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‘Perfect. Also, it’s no televised football game, but are you at all into Theodore B. Halverson concerts? Because I know someone who has an extra ticket.’
Again he answers quickly. Like he’s still holding the phone, waiting for my response.‘Only if the someone is you. What would I do at a concert like that without you to explain it to me?’
I feel a smile growing across my face.‘It’s not rocket science. And it’s not opera. It’s just singing. But I can definitely explain it to you if you have specific questions about how people make music from their faces.’
I send it and immediately start typing again.‘Guilt requires me to tell you I was lying. I have no idea how our species manages to sing. But I can appreciate it anyway.’
‘Then I’ll appreciate it, too. Thank you. I accept your invitation. And I can’t wait to see you Thursday.’
He can’t wait? Does that mean he wants to see me sooner? Should I stop by his work? He came to mine.
And . . . we’re off. I start thinking about all the ways my showing up at his clinic would be a terrible idea, beginning with basic annoyance and moving swiftly to HIPAA violations. Okay. Time to breathe.
I don’t need to answer that last text. I’m big on letting other people have the last word. I close the lid of my computer and jump down from the chair. I pace the length of the apartment for a few minutes, letting my brain spin and then unspool this idea of dropping in at work. Doesn’t take me long to decide it’s not going to happen.
I feel better, and almost settled enough to get in bed and go to sleep.
After I do the bedtime brush-and-wash ritual, I pull up a calming playlist on my phone, set the timer to turn it off in thirty minutes, and snuggle into my nest of pillows and fluffy duvets. I do that box-breathing thing where I inhale for four counts, hold for four counts, exhale for four, hold for four. I’m just winding down into the depths of my chill, and I hear the opening notes of one of my compositions.
“What are you doing in my bedtime playlist?” I ask the song, possibly with a shriek, but mostly with a huff of frustration. “Come on, man.”
I sit up, yank the charging cord out of the phone, and stab the stop button. “Smoky Mountain Lullaby.” Studio recording. A piece I created for my composition class.
I don’t hate the song. In fact, I’m proud of it. But it’s weird timing right now, and weird timing makes me think the universe is trying to tell me something.
Hey, Universe? Not interested. Thanks anyway.
But now my brain is spinning, and it’s not likely I’ll fall asleep any time soon.
I climb out of my bed and pull on a pair of huge, fluffy socks. I sit cross-legged on my bedroom floor and hold the phone, staring at the image I put with the track—a night-shot of fireflies taken with a long exposure. It’s beautiful and haunting and magical. I love this picture. Then I tap the play button.
The song starts up again where I turned it off, right as the introductory notes begin to swell into the melody. Well, not the melody exactly, because this was written to be a descant. An accompaniment to the Theodore B. Halverson song “Fire at Night,” his completely romantic ballad about the way the fireflies’ light is caught and reflected in the eyes of his beloved (which I’ve always been sure is me, of course, and so has every other person who ever heard the song. We—all of humanity—are universally smitten with his words and his mouth as he sings them).
And I wrote a violin song to accompany it. The assignment was from my second semester—and I knew it was going to be one of my last pieces. The professor asked us to take a popular song and create an overlay. Something that we could sample on to an existing track and amplify or extend or change the feeling of the original.
I was not feeling it—not the assignment, and not the music, and not the creative spark. But I love that song, so I took what Theodore B. Halverson had made and gave it new depth. And I knew it was good.
I didn’t think it was good enough to send to Theodore B. Halverson’s agent, but my professor wasn’t interested in my opinion on the matter. Didn’t even ask me. She just copied me on the email when she sent it. And nothing ever came of it, obviously. I don’t even have access to the email address anymore, since I’m no longer a student. And it’s fine. Good. For the best. But right now, as I sit on the floor of my quiet apartment and let the song wash over me, I get the first glimmer of music-relatedwantI’ve felt in a very long time.
9
GRAYSON
Even though I think about it many times every day, I put in only one call to Wanda Chamberlain this week—when I feel sure that enough time has passed to allow her to answer questions without any feelings of embarrassment.
“I think everything works better when I do the oxygen treatments,” she says, and she follows her comment up with a short laugh. “I’ve carried the tank with me twice when I had a long day planned. It helped. But it’s nice to feel my brain working better. Not that I’d admit to anyone else that this old brain might have been misfiring. That’s privileged medical information. No telling.”
“I’d never tell,” I say. And she knows it’s true. But we talk for a few minutes and I explain that yes, if she’s suffering from insufficient oxygen, her mind will feel sluggish. I recommend that she does a treatment each evening before she sleeps and another when she wakes up.
“Will you please call me directly if anything else comes up?” I ask. “Or if you have any worries?”
“Agreed. Thanks, dear,” she says, and hangs up. I still have to make a concerted effort not to worry about her. Something about Wanda makes my professionalism a little wobbly.
And now it’s Thursday evening, and I’ve spent the day cleaning my spotless apartment just in case Sage decides it’s a good idea to come over after our walk.
Also, I have to wonder, is this really a date? To go on a walk? Do people do that?
I’m going to assume it is, because how much different is it really than asking her over to watch a game? I mean, it’s public. And outdoors. And active. So I guess it’s totally different.
