You Asked for Perfect(46)

Try again. It’s not that bad. I’ll play through the solo, see how it goes.

I lift my violin and grimace as I place my fingers on the strings. Tears spring up again. Ignore them. I begin to play, pain vibrating through me. I try to zone out and sink into the music, think only of the notes and their arrangement. And it works. I make it through. But when I’m done, the pain rushes back, and there’s blood on my strings.

“Fuck.” My heart drops. Just do it. Get it over with.

I wipe my bloody fingers on my jeans and then text Sook: I’m so sorry. I can’t play with you guys tomorrow night.

I stare at the message, weary and numb. What kind of a best friend bails at the last minute, especially on something so important?

A moment later, Sook is calling me.

I swallow hard, pulse racing, then tap ignore and turn off my phone. It seems safer than silent.

I’ll go to sleep, rest my mind and fingers, and get back to work tomorrow. Everything will be better in the morning. I strip down to my boxers and climb into bed, pulling the comforter over me. It’s warm and safe and dark. My body sinks into the mattress. The second my eyes dip closed, I’m asleep.

*

I wake up to darkness and frantic voices. Disoriented, I roll over to check the time, but my phone is off. My laptop is on the floor by my bed. I open it and see it’s little past four in the morning. My head is swimming, jarred from heavy sleep.

The voices are too muffled to hear. I throw off my covers, get up, and crack open my door. The hallway is bright. Half of the house lights are on.

I head downstairs. Mom is in the kitchen, pulling on a jacket over her sleep shirt and pajama pants. Dad is pacing in the living room, on the phone. “Yes, we’re on our way. Bringing her now.”

“What’s going on?” I ask.

Then I hear it. Rachel. Her cry sounds more animal than human. I rush into the living room. Her project supplies are still out on the floor, and she’s on the couch, clutching her stomach, tears streaming down her cheeks.

My pulse thuds in my ears. “What is it?” I turn to my parents. “What’s going on?”

“We don’t know,” Dad says, getting off the phone. “C’mon. We’re going to the hospital.”

“Okay, um, I’ll put clothes on.”

I rush upstairs, almost tripping on a step, then yank a shirt on and pull sweatpants over my boxers. When I get to the garage, my parents are already piling Rachel in the car. She’s quieter, whimpering. Maybe it’s her appendix? Or something she ate? Was it the mac and cheese?

But then I’d be sick, too.

I slide in next to her and sit in the middle seat so I can keep my arm around her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I say, even though I have no idea what I’m sorry for.

*

Dad walks into the waiting room. “No update yet,” he says.

Rachel was admitted into the ER two hours ago. They’ve ruled out imminently life-threatening diagnoses, but that’s of little comfort since they still don’t know what’s going on.

“How’s she feeling?”

“Better, Baruch Hashem. They gave her some pain and anxiety medication, but since we don’t know what caused the symptoms…”

Dad trails off and kind of blank stares at the wall. It’s unsettling to see him like this. Dad is always in control, but in this moment he looks as lost as I feel. I stand and wrap my arms around him. He’s still taller than me. I tuck my head against his shoulder, and he hugs me back. I close my eyes and breathe deep, and for a moment I feel safe, protected, like a kid again. “I love you,” I say.

“Love you, too, Ariel.” We stay like that for a while until Dad steps away, running a hand through his hair, the curls wilder than usual. “I’m going to get more coffee. Do you want anything?”

“Coffee sounds good.”

I rub my eyes and settle back into my chair, both wired and exhausted. It’s strange to sit here with nothing to do. I never sit still, never hit pause. Restlessness makes my skin crawl.

I have my phone, but I’m nervous to turn it on and see messages from Sook.

The waiting room is mostly empty. There’s an elderly couple who look like they’ve been camped out all day. A young family with multiple little kids wanting to be entertained. A girl with torn jeans and a hoodie sitting alone.

I glance down to see what they see. A teenage guy with curly hair, wearing black sweatpants and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt.

After ten minutes pass, Dad still isn’t back, and my nerves kick into overdrive.

I don’t understand what happened.

I don’t understand what’s happening.

My leg shakes up and down. I need to do something. Sighing, I turn on my phone.

Texts from Sook light up the screen. The most recent one begins: I can’t believe you would…

The gnawing guilt I felt only hours ago is now tucked far away. I think my brain is compartmentalizing because I can only deal with so much stress at once. I scroll past her texts and find some from Amir. I’ve barely seen him all week, and my body actually aches to have him near me. Feeling a trace of relief, I open the thread and read:

Hey what time are you coming?

Are you on the way?

I’m in the back left corner

There’s only an hour left