Everything You Are: A Novel

by Kerry Anne King

  “Is this what you want?” he demands of the cello. “Really? Isn’t this torture for you, too?”

  She doesn’t answer, and he works a C major scale for fifteen minutes by the clock, one excruciating note after another. The longer he plays, the more his nerves crawl, the more he feels something trying to break loose from the dark, forbidden space at the center of him.

  Anxiety escalates. His hands are shaking, slippery with sweat. His awkward fingers slip off the strings. Beaten, he leaves the cello on her stand and flees the room and the house, walking the streets for hours before finally returning home and falling into a sleep of pure exhaustion.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ALLIE

  “The cello was everything. Without it, I’m nothing. Have nothing.”

  Familiar words. Allie can’t really hold them against her father, because they were already waiting in her own heart, unspoken.

  The truth is, she’s exactly like him.

  When the man brought the cello back, she’d wanted to hug him. Had very nearly dropped to her knees and rocked it like a baby, crooning, seeking forgiveness. All she wants to do right now, this very minute, is to lose herself in the music. But she can’t, she won’t. Not now and not ever.

  The fumbling, broken notes of a scale drift up to her. Her father had played like that after the accident, before he went away. She’d been too little to understand, but now the knowing comes with a fresh burst of heartbreak.

  He’d lost his music. That’s what made him drink, what drove him away. It occurs to her, for the very first time, that the two of them have suffered the same losses. That they might take comfort in shared grieving. Maybe she’ll go down to him. Maybe she’ll forgive him.

  But then she hears the front door slam and knows he’s gone out. Hypocrite, she thinks, he’s off to get drunk again. Torn between relief and disappointment, love and anger, she wanders around her room, picking up things and putting them down, then sifts carelessly through the stack of mail her father has left on her desk.

  None of it has been opened. Today’s offerings are the usual: postcards from universities inviting her to apply, a clothing catalogue, a music catalogue. And one official-looking white envelope from the University of Washington.

  She sits in her chair with the envelope in her hands. She should throw it away unopened. She’s got no business yearning for what she is never going to have, but she’s weak and spineless.

  Tearing the envelope open, she unfolds the letter, the holy grail she’d worked toward since her freshman year.

  Dear Ms. Healey,

  Thank you for your audition on February 12.

  We were surprised by your decision to perform Variations on a Lullaby in place of your original proposal, the Bach Suite No. 5 in C Minor for Unaccompanied Cello. Perhaps you were not aware that we do require a performance of a piece from the traditional repertoire for cello?

  However, we were sufficiently impressed by your obvious talent and skill to invite you to submit a video audition. May we recommend something less demanding than the C Minor? Perhaps Elgar or a Bach prelude.

  Please submit prior to March 30 to be considered for fall semester of 2018.

  Damaged pride claws at her insides. They don’t think she’s capable of the C Minor, that she changed her mind at the last minute out of nerves. Oh, she could show them. She knows the C Minor inside and out, has listened to her father’s recording of the suites every night since he left. Since her very first cello lesson, she has been working on them, one bar at a time. It would be so easy to record the demo and send it in.

  Maybe just to get the acceptance letter, to prove to the world what she can do. Or, maybe she could pull this last semester of high school out of the toilet if she works her ass off and asks her teachers for extra credit. The life she always wanted is still within her reach.

  She shreds both letter and envelope into pieces and throws them in the trash. Exhausted, restless, wanting nothing more than sleep, but afraid of that place between dreaming and waking where the real realities lurk, she opens her laptop.

  Almost immediately, Ethan sends her a message, then opens a video chat.

  He smiles as if she is the single most important being in the universe, his voice tuned perfectly to her ears, and her heart turns over in her chest.

  “I was waiting for you.” Ethan’s voice is a caress.

  “When did you get out?”

  “This afternoon. Had to go to court. My bitch of a mother couldn’t be bothered to bail me out.”

  “I was so worried. Are you okay? Was it horrible?”

  “Could have been worse.”

  “I’m so sorry, Ethan. The party was all my idea.”

  “When can I see you? I missed you.”

  Ethan wants her, wants to be with her. To him, she’s important, even now, as she is.

  “Tomorrow?” she asks. “Might as well keep my no-school streak going.”

  He laughs. “Impressive! How’s your old man handling that?”

  “He doesn’t matter,” Allie says, trying to mean it. “Hey, how about tonight? He’s not even here right now.”

  She loves the way Ethan’s expression shifts to eagerness and maybe even admiration. “You sure? We could meet at the motel. Spend the night together.”

  “Problem. He’s got my car keys.”

  “And I no longer have a license.”

  “Well, there goes that, then,” Allie says. She feels both deflated and relieved, a nagging rational part of herself pointing out how much she hated that motel, that the experience was less than amazing.

  “Are you kidding? I need to see you. I’ll pick you up. In an hour?”

  “In an hour.”

  It gives her time to put on makeup. She’s forgotten to do laundry, and most of her favorite clothes are dirty, but she finds a pair of jeans that are clean enough and a dressy shirt to go with them. Tired of being cold, she grabs her warmest jacket, sexy or not.

  She stands at the top of the stairs, listening, making sure the house is still empty. The downstairs and stairwell are dark and quiet. She hears cello music, even though she knows damn well nobody is home and nobody is playing, and she shivers a little, remembering Phee.

  Haunted, she thinks, and then brushes that thought aside.

  Still, she finds herself creeping down the stairs, skipping over the creaky fourth step, as if the cello will hear her. There’s nothing to prevent her from walking out the front door, but instead she slips out the back, opening it slowly and closing it as gently as she can. It always sticks a little, and she has to give a firm tug, but she’s outside now. The air is cold but not quite freezing. A full moon lights the sky, creating shadows on the lawn. Allie sneaks around the side of the house, breath held, with only a minute to spare.

  Ethan is right on time. She hears the motorcycle coming and runs out to the curb. Without taking time to put on a helmet, she swings up behind him.

  “Quick!” she says, a rush of unreasonable fear sending a burst of adrenaline through her body.

  She turns her cheek into the shelter of his shoulder and closes her eyes, arms tight around his waist, and stays that way. When he stops the bike and kills the engine, she looks up, expecting the dark, grungy parking lot of the motel. Instead, she sees neon lights and smells French fries and something savory. Her mouth waters in response. She’s hungry, even after the dinner and cookies Phee’s mother fed her earlier.

  “I’ve never taken you on a real date,” Ethan says. “Dinner? Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  Her heart swells and she feels the smile blossoming. A real smile, not a made-up one. He really does understand, she thinks. He knows what I need without me even telling him.

  “How did you know I was hungry?”

  “I know everything about you, Allie. You’re the girl I want to spend forever with.”

  His hand wraps around hers, warm and strong. Admiring eyes follow them as they walk in and sit down, and she feels lucky to be ch
osen by him. Half an hour later, with a hamburger and fries warming her empty belly, rock music drowning out the ever-present cello, and Ethan’s eyes gazing into hers across the table, soul to soul, she feels better than she has any right to feel.

  Ethan leans forward so he can be heard over the music.

  “So. Was the party worth staying alive for?”

  Allie’s heart stops. Her hand freezes halfway to her mouth, the French fry dripping ketchup onto the table.

  “No,” she whispers.

  “Neither was jail.”

  “Ethan, I’m sorry—”

  He waves off the words. “I’m done, Allie. With this world. There’s nothing in it to hold me. Except you.”

  “Well, good?” she says, having no idea what to say, really. “I’m glad you’re in it, too, Ethan.”

  “I don’t want to stay in it.” His eyes are so compelling, his voice speaking to her own desire to just let everything go. “So if you came with me . . .”

  Allie drops the fry, her appetite gone. Wipes up the ketchup smear with a napkin, giving herself a minute, just one, to get her brain working again.

  Ethan reaches for her hands. “Look at me, Allie.”

  She does, losing herself in the darkness of his gaze.

  “Give me one reason why we shouldn’t do this.”

  “What if it’s worse? The other side, I mean.”

  He smiles, dark and dazzling. “And what if it’s beautiful? I think it will be. You know? To make up for how fucked up everything is here.”

  “I don’t know,” she says. Hope or no hope, her soul recoils from the idea of death.

  Ethan’s smile fades. He drops her hands, leans back in his chair. “I want you to come with me, so much. I don’t want to go alone. But I will. You have two days to think about it.”

  “That’s all? Come on, Ethan. This is huge. A week, at least.”

  He shakes his head. “Two days. I’ll be at the motel, same room as before. If you want to come with me, be there.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then this is goodbye.”

  Allie shivers, all of the warmth of the burger joint unable to touch her. The smell of fries and burgers turns her stomach.

  Ethan leans forward again, taking both of her hands in his warm ones. His eyes gaze into hers with mesmerizing intensity. He lowers his voice, making his words a secret just between the two of them.

  “Come on, Allie. Please. Die with me. Say yes.”

  “Yes.”

  She’s surprised by the relief that washes over her. Yes. She can let go of everything. The cello and the broken relationship with her father. Her guilt. The wasteland of a life stretching ahead of her.

  “That’s my girl. I knew you’d be the one.”

  “Why wait?” she asks. “If we’re going to do it, why not just—do it?”

  “No way! People spend a year planning for a wedding, you know? This is the most important day of our lives. It needs to be a ceremony.”

  “What do I need to do?”

  “Leave it all to me, Allie. Just leave it all to me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  PHEE

  Phee has a name and a town, and it turns out that’s all she needs. Josephine Conroy is the only woman of that name in Colville, Washington. Her number is in the directory, and she answers on the second ring. A TV is loud in the background and the music is loud in Phee’s head and she’s already on edge. She consciously wills her fingers to relax their grip on the phone, tries to slow her breathing.

  “Is this Josephine Conroy?”

  A brief pause, canned TV laughter in the background. Then: “Sorry, I don’t want any.”

  “Wait!” Phee blurts. “Please. I’m a friend of Braden’s and I need to talk to you.”

  “Who is this?” The voice is sharp, but Phee hears the sound of a door closing, and the TV noise mercifully fades.

  She’d meant to lie, but in response to this woman’s directness, the only real approach is honesty. “My name is Ophelia MacPhee. Your brother isn’t doing so well and—”

  “That’s the understatement of the century.”

  “I’m trying to help him, but I need to know—”

  “How do you know him? Because if you’re some reporter snooping around for what you lowlifes call backstory so you can dredge up the old tragedy and hook it to the new one, you can just go directly to hell.”

  Phee reminds herself to breathe. “I’m not a reporter, Josephine. I—”

  “See, that’s the thing. Nobody calls me that except telemarketers. So if you’re really a friend of his, then you’d know better.”

  “He doesn’t exactly talk about his family a lot,” Phee shoots back, her voice sharpening.

  To her great surprise, the woman on the other end laughs. “Point for you, Ophelia.”

  “Nobody calls me that. It’s Phee.”

  “Jo.”

  “All right, Jo. I’m the luthier in charge of the cello. So you’re right, it’s not like Braden and I are close. But I’m worried. He’s not playing. Now Allie’s not playing.”

  “Maybe in light of the recent tragedy, that’s expected. For the girl. Braden hasn’t been able to play in years. Ever since . . .” A short silence. A breath. “Ever since what happened. But I’d guess you know about that or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “I only know what was in the papers. He won’t talk about it. I feel like I could help him more if I knew what happened to him.”

  “Nobody knows. That’s the thing. Mitch is the only one, and he . . . Look. Maybe you mean well, but after all these years, I don’t see how any of this could be helpful. I really do need to go now.”

  “If he could play again, though. He says he’s nothing without the music. It’s what started him drinking, he says.”

  A long silence stretches out, and Phee bites her tongue to keep from filling it.

  “I always blamed Lilian for that,” Jo finally says. “A real princess, she was. Wanted to be up on a pedestal with him kneeling at her feet. I always thought what broke him was her kicking him to the curb, but maybe you’re right about the music. Are you sure you’re not a reporter? I’ve talked too much already. I’ll need to clear you with my brother before I say any more—”

  “Jo, wait! He doesn’t know—”

  Phee is talking to herself. Damn it. She should have lied about her name. Now Braden will know she’s digging. She tosses the phone onto her mother’s kitchen table in disgust and looks up to see Bridgette, hands on hips, glaring at her.

  “What are you up to, Ophelia MacPhee?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Try again.”

  “Making a phone call.”

  Bridgette pulls out a chair and sits, waving the phone at Phee. “Is this about that poor girl’s father?”

  Phee gives in. Her mother will win sooner or later; it’s a waste of energy trying to hold out.

  “Yes. About him, and about Allie, too.”

  “And one of your grandfather’s instruments, is it?” Bridgette’s voice is unexpectedly gentle, and Phee’s resistance melts.

  “It’s all such a mess,” she says. “Braden’s supposed to be playing the cello, but he has this injury to his hands and can’t play. So, he drinks. And then Allie . . . well, before I brought Allie over here the other day, she left this on her mother’s grave.” She smooths Allie’s letter out on the table, watches the sadness transfer from the paper to Bridgette’s face as she reads.

  “Poor lass. Does he know this? Her father?”

  Phee shakes her head. “I doubt it. She’s not talking to him.”

  “Will you tell him?”

  “She needs to tell him herself. And she needs to play again.”

  Bridgette folds the letter up and pushes it away from her before leaning forward and making eye contact with her daughter. “Phee. Listen to me, and listen to me closely. These people’s lives are not your responsibility. I know you learned something about cod
ependency in those AA meetings.”

  “This isn’t codependency. Probably.” She laughs at the familiar expression on her mother’s face, but it’s a half-hearted laugh and she’s quickly serious. “I know, I know. But I can’t take the chance that Granddad was right. I have to—”

  “You have to do nothing. I’ll never forgive the old man for laying this on you. I know you adored him, Phee, and he was a wonderful person, but he was half crazy.”

  “So you keep telling me.”

  “Here’s what I didn’t tell you. He came home from the war seriously ill, your grandmother said. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, raving about hearing music when there clearly was none to hear. His family admitted him to a psych unit. He was medicated and sedated. When they let him out, he seemed fine on the surface, but he was obsessed with his instruments.”

  Phee thinks about a certain envelope in her cedar chest, the one she has never yet opened. The one her grandfather told her contains the secret rite that finishes a MacPhee creation off properly. “Only open it if you wish to create a binding oath,” he said. She’s considered burning it, unopened, about a million times, but it’s still there, lurking at the bottom of the trunk.

  “What about his father?” Phee asks. “And grandfather? Were they all crazy, too? What about Dad? Because he said this shit has been handed down for generations.”

  “Insanity can be generational. It’s possible. Your father wasn’t touched by it. But he takes after his mother’s side of the family more than the MacPhees. Maybe only some of them were crazy and just sold the story to the next of kin. The point is, curses aren’t real. This oath he bound you to isn’t real. You don’t have to do any of this.”

  “I do, though.” Phee thinks uneasily about the music she hears all the time now, and wonders if her turn in the psych unit is coming. “I would, anyway, whether I’d ever sworn an oath or not. This is beyond Granddad’s stuff, Mom. Not playing is tearing the both of them apart.”

  Bridgette’s sharp eyes scan her face. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you? The cellist.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “It’s written all over you. All these years I’ve been waiting for you to fall in love. Sooner or later, I tell myself. One of these days, the right man will walk into her life and she’ll be unable to resist. She’ll forget all about this insanity of her grandfather’s and make a family. And now some broken-down alcoholic cellist walks on stage and he’s the one?”