Everything You Are(56)

Her mother slams on the brakes hard enough to jolt Allie into her seat belt.

She doesn’t recognize this place where they’ve stopped, on a quiet, tree-lined street.

“What are we doing?” Trey demands. “Why are we stopping here? I’m hungry.”

“Allie is going to have a music lesson.” Mom’s voice is cold and sharp. It cuts.

“I’m what?”

“Don’t be difficult, Allie,” her mother says, as if she’s thrown a tantrum instead of asking a reasonable question. “Your father wants you to have cello lessons; therefore, you are going to have cello lessons.”

Tears fill Allie’s eyes, spill down over her cheeks. She can’t suppress a little sob. She doesn’t know why she’s crying, only that she can’t seem to stop.

Her mother sits stiff and unbending, staring straight ahead. “Take the cello. Go into the house. Your teacher is a Mr. Blair, and he is waiting for you. You’ll be coming here once a week for lessons.”

Trey swivels to look at Allie, his eyes big.

She shrugs her shoulders at him, wipes her nose on her sleeve, and wrestles the cello case out of the car. It’s as big as she is, and it’s hard work lugging it up the sidewalk. Mr. Blair meets her at the door with a smile.

He doesn’t look like a musician, is her first thought. All musicians in her mind look like her father, tall and thin and dark. Mr. Blair is old and tiny, and flits about with quick, unexpected movements that make her jumpy.

He insists on taking the cello out of the case and setting it up for her, muttering all the while.

“Stradivarius, my foot,” he says, peering through the sound hole at the label. “Fakes everywhere these days. Ah well, what does it matter for a girl so young? Good enough, good enough.”

When the bow is rosined to his satisfaction, he gestures her into a chair. “Let me introduce you,” he begins, and Allie can’t help laughing.

Her father made the only introduction that matters years ago. The cello is already an old friend.

Was. Was an old friend. Because she won’t be playing anymore, and if her father keeps his promise, the cello will be gone when she gets home.





Chapter Twenty-One

PHEE

Phee visits her grandfather’s grave every year on his death day to bring him a progress report and a shot of whiskey. Once, back in her drinking days, she brought herself a bottle and a violin and sat here playing jigs with some idea that he needed cheering up. A family of mourners had threatened to call the cops, and that was the end of dance tunes in the cemetery.

Today, as she settles cross-legged beside the green mound that marks his spot, the only music she’s brought with her is the phantom cello that plays in her head these days, waking or sleeping.

“We have a problem,” she says. “In case you didn’t notice.”

He doesn’t answer, not that she expects him to. All he ever does is hang out in her head telling her what to do. He never tells her how she’s supposed to do it, and Phee is out of ideas.

She unzips the gym bag she’s carrying with her and draws out a paper grocery sack, shoving away Celestine’s nose as she does so.

“Sit. This is not for you.”

The dog whines and drops onto his haunches, his nostrils twitching. Phee unwraps the bone she’s brought for him and tosses it a few feet away, and Celestine pursues it with glee. With the dog occupied, her next order of business is the customary libation.

Quickly, before she can be tempted to drink it herself, she opens a pint-size mason jar and pours whiskey into the grass. The smell of it makes her mouth water, and she inhales with as much enthusiasm as the dog did over his bone. Temptation out of the way, she screws the lid back on and tucks the jar back into the bag. Celestine’s big head comes up as Phee pulls out the ham-and-cheese sandwich.

“You’ve got yours,” she admonishes.

Celestine whines, but only half-heartedly, and goes back to his bone.

Phee sets half the sandwich on the headstone, in lieu of flowers, then takes a big bite of the other half.

The food she brings always disappears, and she knows the birds will get it, most likely the raven that is already observing her from a nearby tree, but it seems rude not to bring Granddad something. She also feels the need to appease him. Not that she’s ever seen his ghost. Not that he’s spoken to her outright, or slammed doors in the apartment or set anything on fire. And when she thinks she hears him talking in her head, it’s just her own thoughts.

Probably.

But maybe she’ll hear him more clearly from here, and God knows she needs all of the clarity she can garner.

“About the cello,” she says, tossing a piece of crust in the raven’s direction. “Braden really can’t play. So the whole thing is remarkably unfair. Isn’t there a release clause, somewhere? Because there ought to be, for special circumstances.”

The raven tilts his head and makes a noise halfway between croak and knock, but he stays where he is.

“I’m not talking to you,” Phee admonishes him. “Unless you’re a message bearer. Let me rephrase, Granddad. I’m not just venting. I’m asking.” She sets down the remains of her sandwich, clasps her hands, and intones, formally, “Please release Braden Healey from his contract with the cello due to extraordinary circumstances.”