But isn’t that what Sam sneered about?
I don’t know. What I do know is that between the trouble Gloria’s in and the worry over Sam’s illness, I can’t even think about whatever this is outside of the music. I focus on the keyboard, plonk a few notes.
Beside me, he’s quiet. And then he suggests, “Why don’t you play what you’ve written so far?”
“Good idea.” I stand and pick up my violin, spend a few minutes tuning it. Josiah sits at the piano, waiting. Behind him are windows showing the building across the street, two windows lit in the dark afternoon, and a busy restaurant on the ground floor. In the distance is Amsterdam, a running river of taillights. My mother watches from an album cover, and I turn toward her.
I take a breath, close my eyes, and let the music rise through me, run through my veins and into my hands, and then emerge from the instrument itself. It’s unlike music I’ve written before, woven with a thread of melancholy that surprised me when it first arrived.
As I play it in my mother’s music room, though, I know where it comes from. It’s the thread of loneliness every motherless child feels, a cry at night that goes unanswered, a longing that just cannot be filled by anyone else. I think of her pretty eyes and how rarely she laughed. She had tattoos for each of us, me and Sam, and I think of those now, feeling them in the notes. I think of her wild, raw voice, blazing so briefly across the heavens, calling to the lonely around the world.
I break off, a swell of emotion making me press a hand against my heart.
“Insight?” Josiah asks.
“Yeah,” I say and lift the instrument again to finish.
Josiah moves into position on the piano and says, “Again.”
I start at the top and play, and he listens, very softly adding undertones here and there, and I see what he’s doing, so I simply play it again, and then again, and by the third time, he’s worked out a complementary line. “Do you have paper?”
“Right there,” I say, pointing to the table by the window where I’ve left the tablet of manuscript paper out. “Old school, huh?”
“You too, I see.” He holds up the sheaf I’ve been working on and reads it, nodding, then bends over and, faster than I can believe, scrawls a long series of notes, singing to himself the same way I do. “Play that midsection again.” He hums and I pick it up, and he writes, then carries the paper to the piano but picks up his bass instead of sitting. “This is really good, Willow,” he says.
I smile at him. “I had a feeling.”
And then we dive back into the music, repeating the notes again and again, refining them. At some point, he starts to hum along, gesturing for me to follow his lead, and I do. He sings the bass and I sing the melody, and I’m wishing for recording equipment because it’s so damned beautiful.
“What are the lyrics?”
I lower the violin, look toward the window. Wait. A whisper comes, far away at the edge of everything, but I nod. “I don’t know yet. But I will.”
“When’s the deadline?”
“Three days from now.”
His thick dark brows rise, and he makes a soft whistle. “Let me see what I can do.” He glances at his watch. “I’ve got another twenty minutes right now. Let’s keep going.”
I walk him to the door, feeling the buzz that means the work is good, that the music is working. “Thank you so much, Josiah,” I say as he opens the front door.
“It’s not a favor,” he says, turning back to face me. “It’s exciting to create something so powerful. I felt it the minute we started to sing together in Brooklyn.”
“Me too.”
He just stands there for a moment, and I realize that one of the things I am drawn to is his stillness. He only looks down at me, and I force myself not to look away because it’s uncomfortable, but I can’t resist crossing my arms over my chest.
He notices, gives a slight nod. “I’ll call you when I’ve worked through my obligations.”
And before he leaves, I really want to touch him, and my hand reaches out of its own accord and rests on his upper arm, just above his elbow. It halts him, and for a space of lost time, I think he might kiss me, or I might stand on my toes to kiss him, and I’m already half living it when he covers my hand with his and says, “Be here now.”
I laugh softly, drop my hand. “I’ll do my best.”
Then he’s in the corridor and pushes the button for the elevator, and I wouldn’t want to be rude, so I stand at the doorway, waiting with him. Noticing things. His easy posture. His long throat.
The elevator arrives and he steps in, lifting a hand as the doors close.
I lean against the wall.
Gloria. Sam. Both of them need me.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Gloria
It’s pouring still when I arrive home. Willow called to say she was going to run some errands and go to the hospital, so the rooms are empty. Oddly expectant. Eloise and Esme swirl into the foyer as I shed my wet coat and hang it up to dry. “Don’t tell me those stories,” I say. “I know Willow fed you.” They mew, pitifully, as if to convince me of the story. I bend and stroke each back in turn, talking because they like it. “I think our Sam is going to be just fine. Her fever was down and she was eating like a soldier when I left. The nurse told me that’s a good sign.” I sink down on the worn velvet-topped bench to reach them more easily. They slink around my legs. “Poor girl.”
I kick off my shoes and notice that Isaak’s painting of the dove is missing. It makes my stomach twist, bringing home the mess I’m in. The package Willow told me about slants against the wall, almost unnoticeable in the gloom. Taking a breath, I stand and flip the light switch, which illuminates the six wall sconces around the circle.
It’s a painting, I’m sure, in the heavy cardboard tube. How did he know where I live? I suppose it couldn’t be that difficult to track me down if he already follows my Instagram. I wonder with a pained sense of thwarted possibility how long he’s been watching. Why he never spoke up before this, when we might have had a chance—
No. I’m not going down that road again. Letting go of him the first time was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I missed him for literally years.
I lift my chin, square my shoulders. A long time ago.
Thinking of Instagram reminds me that I need to post something before bed. It’s been a full day, and one of the things about the algorithms is that they like regularity. It doesn’t matter if it’s every two hours or every two weeks, but a pattern matters. Perhaps, considering everything, it’s foolish to make a social media site my priority, but life is patterns, isn’t it? Patterns and routines create sanity where nothing else can.
The painting leans against the desk, waiting. Lamplight spills down the brown paper side, catching on stamps and pointing out customs marks. From a container on the desk, I take a pair of scissors and slit the tape carefully, pulling loose the lid. For a moment, I hesitate, feeling a thousand emotions welling to the surface—hunger and lust and longing primary among them, all in tones of orange and red, tangled and knotted.
I take a breath and tug the canvas from inside. It’s too large to open where I am, so I carry it into the dining room and let it unfurl on the gleaming oak table.
It’s the painting I thought it might be. Me, at age twenty-seven, sleek and unmarred by time, my nude body insouciantly displayed as I lie on one side, head propped up on my hand, my hair loose. I touch a finger to the full, plump breasts. “I remember you.” Touch my smooth thigh. “And you.”
I remember lying on Isaak’s bed, feeling hot and aroused and amused by both, as he painted and painted and painted. A sound of cellos plays behind it, full throated and somehow wise, the undertone to every memory I have of him painting.
Do you have to be young to be in love like that? Because I’ve never felt it since. Even now, the power of it can make my heart flutter.
Nothing like an old fool, I think, shaking my head as I roll the painting up again and c
arry it under my arm to hide it in my room for now. Will I show it to Willow and Sam? I’m not sure.
As I walk back through the apartment, I find the note that was enclosed, lying on the floor. A pale-blue piece of linen paper, with a single sentence in a hand I recognize so very well from all the letters he wrote, dozens and dozens of them, letters I still have in a box in my closet.
I have never forgotten you.
The handwriting, elegant and slanted hard to the right, wakes up memories I’ve kept buried for a long time. The whole of our intense, deep love affair tumbles into my body, memories full of color and laughter and sweet yearning.
And all of it is in the painting. Youth and passion and color and longing.
Oh, Isaak.
It comes to me that this is probably his very finest work. Considering the notoriety of everything that’s happening, he wanted it safe, and the fact that it has arrived now means he must have known Interpol was closing in on him.
Does that mean he has planned for protections for me? How can I find out?
I walk around the painting, admiring the light, the vividness. It breaks my heart that his success will come now, so late in his life, when he will never be able to enjoy it. His arrest is accomplishing what he could not accomplish before: fame and recognition for his work.
Oh, Isaak, my love. I brush my fingertips over the lips of the woman in the painting.
Suddenly I have a great idea for an Instagram.
Digging in my closet, I use a stepladder to reach a high shelf and get the letters. I carry the box to the bed and take off the top, and at the sight of his handwriting on the envelopes, a twist of mingled pain and longing courses through me. Just that would make a great photo, the striped hatbox with letters inside, the elegant handwriting, the archaic stamps and airmail paper, so thin it’s nearly transparent. I pick one up and feel a fine trembling in my limbs, feel a ghost of the fresh possibility that ran through me when I saw one of his letters on the table of my apartment when I arrived home from a trip.
I open the flap of one.
June 17, 1977
My darling Gloria,
Tonight, the sun is low on the sea, shining red and orange as if I’ve spilled my paint. I’m thinking of the night we walked for hours and hours, trying to learn everything we could about each other. Your little sister. My much-younger brother. Your love of hummus and lemons and flowers of all kinds. My love of the markets, the noise and color.
I wish you were here with me tonight. I don’t know how I can bear to wait until next week. Always, our moments together are so fleeting!
I stop, a pain thudding through my chest so intensely that I’m worried for a moment that I might be having a heart attack.
But I’m not. These are just the ordinary feelings of a woman remembering her great, lost love.
It has been decades since I’ve looked at them, since I tucked them away here when I came to take care of the girls, and it won’t serve me to read them right now. I might, one day soon, but I don’t have the fortitude to do it now, to see my young and hopeful self through the lines. The great tragedy of aging is not the loss of the supple body but the illusions we are forced to leave behind, one after the other, like a string of pearls from a necklace. That all will be well, that dreams can come true, that we can always do what we wish, that sacrifice and sorrow are not inevitable.
For now, I carry the box to the music room and gently scatter a solid handful over the table, then zoom into the address from so long ago, Gloria Rose, 919 3rd Ave, #12, New York, New York, USA 10022. I shoot it, then the edges of the overlapping envelopes, then zoom in on the Par Avion, suggesting a long correspondence. So long. Almost sixteen years, all together.
The hollow ache returns to my chest. I wish I could see him just one more time. I didn’t know I was harboring the longing until this all came up, and now it feels like I’ve been cheated of something.
In the end, I post only the Par Avion banner above my name and address with a lighthearted, Remember the days when we received actual mail? Tell me about someone you corresponded with.
I wonder if Isaak will see it.
My phone rings, and when I look at the face, I see that it’s my lawyer. My heart leaps into a tangled rhythm, and my hands are shaking as I pick up. “Hello, Mr. Walters.”
“Hello, Ms. Rose. I have found quite a lot of information. Can you meet me first thing, downtown?”
“Can we speak over the phone?”
“I’d rather not.” He names a coffee shop, and I scribble the address down. “I’ll see you in the morning at seven thirty.”
I hang up, feeling jangled. Good news or bad? I wish he’d given me some hint.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sam
I’m restlessly drawing more ideas for the new game when a familiar voice says at my curtain, “Knock, knock.”
I’m too drugged to hide my pleasure. “Asher!”
“Are you decent?”
“Not including my hair, yes.”
He comes in carrying a white bakery bag. He’s wearing a button-down with thin green and blue stripes that makes him look tan and vigorous. “Hey. How are you?”
“A lot better.” I gesture. “They moved me to a regular room about an hour ago, to make room for some other patient. Which lifted my spirits because now I can have more visitors”—I’m babbling because he’s here and I want him to stay and I’m afraid of doing something to send him scurrying off again—“like you.” Quietly, I add, “I didn’t think you’d come back.”
He takes a breath. “Yeah, well.” For a moment, that tension is between us, the loss, and then he wipes it all away and smiles. “Brought you something.”
I peek into the bag, and even before I see them, I smell the yeasty perfume of glazed doughnuts. I look up—he knows I’m celiac, but has he forgotten?
“They’re from Ruby’s.” A gluten-free bakery.
“Oh my God.” I take one out and look at it, admiring the soft brown finish covered with thin sugar that’s cracking here and there, flaking off to fall on my stomach. I hold it up to my nose and just barely lick the side. I close my eyes and focus on taking one bite, not too small, not too big, and letting the soft texture and sugary deliciousness fill my mouth. “It’s so good.”
He chuckles. “I can tell.”
“Do you want the other one?”
“No! They’re for you.” He points to the end of the bed. “Do you mind if I sit?”
My heart aches a little as I pull my feet into a cross-legged position. I can’t really look at him. I’ve been missing him so much, and it’s so crazy that he’s just—here, now. I’m afraid he’s a figment of my imagination. He sinks onto the end of the bed, letting his feet dangle, and I look at his hand, strong and fine, with long fingers and good oval nails he takes exceedingly good care of. He has much better nails than I do.
I take another bite of the doughnut. “It was very nice of you to bring these.”
“Everybody needs treats when they’re sick.” He swings his backpack off his shoulders, unzips the top pocket. “My mom sent chicken broth, no noodles.”
I laugh. “Really? That is so nice!” Tears fill my eyes. I look away, hoping he hasn’t seen.
He has. His hand circles my foot. Neither of us says anything. I hold the doughnut in my hand and the plastic container of soup in my lap. I will have some later.
“How is your mom?” I ask when I’m less stupidly emotional.
“It’s been a rough winter for her. She lost a couple of friends last year, but I think she’s shaking it off now.”
I take another bite of the doughnut. “Willow will go see her soon, I’m sure.”
“You should go too. She misses you.”
I nod. A thousand words pass through my mind, words like I’m sorry and please forgive me and can we start over? I don’t say any of them. I want him to sit right there, all night, all day. Not go away again.
“I’ve been thinking about your new gam
e, Sam. And the business.”
Here’s something I can talk about without danger. I reach for the scribbled pages I’ve been working on all day when I’m awake. “I’ve been sketching out a lot. I think it’s . . .” I flip through the pages, shake my head. “It has a lot of potential.” I laugh, looking at the forest diagram. “No, it’s really magical. I’m excited for the first time in ages.”
“I think so too.”
I look up. “Really?”
His dark eyes shine. “Yeah. Your notes were super crazy, but I could see what you have in mind. At least I think so.” He takes out a notebook that’s a twin to my own. We settled on these notebooks a million years ago, and they’re still perfect for this kind of brainstorming. He opens to a page filled with lines of code in his precise, small printing alongside a clear drawing of a girl in a forest surrounded by little animals. “This?”
“Yes!” The vision floods back in, all kinds of Mylar colors, open world, the dark forest, the girl. Staring, I let it rise, coalesce. “A girl who learns she’s powerful. But it’s that setting, that—”
“I’d like to help you, if you’d be open to that.”
I hardly breathe. “You’re kidding.”
“No. Let me help you get back on your feet.”
A hole opens in the middle of my chest. He feels sorry for me.
“Look, I said that wrong,” he says.
“It doesn’t matter. I can do it on my own. It’s a great idea, and I am a coder, too, you know.”
“Hey.”
I clench my jaw to keep my emotions in place. Meet his eyes.
He clears his throat, and I realize that he’s hiding emotions too. He doesn’t like this any more than I do.
So why haven’t we solved this rift? For the first time in my life, I wish I had Willow’s understanding of human dynamics, because then maybe I could fix it.
Maybe I should ask Suzanne, my AI app.
“I don’t feel sorry for you,” he says in a fierce, focused voice. “I’m furious that Jared wants to take the company, but I’m also . . . enchanted by this game idea. I’d really like to work on it with you. I think it will be even better than Boudicca.”
Write My Name Across the Sky Page 17
