Chasing Kane (23 page)

She waved her hand dismissively. “I’m not going to make you wait around for the next few months to find out why. And I might as well be honest with
someone
about it. It’s not really a secret. It just … fucking sucks.”

I nodded slowly, resting my elbow on the table and wrapping my hand around my chin. “Okay.”

“But first,” she said. “Tell me something about Rae. Something real that no one else knows.”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I wanted to unhear the question. But I couldn’t. Our one-for-one game had just become raw. I could have gone with something obvious like Rae’s incredible laugh—but everyone heard that. Or her gigantic heart—also a no-brainer. I could have talked about the million little things she loved about the people around her, and ways that she practiced loving them. She always called love a practice, like it was a muscle that would atrophy if you didn’t
practice.
Like the heart, she’d always say.

Instead, looking at Nessa, I went for the
real
, like she asked.

“She was afraid she’d never be good enough,” I admitted out loud for the first time in my life. I sighed. “She’d gone through a lot of shit. Drug addiction in high school and early college, coming back swinging each time. She helped run an amazing nonprofit that Bo and Ember still run today. She smiled constantly, was insufferably happy,” I laughed at my own assessment, “but she thought she was irreparably damaged. She wasn’t manic about it, or anything. She didn’t put up all kinds of smoke and mirrors—it was the most curious thing. She just … kind of accepted the untruth about herself and went about trying to prove herself wrong, in a way. I don’t know …” I shook my head. “But she did cry a lot, when no one was looking. She had this weird strength, I mean, like I said, she just … she had those negative thoughts about herself but also had these crazy-wonderful positive ones and just sort of, I don’t know, decided to believe those. Live those …”

“She sounds amazing,” Nessa said softly, barely audible in the loud bar. Her eyes never moved from mine.

I smiled. “She was. I was an optimist before we dated, but she challenged me to be more. Be more of myself, really.”

“Do you think you would have married her if she hadn’t died?” Nessa’s hand flew over her mouth before she even finished asking the question, her eyes wide. “Sorry. Shit. Sorry. Thanks, beer. Wait. No. I’m not sorry. Do you think so? We’re getting real with each other, right?” she rambled.

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “In the weeks and months following her death, yeah, I’d have answered yes. But the truth? We dated for like half a summer. Who knows where that relationship would have gone. I can’t imagine my life without Georgia, honestly.”

“You don’t seem so mopey this time around,” Nessa said. “Last time Georgia left for home you looked like a kid who just lost their balloon.”

I laughed, pouring myself another drink. “It gets a little easier as the tour goes on,” I half lied. In truth I was still processing the events of her visit. Definitely
not
planning on getting into any of that over drinks with Nessa. “Anyway … your brother?” I prompted.

“We’re twins,” she started without any hesitation. “And we were best friends and played the violin together, for
fuck’s sake
. We even played local bars and other small venues until halfway through high school.”

I remembered from one of Nessa’s previous stories, the night I first heard her play, that her parents stopped being able to pay for private lessons at that time—halfway though high school.

“What happened?”

She looked to the table, continuing her story like she hadn’t heard my question. Her eyes flitted wildly back and forth. “Vinny was just
so
good. Like
you
good. He was doing all kinds of tricks early on. Don’t get me wrong, I’m good, I get that. But I was always in awe of how comfortable he was. He’d have no problem just strolling down the street playing if someone asked him to. Fuck, he may have done it if no one asked. He just … had to play. All the time.”

“I can appreciate that,” I said with a smile, remembering when my family and CJ’s family each put in sound proofing in the basements of our houses to help deal with our loud hobbies.

Nessa groaned, her lips curling up as she bared her teeth a bit. “He was too good, sometimes. Just … as a person. Didn’t
think
enough,” she said, tapping at her forehead.

“What happened?” I asked again.

She faced me, finally, an indignant but heartbroken look on her face. “Joyriding through the desert with his friends on ATV’s,” she said. “If they brought helmets with them, they sat in the truck, and in one split
fucking
second, my larger-than-life brother misjudged a jump and his cervical vertebrae cushioned his fall. His C-4 to be exact.” She blindly reached for her glass, filled it, and began to chug again.

I put my hand on her wrist, not wanting her to throw up all over the table, which is what was bound to happen if she didn’t slow down.

“C-4?” I questioned, shaking my head. “Fill me in.”

With a huff she said, “he’s lucky he can breathe on his own, and talk. Everything else?” she moved her hand up and down the front of her. “Dead. Well,” she corrected herself in a sarcastically bright voice, “he can kind of move his arms, and it’s cause for a
big
fucking celebration since he wasn’t ever supposed to be able to do even that. But he can’t open or close his hands, and doesn’t have great control over the arms—can you move?” she asked, nudging my shoulders. “I need some fucking air.”

I swayed into the cool Midwestern night outside the bar, trailing Nessa.

“Can we bum two cigarettes off you?” I asked a pair of gawking girls a few feet away. “And a lighter?”

I smiled, they giggled, but a few seconds later I held the light to the cigarette dangling from Nessa’s lips.

“Thanks,” she said as she exhaled. “These are awful.”

I grinned. “I know.”

“Light up. Don’t make me do this alone,” she begged, half grinning.

In truth, the weight of her story made me want a cigarette without her prompting, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had one. I was never a professional smoker, but sometimes life on the road operated under skewed rules.

I lit mine and tossed the lighter back to the barely legal girls flaunting their cleavage in my direction. Once the lighter was back in their hands, I shit you not, they began taking pictures of themselves with it—even kissing it.

Great, they know who we are.

“So,” Nessa started again a few drags into the space she’d asked for, “overnight everything was different. My dad stayed home to do hands-on care of Vinny with the nurses since my mom’s job as a pediatrician, of
all fucking things,
held the health insurance and paid a fuck of a lot more. I wouldn’t say either of them adjusted
well
, but they made it—are making—it work. They still smile at each other, if that says anything. And the last time I was home for Christmas, they were cuddled on the couch and I saw them kiss.” She bit her lip and looked down, a tear rolling down her cheek.

I leaned next to her, rocking my shoulder into her. “What about you?”

She shook her head, her cheeks turning redder as tears fell freely. “What about me? I … my violin instructor didn’t just think I had talent. He allowed me to teach with him and get lessons for free so I wouldn’t kill myself.”

My jaw dropped. “Are you … serious?”

Staring forward and sniffing the tears away, Nessa held up one of her arms close to my face. Faint, shiny scars worked their way from her wrist to elbow.

“I wasn’t serious,” she said, interrupting my thoughts. “I was grieving and needed attention, I guess. Who the fuck knows what sixteen-year-old girls think.”

“Yeah …”

She quickly elbowed my side. “Don’t look so serious about it, Regan.
God.
It was
negative attention-seeking behavior.
”

“Ah, yes.” I laughed, exhaling some smoke. “A tantrum, but for the over-five set.”

“Someone’s been to a therapist,” Nessa mumbled in amusement.

“Many,” I answered back. “But that’s another story for another card game.”

“Anyway,” Nessa started again, as if I hadn’t said a word, “I kept playing, but never at home. And never in public. Basically just at my teacher’s studio. I felt … guilty, I guess. That Vinny had the talent but not the ability anymore.”

I stopped her with my hand. “Nessa, you
have
the talent.”

She shook her head. “I know… but … he really was like you, you know. You remind me so much of him when you play. You play with your whole
being
. He was like that when he was … able to move at all. He says he wants me to play, but I know it kills him that he can’t.”

“So … you don’t want to play on this tour because it will somehow hurt him?”

“And me,” she admitted, not trying to dress anything up. “I played for a long while after the accident to just see me through the darkness. But after that? I just wanted him next to me, playing.”

“Nessa,” I said, putting out my cigarette under my foot. “If I lost both my arms right this instant, I wouldn’t want a single violinist to stop playing on my account. In fact, I’d want someone new to start to take my place.”

Her eyes darted to me, almost hurt. “Now you sound like
him
.”

She turned on her heels and walked inside. I followed behind, catching up to her as she tried to escape me by weaving through the dance floor.

“Hey,” I shouted over the crowd.

She turned, looking drunkenly pissed. “
What
?”

It was all too heavy. Rae, her brother, actually
talking about it.
Not to mention the shit I
wasn’t
talking about.

My wife might not ever be able to fully trust me. And we want to have a baby. Is that even a thing? Can that work?

Looking into Nessa’s intriguing eyes, I felt relief. Someone who understood this life, even when everything around it was tangled and messy. Maybe especially because of that. A life where art is both torture and release. I felt safe in the camaraderie we shared. Safe from judgment and inquisition.

“What?” she asked again, taking a step toward me. “You gonna puke, or something?”

“Nothing.” I shook my head, trying to sober up even a little. “Let’s get back to the studio.

The groups had pretty much finished up formal practice by the time Nessa and I got a cab and found our way back to River Junction’s studio. My intoxication had downgraded from “borderline drunk” to “buzzed,” and Nessa seemed to be in the same camp—quiet, but not swaying on her feet or looking sick.

After paying the cabbie, we noticed a small group of musicians in the back corner of the parking lot, and the tapping, cracking of snare drums mixed in with hoots and hollers.

“The hell?” Nessa asked, squinting.

“Oh, joy,” I chuckled. “A drum-off.”

Moniker’s drummer was back in action after his broken wrist had sidelined him, and he, CJ, and The Brewer’s drummer, Marco, were lined up with snare drums around their necks, marching band style. I hadn’t seen CJ in a snare “competition” in a long time, but was looking forward to it. Despite being only one drum, these kinds of drum-offs are sometimes harder than using a set, because there’s less noise-making, frankly, and technical missteps are noticed immediately.

“There you guys are.” Yardley approached with a distressed expression, carrying both our violins over her shoulder. “I don’t have kids for a reason—watching these was enough to give me palpitations. Here.” She shoved them in our direction with a sigh of relief.

I bowed toward her. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You guys drunk?”

“Not anymore,” I replied with a smile, only slightly unsure of myself.

“So your practice thing …” she questioned.

Nessa grinned. “Therapy. Emotional tweaking.”

Yardley’s eyes moved curiously between Nessa and me. Finally, she threw up her hands. “I don’t know why it surprises me when you guys are weird as hell. I’m going to the hotel.” She gestured to the drummers behind us. “Maybe do your best to make sure there’s no bloodshed? No one gets impaled with a stick.”

Nessa gave a mock salute. “Aye, aye, captain.”

“So weird,” Yardley mumbled to herself with a laugh as she ducked into Norio’s waiting car.

“They’re probably fucking,” Nessa said rather matter-of-factly as the car pulled out of the parking lot.

I laughed. “That’s what CJ said.”

“Don’t you think so?”

“I think men and women can be friends without nudity,” I admitted. “One of my best friends is a girl and I’ve never seen her naked, nor do I wish to.”

“Liar,” Nessa teased. “Even if you don’t
wish to
now, I bet you wished to at least once.”

I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”

Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I walked over to the edge of the parking lot where the drummers were nestled, sparring away. Nessa followed, posting up next to me as we situated ourselves into the group of spectators. CJ was watching Marco intently. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched a wry grin pore over Nessa’s mouth.

“Oh,” she whispered, “he’s intimidated.”

“He should be,” I whispered back. “Macro’s
wicked
good.”

“Wicked?” Nessa teased, laughing. “Is he? Is he
wicked
good?”

I moved to cross my arms in front of me and elbowed her side playfully. “Yes. Wicked.”

Marco was engaged in a long drum roll, punctuating it with clicks to the rim of the drum, but never losing the roll in the process. All three guys were damp with sweat—they’d obviously been at this a while before we showed up. When Marco finished, CJ’s eyes lit up.

“Alrighty then,” he said, rolling his head from side to side, stretching out his neck.

He struck the drum, starting where Marco had left off. Same tempo, same stance—he was mocking him and I laughed. In a few seconds, CJ clacked on the rim of the drum, moving the sound of the roll from the head of the drum to the rim and back again, arching an eyebrow in the process. The crowed cheered him on, and then he pulled one of his tricks—spinning one stick in his hand like a tiny baton while maintaining an even roll.