Night Music

by Jenn Marie Thorne

  “Seventeen.”

  Her shoulders relaxed. “Well, there’s coffee that way if you need it. I’ll be back with updates as soon as I can.”

  I thanked her and settled in for a long wait, watching local news on the wall-mounted TV for God knew how long. Deaths, political scandals, protesters.

  I closed my eyes, wanting the drone of it gone.

  Bliss to anger to confusion to terror today, and it was only just after noon. A wave of longing washed over me, wishing Oscar were here holding my hand, but the bigger part of me hoped he hadn’t heard. That he had his music blinders on, nothing to distract him from his symphony.

  I opened my eyes to see a flash of scrubs, a doctor. He kept passing, and I relaxed—but then the front desk receptionist pointed in my direction and he turned with a squint.

  “Ruby Chertok?” he asked, mispronouncing my last name.

  I nodded, tucking my legs tight under the chair.

  The doctor crouched in front of me with a blandly cheerful expression. “I’m Dr. Singh.” He offered his hand for a quick shake. “So your father has suffered what we call a coronary spasm . . .”

  “Oh,” I muttered, relieved. “I’m sorry, I thought he’d had a heart attack.”

  “In this case, it did lead to a heart attack,” he said, almost apologetically.

  “Okay.” I swallowed.

  “He’s conscious, resting, responding well to treatment. But because this is a relapse occurrence and the medication he’s been taking isn’t affecting his arrhythmia as much as I would like, I’m recommending we install a pacemaker. It’s a simple procedure . . .”

  Dr. Singh pulled a laminated info graphic sheet out of nowhere to show me where the pacemaker would go, what the risks were, how long the recovery would be, but it was too much to absorb. My mind was busy pinballing wildly between key words he’d said—medication, arrhythmia, relapse.

  How long had my father had heart problems?

  The doctor had stopped talking. He was watching me.

  “Um.” My throat felt too tight to force words out. “When will he go into surgery?”

  “We have an opening at four. Could be sooner, depending on how the day goes. He’ll be prepped by three.”

  “Okay,” I got out. “Thank you.”

  The doctor walked briskly through the sliding doors and I exhaled. Then I put my head in my hands and tried to rub sense into it.

  “Rooster.” Alice’s voice drew me upward.

  She was wearing a white T-shirt and shorts, practically a tourist. But her face was hollowed with worry.

  I stood and hugged her with a gasp. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t call you, I should have called you right away . . . what was I thinking?”

  “It’s okay,” she said into my hair. “I’m his In Case of Emergency, so it got to me.”

  “You just missed the doctor.”

  “And?” She bit the corner of her thumbnail, then stuck her hand in her pocket.

  “Heart attack, basically. He’s getting a pacemaker put in at four.”

  “That’s smart.” Alice rubbed her temple. “Okay.”

  I stared, tiny memories taking the shape of puzzle pieces—the doctor’s card on Dad’s desk, the extra-long trip to the UK with time built in to rest, that “appointment” Nora had referenced, that frantic text about Dad not picking up his phone.

  Alice, standing here, disappointed. Not shocked.

  “You knew,” I said.

  “Knew what?”

  “That he was sick.”

  “It’s not sick, exactly, it’s . . .” She sighed, then pressed a hand gently to my arm. “We didn’t want to worry you. You’ve got enough going on and it didn’t . . .” She peered unblinking at the doors to the ICU. “It didn’t seem like it would lead to anything serious.”

  “You need to tell me things.” My face started to sting. “I am so sick of being shut out, you have no idea—!”

  “Okay,” she said, sounding exasperated.

  “I’m not the family pet. I’m your sister.”

  “Okay.” Her voice was softer now, her eyes on mine. “I understand that, Roo. I’m sorry. I am. Okay?”

  I nodded.

  “Can we go see him?” She pointed to the doors.

  I put my hands in my hair. “I forgot to ask. I . . . panicked. I don’t know.”

  She strode to the front desk, uncowed by the stern woman manning it. A few seconds later, she pointed to me, got a nod from the desk lady, and walked back to me.

  “We can have a quick visit.”

  I braced myself as we walked into Dad’s cubicle in the ICU, thinking he’d look like he had on the paramedics’ gurney, oxygen mask, lines everywhere. But he was sitting up, shirtless, circular nodules connected to his chest, one IV line going into his hand.

  He looked tired, otherwise okay.

  Before we could say hi, the nurse bustled in to check vitals. Alice and I backed into the hall to give her room.

  “You don’t have to hang out long, Roo. I’ve got this.”

  I started to argue. “I want—”

  “He’ll stay overnight after the surgery,” she cut me off quietly. “Whenever he’s allowed to get back, we’ll need the house ready for him. Do you think you could tidy a little, stock up on healthy food, that kind of thing?”

  Tidy. It stung more than she could have known.

  Still, there was a good reason my family always slotted me into that role. I wasn’t Alice, striding boldly up to the nurses’ desk to ask the obvious question. If I wanted them to see me differently, I was going to have to be different.

  But this wasn’t the moment.

  “Of course,” I said. “Don’t you have rehearsal tomorrow? I can come back, sub in for the night so you can rest . . .”

  “I don’t have rehearsal.” Alice glanced behind her.

  “You took a sabbatical?” I wasn’t sure whether to congratulate her.

  “Actually, no.” Her voice had fallen even lower, but she was smiling. “Danny talked me out of it, and I think he’s right. It doesn’t have to be so all or nothing. I’m not Mom, you know? I can find a balance. I called Sherman on the way here, said I needed a few personal days. I had a whole speech prepared, but he didn’t push back. At all.”

  She sounded incredulous.

  “I’m glad you’re doing it this way,” I said quietly. “You should have it all.”

  Alice’s eyes glowed before she rolled them. “Okay, enough about me—go say hi but remember, the important thing is for Dad to be . . .” She drew a horizon with her hands. “Calm, unstressed, you get it.”

  “I do,” I said, mouthing thank you to the nurse as she hurried out. Then I turned back to Alice. “Wait—are you thinking I’ll stress him out if I stay here?”

  “I mean, it isn’t your fault. He worries about you. If you stayed all night, he’d worry about you not sleeping.”

  “He worries about me.”

  “You’re his favorite!” She said it like it was obvious. “I know you don’t believe me, but he agonizes. A few weeks ago, you were out late and he wouldn’t stop texting me—what should I do, should I call the cops? I talked him down, you’re welcome. And the years of agita over you studying piano. I just want her to be happy, Al, how can we make sure she’s happy?” She groaned. “Dad is a mess where you’re concerned. He just doesn’t want any of what he’s dealing with to blow back on you. So he dumps it on the rest of us.”

  “Because I’m the youngest?”

  “It’s more than that,” she murmured. “You’re the only one of us he sees as a human instead of an instrument. He said once that you were the best thing he ever made. To me! His other daughter! That’s how much of a stand-in I am to him, he didn’t even think I would care.”

  I should probably have said somethi
ng about how much Dad whined about her to me, but all I could get out was “Wow.”

  She swatted my shoulder. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  Dad shot me a tired smile as I tiptoed over and kissed him on his bearded cheek. He looked smaller, lying there. Mortal.

  “Everything’s gonna be okay, sweetheart,” he said, gusto leached from his voice. “This is routine.”

  “I know,” I said, remembering what the doctor had told me.

  He seemed to consider his next words carefully. Then he looked past me at Alice. “Could you give me and Rooster a minute, Al?”

  Her face betrayed surprise. Then she nodded and stepped out, shutting the divider curtain behind her.

  40.

  dad patted the hospital bed. I sat on the edge and it reacted with an angry creak. We both laughed warily. I pulled up one of the visitor chairs instead.

  “We’ve barely said two words to each other since you got back from your grandparents’.” He managed a wry smile. “I’ve had the sneaking suspicion you might be avoiding me.”

  I didn’t know how to answer. He wasn’t not right. But I didn’t want to agitate him by admitting it now.

  Dad’s heart monitor kept a steady beat. “I assume you’ve been spending time with our young friend.”

  He meant Oscar. I nodded.

  “How is he?”

  “He . . .” I scooted back, but the question didn’t seem loaded, like when Nora asked. “He’s definitely got some anxiety issues.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. It’s not his fault, it’s . . .”

  I did know the half of it. Maybe even two-thirds. But he didn’t realize that.

  There was one thing I had to risk saying. “Listen, Dad, Oscar and I are together. I’m his girlfriend, and I know you’re his mentor, but ultimately we’re the only two people who should be making decisions about our relationship. So I hope you can find a way to be supportive.”

  Dad’s eyes fixed on mine with strange intensity. I expected an argument, a capitulation, a sigh, but what he said was, “Don’t clean our house.”

  I blinked.

  “I heard Alice asking you.” He winced, adjusting himself against the bed back. “You know, it took you being away for me to finally figure out what’s been wrong. Second day you were gone, I yelled downstairs for you to bring me a coffee. The only person to answer was myself! And do you know what I said?”

  I waited, smiling.

  “I said, ‘Marty? You’re an asshole.’”

  I started to laugh, but he leaned forward, intent.

  “You don’t have to be useful, Ruby. You don’t have to be anything but happy. Your job is to get good grades, do what you damn well please. Within reason.”

  “Dad . . .” I glanced at his heart monitor. “We can talk about this stuff later.”

  “I want to get it out now. This is routine, I’m not worried, but . . . there are things I need to say.”

  I settled into my chair again, trying to stay calm so that he would too.

  “I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like . . .” Dad squinted strangely, like he’d figured out the right word but disliked the way it tasted. “Like you’re less important than the rest of us.”

  My body went pinprick numb. He’d never admitted that before.

  “You’re my child, Ruby,” he said, reaching for my hand. “You’re why I’m here. In the world, not the ER.”

  I laughed, wiping my streaming eyes with my free arm.

  “See, look at that,” he said, sniffing his tears back. “It shouldn’t take surgery for me to say these things. I should have said them all along. I should have let you run free and explore the wide world instead of slotting you into our little corner of it. Assuming that if it was right for us, it’d be right for you. It was lazy and it was wrong. And while we’re at it, I’ve gotta tell you something else—I was wrong about Oscar.”

  He let go of my hand with a pat, retreating.

  “He’s better with you around, work-wise. Less wound up, more focused. When you’re not here, the music becomes everything. And everything? It’s too much.” Dad sighed. “Hard to believe, but I was like him once . . . not this washed-up wreck.”

  He grinned at his hefty stomach.

  “Nobody in the entire universe thinks you’re washed up, Dad. You premiered a new opera two years ago.”

  “It was flat, everybody knew it. My best years are behind me, and that’s all right. I’m looking toward the future now.”

  I thought he meant Oscar but his eyes were warm on mine.

  “Does Oscar make you better? Happier?”

  “I . . .” I frowned, unsure how to answer. “I’m happy when I’m with him. But he doesn’t make me better. I make me better. And . . . he makes me feel like it’s possible.”

  Dad nodded, but there was something endlessly sad in his smile. His gaze drifted upward, remembering something.

  “Your mom is a brilliant pianist. Just astonishing.”

  My throat clenched. His eyes had drifted, the way they had that night he spoke to me at the piano. He was seeing her right now.

  “Living with me, my last name, my music in the headlines, my work dominating everything—it suffocated her.”

  “Do you miss her?” I glanced at the curtain to see if Alice had come back. “You’ve seemed fine this whole time, so I didn’t—”

  “God, do I miss her?” He started to press a hand to his chest, then, not wanting to alarm me, let it drop. “I’m going to get healthy, Roo. But that?” He pointed to his heart. “That’ll never heal.”

  He seemed proud of it. My face started to crumple, the pain as fresh as the day I’d watched her taxi drive away.

  Dad leaned forward to stop me. “But Ruby, I am glad she left. She had to go. She had to. She survived here as long as she could.”

  Mom was selfish. She was unmentionable. But he held no rancor. Just loss.

  “She shouldn’t have left me.”

  “No,” he said gently. “She shouldn’t have. And I should have brought you into the fold, instead of resorting to business as usual, like we were . . . I don’t know, roommates. I didn’t want you to worry about me. I thought it would help you, but—I should have told you more.”

  “About your health?”

  “That, yes.”

  I squirmed, frustration rising now. “I heard you arguing with Nora and Bill at Amberley. Before . . .”

  I motioned to his chest and my anger retreated.

  “Right. Well, I couldn’t have told you about that one. Not until I knew for sure.”

  I opened my mouth to ask a question, but he cleared his throat the way he always did before a Meet the Conductor talk, so I tucked my legs under me.

  “I’d been . . . vaguely suspicious for a while,” Dad started, eyes fixed on a blank spot on the far wall. “Everything in the open?” He spread his hands like a book. I nodded, yes—open, open, open.

  “Those two were my lifeline when your mother left. They got me through. They and Amberley gave me purpose. They are also . . . in the midst of a long-term affair.” He sighed. “I’d thought that’s all it was, that nagging feeling I got in the back of my mind—the way it feels when somebody’s out of tune. But then I saw the way they latched on to Oscar. And what they were doing with his premiere—major donors, thousand-dollar seats, making him sign away publishing . . .”

  “You were there,” I said, a flat accusation.

  His heart rate picked up. The monitor beeped and quickly resettled.

  “I didn’t stop them,” Dad said, his voice cracking. “I encouraged him to sign the damn thing. I had no idea what he was capable of, that what he would turn out would be this. I thought it would be a minor work, practice, some juvenilia we could frame in the library—not something so . . . monumental. Amberley doesn’t deserve t
he Summer Symphony. We don’t deserve students like Oscar Bell.”

  Bill’s words sprang to mind . . . would you rather have Oscars or Rubys? My stomach twisted with resentment.

  “I felt guilty after that, I’m not gonna lie,” he went on. “I’ve been distracted, and I got carried away by Oscar’s promise, but I should have protected him. So I got smart. Suspicious. I didn’t like the way Nora pulled you in, either. It bugged me from the start, and I couldn’t pinpoint why. She’s your godmother, why shouldn’t she take an interest? But there was something about it I couldn’t shake. So I faced it, I started digging into the school’s financials—and there’s money missing. A lot of money.”

  “How much?”

  “Amberley operates on a paper-thin margin.”

  I leaned forward. “How much?”

  “Enough to shutter the school.”

  “And you’re sure they stole it?”

  “I wasn’t at first. I thought they’d mismanaged it. But they gave themselves away practically the second I asked the question.” A vein pumped in his neck. “The money’s gone. Stolen and mismanaged. They’d been hoping to patch the budget gap with donations from Oscar’s performance and this new diversity fund—which doesn’t even exist! It was a way to throw donations into the general account so they could fudge the numbers before presenting them to the board. It’s a damn mess.”

  “So that’s why Oscar is suddenly the face of Amberley.”

  “It’s too much pressure for a seventeen-year-old kid.” He let out a disgusted huff. “It’s too much for anybody.” His eyes slowly rose to meet mine. “You knew it too. The day of Oscar’s interview. All those questions you asked about the school, its finances—but I didn’t want you to take it on. I . . .” He winced. “No. I just didn’t want you to know. I was an asshole. I should have been proud of you, but it was self-preservation and I—”

  “What now?” I interrupted gently, wary of how tense Dad had gotten over the course of this explanation. “Are you going to tell anyone? Besides me, I mean.”

  “That’s the million-dollar question. Or should I say the eight-hundred-thousand-dollar question.”