Everything You Are(64)
Familiar words. Allie can’t really hold them against her father, because they were already waiting in her own heart, unspoken.
The truth is, she’s exactly like him.
When the man brought the cello back, she’d wanted to hug him. Had very nearly dropped to her knees and rocked it like a baby, crooning, seeking forgiveness. All she wants to do right now, this very minute, is to lose herself in the music. But she can’t, she won’t. Not now and not ever.
The fumbling, broken notes of a scale drift up to her. Her father had played like that after the accident, before he went away. She’d been too little to understand, but now the knowing comes with a fresh burst of heartbreak.
He’d lost his music. That’s what made him drink, what drove him away. It occurs to her, for the very first time, that the two of them have suffered the same losses. That they might take comfort in shared grieving. Maybe she’ll go down to him. Maybe she’ll forgive him.
But then she hears the front door slam and knows he’s gone out. Hypocrite, she thinks, he’s off to get drunk again. Torn between relief and disappointment, love and anger, she wanders around her room, picking up things and putting them down, then sifts carelessly through the stack of mail her father has left on her desk.
None of it has been opened. Today’s offerings are the usual: postcards from universities inviting her to apply, a clothing catalogue, a music catalogue. And one official-looking white envelope from the University of Washington.
She sits in her chair with the envelope in her hands. She should throw it away unopened. She’s got no business yearning for what she is never going to have, but she’s weak and spineless.
Tearing the envelope open, she unfolds the letter, the holy grail she’d worked toward since her freshman year.
Dear Ms. Healey,
Thank you for your audition on February 12.
We were surprised by your decision to perform Variations on a Lullaby in place of your original proposal, the Bach Suite No. 5 in C Minor for Unaccompanied Cello. Perhaps you were not aware that we do require a performance of a piece from the traditional repertoire for cello?
However, we were sufficiently impressed by your obvious talent and skill to invite you to submit a video audition. May we recommend something less demanding than the C Minor? Perhaps Elgar or a Bach prelude.
Please submit prior to March 30 to be considered for fall semester of 2018.
Damaged pride claws at her insides. They don’t think she’s capable of the C Minor, that she changed her mind at the last minute out of nerves. Oh, she could show them. She knows the C Minor inside and out, has listened to her father’s recording of the suites every night since he left. Since her very first cello lesson, she has been working on them, one bar at a time. It would be so easy to record the demo and send it in.
Maybe just to get the acceptance letter, to prove to the world what she can do. Or, maybe she could pull this last semester of high school out of the toilet if she works her ass off and asks her teachers for extra credit. The life she always wanted is still within her reach.
She shreds both letter and envelope into pieces and throws them in the trash. Exhausted, restless, wanting nothing more than sleep, but afraid of that place between dreaming and waking where the real realities lurk, she opens her laptop.
Almost immediately, Ethan sends her a message, then opens a video chat.
He smiles as if she is the single most important being in the universe, his voice tuned perfectly to her ears, and her heart turns over in her chest.
“I was waiting for you.” Ethan’s voice is a caress.
“When did you get out?”
“This afternoon. Had to go to court. My bitch of a mother couldn’t be bothered to bail me out.”
“I was so worried. Are you okay? Was it horrible?”
“Could have been worse.”
“I’m so sorry, Ethan. The party was all my idea.”
“When can I see you? I missed you.”
Ethan wants her, wants to be with her. To him, she’s important, even now, as she is.
“Tomorrow?” she asks. “Might as well keep my no-school streak going.”
He laughs. “Impressive! How’s your old man handling that?”
“He doesn’t matter,” Allie says, trying to mean it. “Hey, how about tonight? He’s not even here right now.”
She loves the way Ethan’s expression shifts to eagerness and maybe even admiration. “You sure? We could meet at the motel. Spend the night together.”
“Problem. He’s got my car keys.”
“And I no longer have a license.”
“Well, there goes that, then,” Allie says. She feels both deflated and relieved, a nagging rational part of herself pointing out how much she hated that motel, that the experience was less than amazing.
“Are you kidding? I need to see you. I’ll pick you up. In an hour?”
“In an hour.”
It gives her time to put on makeup. She’s forgotten to do laundry, and most of her favorite clothes are dirty, but she finds a pair of jeans that are clean enough and a dressy shirt to go with them. Tired of being cold, she grabs her warmest jacket, sexy or not.
She stands at the top of the stairs, listening, making sure the house is still empty. The downstairs and stairwell are dark and quiet. She hears cello music, even though she knows damn well nobody is home and nobody is playing, and she shivers a little, remembering Phee.