Every Note Played(57)

He’s lost in the feeble yet steady rhythm of his inhales and has no sense of how much time has passed when he hears Grace’s footsteps.

“Oh my God!”

He opens his eyes, and Grace appears over him like an angel.

“What happened?”

He doesn’t expend his limited energy to state the obvious.

“Okay, I’m calling 911.”

“No,” he whispers. “Please-don.”

“Why? I’ll call Bill or someone at Caring Health.”

She looks over at the refrigerator, at the phone numbers on the door.

“No. Is-late.”

“What if you broke something?”

“I-din.”

“Your face is all bloody. I think you broke your nose.”

“There-goes-my mo-de-ling ca-reer.”

“I have to roll you over then.”

His head is turned to the left. She places a hand on his left shoulder and hip and pulls on him carefully but with great effort. He assists as much as he can with his left foot, and she finally manages to turn him onto his back. She grabs a dish towel from the counter, runs it under the tap, crouches over him, and wipes his mouth, cheek, and neck. As she scrubs the cloth too roughly against his skin, working to loosen the blood that has dried and crusted on his face, cold water drips down his neck, soaking his back. She’s gentler around his nose.

She stands up and studies him now. He studies her, too, and can’t tell if she’s worried, disgusted, or scared. Probably all of the above.

“I’m not strong enough to get you into bed.”

“Thas o-kay. I-ca slee-here.”

She folds her arms over her chest.

“I’ll be right back.”

He sees the light flick on in the den, and a few moments later, he hears the wheels of the BiPAP cart rolling toward him. She wiggles three pillows under his head, adjusts his arms to match their position on either side of his body, and drapes his bed comforter over him. She leaves again. This time, he hears her footsteps running up the stairs. She returns with her pillow, a blanket, and her blue-and-white gingham comforter.

“I’ll sleep next to you. In case something happens.”

She plugs in the humidifier and the BiPAP, turns them on, and checks the settings. He doesn’t bother to mention that she’s forgotten to feed him. He’s not hungry. She holds the mask in her hand, and he’s afraid of how much it’s going to hurt when pressed against the bridge of his nose.

“I’m sorry I didn’t hear you right away.”

“Don-be-sor-ry. I’m-the-one who-sor-ry.”

“For what?”

He’s sorry he didn’t give enough of his time to her. He’s sorry he’s running out of it. He’s afraid he doesn’t have much left. He’s sorry he wasn’t a better father to her. He’s sorry she didn’t feel loved by him.

It’s now or never.

“Ev-er-y thin. I-love-you-Grace. I’m-so sor-ry.”

She closes her eyes, and a gentle close-lipped smile settles on her mouth. She opens her eyes, and tears stream down her beautiful face. She doesn’t wipe them.

“I love you, too, Dad.”

She fits the BiPAP mask over his face, and he endures the screaming pain between his eyes as air flows in and out of his lungs. For the first time in as long as he can remember, he feels peace when he breathes.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


Karina, Elise, and her students are early, sitting at a cluster of four round tables, three chairs at each huddled in a half-moon facing the stage. They’re at Snug Harbor Jazz Bistro on Frenchmen Street, just outside the French Quarter, tucked away in a windowless, candlelit, cozy room behind the dive bar out front, waiting for the show to start. Tonight features up-and-coming jazz pianist Alexander Lynch, accompanied by drums and a bass, a simple trio. With a background in classical piano and then Broadway, Alexander is new to the jazz scene. Elise saw him in New York at Blue Note in October and can’t stop raving about him, says he reminds her of Oscar Peterson.

The room hasn’t filled in yet. Karina counts fifteen tables plus a balcony above them. Their seats are right up front, inches from the stage, which feels intimidating, threatening even, as if she were sitting too close to an open flame, as if being here could be dangerous.

She pulls at her lavender silk scarf, spreading it across her front like a bib, covering her cleavage as much as possible. After much angst, she decided to wear her best black dress, spaghetti strapped and tight around the bust, flaring and flowy from the waist to the knees, probably too short and too revealing for her age. She bought it over a decade ago. It fit her better then. She fears she looks like ten pounds of potatoes in a five-pound bag. Elise is in jeans and black suede ankle boots, a black velvet blazer over a graphic T-shirt, laughing and chatting with her students, totally at ease, as if she were a regular, as if this were her seat and the club was expecting her. She fits into everything.

The students are also in black and jeans, edgy and casual and cool. They belong here, too. They’re all in their early twenties, about where Karina left off before giving up, still believing it’s all possible.

Karina slides the bottom olive off the plastic skewer in her martini and chews on it while Elise leans over to the table to their right. As Elise’s back is now to her, Karina can’t hear the conversation and feels excluded, out of place, conspicuous. She doesn’t deserve to be on this field trip. She’s not a teacher at Berklee. She’s not a student. She’s not even a real musician.