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With another careful touch of the nightstand, I swing my legs out of bed and grab a blanket. I wrap it around my shoulders as I walk into the living room and sit in the middle of the floor. Lights off, I look out the window toward the hills. Brief, gentle pulses of lightning flicker above the trees now and then, and I try out a breathing exercise London Worthington gave us at a staff yoga class. The breathing is supposed to help me find my center, experience the moment, and something else that I can’t remember, but it sounded nice and soothing. Whatever it is, it works, because now I don’t feel like I need to hide from the (gentle, far-away) storm.
My eyes adjust to the dark room and before long, I realize I’m not staring out the window anymore. Now I’m looking at the end table. More specifically, at the violin case sitting on the end table.
This case holds the instrument I used since I was thirteen and finally grew into a full-size violin. It was practically an appendage. I had that bow in my hand most of my waking hours. Way more often than I held a phone or a toothbrush or a spoon.
I haven’t picked it up since I placed it on this table when I moved in. Yes, that’s more than a year. Just the everyday touch, at least once. No, I don’t lift it to dust under it, but this is hardly the time to begin a criticism of my cleaning habits. Basically, it just sits there, but I can’t stand to open the case. I guess it’s probably important to state that I also can’t stand to move the case out of the living room and stick it in a closet.
But you know what? Things are different tonight. I mean, I survived a lightning strike. Okay, not specifically to my body, but very near me. And I’m counting it. Because that whole storm experience is changing things. I’m buzzing with energy, even at two in the morning. How much of that buzzing is lightning? How much is Grayson Mercer? How much is basic fear? Honestly, I have no idea. But I feel different, and different is a vehicle for possibility.
I decide to count to thirty and then stand up and touch the case, but more than the daily touch. Put both my hands on it, maybe lift the handle or touch the clasps.
I count as far as twenty-seven before I stop. This tiny flicker of want I started to feel when I remembered writing that song for Theodore B. Halverson, when I listened to the arrangement of notes I created? I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want it to evaporate and disappear. And it might, just by opening the case. It’s possible the hope that flickered through me will get zapped into nothingness when I unlatch the clasps. Anything approaching a wish might vaporize just by looking at that red velvet covering the padded foam that cradles each part—the scroll and the pegs, the neck and the body. But as I picture each string in my mind, the wanting feeling doesn’t vanish. It intensifies.
I want to pick up the case. I want to hold it in my hand, to feel the balance when I grip the handle. Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I wanted to lift it, to hold it.
I stand up, wondering if the pins-and-needles feeling of my legs is stronger tonight because of electricity, or if this is just a totally normal result of sitting on the floor with my legs crossed under me. I stand here, wrapped in this blanket, staring at the case. If I don’t do it, if I don’t touch it, if I don’t pick it up, will the feeling fade?
I’ll start over, counting to thirty again.
But I only make it to three before I take the two steps to the end table and stretch out both hands on the case, fingers spread like I’m feeling for a heartbeat. Obviously, it doesn’t have one, but I can feel mine, each finger throbbing with my pulse, my muscles tensed against the violin case.
I let out my breath in a long, slow exhale, emptying my lungs and my mind at the same time.
Don’t worry. Don’t think. Just feel.
I’m not sure how long I stand there, the case beneath my hands as I breathe in and out, but eventually I lift the case and hold it in my arms. Not by the handle, but against my chest, like it’s something that needs protecting and I’m going to keep it safe. Like I’m hugging it. Like maybe I love it.
When does this hug turn into a sway? Who can say? But the fact is, by the time I realize I’m leaning side to side, not only do I think I can’t stop, I really don’t want to. And if I stand here in the dark in my living room, dancing with my violin case snuggled in my arms, nobody ever needs to know about it.
Except that the only thing I want to do now is call Grayson. I want to tell him that the scare I had today prompted something like a miracle. A magical rewiring of my brain and my heart.
Of course, if I mention neurological and circulatory systems, it will technically be a professional call—a tele-visit. And no way am I crossing that line with him. If I call him, it’s not going to be to ask medical questions.
Then I look at the clock.
Yeah, okay. I’m not calling anyone at this hour. And I’m going to be a wreck in the morning if I don’t get some sleep pretty soon. I carry the violin case back to my room with me, and I set it next to me on the bed. I tuck myself into the covers and pull my right hand out of from under the duvet so I can rest it on the black leather. Why? I don’t know. All I can tell you is that I want it near me, even while I sleep. And if this re-connection only lasts tonight, I want to keep feeling it as long as I can.
I wake a few hours later to the ringing of my phone. I pull it from its charger and, without bothering to look at the screen to see who’s calling, mutter something that might be translated as hello.
“Did I wake you, dear?”
Wanda Chamberlain’s voice jolts me fully awake. I sit up and clutch the blanket close around me.
“Hello. No. Not at all.”
As soon as I say it, I wonder why I felt like I needed to pretend. “Actually,” I tell her, “Yes, you did. But I can’t think of anyone I’d rather wake to speak to.”
This is true, but it’s not everything I’m thinking. Why did she call me? What does she want? Did I do something? Did I neglect to do something? Is she judging me that I’m still sleeping at nine thirty on a Friday morning? I feel myself getting wound up in tension. Then she speaks again.
“That’s very sweet of you,” she says. “I wonder if you’d be willing to meet me for a cup of tea.”
Tea? She called for tea? I want to ask why. But of course, when Wanda asks for a cup of tea, you don’t ask why. You say yes.
“Sure. Yes. Of course. When?”
“I’ll be on campus most of the morning. When are you available?” She says it as if my time is as important as hers.
“I can meet you at the Caf in thirty minutes,” I say.
