Find Me in the Dark

by Ashe, Karina

  Chapter 3

  I grip my sheets and sit up in bed, panting. Hair sticks to my face and neck. My heart beats so fast it feels like it’s about to break free of my ribcage.

  It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the dark, and another second for me to realize I’m my shoe box dorm room, not a narrow, dark alley that smells like fast food and exhaust.

  I shut my eyes and exhale slowly, trying to slow my heart. I hadn’t had the dream in so long. Why was it starting up again now?

  I can still see my mother. I see her unseeing eyes looking back at me, cloudy as a winter sky. My mother’s eyes were expressive and elegant, like moonstone or some other gem found deep inside the earth, forged by fire and pressure and found only when one dug deep into rock. Other people’s eyes lied to me, but my mother’s never did. I often asked her what she saw when she looked at the world, and she’d just smile and rub the top of my head. She couldn’t describe what she saw because she had nothing to compare it to, but she tried. She said it sounded like a Romantic sky, so I imagined her world as the backdrop of a shipwreck, surrounded by dangerous clouds that a part of you couldn’t help but want to be swallowed by because they were so beautiful.

  But that’s not what the dream was about. It was always about the boy with the gun.

  I hated that so often when I remembered her, he was there. I should have seen him earlier, but it my first time in New York City—in any big city, actually—and I was too giddy to notice much of anything. I was being offered a scholarship. A scholarship! It was crazy. I told my mother it wasn’t necessary to come, but she’d insisted. She wanted to see her girl succeed.

  We were lost, and both of us instinctively knew we shouldn’t be on that street. My mother gripped my arm as I searched the map. We’d gotten off on the wrong subway stop. It should have been the yellow one instead of the orange one, or the orange one instead of the red one, or something like that. I was telling her it was going to be alright, that we were almost there.

  Then I looked up and saw him.

  His eyes were blue. It was cruel, almost, how beautiful they were. That was what I was thinking about when he shot her.

  The noise startled us both. He took a trembling step back, knocking over a trash can, his eyes never leaving mine. I saw the regret in them before I realized what he’d done. Then my mother’s grip on me went lax and she started to fall.

  I tried to grab her waist to hold her up but my grip slipped. Something slick seeped through her coat. I noticed my wrists were red.

  I screamed, going down with her.

  I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t move her, but I needed to stop the blood. I pressed my wrists to her stomach, hoping the pressure would be enough, but it just made her bleed out faster.

  Then her red hand wrapped around mine. Her lips parted.

  “Don’t say anything,” I commanded.

  She didn’t. Instead she looked up at the sky, as clouded over as her eyes were, and gripped my hand as if she wanted to take me to whatever place she saw above.

  It felt like an eternity passed before the sirens came. I don’t know who called them. We were alone in that alley, and I was too disoriented to do anything but push my hands into my mother’s wound. Maybe the boy did. In the end it didn’t matter. She died twenty minutes away from the hospital.

  I pull my knees to my chest and bury my face in them. I don’t want to think of this. I don’t want to remember. Whenever I do, I become a different person. Someone I don’t recognize. Someone who is capable of hate.

  I hate his clear blue eyes. I hate that I was looking at them instead of her, that I admired them so much I didn’t even see the gun.

  I hate that I failed to protect her.

  I hate him so much.

  My hands shake as I grip the sheets and pull them tighter around my legs. After a while I glance at my clock. 5am. I won’t be able to get back to sleep. Then again, I don’t want to at this point. I want to forget, and to forget I need to force down everything I don’t want to think about. I can’t do that when I’m sleeping; I have no discipline in my dreams.

  I stand up and pace. It only takes three steps to go from one end of my room to the other, so I tire of this quickly. I want to play, but it’s too early. Still, I open my cello case and run my fingers over the strings.

  For a long time I blamed my cello for killing my mother. If I hadn’t gotten that scholarship, we never would have come to the big city. I think it hurt so much because the entire reason I started playing was because of her.

  When I was little, I couldn’t make cards or lumpy coil pots for my mother. Well I could, but since she couldn’t see what I made I saw little point in arts and crafts. But my mother loved music.

  She always looked so happy when she sat and listened to a record in our little kitchen, and I wanted her to look at me that way. The only instrument we owned was her grandfather’s cello. After begging her for lessons, she found a professor at the local university who offered subsidized lessons for low-income children.

  My mother loved to sit and listen to me play, so I practiced every day. The professor thought I was a child prodigy, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I was a slow learner, but there was nothing in the world I wanted more than to give my mother a gift she could appreciate, so I practiced obsessively. The cello became my life.

  I stop rubbing the strings, shut my eyes and breathe deeply.

  I didn’t play for six months after her death. I didn’t want to love the cello anymore. I felt like loving it was disrespectful to her. One day, I decided to play one last time. As I sank into the song, I remembered how she sat and listened to me—how nothing made her happier—and it felt like I’d found a part of her that still existed, somehow, in my song.

  I vowed to never stop playing again. The cello was the instrument of my grief and my salvation.

  I press my fingers into the cello’s neck. I want to play so much right now that my hand aches, but I can’t. My friends are sleeping next door.

  I pace again. My three steps to the edge of my bed are short and fast. And then I remember that I hid his rose in my bedside table.

  The loose handle wobbles as I pull the drawer open. In the dark, the white rose looks blue. Most of the petals are smashed or have fallen.

  I touch the soft petals. My heart races. Tomorrow. What had he meant by that?

  I close the drawer and resume pacing. I’ll find out soon.

  Chapter 4

  There’s no letter waiting for me that morning. I try to tell myself it’s nothing, but it’s hard to convince myself. There’s always been a letter. Still, it’s early. He might be late today, but what does that mean? All I have to go on is his cryptic ‘tomorrow.’ Maybe he’d meant that I wouldn’t see him again after tomorrow and…

  Get a grip, I chastise. I know I’m being a neurotic mess. I know this entire situation is pure insanity. But I can’t help it. He spoke to me yesterday, and then cut off communication.

  Or maybe he just decided to sleep in.

  Ugh, I have to stop this! I step back inside and lean against the front door with a sigh just in time to see Cassie racing down the second half of the staircase.

  She almost falls down the last two steps as she glances inside her open canvas bag to make sure everything is in place. She seems satisfied, because she bursts forward with a short nod, almost knocking me over.

  “Aaaah!” Cassie yells, swerving to the right as I do the same. I grimace as her head hits my collarbone.

  “Oh my god, Laura. I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

  “It’s nothing,” I tell her.

  She isn’t really listening. “Shit. Are you alright?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say.

  She cocks her head to the side. “Aren’t you going to be late?” she points out. “Generally you’re out of here before I am.”

  Damn! How did she know my schedule so well? Wait, of course she knows my schedule. We’ve been living togethe
r for almost three years. “Just got a late start,” I mumble.

  “You don’t even have your cello case with you.” She frowns as she grips the doorknob. “What are you doing hanging out by the front door? Are you expecting something?”

  I freeze. “No. I just thought it might be fun to go to class with you.”

  Her eyes narrow. “But our schools aren’t even in the same direction.”

  Shit.

  Worst. Lie. Ever.

  But can she really blame me for thinking up such a lame explanation this early in the morning? Wait, it isn’t like I can tell her that’s what why I said such a ridiculous thing, even though it’s obvious I’m hiding something, and…

  “I mean, not walk to class with you,” I babble. “I just wanted to say good morning to you before you left.”

  She steps forward, dark eyes softening with concern. “Are you feeling okay Laura?”

  I sigh again and slump against the wall. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

  Cassie rubs my shoulder. “You’ve been working so hard lately. It’s alright to take a break once in a while.”

  “Yeah, I’m just…” I have no idea what I am. “Yeah,” I finish lamely.

  “Yeah,” she repeats, emanating concern.

  “Well, I have to get going.” I need to get away from that damn empty mailbox and Cassie. I hate lying to my friends so much, but they wouldn’t understand this. Hell, even I don’t understand this. It’s creepy and all kinds of fucked up, and I need it like I need air.

  She glances at her bag. “We could skip class. Go get coffee.”

  “Thanks,” I smile. “But it would be bad if I missed this class, and you can’t bail on your thesis appointment with Professor McMillan.”

  She bites her lip. “Laura…”

  “I’m fine, really. We should both just go.”

  “You can tell me if anything’s wrong,” she says. “I mean, I wish you would tell me.”

  My eyes feel dry. Guilt swarms in my chest. “I’m okay, just tired,” I say with such certainty that even I almost believe it.

  I try to make as little noise as possible as I sneak into my advanced Music Theory class. Unfortunately, luck is not with me. As if it wasn’t bad enough that the door is in the front of the room, it closes with a bang. Then, the my chair wails against the linoleum as I pull it out to sit.

  A few of my friends in the class give me pitying glances. Professor Cade turns to me with a grin. “Good to see you, Laura.”

  “Yeah.” I shrink in my seat as he continues as if I hadn’t just rudely interrupted his lecture.

  Professor Cade is half-Moroccan, half-Irish, and (according to every single girl in the music department) 100% hottie. As if his deep chocolate eyes and muscular, mocha skin wasn’t enough to make us swoon, he was also a genius. His major interests are Celtic music, jazz, and African tribal music. Today’s class is on Sub-Saharan cross-rhythms.

  He plays. After a few minutes, my nerves begin to soften as I dissolve into the complex beats. I sometimes feel insignificant when I compare the music I make on my cello to things like this. There’s something beautiful about that primal energy that no amount of artifice can ever compete with. The pure, unrefined sound of the drum makes the music seem simpler than it really is.

  The rest of class goes by quickly. Professor Cade’s classes always do. It’s impossible to not be drawn in by his passion.

  By the end of class, I’ve almost forgotten my inelegant entrance. However, my nerves come back with a vengeance when he turns to me after class. “Laura, do you mind staying a few minutes?”

  Worry knots in my stomach. Just barely, I nod. My friend Stacy grins as she gets up from her seat. “Lucky,” she whispers with a wink.

  I roll my eyes as I grab my bag and head to the front of the room. Professor Cade is sitting on his desk. “So, how was your summer?”

  “Pretty good,” I answer honestly. I didn’t do much, mostly practiced and hung out with my friends, but I did spend a few weeks with my foster mother. I’d gotten really lucky after my mother died. I could have ended up anywhere, facing everything alone, but instead was taken in by a woman who had given me the space and support I needed. The worst thing about living in New York was that I didn’t get to see her often. Still, she understood. This was where my friends were. Where I’d decided to start my new life. And he—whoever he was—was here.

  Alright, maybe she didn’t know about that last part.

  “Good,” Professor Cade says slowly.

  I don’t like the sudden shift of tone in his voice.

  “Have you thought more about performing with Bruigh na Boinne?”

  My stomach drops. Of course this is what he’d ask about. Why did I expect anything different? “I really don’t know if it’s my thing…”

  “I know you don’t have an interest in singing professionally, but I think that’s why you’re perfect for the group.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  He laughs. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not like you’d be up there alone.”

  “I’m not worried about that.”

  He tilts his head, expression concerned. “What are you worried about, then?”

  “It just doesn’t seem right for me.”

  “It’s perfect for you,” he reassures. I raise my eyebrows. “Alright, maybe not perfect,” he amends, “but you’ll do a great job.”

  “Just because I’m the only person who can sing in our folk music class who isn’t otherwise engaged?”

  “Look, it’s true I was hoping we could use Krista, but you will also do an excellent job.”

  I sigh. Krista is ridiculously talented. After interning in an opera house chorus last winter, she’d headlined their young artist’s summer opera. The director putting on the Winter performance of La Bohème had seen her performance offered her role of Musetta. Needless to say, she’d accepted.

  “Krista sings, like, two octaves higher than I do,” I remind him. I don’t tell him he’d be better off offering the part to our resident tenor, Phillip.

  “That doesn’t matter. This is folk music.” Professor Cade studies me. “The ensemble might even work better with a more soulful, unique voice.”

  Well, that was a nice way of saying I was untrained. “I regret getting drunk with all of you during finals and singing karaoke.”

  “Hey, you rocked Toni Braxton. I think you’re the only other girl on the planet who can give such a convincing performance of He Wasn’t Man Enough.”

  I glare at him.

  He laughs. “Look, just think about it. And while you’re thinking about it, remember that those who participate in the group do not have to take a final. Also remember that some of the performances are paid gigs.”

  I chew on my lip. Not taking a final is always good, and so is money. Wait a second, am I really letting him push me into this? “You’re going to tell me to keep thinking about this until I say yes, aren’t you?”

  He grins. “Does that mean you’ll think about it?”

  Ugh! Damn his dimples! He totally knows what those do to girls. “Okay,” I say, resigned.

  His eyes light up. “Okay you’ll do it?”

  “No! That’s an ‘okay, I’ll think about it.’”

  “Don’t think too hard!” He yells as I turn around and pick up my bag. “And one more thing,” he adds, getting up and rushing to the door to open it for me. “Are you feeling alright?”

  I frown. The question throws me off guard.

  “You looked upset during class.”

  Instinctively, I grab the strap of my bag. It’s stupid because it’s a nervous tick and it looks like one, so he’ll know something’s up. “I’m alright,” I say, hoping he’ll buy it.

  I’m not about to tell him about the nightmares. I’ve only told my foster mother, Dolly, Cassie, and Anna about my past, and that was mostly because it’s hard to hide something like that when you wake up screaming in the middle of the night. And I don’t tell anyone ab
out the letters.

  His chocolate eyes look at my hand and narrow with concern. “Alright. If there’s anything you want to talk about, just know I’m always here.”

  “Thanks,” I say, throat tight. I want to tell him more, but his concern makes things worse. It makes me remember all the things I’m trying so hard to forget.

  He pats my shoulder. “Okay. I won’t push anymore, but promise me you’ll think about Bruigh na Boinne.”

  I smile. “Hey, I already did.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.” His grin looks as tight and forced as mine.

  I have an hour until I’m due to meet the girls for lunch, so I head back to our dorm.

  My breath comes out in great, white puffs as I do my best to pump my arms. It’s hard to book it with a cello. I know he said he was always watching, but I really hope he isn’t watching now.

  It doesn’t look like anyone else is home, thank God. The mailbox creaks as I open it and reach inside.

  My hand slips over smooth artisan paper.

  He didn’t leave. How relieved I am frightens me. I snatch the letter and duck past the trellis, into the small sanctuary we call the courtyard even though it’s not much of a courtyard—just a bench about three feet away from the wall that separates our place from the street.

  Usually I wait to open his letters until I know for certain that I’m alone, but my heart is beating too fast. I sit with my back to the trellis. Everyone’s busy with classes. I know that. And yet, I’m afraid someone will see me here, reading this thing. My hands shake so much I have to try twice to open the letter.

  I read quickly, skipping over lines and then rereading them.

  I thought of you all last night. The memory of you was so real that I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t do anything, almost, I couldn’t even write of it until this morning. You smell like apples and juniper. Do you know that? So sweet and earthy. I felt as if I could sink into you.

  I push my knees together. The stone bench is cold and unforgiving, but I barely notice.