The Rock Chamber Boys : The Complete Series

by Daisy Allen

  I take advantage of her not talking for once to ask her what's been on my mind since that afternoon.

  "Hey, do we, do I know someone called Jez?"

  Her hands instantly stop moving and turns back to face me. "What?"

  "Jez. Does that name sound familiar to you."

  She pauses and thinks, "Um, no. Should it?"

  "I don't know."

  "Then why do you ask?"

  "Some guy came in here, like he knew me. he said his name is Jez, but... I don't, I don't remember him. Or maybe I don't even know him. I don't know which."

  "Oh,” she waves her hand in the air, “Well, maybe he's just mistaken you for someone else."

  "That's what I thought,” I admit, before adding, “Um, but he knows I don't like falafels."

  Her expression doesn’t change. And she waits, like there's more.

  "And?" She prompts me when I don’t add anything.

  "And, that's it." My hands spread out, like, hey, I have nothing left.

  She looks a little amused. "That's supposed to prove he knows you?"

  "Well, doesn't it?" Even as I say it, it sounds a little far-fetched.

  "Babe, how many people out there don't like falafels, it's not really that conclusive."

  The door slides open and Robbie strolls in, carrying a tray.

  "Hey, Robster.” Paige gives him one of her blinding smiles.

  "What's up girly?" He gives her a chin tilt and a wink.

  "I’m good. Say, do you like falafels?" She directs the question at him, but looks at me.

  "Cannot say that I do.”

  Paige gives me a little shrug. “See?”

  "Yeah, but..." Ugh, it does mean, something. I know it does.

  "Visiting time is over, ladies." Robbie’s deep voice interrupts our conversation.

  "Aw, come on, Rob..." Paige starts to whine.

  "Yes, even for you,” he says, giving her a grin to rival hers.

  She scrunches her face up at him. "Fine. But I'll be back in a few days, there's a new Vietnamese place I want to try out.'

  "See, now Vietnamese food, I like." Robbie nods.

  "I'll bring you some rolls, if you let me stay for 5 minutes past visiting hours next time,” Paige negotiates.

  "That’ll depend on how good the rolls are.”

  She comes over and drops a kiss on my cheek. "Take care, okay, call me if you need anything. And seriously, stop worrying about being here. Just work on getting better. And coming home. We miss you."

  "We?"

  "Yeah, me... and Droopy.” Droopy, our dying spider plant.

  "Droopy is still... alive?" That’s almost as hard to comprehend as the presence of this mystery man.

  "I told you, I'm responsible now. I water him every other day."

  I make a mock surprised face and she blows a raspberry before leaving.

  Robbie watching her leave and then makes an action of wiping his brow. "Phew. it would be hard to be that girl's boyfriend."

  "Try being her roommate,” I say, trying not to laugh.

  "I feel like I have been!"

  I wander over to the bed and slide into it. The linens are soft and silky. Paige insists on bringing me new sheets every time she comes. I can't help but think where I'd be if she hadn't taken it upon herself to take care of everything. What hospital I'd be at... or if I'd still be able to afford treatment at all. Instead, I'm being treated by the country's best doctors, in the most exclusive hospital in L.A. I don't know how I’ll ever be able to thank her.

  Robbie comes over and hands me a cup with my medication from his tray.

  "How are you feeling today?" His face is open and warm. I don’t know how they do this job day in, day out. But instead of showing that their caring is finite, the nurses here have shown me that the more you need them, the more they’re there for you. Heroes, in my eyes. At the very least, it makes me feel comfortable sharing with them about how I feel. Which is the whole point, of course.

  "Honestly? I feel the best I’ve felt since I arrived."

  He rewards my answer with a big smile. "Good. How's the noggin?” He knocks on his forehead with his knuckles.

  "Feels good, physically, memory wise, not so good, apparently. I still can’t understand how… a time frame like that can just... disappear."

  "Eh, that grey stuff is pretty delicate. And the memory’s still there, your brain has just got to get back to being able to access it."

  "Well, work faster brain,” I say, waggling a finger at my own head.

  "You tell it!” He pumps his fist, egging me on.

  I wait until my laughter dies down before I swallow my pills. Robbie reaches into his pocket and hands me a small folded up piece of paper, taking the empty cup from me.

  "Some night reading for you."

  "What's this?" I frown, holding it between two fingers away from me.

  "It's from another patient on this floor. He asked me to give it to you. I wrote it, so... I know it's nothing too offensive. But you tell me if you don't want me to pass any more along, okay?"

  A note. From the mystery guy. Jez. Why?

  "Uh… No. It's fine. Thank you."

  "You got it. I'm going on break for a bit, just press the button if you need anything. Anything at all."

  “Thanks, Robbie.” I’m too intrigued by the note to say anything more.

  He gives me a wink and moonwalks out of my room, the sound of my giggles following him into the hall.

  I look down at the note in my hand, and place it on the bed tray table in front of me; unopened, unread.

  What am I afraid of? I know it's nothing hurtful or offensive or threatening. Robbie said he wrote it himself, and I’m sure he wouldn't have passed it on if it was anything bad.

  What could it be? What could he possibly want to say to me?

  Are you afraid to read it because he's a stranger or because there might be something in the note that will prove he does actually know you?

  The answer is; I don’t know.

  It took a while for the doctors to really measure the extent of my amnesia. When I finally came out of my coma, I recognized Paige, I recognized my parents, I recognized some of the work friends that had come in to visit in the early days. It wasn’t until specific question about events were asked that I realized, there were holes in my memory. Parts of my life I had lived, and didn’t remember.

  Him, I don’t remember him.

  How could I not remember him?

  It feels like being in a fishbowl, the thought of someone out there knowing me and me not knowing them.

  “Fuck it,” I say out loud to the TV. And grab the piece of paper from the table. I unfold it from its perfect quarter fold.

  It opens, to two words scribbled in black ink.

  Autumn Leaves.

  I read it again. And again.

  Autumn Leaves.

  How?

  How could he know this? My love affair with that word. With that kind of music?

  HOW?!

  I scrunch up the note and throw it across the room.

  No. NO!

  Just fucking relax, Noémie. Don't make more of this than it is. It could mean nothing at all. He's probably bored, looking out the same window you are. See the same trees starting to bloom into life, to welcome the rebirth of spring. It's no surprise you're having the same thoughts about nature.

  But he's didn't say “spring fever” or “peach blossoms.”

  He said, Autumn Leaves.

  A shiver dances slides down my spine, and I pull the blanket up to my chin, my whole body chilled.

  No more notes from Robbie, I tell myself. No more.

  I point the remote at the television, relying on it to distract me from my own life for a while.

  It’s past midnight when I finally allow myself to switch the television off, mid late-night talk-show. And the scrunched-up note is still glaring at me from its spot on the floor across the room. I can't sleep. I can't stop thinking. Thinking about what it me
ans.

  I turn onto my side in bed, facing the window and there's a reflection of my ukulele against the glass pane. I haven't picked it up since he came into my room yesterday.

  Him. That mystery man. Jez.

  He looked like he knew me. He really did.

  But there’s not even the slightest whisper of recognition in my mind. I’ve searched. I really have. I wish I did remember him. Because maybe I could be with him right now.

  I'm not going to be able to sleep. That's clear at this point, I slip out of bed and pick up my ukulele. It's too late to play now, I don't want to disturb the other patients.

  But I need to. It’s like an itch in the tips of my fingertips I just can’t scratch away.

  And I can process the tangled thoughts in my brain when I play.

  I hadn't realized how much I'd missed it until yesterday and the notes had just come tumbling out of me.

  Then that... guy. That stupid guy had to come into my room, my life, and scare me.

  Screw that. Screw him.

  I tuck the uke under my arm and poke my head out into the hallway. The nurse's station is empty, they must be busy with someone, I slip quietly past it, and tip toe down into the last room on the floor. It's the family room, where visitors can come and sit and visit with the patients, away from their private rooms. It's the only non-white room on the floor. It's carpeted and warm, there are couches and tables set out and book shelves full of books and games and large TVs mounted on the walls.

  I slip inside and pull the door as far closed as I can. It’s heavy and there’s an open gap but I leave it.

  The room is dark, there's just the soft, ambient light filtering through the gap in the door and the flickering LED lights on the electronic equipment.

  It's such a stark contrast to the busy activity of the day.

  I never come here.

  The only family I have visiting is Paige, and it's probably better to contain her within the four walls of my own private room.

  I choose a chair against the wall that looks out into the rest of the room and the window. There's something comforting about seeing all the empty chairs and tables, neatly set up, awaiting the break of day to welcome the loved ones. I smile benevolently out at them, seemingly calm in this environment. Away from the confines of my bed, but still safe within the walls of this hospital, with not another soul to bother me. To hear me.

  Just me and my ukulele.

  “Autumn Leaves,” I say softly, “Les Feuilles Mortes.”

  I don't know why he wrote that. But it's been burrowing into my brain since I saw those two words on the page.

  The burrowing of an earworm that just won't rest for the night.

  I untuck the ukulele from under my arm and rest it on my thigh, the neck firmly clasped in my hand.

  I've never played the song before.

  But that's never stopped me.

  Here goes.

  I sing the tune in my head first, just the first few notes, to get into the right mind frame. It rarely takes more than that. Then I hum it quietly out loud.

  And then I play.

  One note. At a time. Slowly.

  One clear note, held for just a split second too long, as I enjoy the reverberation of each pluck of my uke's strings, closing my eyes, almost imagining the notes traveling like waves out into the empty room. Ripples of sound.

  "Da, Da, Da, Daaaaa." I hum quietly along. So quiet I only know I'm humming by the tickling in the back of my throat.

  The song is so enchanting. Simple. Melancholic.

  I reach the chorus, and while almost every memory I have of the song has it increasing in tempo, it seems such a travesty to break the somberness of the melody. My fingers disobey the norm, and each note is plucked, singularly. Slowly. Meaningfully. Deliberately. Each individual reverberation living a complete life of its own before the next one fades into the world and then out again, at its own pace.

  What a masterpiece, I think to myself as I play.

  What a privilege to live in a world where this song exists.

  And before I realize it, I whisper a thank you.

  Thank you, mystery man.

  For the song.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Jez

  She's playing it.

  Like I knew she would.

  I knew she'd understand. If not the meaning, she'd be compelled, just as I am, to know what that song would sound like coming from her. From her own fingers.

  She's playing it.

  And it's everything I thought it would be, and more.

  I lean my head against the wall outside the family room, holding my breath, hoping nothing disturbs this moment.

  Her shadow across my glass window as she'd tiptoed down the hall had promised me something special. I'm glad I’d followed my instincts and followed her.

  Autumn, she said she always loved autumn. Autumn the season, Autumn the word. This song is perfect for her.

  I brace for the familiar chorus, wondering how she'll interpret it, hoping she doesn’t disappoint.

  And the notes lingering in the air, one by one. Giving my ears the space to enjoy it, before it begs for the next one.

  Perfection. She understands the pleasure of anticipation. Music is nothing but a reflection of humanity.

  Who is this woman? How can she read me with her eyes and write my soul with her music?

  Noémie, my brain whispers, rolling the letters of her name over in its cortices.

  I finally have a name for her. To go with the face, the laughter, the body, the memories.

  Noémie.

  How can you not remember me, Noémie?

  The memory of her face, completely blank at meeting me again, flashes in my brain, the way it has a hundred thousand times since yesterday.

  I don't know what's happened.

  But I'm going to reverse it.

  She will remember.

  The song finishes at her touch. And she sighs.

  Play it again, I want to beg her. But I can't. Not yet.

  I hear her shuffle inside and I quietly push away from the wall and jog back to my room.

  And play the song over in my head until I fall asleep to the scent of cinnamon and the sound of leaves falling.

  ***

  "Robbie, my man," I say to him, as I wave him into my room the next night.

  His eyes narrow and I imagine his hands would be on his hips if he wasn’t busy tidying up around my room. "What do you want?"

  "So jaded for such a young soul," I say, hoping he's forgotten the times I've teased him for his graying sideburns.

  "I am young and yet wise. Wisdom comes with a built-in bullshit detector, so I know of what I say when I ask you, 'what the hell do you want?’"

  I clutch my chest and drop my jaw. "I'm shocked that you would think of me in such a way."

  "You're a celebrity." It’s a statement, not a question.

  "Kinda." I shrug, not sure I want to commit in case I’m about to get in trouble.

  "You're used to getting what you want." Another statement. Again, true.

  "Also kinda."

  "So, it's almost like my bullshit detector goes into overdrive around you."

  "So rude, wait until I set my minions onto you!”

  He stares at me with a steely look in his eye, "Go ahead. I'm pretty quick with a needle."

  "Oh. Well, my minions are scared of needles. They're scared of a lot of things. Mostly they just talk a big game."

  "Like master, like minion." He’s grinning now, knowing he’s just won that round.

  "Hey!"

  "I apologize, please, Sir master of minions, what can I, the lowly nurse who once had to give you a lollypop after you complained about a butt injection do for His Highness?"

  "That's better. Um, I need another favor."

  "I live to favor you, Minion-whisperer.” He bows low and I bite my lip not wanting to give him the satisfaction of my obvious amusement.

  "Okay, knock it off, you're creeping
me out. I need you to write me another note."

  There’s a micro expression of interest, but he hides it well. "Write your own damn note."

  "I... I can't. I tried."

  "Let me see."

  I point to the trash can, filled with scrunched up pieces of paper. He takes one out, looking it over.

  "Hmmm, looks like something my kid brought home from kindergarten."

  I grimace and he just grins and gives me a wink.

  "Hey, man, yesterday, you couldn’t even hold the damn pen. Now I can almost make out the letter H. I’m proud of you."

  "That's an N." I sigh, but secretly, I’m thrilled that he noticed I’m trying.

  "Exactly. You got something on the page. You're doing good." A warmth spreads through his eyes and I let myself enjoy it for one second.

  "Go back to being a smartass."

  "I will, once I write this note.” He pulls a pen out of his pockets and tears off a blank piece of paper from the notepad by the bed. “What do you want me to say?"

  "Write, ‘Ne Me Quitte Pas.’"

  "We already went through this yesterday, man. English or you’re on your own."

  "Fine, write ‘If You Go Away.’ But then I want you to write the other thing as well, I'll spell it out for you."

  He copies down the letters I dictate and holds it up, sounding out the words.

  "’Nee mah kwitte paz’. Would you look at that? I can speak frenchie."

  "Yeah, you speak French as intelligibly as I write it, right now."

  "Well, then, I deserve a thumbs up for trying."

  I hold up my hand, my thumb pointing sideways, while my other fingers curl into an ugly array of talons. But it’s something.

  "One day at a time, man. One bloody day at a time." He pats my legs, reassuringly. “Hey, why don’t you try this for some motivation? Use your ding-dong like a squeeze toy, bet you’ll be grasping that thing so tight you’ll be able to pull it right off in no time.” He throws his head back and I’m pretty sure the whole floor can hear his deep, belly laugh.

  "Just go deliver the fucking note, Potty Mouth Postman."

  He gives me a wink before he strolls out of my room like he owns the whole damn place.