Pretend She's Here(46)

“No,” I said. “Far from it. I have no musical talent. But I love to listen.”

“Everyone has music inside them,” Mr. Donoghue said. “It’s just a matter of letting it out, young lady … what is your name?”

“Sorry, Dad,” Casey said. “This is Lizzie Porter.”

“Nice to meet you, Lizzie.”

“You too,” I said. “My dad loves your music. He thinks your band name is amazing—Bob Dylan meets Dylan Thomas.”

“Oh ho!” he said. “Cool. He never mentioned it, and I never pegged John for a bluegrass guy.”

My stomach dropped. I meant my real dad. What if Mr. Donoghue said something to Mr. Porter now? I tried to think fast, to come up with a way to cover my mistake. “Um, I thought Dylan Thomas was Welsh, not Irish,” I said.

“It’s true, but Wales is just a ferry ride from Ireland—it always felt like home when I played there. And Casey’s mom started reading him A Child’s Christmas in Wales when he was one. So, the band name was in her honor.” He paused, bowed his head for an instant, then looked up, smiling at me. “C’mon. We’ll get you playing something. Just a few notes before you go home.”

“I really should go.”

“Call your parents. They’ll say it’s fine.”

“I forgot to charge my phone.”

He handed me a landline. Reluctantly I dialed. Mrs. Porter answered.

“Hi, Mom,” I forced myself to say. “Um, I’m at Casey’s.”

“I know you are,” she said. “I saw Sean pick you up at school, and I watched you go into the house. I’m sure you’re behaving.”

“I am,” I said. “Is it okay if I stay for a little while? To listen to music?”

“A little while,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Which instrument do you like?” Casey asked as soon as I hung up.

“All of them,” I said, looking at the shining brass, the burnished wood. But one stood out for me—it made me think of Mick and my dad. “Guitar,” I said.

“Use this one,” Mr. Donoghue said, taking a rich golden Gibson acoustic from its stand, thrusting it into my hand. “It’s the first guitar I bought with my own money.”

“Thanks, Mr. Donoghue,” I said.

“Ha,” he said. “That makes me feel old. Call me Sean. Everyone does.”

Right; that’s what Mrs. Porter had called him. “Sean,” I said, trying it out.

Casey had lit the stove. Flames rippled from the rolled-up newspaper to bundles of oak twigs, catching the split logs, throwing a wall of heat into the room. He walked over to get his mandolin. He moved gracefully, sidestepping a sofa and low coffee table.

“How do you do it, get around so well?” I asked. I felt embarrassed to ask the question, but the way Casey had called me Emily, not even knowing it was my real name, had broken the normal barrier I’d feel asking something so personal.

“Shadowlands,” he said. “That’s what my vision is like. I can see shapes, anything big. It’s the small things I miss. Like, I can see you, the actual you—shoulders, arms, the fact you have long hair.” When he said that, he reached over and lightly brushed the ends, his fingers tracing my shoulder. “But I can’t see the color, or your face. Or what you’re wearing.”

I think I levitated. If he couldn’t see Lizzie’s clothes, her black hair, her green eyes, that meant I didn’t have to be in disguise with him. He was talking to me, Emily. If he could have seen my face in that instant, he would have witnessed the biggest grin—the only real smile—I’d had since being taken.

“Let’s see how you hold the guitar,” he said.

“But you play mandolin.”

“My mother taught me guitar first.”

“That’s right,” I said. “You said she played in Kerry.”

“Definitely. Her grandmother told her music would inspire the bees to make more honey. So she’d sit on a rock near their hives and play songs.”

“Did it work?” I asked.

“It did, yes. They worked faster than we could collect it. So, come on, let’s see what you’ve got.”

I wanted to hear more about his mother, about the bees. I had my left hand on the neck of the guitar, my right hand ready to strum. Casey reached over, helped me place the fingers on my left hand on the strings.

“First, the strings,” he said. “From the fattest to the thinnest, from low to high: E-A-D-G-B-E. Just think, ‘Eat A Darn Good Breakfast Every Day.’ ‘Day’ is an extra word, but you get the idea and the saying will help you remember.”

I plucked each string individually, hearing the clear note. It made me feel proud—my first thought was I couldn’t wait to show Mick. He had once promised to teach me, but we were so far apart in age, he was always busy with older-brother things. Then I remembered I couldn’t show him now. Or maybe ever.

“The vertical spaces between the fine metal lines on the neck are called frets,” Casey explained. “Chords are triangles. You put your fingers on three different strings at the correct frets, strum, and you have a chord. Go ahead.”

The metal strings dug into the soft pads of my left fingers, surprisingly sharp, and I let go.