Everything You Are(61)

“I was dreaming,” he protests. “I can’t explain what happened. My fingers are numb, I can’t feel the strings, the pressure on the bow, any of it.”

“Mom said it was all in your head. She said a doctor even told you that.”

“Doctors said all kinds of things. They aren’t the ones who are living with this!”

“I have to tell you something,” Phee says. “Something I should have told you before.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“I do,” Allie says.

“Does the name Alfred Garner mean anything to you?” Phee asks.

Braden’s body jerks with the shock of the name, his eyes widen.

“You knew him,” Phee says. “You would have played with him. You saw what happened.”

“I . . . played with him. But what happened to him was an accident.” There is horror written plain as print on his face, though, and he adds as an afterthought, “Surely.”

“What are you talking about?” Allie looks from Phee to her father and back again.

“Nothing!” Braden actually shouts it this time. “Our charming and oh-so-helpful friend Phee is a lunatic. She believes that your mother’s car crashed because I stopped playing the cello—eleven fucking years ago, Phee! And if I read it right, she believes further disaster will strike if I don’t start playing again. And if I sell or give the cello away, then God will strike us down dead where we stand. Is that about right?”

“Not God, exactly,” Phee murmurs.

Allie’s face has gone so white that Phee takes a small step forward, tensed to catch her in case she falls. But the girl seems to be operating on a formidable reserve of willpower and defiance. “You can both go to the loony bin for all I care,” she hurls at them. “Take the cello with you.”

She stalks out of the room, head high. Celestine whines, then follows her. A few seconds later, there is a small thunder of feet on the stairs, dog and human.

Phee sucks in a breath and fortifies her own resolve. She needs every bit of it.

“A week before Alfred was horribly burned—except for his hands and arms, so miraculously spared—he sold his violin to a very sweet old man. You know what Alfred said? He said he was tired of the violin, he was bored and wanted variety. He’d bought some new thing with an electric pickup. Sold her for less than she was worth.”

“It’s not like he traded in his wife and children.”

“That’s what I said. I was nineteen and stupid and felt trapped by an oath I swore to my grandfather—oh yes, Braden, I’m every bit as bound as you are! I’d been doing a half-assed job of monitoring the MacPhee instruments. I only heard about the transaction from a friend of a friend. And I did nothing! I didn’t go talk to Alfred. Never tried to warn him. Never tracked down the old man and told him what he’d gotten caught up in. His name was Evan George. He had five grandchildren and three shelter dogs. He helped out at soup kitchens three days a week.” She feels the familiar thickness in her throat, grief and guilt and responsibility, waits for it to settle before she goes on speaking.

“Oh dear God.” Braden’s voice is softer now, a conflicted sympathy on his face. “You can’t think what happened to Alfred was your fault! The gas exploded on his stove. He was drunk.”

“And somehow, miraculously, his hands are fine.”

“He was wearing oven mitts. For the love of God, Phee. This can’t be because of a curse! We are not living in the Middle Ages. Curses don’t exist, not real curses.”

“I said that, too,” Phee goes on. “Recited it to myself like a mantra all day long. Denial is an interesting thing.”

“It’s not denial!” Braden interjects. “It’s logic. Reality.”

“The day after Alfred’s injury, that sweet old Evan George dropped dead from a heart attack. They found him with the violin still in his hands.”

“Coincidence.” But Braden’s voice sounds increasingly desperate. “You said he was old. He could have had a heart attack at any time.”

“Could have,” Phee agrees. “But that’s a lot of coincidence, don’t you think? He was healthy. Active. His death made Alfred a believer. I took the violin to him as soon as he was able to have visitors. He didn’t argue. He’s still playing it.”

“But that’s horrible,” Braden says. “Coercion. He’s not allowed to play anything else? Like, ever?”

“Of course he can. He can play whatever he wants, as long as he plays the violin occasionally . . . Oh hell,” she says. “I agree. It is horrible. Do you think I like this, walking into your house like some cursed old witch? I have to, don’t you see? Because what if it is all true? I can’t take that chance. You have to play her, Braden. And for the love of all things holy, please promise me you won’t try to give her away to some innocent bystander again.”

Braden sinks down onto the sofa and buries his head in his hands. A harsh laugh emerges from between his fingers. “And yet, I can’t play. What do you want me to do?”

Phee kneels in front of him, draws his hands away from his face and holds them in hers. His head comes up and he looks into her eyes, so close she can see the mosaic of green and brown in his irises.