by Rico, Lauren
“Julia?” the stage manager sticks his head in the door. “You have got to come with me now,” he says with some urgency.
One moment, I’m looking at him and nodding wordlessly, the next, I’m down on my knees, vomiting in the trashcan.
46
Veteran thrill-seekers know that riding a rollercoaster isn’t all about the euphoria of the fall. There is this moment, when, after a deliciously slow, agonizing ascent, you hover, as if on the very cusp of the earth. For this brief instant, all of the scenery and the noise and distractions of life fade away, giving you an unobstructed view all the way to the horizon. In that one brief, magical moment, everything crystallizes, and you can see what it is you’ve been missing all along. And then, just as you begin to grasp what it is you are seeing, the world drops out from under your feet, and you find yourself hurtling through time and space. I have just had my moment of crystal clarity. Now comes the inevitable, sickening feeling of the free-fall.
I’m in a daze as I take first one shaky step out of the wings, and then another and another, each hollow step echoing across the empty stage. The orchestra doesn’t join me until later in the program, so I’m alone up there. Somehow, I manage to get to my chair without stumbling. On autopilot, I situate myself and slip the cello between my knees. But when I pick up the bow, my right hand is shaking so hard that there’s no way I can draw it across the strings. I don’t know what to do. So I do nothing.
A movement from the audience catches my attention and my eyes are drawn to Jeremy, the handsome, sexy, love of my life. He’s waving at me, a smug little smile on his face. Next to him sits the woman who gave birth to me. I can only gape at the two of them, his words ringing in my ears. I’m aware of some awkward shuffling and murmuring in the audience, but I simply cannot take my eyes off of the two people sitting directly in front of me. How could he do this to me? How could he be so vicious? And now, of all times? I know the answer, of course, but I refuse to believe it.
I can’t do this. There’s no way I can play. If I don’t get off of this stage, I’m going to melt into a pathetic puddle. Okay. I just need to get on my feet and walk the ten steps back off stage. Then I can run. I don’t know where, but it will be far away. Somewhere where I can simply let the darkness envelop me while I try to forget this nightmare.
Just as I grab the neck of the cello so I can move it, I hear clapping. A single set of hands from somewhere out in the vastness of the house. I manage to tear my eyes from Jeremy. There, just a few rows back and to the left, is Matthew. He’s clapping as hard as he can. People around him start to murmur, and a few join him in standing and applauding. He doesn’t take his eyes from mine as row after row of people get to their feet and applaud, for a reason they don’t quite understand.
Matthew gives me a smile and a nod, which tell me everything that is in his heart. He’s silently telling me that it’s going to be okay. That, whatever it is that has sent me into this spiraling descent, he’s going to be by my side and I’m going to be okay. And, just like that, the spell is broken. I don’t have a tissue, so I use the back of my hand to swipe at the tears that have started to spill from my eyes. I nod back at him, get to my unsteady feet and take a small bow in acknowledgement of the audience. Then I hold out my shaking hand in a gesture for them to be seated. I settle back into my own chair, keeping my eyes locked on Matthew’s. I don’t dare move my glance because I know that if catch even a fleeting glimpse of Jeremy, it will all be over. I take a long, deep breath, pick up my bow from the music stand and start to play without preamble.
The Bach Suite, usually so light and buoyant, now has a hint of melancholy around the edges as I play it. Under my fingers, it has turned it into something wistful and nostalgic. I hold the notes a little longer; dig into them a little deeper. Rather than my usual crisp run up the fingerboard, I allow my fingers to linger and rock a little more. This is an entirely different Bach to my ears, and to my heart.
And still, my gaze does not leave Matthew’s. In these minutes I can feel him telegraphing his love to me, his adoration. Without a single word, he is telling me he would walk through fire for me. He would give anything, be anything, do anything to be with me for the rest of his life. I can see all of it in his eyes and he knows it, because we are the only people who can read one another’s souls. He gives me the strength I need to face the piece that brought Jeremy into my world.
When my accompanist begins the slow movement of the Rachmaninoff Sonata, I’m not sure until the very last second that I’ll be able to draw my bow across the strings and act out in music the tale of the lovers. But, when the horsehair touches the gut, something unexpected happens. Every bit of confusion, of hurt and anger seems to wick from my heart, down my arm and to my cello. Like the Bach, this too is an entirely different composition, hauntingly beautiful in its bleakness.
Finally, with the worst of it behind me, the Boccherini Cello Concerto is a relief to me, though my heart isn’t in it. I cannot infuse my pain into this music. It is meant to be lighthearted, and while I’m nailing every note, every phrase, there’s something slightly off about the piece. I know it’s enough to possibly put me out of contention for the gold, but that’s the least of my concerns right now.
If the audience suspects something is amiss, they don’t show it. The standing ovation comes in one swift wave across the concert hall. I catch a glimpse of Matthew, making his way out of his row and up the aisle, undoubtedly coming to meet me backstage. From where I’m standing, I also have a direct line of sight to Jeremy’s seat. At least, what used to be Jeremy’s seat. It’s empty now. Kelly is there though, and she’s crying. Openly weeping as she stands and claps passionately. I turn my head so I don’t have to see her. I’m not sure how long I stand there like that, staring blankly out into the blur of faces, but I jump when I feel the Maestro’s hand on my shoulder.
“Julia,” he whispers, “we should do your encore now.”
I nod and sit once more, and the audience joins me, a hush falling over them.
I don’t hear the harp right away; it seems to come from out of nowhere. And then slowly, oh so slowly, I pull a gossamer thread of sound from my cello. It is The Swan by Saint-Saens. I don’t need to read the music for this; I know it by heart, so I turn my eyes upward, as if looking to heaven. In my right hand, the bow barely skims the strings. All the while, the fingers of my left hand slide easily up and down the fingerboard to find their pitch. They rock back and forth in place to create the slightest quivering vibrato in each note.
I shift and wrap myself around my cello, embracing it, clinging to it as if it is the only thing keeping me afloat. Actually, at this very moment, that’s exactly what it is doing. I turn my eyes to its top scroll as it rests on my shoulder, staring longingly at it as if it is my lover. Actually, at this very moment, that’s exactly what it is. When the last note comes, I draw it out, stretching and stretching and stretching, until it simply isn’t there anymore. Until I’m listening to its shadow.
When it is done, I drop my head to my chest and start to cry. I can’t hold back another second. I can’t hear myself above the roar of applause that has filled the concert hall, but I heave, up and down, my bow hanging down from the arm that has dropped to my side. I want to stay like this until Matthew comes to get me. But then, I remember that day not so very long ago, when he chided me for thinking I was made of glass. I’m not. So I wipe the tears, get to my feet and take one last bow. I acknowledge the Maestro and the orchestra, and hold up my bow with a wave to the audience.
I see Matthew standing, just off of stage left, his arms open and waiting for me. I walk to into them and I collapse.
47
It’s a very specific kind of sleep that comes within the walls of a hospital. A shallow sleep filled with low voices, punctuated by foreign hums and beeps. The lighting is never quite right. It’s too light for night, too dark for day. And there always seems to be someone shuffling in and out of your sphere of consciousness, leaving yo
u wondering what is a dream and what isn’t. It’s a miracle anyone gets better in a hospital.
When I open my eyes again, Matthew is exactly where he was two hours ago, sitting on a hard plastic chair, hunched over the side of my bed and holding my hand.
“Hi,” I say sleepily, squinting my eyes until they can adjust to the florescent lighting above me.
“Hi,” he says, leaning forward. “How’re you feeling?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I don’t know, Matthew,” I say with the slightest hint of irritation. “I feel a lot of things right now. It’s going to take some time for me to sort through them all.”
He nods.
“I understand that. But how are you feeling physically?”
“Tired.”
“You look it,” he agrees.
“Do I?” I ask, suddenly curious. “Take a picture of me.”
“What?”
“With your phone. Take a picture. I don’t have a mirror and I want to see what you’re seeing,” I insist.
He isn’t happy about it, but he does it anyway, and passes me the phone. I take a sharp breath in. I’m not sure I’d have recognized myself had I not known this was me.
My God, I’m so pale that my freckles look like leopard spots across the bridge of my nose. And the circles under my eyes make it look as if someone has punched me. Actually, someone has punched me recently, and I notice the makeup that I’ve been using to camouflage that has worn off. Luckily, Matthew hasn’t made that connection yet. I pass the phone back to him.
“Matthew?”
“Yes, Julia?”
“I want to come home. Can I come home?” I ask quietly.
He wraps his big, strong hand around my small, cold one, rubbing it gently to warm it.
“You never have to ask Julia. I don’t care what’s going on between us. It’s your home for as long as you want it to be. As long as I’m alive, you will have a place with me. No matter what.”
I give him a wan smile.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
There’s been an I.V. line set up in my arm all night, rehydrating my spent body. I’m scheduled to have an iron infusion in a couple of hours. They must have taken a quart of blood from me after I was admitted. From midnight till about three in the morning I was shuttled from floor to floor, for MRI’s, Cat Scans and God only knows what else. Nobody’s said much, and it concerns me that something might be concerning them.
It’s nearly seven in the morning when the doctor finally stops by to see me.
“Well? What is it?” Matthew asks as soon as he steps into the room. “What’s wrong?”
A balding man in his late fifties, Dr. Franklin brings an air of calm into the room with him. He looks from me to Matthew and back again.
“Miss James, perhaps your… friend should step outside for a few moments while you and I speak,” he says.
I shake my head.
“No, thank you for offering, Doctor, but I’d like Matthew to be here for whatever you have to tell me.”
He clears his throat and flips through a few pages on his clipboard chart before speaking again.
“Okay, well, first of all, you’re very dehydrated. The IV fluids should help with that. And, as you know, you’re severely anemic right now. I believe that your rigorous rehearsal and performance schedule and the tremendous stress all contributed to your collapse last night.”
“Well that’s good news,” Matthew says, the relief evident in his voice and on his face. “I was so afraid it was going to be worse…”
“But those aren’t the only issues,” the doctor cuts him off. “Miss James– Julia– did you know you have a hairline fracture on your right wrist?”
I suddenly feel very uncomfortable. Maybe I should have had Matthew step out for this part. Well, it’s too late now.
“I– uh, I thought I might,” I say quietly.
Matthew’s gaze swings to me, his brows knit together.
“Weren’t you in pain when you were playing?” the doctor asks.
Yes, actually.
“A little, I guess. But nothing unbearable,” I say.
“And your face…”
Oh, God. No. Please don’t say it. Matthew is going to lose his mind if the doctor says it.
“There has been some trauma consistent with… well, consistent with a blow.”
Dr. Franklin sits on the edge of the hospital bed and takes his glasses off. He peers at me intensely.
“Julia, has someone been hurting you?”
Matthew is on his feet in a split second, which maybe isn’t his smartest move given that the doctor clearly thinks he might be the one hurting me.
“Sit down!” Dr. Franklin says so firmly that Matthew sits without further comment.
Now, they are both staring at me expectantly, waiting for some kind of answer.
“Matthew,” I start out slowly, softly, “I need you to promise me you’re not going to go running out of here and do something stupid.”
“Julia, did Jeremy hurt you?” he asks in a tone that even I don’t recognize.
“I’m not saying another word until you swear to me that you won’t….”
The doctor looks back at me over his shoulder.
“Your friend isn’t going to do anything foolish because he’d never want to do anything to upset you. Isn’t that right?” he asks Matthew pointedly.
He gets the message, closing his eyes for a second and taking a deep breath to calm himself.
“Okay. I promise, Julia,” he says, clearly between clenched teeth.
Satisfied, I turn my attention back to the doctor.
“Doctor, I’m just getting out of a bad relationship,” I say quietly. “All I can tell you is that it’s over, and I’m not at risk anymore.”
Matthew is beside himself, shaking his head as he fumes internally.
“All right, well, I’m going to suggest you press charges…”
“Damn straight she’ll press charges!”
“I’ll consider that doctor, I will,” I promise, ignoring Matthew’s outburst.
“Good,” Dr. Franklin says as he stands up. “We’ll get a soft cast on the wrist and you’ll need to take a break from playing for a couple weeks.”
I nod my assent.
“Fine. Fine. When can I go home?”
The doctor clears his throat again.
“Well, I think we can discharge you just as soon as my colleague, Dr. White, stops by for a consult. I’ve asked her to do a quick exam.”
“For what? What else is wrong?” I ask, reaching for Matthew’s hand. He’s beside me in an instant and we both stare at the doctor, wondering if he has saved the worst for last.
“Julia, Dr. White is an Obstetrician. You’re pregnant.”
He has.
48
The cavernous concert hall is empty, and it’s freezing. I shrink a little further into my sweater and try to concentrate on the Schubert that Matthew and the other members of the Walton Quartet are rehearsing on the stage, but I can’t. I hear Jeremy’s voice in my head; I pick apart every despicable thing he said to me and try to find some kind of reasonable explanation for his behavior. But there is none. It’s all I can think about, because if I let my mind wander any further, I’ll have to think about that other thing.
“How’s it sounding out there?” Joe Dancy calls out to me from the stage. He’s the leader of the group, and the first violin player, not to mention a nice guy. He’s playing into this charade by asking me the same question every fifteen minutes or so. I don’t feel like shouting anymore, so I give him the thumbs up, and they continue on.
I’m numb. My waking hours are spent in a trance, moving from one room to the next, one task to the next. It’s as if my very bones are restless. I’m not comfortable sitting or standing, reading or watching television. With my arm in a cast, I can’t even use the cello to channel some of this sadness and fear. I’d ho
ped that being here, listening to the music might make me feel a little better, but even the notes of soulful Schubert aren’t able to penetrate the fog that has settled in around me.
Dammit! I am not crazy! He loves me, I know he does. No one could be so loving and attentive and caring and tender without actually feeling something. It’s not possible… is it? No. Of course not, nobody is that good of an actor.
“Ugh,” I grunt to myself and I rub my eyes, as if this will dispel his image from my mind. It doesn’t. In fact, the only time I find any peace at all is when I’m asleep.
I take a tissue from the wad of them in my bag and wipe the tears that have slipped down my cheeks. No. I’m wrong. How could I have been so stupid? Why couldn’t I see him for who he was? These are the questions that plague me all day long. Jeremy Corrigan is handsome, sexy and charming and I wanted so much to believe that someone like that could love me. And now look at me. I’m a fool, and everyone knows it. I shudder to think what people have been saying about me behind my back. He said they’ve been laughing at me all these weeks. They were probably taking bets on when he would kick me to the curb.
“Julia?”
I look up and see Joe on the edge of the stage, peering out at me. Has he been talking to me?
“Uh, yeah, Joe. Sorry, what did you say?” I call back to him, pulling myself out of my own head.
“I was just asking if you think we’d be better off a little further upstage for this piece?”
Seriously? Now they’re just making up things to ask me.
“Nope. Sounds good from here,” I holler back at him, and he nods.
I pretend to be attentive while they chatter and make notes. Matthew looks out at me and smiles periodically. But once they are playing again, I slump back down into my seat.
DING!
I am startled by the noise coming from the phone in my bag. Who the hell would be texting me now? The only person who texts me is busy playing his viola at the moment. Unless of course... No, no way. It can’t be. I know how insane even the thought is, but I can’t help myself, I start to rummage in my bag until I find my phone at the bottom and pull it out.
