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“Yeah, I worked with his daughter a few years back at Hedley House. I helped her through a pretty rough place in her life. I was in the city this morning running some errands, and I stopped to check my phone. I looked up, and that’s when I realized I was standing right in front of her father’s music store. He noticed me through the front window, and he waved for me to come inside. I told him I know someone who plays, and he said I could have that one for next to nothing if I wanted it because it was just taking up space on the shelf.”
“Seriously?”
“It’s not a bass guitar, but I thought you might like it.”
I do like it. I love it, in fact. I’m totally gobsmacked that she bought me a guitar.
“Dr. Copeland said you could play it as long as you keep it in your room, and the other patients don’t complain too much about the noise.”
“Thenoise?”
She laughs. “You know what I mean.”
Walking farther into her office, I bend over and pick up the leather case from the floor. The lock pops easily, and I lift the guitar out, holding the neck in one hand, placing the case beside the couch as I take a seat, sliding the worn instrument across my lap.
I can’t even explain how good it feels to be holding a guitar again. It doesn’t even matter that it’s acoustic. Or a beaten-up relic. A guitar is a guitar.
Gliding my fingers effortlessly over the strings, I give it a few test strums, feeling like a blind man reading braille or searching something out for the very first time. There’s a story unfolding in my mind, and it’s such an intimate dance between man and music that I’m almost embarrassed to be sitting here while Sienna’s watching me so intently.
“You can play something if you like,” she says. “I’d love to hear you play.”
“You would?”
“Why do you look so surprised?”
I don’t reply, because I don’t really have an answer for her. “You want me to play a Cold Neptune song?”
“Play whatever you like. It’s your guitar.”
I mull it over for a beat. I don’t want to play a Cold Neptune song. Seems tacky. Swallowing hard, I think things through, not sure why the next words out of my mouth are suddenly so important to me.
“What doyouwant me to play?” I feel self-conscious all of a sudden, totally not my style, but this woman does things to me and makes me feel things that I’ve never felt before, and as I stare back at her, my heart pounds in my chest. “What’s your favorite song, Jonesy?”
“Anything by Willie Nelson.”
“Fuck off. I’m being serious.”
“What’s wrong with Willie Nelson?”
“Oh, shit, youarebeing serious.”
If looks could kill, I’d be a dead man. Apparently we have a thing for Mr. Nelson.Okaaay.Didn’t see that coming. Though, in hindsight, the country music that’s constantly playing in the background of every session we’ve had since I rocked up on her first day, should be a dead giveaway.
I’m not always so quick on the uptake. My fatal flaw, I guess. Among a multitude of other things.
“Nothing wrong with him…” I resume my mindless fingering of the strings. The sound is really soft and pretty. “Not unless you’re over eighty, and you don’t own a hearing aid.”
“Hey, you can’t talk about Willie Nelson like that. He’s a legend. Show the man some respect. I think his music is timeless.”
“Unlike his face?”
Her exaggerated frown highlights the tiny lines around her eyes, and this makes me smile widely.
“Just play something, Jenkins… wait, you do play acoustic guitar, don’t you? I didn’t even think to ask if it’s the same thing as a bass guitar. I know nothing about music.”
“Anyone passable at guitar can play most kinds if they put their mind to it.” I give her my most noncommittal shrug. “I could teach you if you want.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t waste your time. I don’t have an ounce of musical talent.”
