Everything You Are(79)

The awesome audacity of her rocks him, shifts his internal architecture in a way he feels but could never find words for.

“I wish I’d been there” is all he can say. “Maybe you could still play it for me. When you’re out of here. After we get home.”

“It got them killed.” Allie’s voice, quiet before, is now barely more than a whisper. “Mom had to take Trey to an appointment because I snuck off to my audition instead.”

Her words knock the breath out of him.

“Oh my God, Allie. You can’t be thinking this is your fault! It was an accident. Accidents happen.”

“There’s no other way to think about it. If I hadn’t gone, if I’d done what Mom asked, they’d both be alive. But I was playing the cello instead.”

“What happened to your mom, to Trey, was a horrible, terrible, tragic thing, but it’s not your fault! Do you have any idea how many other kids were playing hooky in Seattle that day? And none of them had their families wiped out like that.”

“Maybe it’s the curse, the one Phee was talking about. Because I was playing the cello. Mom always said music was a curse and—”

“No!” She startles at the vehemence in his voice, and he softens it. “If there were a curse, which there’s not, it’s from not playing. You did exactly right, Allie. It happened because your mother didn’t see all that you are, and tried to make you somebody else.”

Braden holds his breath. Allie might be listening. There’s a quality to the silence that feels different. A slight easing of the tension in her jaw.

“Your mother wouldn’t want you to ruin your life out of guilt.”

“No. She’d expect me to make her sacrifice worthwhile. Go to medical school. Be a doctor.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Does it matter what I want?”

“Of course it matters. It’s your life. You get to live it however you want. But if you’re a musician, Allie, then you have to play music. It’s part of who you are.”

“What about you? You’re not playing.”

“Don’t model your life on mine, for the love of God,” he says. “And I really can’t use my hands. I’m not faking.”

Before she can answer, the door opens and a man comes in. He has a nice face, a pleasant, open smile, but the name tag clipped to his shirt labels him a professional. “Mind if I come in?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for permission before drawing up a chair on the other side of Allie’s bed.

“How are you doing?” he asks.

She eyes him with mistrust and says nothing, using the remote on the bed to adjust herself to a sitting position while simultaneously drawing the blanket protectively up around her chin.

“Allie Healey, yes?” the man asks. “And are you her father?”

Allie nods. Braden reads the name tag. Tom Michaels, Crisis and Commitment Services. “You’re the mental-health guy.”

Tom hands Braden a business card, smiling and nodding as if he’s admitting to being the tooth fairy, rather than the man who could lock Allie in a psych ward.

“Is this really necessary?” Braden asks, recoiling from the word “commitment” on the card. “I’ll hook her up with a counselor. Keep a close eye on her.”

“This is necessary,” Tom replies, serious now. “You don’t have to talk to me, but it’s in your best interest. Allie, it’s my job to decide whether it will be safe to let you go home, or whether we need to hold you somewhere safer as soon as you’re medically clear.”

Allie stares at him in shock. “What do you mean, safer?”

“There’s a mental-health unit especially for juveniles—”

“A psych unit, you mean? Like, the loony bin? No. You can’t send me there.” She turns to Braden, her eyes wide with shock. “Dad. You’re not going to let him do this!”

“I’m not going anywhere” is all Braden can think to say.

Tom hands over papers that explain the laws under which he operates. Anything Braden or Allie say can be used in the decision to hold her against her will for seventy-two hours.

“After the seventy-two hours, there would be a court hearing to decide whether to release you or keep you longer,” he explains.

“Well, then, I’m not talking to you,” Allie says, pale but defiant.

Tom smiles gently. “You can do that, of course. But the fact is that you tried to kill yourself. So, if you don’t want to go to the psych unit, you’ll need to convince me why it’s safe to let you go home.”

“This is bullshit!” she says. “Dad, tell him!”

There is nothing that Braden can say. He looks again at the very official paperwork in his hands and then at the man sitting beside Allie’s bed. He thinks about how close she came to death and wonders if maybe Tom is right.

“I’d rather be safe than sorry,” Tom says. “A life is a beautiful thing to waste.”

“I’d watch her, of course,” Braden says. “Around the clock.”

“I’m sorry to say this,” Tom says apologetically, “but my understanding is that you didn’t know where she’d gone last night. So I’m not sure about your ability to keep her under observation.”