Every Note Played(71)

“We did the best we could, right?”

She waits, listening to him breathe. She returns her hand to his and scans his face for any sign of responsiveness. She can’t know if he’s asleep or knocked unconscious on high doses of Ativan or in a coma. He doesn’t open his eyes. She searches for even an incidental, involuntary twitch in a facial muscle that she can interpret. He’s still. He can’t squeeze her hand. She can’t know if he heard her.

“I wish I’d done better.”

“Everything okay?” asks Grace.

Karina turns around. Grace is standing at the bottom of the stairs in a maroon University of Chicago sweatshirt, black leggings, and slippers, wet hair pulled up in a ponytail. Karina can’t tell by her posture or expression if Grace heard any of Karina’s confessions or crying.

“Everything’s the same. You hungry?”

“No.”

As if in solidarity with her father, Grace hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday. Grace settles herself back on the couch. The day is fast turning to night, and darkness invades the living room. Grace’s face is illuminated by her laptop screen like a flashlight. Karina stands, intending to turn on a lamp, but, once up, walks over to the piano instead.

She sits down and places her fingers on the keys. Without thinking, she begins playing Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat Major, op. 9, no. 2. The melody is gentle, relatively easy, and delicious to play, like comfort food. She loves the freedom the piece gives her with the tempo, the glassy trills, the decorative tones. The melody evokes sense memories of her mother’s pierogi, a gentle rain outside her dorm window at Curtis, dancing a waltz with Richard in New York. The piece builds, its crescendo a passionate embrace, then tumbles into trickling water, thrown confetti, a return home, safe, held.

She plays the final tender note, and the sound floats throughout the room before disappearing, a sweet memory. She turns around and is surprised to see Grace up from the couch, sitting in the wing chair. Her eyes are glossy, wet with tears. At first, Karina assumes Grace was moved by Chopin’s nocturne. But then Karina listens.

She keeps listening. She waits and holds her breath, straining to hear an inhale. The room remains quiet. She waits past the point of knowing, to be sure.

He’s gone.





EPILOGUE


Karina’s standing in the den, an empty cardboard box in her hands. It’s been eight days since Richard died. She’s been avoiding this room.

Bill brought boxes for Richard’s clothes. She’s donating them to Goodwill. She stands without moving, observing all the equipment that was part of her every day for months, now abandoned, historical relics. The hospital bed, the wheelchair, the Hoyer lift, the suction machine, the cough-assist machine, the BiPAP, the piss bottle, the pivot disc. She’s offering those and anything she might be forgetting to Caring Health.

She places the box on the floor but doesn’t know where to begin. The room feels strange without Richard in it. She supposes it will go back to being the den after she clears everything out, but she can’t imagine that. He lived in this room for only four months, but it no longer feels like her den. Richard had ALS in this room. She looks at his empty bed, the wheelchair, his desk chair, and feels his energetic impression everywhere, this room still thick with intense memories of Richard and his ALS. Her eyes well, and she rubs the goose bumps on her arms. Or he’s decided to haunt her.

She sits down at his desk and swivels in the chair. Maybe Grace will want his computer. She went back to school yesterday. She seems to be doing okay. It’s good she has classes and her friends and a demanding schedule to give her life structure, to keep her moving forward.

The house is quiet again. No more whirring of the BiPAP, no alarms sounding when the mask goes askew, no more coughing, gagging, choking. Those sounds are done and gone. Richard is gone.

What will she do now? She feels the familiar void, like something heavy and queasy sinking in her stomach, as if she’s eaten something gone bad. Should she resume her piano lessons? Or should she pack up the entire house and move to New York? Her heart races, nervous at the daring thought of it. She swivels in her chair, not settling on an answer.

Maybe packing up Richard’s clothes is enough for right now. She sighs and doesn’t move off the chair. Instead, she checks her email on her phone. At the top of her inbox is an email from Dr. George. She opens it.

Dear Karina,

I’m so sorry about Richard. I enjoyed getting to know him, if only briefly. I know you said he decided on using a computer-synthesized voice when the time came instead of banking his own. Well, I double-checked the recorder I lent you before wiping it and giving it to another patient, and there was a single legacy message on it that you’ll want. I’ve attached it for you here.

Be well,

Dr. George

She hesitates, then taps on the attached MP3 file.

“Hi, Ka-ri-na. I-like-tha Doc-to-Geor calls-thi-sa le-ga-cy me-ssa. I-been-thi-king a-lot a-bou wha-my le-ga-cy will-be. Will-i-be-my pi-a-no ca-reer? Or-Grace? Tha-sa-be-tter one.

“May-be-iss this. Wha-I-have to-say to-you.

“Ka-ri-na. I’m-sor-ry. I’m-sor-ry I-chea-ted o-nyou. I’m-sor-ry I’m-the-rea-son you-sto-playing jazz. I-was-a te-rri-ble hus-ba to-you. You de-ser be-tter.

“If-I-ha-da wish fo-my-le-ga-cy, ih-wou-be this. You-are-so ta-len-ted. You-are-sti-young. You-are-hea-thy. You-have e-ve-rything you-nee.