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Bubbe rubbed her fingers across her very tired expression. "That," she sighed, "was Katie."
I didn't say anything, just waited. Bubbe checked out the front window and then took a seat at the table.
"She's been coming here a lot over the last few weeks," she said. "Inviting herself over for dinner. Charming your dad into taking her out, even though he's got no money to take her anywhere, poor schmuck." She sighed. "I'd say something, but sweetheart, it's the only time I ever see him smile, and that's the truth. Or do anything besides sit in that chair and watch the TV."
"You don't think it's kind of suspect? That this Italian chick who disappeared right when he was beaten up reappears just when he's starting to get better?"
Bubbe shrugged, and I hated her sad indifference. The last few months hadn't been easy for her––she'd had to sacrifice a lot forcing Dad to attend all of his different therapy appointments, sometimes against his will. My grandmother's stubbornness was a force of its own, but its limits had certainly been tested.
We sat for a minute, letting the situation sink in. The front door opened, and Dad reentered, whistling a little tune that faded the closer he got to the TV. But instead of the din of some old rerun, we heard the telltale scrape of the piano bench legs against the floor and the creaky lift and clunk of the fallboard.
Bubbe and I froze, staring at each other, almost too afraid to move.
The tones of the piano started to float through the air, one tentative note at a time. They were treble notes, bright and cheery, played slowly, up and down a diachronic scale. All with his right hand, obviously, since the left was still lame.
Silently, Bubbe and I both craned our necks to watch. The ends of Dad's old plaid bathrobe hung off the bench like tuxedo tails while he hunched over the keys, listening to each one, note by note.
Next to me, Bubbe choked on a sob. I glanced over and started, shocked to see a single tear run down her cheek. She had gained a few new wrinkles over the past few months. The sound of the high notes must have been her breaking point.
Dad played up and down the treble keys, dipping into the occasional riff or a familiar chord progression. But then there was a clear bass note: an attempt to use his left hand, the one that had regained little of its dexterity. The hand was still often wrapped up, but no longer in a cast. Covered with a crisscrossing of ugly, still-red scars, it was thin and pale compared to his left. Bubbe and I listened as Dad attempted a chord, pressing only three fingers together onto the keys. He yanked his hand back with an audible gasp of pain.
Bubbe gasped with him. I clenched the table so hard my knuckles turned white. We listened again as the piano was shut loudly and Dad shuffled back to the couch. The TV turned on, and the spell was broken.
"His last physical therapy session is next week," Bubbe muttered. "After that, he'll be over his limit for maximum coverage. He still needs more, though."
She didn't have to mention the fact that his therapy for a gambling addiction was something we had to pay out of pocket. It had already killed most of my savings. There was a clinic that ran a free outpatient program out of Columbia, but the waitlist was over a year long.
I stood up from the table. It killed me to admit it, but there was only one way I could help the situation, and it wasn't by staying in New York.
"Where are you going?" Bubbe asked. Her eyes were now dry, but a crumpled tissue sat on the table.
The opening riffs of Full House jangled through the house. It was a show that, when I was growing up, my dad had always hated. Now he was watching syrupy junk on rerun or making googly eyes with Borough Barbie. I didn't want to leave him, but I wouldn't be able to help the way he needed on a district attorney's salary.
"I have to make a phone call," I said, and went to my room.
~
