AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The acrylic keys grated against his fingertips and when the electric phantom of what a piano should sound like reached his ears, it wasn’tSwan Lake.It wasn’t even music. There was no fluency. No rhythm. Nothing.
Alek’s ears began to ring. He took a deep breath and turned to Ian. “Let me try the sheet music.” He had to be sure.
Ian held the piece of paper out for Alek. The nurse from the night before had selectedHot Cross Buns.
Alek looked at the nonsensical string of notes for a long time. He bit the tip of his tongue and tried to play but he didn’t know where his fingers were supposed to go. He clenched his teeth together so tightly he hoped they would crumble and snap off.
Ian moved to take the piano, but Alek was faster. He slammed his hands down on the keys, cast and all, and the sound was so loud and ugly, it was like a car crash, a building collapse, a gunshot echoing in an empty room.
Ian’s arms surrounded Alek, heavy and tight like he was pulling him back from the edge he’d leaped right off of. Alek breathed in cedar, but when he closed his eyes no forests grew. His mind was a black hole, darker than a moonless, starless, dead-of-winter, night sky. The steady vibration that resonated in Alek’s chest meant Ian was talking, but all he could hear was the echo of the counterfeit piano and the roar of a fire burning in Bulgaria twenty years before.
He clung to Ian’s shirt with his one good hand, while his other wrist throbbed hotly with each thundering beat of his heart and his skull felt like it had ripped apart at the seams.
When Ian pulled away, his jawline was devastatingly sharp and a thick line of worry was etched between his brows. “Is your wrist okay?” Ian’s voice was more gravelly than usual, like he was talking through barbed wire.
“It feels as broken as it did before.” Which was technically true. “Stop fussing over me.” He’d been about to say that he felt much better now, that abusing the keyboard had been incredibly cathartic, but he really did want to give the whole not lying thing a try.
“I want the doctor to look at it.” Ian gently lifted Alek’s hand into his lap as if it was as priceless as a Faberge egg.
Alek pressed the button on his call light to summon the nurse.
“Do you want me to get you something?” Ian asked.
Alek shook his head and told the voice that came through a speaker in the ceiling that he would like a doctor to come to assess his fractured wrist. Now that the dust of his tantrum had settled, Alek worried he might have ruined his hand irrevocably. He tried to wiggle his fingers. It felt like the broken edges of his bones were scraping against each other but hewasable to move them.
A few moments later Dr. Modorovic strode in, wearing navy surgical scrubs, her thick salt and pepper hair escaping from underneath a disposable surgical cap.
“I believe I asked for an orthopedic surgeon, not you,” Alek teased.
“When were you going to tell someone you got your English back?” she said.
Ian held a chair out for the doctor and gestured for her to sit.
She lowered into the chair, turning over her shoulder to thank Ian before saying, “A nurse called to tell me that my curmudgeonly Bulgarian patient was speaking heavily-accentedEnglish, and seeing as you’re the only curmudgeonly or Bulgarian patient on my service today, I put two and two together.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Alek drawled. “Surely there must be at least one octogenarian on your roster more curmudgeonly than me.”
Dr. Modorovic opened her mouth, but was interrupted by the young doctor from before, who trailed into the room and flipped open a top-bound spiral notepad, his pen poised to take notes.
“Do you mind if my intern, Dr. Elias, is present?” she asked. “I’d like to loop him in on this so he can write up the progress note for me.”
Alek nodded. He didn’t plan to share anything important anyway.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Ian said. “But, there will still be an orthopedic doctor coming to check on Alek’s wrist, right?”
“Absolutely. The nurse called Dr. Fernandez before she called me.” Dr. Modorovic looked closely at Alek’s cast. If she noticed Ian’s graffiti, she didn’t say anything. “What’s wrong with your wrist?”
Alek hoped the rule about lying didn’t apply to everyone else. He avoided Ian’s eyes as he said, “It’s a little more sore than usual, but still in working order.” Alek gave a small wave of his cast to show how in tip-top shape it was and a blast of pain wracked through his arm so intensely, he was in very real danger of vomiting all over the front of his gown.
“Hmm.” She crossed one leg over the other and leaned forward on her elbows. “The spontaneous return of your English is a very promising sign. I’m curious if you’ve tried the piano.”
Alek appreciated that she didn’t pry about his arm, staying in her lane—or body system as it were.
“It’s just the English, for now,” Ian answered for him.
Alek traced his fingertip over the bumpy lines and ridges of the permanent marker heart on his cast.
“Well, it’s early days yet. Alek?” She waited until he looked at her. “How exactly did your English come back?”
