “Glad you’re back on keys!”

“Love me do,” your dad sang.

We got through the medley. We got to the final kiss. Everyone clapped and hollered and whistled, and then we left the stage and, out of sight of the audience, I collapsed into a mess of tears.

“It hurts so much,” was all I could say from my spot on the floor. “It hurts so much.”

Your dad got a bowl of ice for my hand, and two shots of vodka for me.

“Here,” he said, crouching down next to me and handing me one. “Medicine. I promise it’ll make you feel better.”

I did the second shot he brought over. And then a third that Tony was carrying. Between that and the ice, the pain dulled.

“Maybe some weed, too?” your dad suggested.

“I just want to go home,” I told him.

I could tell he wanted to stay, to celebrate our gigs the way we usually did, but he came home with me. We were silent as we rode the subway with our instruments. My hand still ached—just an echo of the pain that had been there, but enough to make me remember. I couldn’t do that again.

“I think I need a break from the band,” I told your dad.

“You can just sing more, play less. Give your hand a few more weeks. We can get the douchebag keyboardist back.”

I laughed.

“I’m serious,” your dad said. “We need you.” Then he looked me straight in the eyes. “I need you. I hate being up there without you. You make it all magic.”

I laid my head on his shoulder. “We’ll see,” I told him.

I didn’t feel like I made anything magic. I felt like our world was unraveling and it was all my fault.





22



Emily was curling her hair, the music switched to jazz, when Ezra got home. The front door slammed and it made her jump.

“Ezra?” she called out. He didn’t usually enter the apartment that way. She wondered if it was the miscarriage that was upsetting him—or something else. Living with him often meant picking up on the tiny cues.

“Hey, Em,” he called. “Want a glass of wine?”

Reflexively she was about to say no, but then answered, “Sure. But aren’t we about to go to a fund-raiser with lots of drinks?”

Ezra came to the bathroom with a glass of cold white wine in each hand. “You look great,” he said, handing her one.

She looked at his face. It looked tired. His eyes were puffy. Was he that much more upset about the miscarriage than he let on at home? Was he crying at work, where she couldn’t see him?

“How are you feeling?” she asked.