Everything You Are: A Novel

by Kerry Anne King

  “But you don’t.”

  “No, I . . . start thinking about Mitch again. Blaming him. It’s all his fault. He did this. He pushed Lilian into the affair, and it’s all his fault that I have to give up music. I need to go talk to him, tell him to stay away from Lil and the kids. Make him swear he’ll keep this whole thing a secret. I tell myself I just want to talk to him, but really I want to hit him.

  “I’m furious, desperate. As soon as I step outside, the wind hits me, cuts right through my shirt, but I don’t go back for a jacket. It’s snowing like crazy, wind blowing, drifts above the tops of my tennis shoes, but I don’t feel it.

  “Mitch is sitting in a camp chair beside the fire, still drinking. When he sees me, he . . . asks me to talk about it. Offers me a drink.”

  “What do you do?” Len asks.

  “I sit down. I start drinking. And we just sit there. I’m thinking a little more clearly, tell myself I just need to make him agree to keeping his mouth shut and then I’ll go.”

  Braden stops talking again. Phee looks around the circle, all of the faces watchful, waiting. Allie still plays, tears flowing down her cheeks.

  “So you drink for a while,” Len prompts. “And then what happens?”

  “And then I just tell him, ‘I’m going home to her. You need to keep your mouth shut.’ He doesn’t answer. I tell him I want him to promise to break it off with Lilian, that nobody else needs to get hurt. We won’t tell Jo, or the kids. This stays between us.”

  “What does he say?” Len asks.

  “‘Who says you get to decide?’ That’s what he says.

  “‘My wife. My kids,’ I tell him.

  “‘Trey’s not,’ he says. He starts laughing, like the whole thing is a joke. ‘We could fight for her,’ he says.”

  Braden stops talking. He just lies there, breathing rapidly.

  “What are you feeling?” Len prompts.

  “Everything is black around the edges, I’m so mad. I punch him in the jaw. He’s drunk, he’s not ready, the chair tips over backward. He stays right there in the snow, legs in the air. Still got the can clutched in his hand. My hand hurts, but it hurts good.

  “‘That the best you can do?’ he says. He sets the can in the snow and rolls over onto his hands and knees, staggers up onto his feet. He spreads his arms out wide. ‘I’m a sporting man. Let’s make it fair. You get one more hit free before I flatten you.’

  “I . . . I lunge at him, head butt him in the chest. We go down together, me on top. He says, ‘Missed your chance, music boy. Should have taken what I offered.’

  “I . . . I punch him in the nose. Blood splatters on my face. Mitch, he’s stronger, heavier. He flips me somehow. I’m on my back, can’t breathe. Snow down my back, down inside my jeans. He’s gonna hit me, any second, only he doesn’t, he’s . . . he’s crying. Blood dripping down on my face from his nose, tears and blood all over his face.

  “‘You and that fucking cello,’ he says. ‘You made this mess, and now I’m the bad guy.’ He says it broken, not mad anymore. I feel desperate, sick, I don’t want to puke while I’m lying on my back. He’s drunk, crying. I tip him off, get up.

  “Mitch gets up, too. He . . . doesn’t look good. He’s breathing too hard, through his mouth because of his nose. His hand is pressed against his chest. I think maybe I’ve broken his ribs.

  “He lunges at me, and I just . . . step aside. And he, he trips on something. His arms are flailing. He goes down on his hands and knees. And then he’s just, he’s not there. Like, he disappeared.

  “I think he must have fallen into a snowdrift, I wait for him to sit up. But there’s nothing.”

  There’s sweat on Braden’s forehead. He pauses, breathing hard. Phee wants to wipe it away, to touch him, reassure him. She scoots over beside the pullout couch, her hand hovers. Len warns her off with a vigorous shake of his head.

  “What are you doing, Braden? Talk to me.”

  “I’m looking for Mitch. Can’t find him anywhere. Oh God. No.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m on the lake. The ice keeps giving beneath my feet. There’s water on the surface, it’s soaking my shoes. Mitch was standing here. He must have fallen through.”

  He gasps. “Cold. Oh my God, that’s cold. In up to my knees. Can’t feel my feet.”

  Braden begins to shiver, his breathing rasping in his throat.

  Dynamite, Len said. Unpredictable. But Phee didn’t think it would be like this. It’s not like she was expecting performance art, or a parlor trick of “Oh, now I remember, my hands are cured, let me play a song for you.” But she wasn’t prepared for this. She feels sick with fear. Allie stops playing. Jo goes to her, and Allie buries her face in her chest. Steph and Katie hold hands, their faces stricken.

  “What’s happening, Braden?” Len’s face and voice are still calm, placid, even.

  “I’m trying to find him. There’s a hole in the ice. I’m feeling around, but there’s just water and ice. My hands are numb, it’s so cold, can’t see, it’s so dark and the snow won’t stop.

  “I feel something. Maybe a sleeve. Can’t get a grip on it. Keeps slipping away. Got his hand, but he’s too heavy. I can’t get him out. My hands keep slipping. ‘Mitch! Goddamn it, help me out.’

  “He’s not moving. Oh God.”

  “What’s happening, Braden?” Len’s voice again, so calm. An anchor for all of them.

  “Fell in. Cut my face on something. Whole body getting numb. I’ve got to get him out now. Last chance.” Braden’s voice has begun to slur, his breath coming in gasps as though he’s been running. Another moment of silence, and then: “Off the lake. So tired. Must keep moving. God, he’s so heavy. He won’t wake up. Is he breathing? Can’t tell. Can’t feel a pulse.

  “Gotta get him warm somehow. Dragging him. Up the steps. Legs won’t work now. Too hard to get up. On my ass, one step at a time. Dragging him. Top of the stairs, across the deck. The door. Can’t turn the knob. Can’t break down the door. Can’t stop here, so close.”

  “What’s happening, Braden?”

  “So tired. Got the door. We’re in the cabin. He’s not breathing. Nobody’s face should be this color. He’s dead, I let him die.”

  Phee’s throat, her chest, burn with his anguish, tears blurring her vision. Again, she wants to go to Braden; again, Len warns her off.

  “Braden, listen to me now. Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  “It was an accident. You tried to save Mitch, but he was not able to be saved. Do you know why that is?”

  “His heart.”

  “Yes. He had a massive heart attack. There was nothing you could have done. What happened was not your fault. Repeat these words, now. It was not my fault.”

  “Not my fault,” Braden says.

  “Your body is warming from the inside. Do you feel it?”

  A moment, then a nod.

  “The warmth is traveling outward, through your muscles, into your skin. Sensation is returning.”

  Braden’s breathing slows, his shivering subsides.

  “You can feel your toes, your feet, your legs. No pain, just a sensation of pleasant warmth, all through your extremities. You can move your fingers, they are flexible. There is no pain. Sensation returns, little by little, softly. Your hands, your fingers, are waking from a long sleep, refreshed. Ready to work for you.”

  Braden opens and closes both hands. Moves each finger in turn.

  “And now, I’m going to bring you back,” Len’s smooth voice says. “I will count backward from three, and when I get to one, you will wake up. You will feel warm and comfortable. You will remember that an accident happened and that you made a heroic effort to save a man who had wronged you. And you will have full sensation restored to your hands and your fingers. I’m going to count now. Three, beginning to come back to this room and the people who love you. Two, whole in mind, body, and spirit. One, with your full memory restored.”

  His voice falls s
ilent. Braden’s eyes flicker open, glazed at first, then sharpening into intelligent awareness.

  Allie runs to him and throws her arms around his neck. Moving slowly, as if he’s a little dazed, Braden strokes her hair and pats her back.

  “I’m okay,” he says.

  “Heart attack. I told you.” Jo’s face is wet with tears. “He did it to himself.”

  “I hit him,” Braden argues.

  “He provoked you. You can share the blame if you want, but you can’t have all of it. Stupid menfolk, fighting over a woman.” Jo laughs a little, scrubbing the tears from her face.

  “What happened then?” Allie asks, sitting cross-legged beside him. Her eyes are dark and intent on his. “Between you and Mom. If you chose our family, and Uncle Mitch was dead, why did you leave us?”

  “It was just . . . over between us. After I came home, your mom couldn’t bear to look at me. I didn’t remember about her and Mitch; the memory was already gone when I woke up in the hospital. We never talked about it. When I told her I didn’t remember what happened, how he died, she cried about that for days. It must have torn her apart. I think . . . she blamed me. I started drinking.”

  “She shouldn’t have tried to take away your music,” Allie says fiercely.

  “Or yours,” he answers. “You’re going to keep playing, yes?”

  Allie nods. “I couldn’t bear to stop a second time.”

  “God, I feel tired,” Braden says.

  “I’m sure,” Len says. “Take it easy for a bit, let this settle in. You’ll maybe have bits of memory coming in for days now that the floodgates are open.”

  Jean goes to the kitchen and comes back with a glass of water. “Drink up.”

  “How did you know I’m desert dry?”

  “Just had a feeling.”

  He says nothing about his hands. Nobody asks. Allie sits tucked under his arm, and all of his focus is on her. At last, he looks up, reads the question in Phee’s eyes.

  He lifts his hands, bends his fingers, then shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Phee,” he says. “Miracles only go so far.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  PHEE

  Phee carefully tunes the violin, tucks it under her chin, and plays a few measures. The action is good, everything feels right, but the tone isn’t quite what she would like it to be. Not surprising. The wood needs to season and settle before she’ll know if her new creation is mediocre, good, or great.

  Still, a glow of accomplishment floods through her, as it does every time she completes a new instrument. And, as also always happens when she completes a new instrument, she thinks about the unopened letter in her trunk upstairs, wonders what it might teach her. Maybe someday she’ll read it, learn her grandfather’s darkest secrets, but she will never, ever, add a brand-new MacPhee instrument to the specials on her list.

  She’s had enough of meddling with dynamite to last her for a good long time.

  Since her return from the cabin five months ago, she’s had one letter from Braden, handwritten and sent through the post office to the shop.

  April 2, 2018

  Colville, WA

  Phee,

  (Not “dear Phee,” she notes, certainly not “dearest,” or “darling,” but she should be grateful he’s communicating with her at all.)

  I know you will worry, so I’m writing to update you on our status.

  Thank you for the offer you made when the Angels all headed back to Seattle, but we won’t be requiring a ride back home anytime soon. Allie and I have agreed to stay on at the cabin through the summer. It’s good for her to spend time with Jo, and good for me, too, I admit.

  We’ve hired a service to keep an eye on the house and tend to the yard.

  It’s peaceful here, a good place to think and to heal. Allie plans to retake her last semester of high school classes in the fall.

  The cello is well and I believe happy. Allie plays every day, for hours, and I’ve been acting as her teacher. Hopefully this will be enough to keep your curse at bay.

  I can’t quite believe I’m saying this, but thank you for dragging us out here. I am coming to terms with my life and going through the grieving process. Yes, I am sober. I suppose being here with Allie is one ongoing adventure.

  Tell the Angels thank you for me. I’ll be back to meetings in the fall.

  Be well,

  Braden

  Phee hasn’t written back. Any letter containing anything of importance would have to include words to tell him that she lies awake at night thinking about him. That even when she’s absorbed in crafting and repairing instruments, there’s an emptiness in her chest that sometimes makes it hard to breathe. She has some pride, she tells herself. She’s not going to throw herself at any man, not even Braden Healey.

  All through the summer, she’s waited for the sensation to ease, but if anything, it’s grown stronger. She’s spent longer and longer hours in the shop, breaking off only to take Celestine for walks or to engage in Adventure Angels activities, or to make music of her own. Twice, she’s made herself visit Ethan, first in the hospital and then after his release from a psychiatric unit.

  She doesn’t like him, but she feels responsible, as if maybe he’s yet another casualty of Braden’s broken bond with the cello. The boy’s parents, she has to admit, are self-absorbed and neglectful, and he’s been shaped by their behaviors into who he is. Still, she’s overwhelmingly grateful to Dennis, who has taken an interest in the boy and spirited him off on a series of adventures.

  The instruments on her list are all currently well-loved and quiet.

  All in all, things are going well, but she feels empty and restless; even the satisfaction of completing a new violin is transitory and small. Maybe she’ll take Celestine for a vacation before the last of the summer weather is gone. A ferry to Canada, maybe. Camping on Vancouver Island. Or a road trip.

  When the bell over the shop door signals a customer, she looks at the clock. Three minutes to five. She should have locked the shop door early. People who come in just before closing always seem to need an hour of her time.

  Celestine, on the other hand, woofs a greeting as he explodes upward from his bed and runs out of the room. Somebody known, then. A regular.

  Phee blinks as she emerges from the perfectly lit workroom into the dimmer lights of the storefront.

  A tall man stands on the other side of the counter, a familiar cello case beside him.

  “I need some repairs,” he says.

  Phee’s entire world narrows down to that face, those eyes, the slim-fingered hands resting on her counter. Slowly, as if she’s swimming underwater, she crosses the space between them. She’s so close, she can see those green flecks in his eyes. She could reach out and trace the scar on his cheek, touch his hands.

  But there’s more than just a service counter between them. “What seems to be the problem?” she asks.

  “Allie says the bridge needs adjusting. I think the cello misses you.” There’s music in his voice, something that was there when she knew him years ago, and then vanished.

  “You look good,” Phee says. He’s tanned, his eyes are clear. There’s a new vigor to the lines of his body that speaks of outdoor hikes, a healthy diet, the absence of alcohol. His hands on the counter are steady, and they look so normal they might just break her heart.

  “You, too,” he says, always polite. Phee owns a mirror. She knows she looks pale and tired. She fumbles under the counter for a service ticket. Braden bends down to pay attention to Celestine. Her fingers are trembling and it’s hard to write, but she manages it, slides his half across the counter. As if a ticket is needed. As if she doesn’t know both man and cello by heart.

  His fingers graze hers as he accepts the small square of cardboard. Both of them freeze, and then he lifts one hand and lays it over hers. Their eyes lock, and she sees something there that draws the words out of her, willy-nilly, as if a spell has been cast and she’s helpless beneath it.

  “Something
happened to me the day you met the cello,” she says.

  “I know.” His fingers tighten around hers.

  Phee’s heart flutters, her knees feel weak. She’s lost in his eyes, the sound of his breathing.

  “I was only ten,” she says. “I didn’t understand. I still don’t. But I feel . . . part of you. Part of the cello. Complete only when the three of us are together.”

  “Is that your grandfather’s work?” he asks.

  She shakes her head. “No. I just . . . it’s impossible for a child that age to fall in love. But I did. With her. With you. Every time you brought her into the shop, I felt whole, alive, in a way I can’t explain.”

  His free hand lifts, the index finger brushing her lips. “Hush, Phee. Maybe there are things that can’t be explained. Or that don’t need to be. I do have one question I need to ask.”

  “Anything,” Phee says.

  “Do you just love me for my cello? Take your time. It’s an important question.”

  But Phee doesn’t need to think. “Everything you are,” she says. “The man, the musician, the amnesiac, the idiot. With or without the cello.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d consider coming out from behind that counter.”

  “Why?”

  “Some things don’t require a why.”

  He keeps pace with her as she moves along the counter, never letting go of her hand. They meet at the far end, and before she has time to draw another breath, she’s in his arms and his lips are on hers. Music swirls around them both, and Phee lets go of all of her control, surrendering herself without further question.

  “I have a surprise for you,” Braden says, a very long time later, after they’ve locked the store and climbed the stairs to Phee’s apartment. After they’ve made love once, and then again, and are lying entwined and momentarily sated on her bed.

  Their bodies fit together as perfectly as their souls, his arm draped over her shoulder, her leg curled between his thighs, and Phee is reluctant to move, to break this moment, as if maybe the spell will end and she’ll find herself alone again.

  “Does it require moving?” she murmurs, tracing the lines of his face over and over with her finger.