Silent Alarm (17 page)

“All right,” I say slowly, when I can find my voice again. “I guess I'm in.”

Riley's lips slowly crack into a smile, and it feels good to make someone, anyone, happy, even just for a moment. The room is warm, lunch rush mostly over, the sound of plates and cups being cleared from tables tinkling in the distance. I don't want to go back to school or to Grace's for my lesson, don't want to get in the car and drive the long straight road to Madison or face the fact that I haven't really played in weeks, my fingers clumsy and thick. I want to stay here, drinking one free refill of Coke after another, until the room disappears in a deep blue twilit haze as shadows lengthen and inevitably fall.

I've
been to Grace's house so many times over the past five years that I've officially lost count. As I walk up the rickety front steps of her porch on Sunday morning, I can feel the tightness in my chest beginning to loosen. The porch is as cool and dark as ever, the floorboards spotted with patches of weak sunlight. A rocking chair sits at the far end, the seat cushioned with a deep blue pad, and beyond that, an empty birdcage swings in the breeze, curved and intricate as a locked gate in a fairy tale. Herbs in ceramic pots rest on the porch railings: dill, thyme, and what looks like mint. I put my violin case down on the wood floor and touch their small fragrant leaves, damp and smooth under my hands and soft as rainwater. Luke sometimes used to help my father in the garden in the early spring, turning the earth with a long shovel, tossing tiny seeds into the holes and covering them with his bare hands, hands that were capable of such gentleness, patting down the earth.

The door opens, startling me, and I grab my violin with an apologetic smile. Grace pulls her black cardigan more tightly around her, smiling broadly, her silver hair shimmering. She beckons me inside. “You made it,” she says, as if she was afraid that somehow I wouldn't, and she draws me into her arms, hugging me against her. “My darling girl,” she says into my hair, and I close my eyes, trying not to cry. After a few minutes, I pull back, and she brushes the hair from my face, cupping my chin in her hand, her blue eyes examining my face for a long moment before letting go.

I follow her into the living room, the place I've spent the most time in over the past few years, the baby grand piano sitting in the corner. The air smells of lemon furniture polish, fresh flowers, and old toast. What I loved most about Grace's house was that everywhere you turned, there was something beautiful that caught your eye and held it. Built-in bookshelves running along one wall of the living room, crammed with books, birds' nests abandoned and plucked from trees, one holding a lone white egg. Seashells in soft colors—gray or peach—jagged bits of rose quartz, and stones that felt smooth and polished when I ran my hands over them. And plants hanging like a lush, green curtain in front of the long windows. Being there made me feel that if I could just stay forever, sinking into the wide gray velvet couch and resting my head on the red needlepoint pillows hugging either end, that everything might eventually be okay.

“I'm not going to be so trite as to ask how you are, Alys.” Grace walks over to the piano bench and hovers next to it for a moment. “I think we know it would be a stupid question, yes?” I nod gratefully, relieved to not have to lie. “You know that I am here for you. And if you want to talk—about anything—I hope you know that you can.” I nod again, afraid to speak. My emotions are so close to the surface these days that the slightest misstep can send me catapulting into sobs. In a way, though, it's a relief. This is the one place where I don't have to talk about Luke or what he's done, the fact that my parents' marriage is falling apart, the wreck that's become my life. Here things can be as they were—Grace seated at the piano, the pictures of her on her honeymoon in Vienna perched on top, her smiling, shining face so open and youthful. “Now”—Grace shuffles the sheet music on top of the piano, looking through it—“have you been practicing?” I blink, Luke's voice echoing through the chambers of my brain, magnified and distorted.

Shouldn't you be practicing, anyway? The great virtuoso?

I place the violin case on the couch, unsnapping the locks. When I turn around, Grace is seated behind the piano, hands poised over the keys, watching me expectantly.

“Not much,” I say. “Not really.” And immediately I am guilt ridden. But Grace just slowly nods, then picks up the glasses hanging from a thin silver chain around her neck and places them on her nose, a gesture which tells me that she's ready to work.

“No matter.” She runs her hands over the keys, her fingers nimble, moving with a fluidity that belies the crippling arthritis she's struggled against for years—not that I ever hear her complain about it. Grace isn't the complaining type. “Let's start with a few scales to warm up.”

As my hands move, I concentrate on the music, the piano beneath all of the notes that stream from my fingers. My hands feel swift and sure on the neck, the bow. I let my mind drift away, lost in the music that fills the room, the regimen of one note following the next, my fingers warm and loosening.

When I lower the violin, I am sweating, the T-shirt beneath my gray cardigan dampened under the arms. “Good,” Grace says, nodding authoritatively, and with that slight dip of her chin I can tell that I wasn't too bad, that maybe I haven't slid into a territory that could be called hopeless just yet. “Shall we work on the Brahms?” Without waiting for an answer, she pulls the sheet music for the sonata in D minor from the huge pile in front of her and pushes it over to me. I take a deep breath, placing the music on the metal stand next to the piano, trying to remain calm. Before Luke

(murdered everyone)

I'd been struggling with learning this piece, particularly the middle movement, which made everything I'd done up to that point in my training look easy. Every time I'd come up against that bit, my hands would fumble, notes dropping like letters at the end of a sentence, making the music choppy and unintelligible, the lilt and flow of the piece slipping away from me, sliding just out of reach.

I raise the violin again, watching Grace for the signal to begin. Once it starts, the music rushes over me, breaking me open. I lean into the notes, holding them, my fingers burning against the strings. When I get to the middle movement, I hold my breath, watching Grace for reassurance. She nods gravely, never taking her hands from the keys, never stopping or hesitating, flying right into the heart of the sonata, fearless. I begin to smile as I realize that, for once, I'm doing it: I've passed that tricky vortex and come out on the other side. Just then, as my smile grows wider, my fingers slip on the neck, the bow moves awkwardly in my hand, my wrist cramping as a shrillness fills the room, making me wince. I lower the violin, breathing hard, furious with myself, shaking with frustration and anger.

“Alys.” Grace's voice jolts me out of my thoughts, which mostly consist of berating myself for being a horrible excuse for a violinist, a terrible person in general, and I look at her, fearing I will see the worst on her face, the thing I've never wanted to see when I look at Grace—disappointment. She reaches up, removing her glasses so that they hang once more against her sweater. “You know,” she says slowly, “that wasn't half bad for a girl who has barely touched her instrument for well over a month. Not bad at all.”

With those words, I relax a little, unable to keep a grin from my lips. But the thoughtful expression on her face is replaced almost immediately by the steely, determined look I know so well as she bends over the piano again, lowering her head. “Again,” she orders, and I pick up the violin, raising it to eye level once more, fingers poised and ready.

An hour or so later, I'm spent, my hair plastered to the back of my neck. I feel like I've run six miles, my body hot and my hands burning with effort, my neck sore and aching. When I look at the tips of my fingers, they are raw. I know that tonight they will sting so badly I will need to wrap them in Band-Aids in order to cut the pain.

After I wipe down my violin and put it away, Grace and I sit drinking tea, as is our custom at the end of every lesson, the fragrant steam curling from the delicate china cups, gilt edging around the rims. Today it is chamomile, which always smells, inexplicably, like hay to me. I pull my hair back more securely with a hair band, hating the feel of the sweaty strands against my skin.

“The audition is a little over a month away.” Grace returns her cup to the saucer, sitting back in her big puffy chair and resting her feet on the ottoman.

May 30. One week after prom. As if I could forget.

“I'm not ready,” I say quickly, a feeling of panic rushing over me. Because I'm nowhere near ready—I'm not even in the same zip code as ready. The realization makes me feel like just giving up completely, going home and crawling into bed, never getting out.

“You will just have to do your best,” Grace says with a shrug, like it's no big deal.

“What if it isn't good enough?” I ask, staring at the gold liquid in my cup, tiny flecks of leaves swirling to the bottom.

“Then you will do what you can.” Grace leans forward, resting her hands on her knees, peering at me intently. I can feel the gravity of her gaze, of her words, even though I don't look up. The way she examines my face, taking in everything I'm feeling, everything I cannot say. “That is all you can do, Alys. That is all
any
of us can do.”

“It just seems so . . . unimportant now. Like it doesn't matter.”

Grace is quiet for a minute, carefully weighing her words, then speaks slowly, deliberately.

“It will matter as much as you want it to, Alys. As much as you are willing to let it.”

I think about what she's said for a moment before responding, placing the cup down on the table.

“I just feel like I don't have the . . . right to want anything anymore. For myself.”

When the words leave my mouth, I hear how tentative they sound, how unsure. I think of Jesse Davis, a senior Luke shot, lying in a hospital bed, unconscious. What did he want in his future? What did
he
dream about? I think of his parents waiting at his bedside for him to wake up and rejoin the living, to climb out of the tangle of white sheets and sit up, walk back into the world. Valedictorian. Scholarship. He must've thought it was all a sure thing.

Grace nods, picking up her cup with deft fingers. She settles in her chair and drains her tea, staring at me pensively, her blue eyes softening at the edges. When she speaks, her voice is low, urgent.

“You have the right to
live,
Alys. You
always
have the right to do that.” She places the cup in its saucer with a clink of finality. “But only you can decide, no?”

“Yes,” I manage to say, my voice barely audible. It is hard to believe that I have the power to decide anything about my life anymore. But even so, Grace's words stick to me, lodging themselves in the dark corners of my brain.

When I leave, she stops me at the door, squeezing my hand in hers, kissing me once on each cheek, as is her way. She hesitates for a moment, placing a hand on my shoulder, her grip tight and sure. “You will be all right, Alys,” she says quietly. “Even if you do not think so now. Even if it feels very far away.”

I can smell the flowery perfume she always wears, the one that smells like lily of the valley, bourbon, and dark tilled earth, her touch lingering on my skin long after I walk down the porch steps, creaking slightly beneath the pulse and heft of my body, and drive away.

On
Monday, after school, I drive distractedly toward the center of town, cutting a trail through the rain that pelts the windshield. Soon lawns will be an endless carpet of green, the air alive with the sinuous hiss of sprinklers. This used to be my time to practice or, on rare afternoons where I'd slack off, hang out with D, popping peanut M&M's into each other's mouths, feet entangled on the couch. She loved those waxy, long, red ropes of licorice, would wind them around my wrists like jewelry. Now, even after I finish my homework, I'm aware of how much time there is left to fill before I can crawl into bed and try to sleep, the stars like handfuls of glitter hurled at the sky.

You have the right to live, Alys . . .

Grace's face swims up in front of my eyes, and I blink it away, my lashes beating rapidly. Every time I think about the audition, my stomach churns with guilt and apprehension. Because of what it means. The future. That, in spite of everything, I might have one. I don't know if I deserve it after what Luke has done, all of that spilled blood staining my hands. Even though I know I should go home and practice, I turn onto Main Street and, before I know what I'm doing, pull into the hospital parking lot, winding through the garage until I find a space next to a bright yellow Datsun. I turn off the engine and listen to the car shut down, the hushed rattling noises as it quiets. The hospital is a giant white brick building outside my window, and I watch it warily, as if it might get up and come after me. I think of the people trapped inside, covered by sheets and blankets, hooked up to beeping machines. Jesse Davis is one of them.

I get out of the car, trying to act like I know where I'm going, even though I don't really have a clue. My hands are trembling, and I look down and glare at them fiercely, willing them to quiet. In the main lobby, the elderly woman sitting behind the information desk has a long, sharp face and bright red hair that borders on magenta. But her face is kind, and her eyes, when she looks up at me, are welcoming, heavily creased along the edges.

“Can I help you?” she asks tentatively, as if she's scared she'll frighten me away by speaking too much, or too loudly.

“I don't know,” I begin, my eyes darting from side to side. I feel hunted. Like a criminal. “I'm looking for a friend?”

Jesse Davis was not my friend. Not even close. Nor would he be now if he knew what Luke did to him. But even though I never really knew Jesse, he always smiled at me in the halls, no matter how in a rush he was. He was that type of guy.

“What's your friend's name, honey?” She types a few strokes on her computer and looks up at me expectantly.

“Jesse Davis,” I say, my cheeks burning. She punches a few more keys, her fingers hitting the keys firmly, authoritatively.

“He's upstairs in room two twenty-one. They just moved him out of the ICU a few days ago. Take elevator A at the end of the hall to the second floor and turn right. His room is the third door on the left.”

“Is he . . .” I don't know how to find the words, how to ask what I need to know. “Has he woken up yet?”

She punches the keys again, her hands moving like a hummingbird.

“You'll have to ask one of the nurses when you get upstairs, honey. I can't tell from here.” She points at the screen apologetically, as if she wishes she could do more. For all she knows, I'm his girlfriend, or maybe even his debate partner. A classmate. Not the sister of the boy who put him here.

I nod, thanking her, and make my way to the elevator before I lose what's left of my nerve.

• • •

Outside his room, I hesitate, watching as nurses walk past in a sea of light blue scrubs, the scent of antiseptic wash mingling with the smell of food from the impending dinner service. What am I doing here? What can I possibly say that will make up for what my brother has done? I lean against the wall, trying to take deep breaths, to compose myself when all I want is to hightail it back to the parking lot and lock myself in my car, where I'll be safe again.

“Are you all right?”

A nurse stops in front of me, holding a stack of charts, his dark hair receding on top.

“I'm fine,” I say quickly, straightening up and clearing my throat. “I was just looking for my friend's room. Jesse Davis,” I say, panic flooding my body, my pulse racing.

“Well, this must be your lucky day.” He smiles at me, taking me loosely by the arm and turning me around. “You're right in front of his room.”

“Oh!” I exclaim, feigning surprise and enthusiasm. “Great!”

“He can have visitors, but just don't stay for too long, okay?”

“Is he still . . .” I stop and look at the nurse, hoping the look on my face can fill in the missing words, tell him what he needs to know.

“He's still in a coma, yes.” He says this gently, as if this information hurts him more than it may hurt me.

“Will he . . . wake up?”

“We don't know. We certainly hope so.” He tucks the charts under his arm and looks at me intently now, his eyes searching my face. “Talk to him,” he says urgently. “Coma patients can hear everything we say, even if they don't always remember it when they regain consciousness again. Some even say it helps to bring them back.” He walks off down the hall, his shoes squeaking noisily against the linoleum. Over the loudspeaker, a Dr. Singh is being paged incessantly, and from inside Jesse's room, I can hear the beep and rattle of machines, the synchronized hiss of breathing.

He's lying in bed, the sheets drawn up to his chest, which rises and falls around the tubes taped to his mouth, snaking down the length of his torso. From the doorway, he could be sleeping, his body relaxed and drowsy. When I get closer, I see the bandage that wraps around one side of his head, the lacerations on his face where he must've fallen, bruises changing from purple to green and yellow along the edges. Before he was

(shot)

Jesse was kind of a gym rat, but now he looks small, almost invisible, swallowed by white sheets.

There's a chair next to the bed, and I sit down gingerly, as if it might break under my weight. Jesse's breathing is heavy and regular, and I watch him for a while, my eyes drawn to the bandage covering the bullet hole in his head. I try to imagine what it must've been like, the roar of the gun blocking out the sound of his own screams, a blinding pain, the world cracked open, then darkness. Or maybe not. I know from watching stupid medical shows on A&E that sometimes, in rare cases, people remain conscious after being shot in the head, stumbling around blindly, lucid and alive, but not exactly functioning at full capacity. I hope, for Jesse's sake, that he went out immediately, that he didn't have to endure what must've been unimaginable pain, or see my brother looming over his fallen body, triumph written all over his face.

Jesse's arms are arranged over the covers, and I stare at his fingers, the short-clipped nails, and, without thinking about it or second-guessing myself, I take his hand in mine. The warmth of his skin is shocking against my palm, and as I curl my fingers around his loose, pliant digits, I can't help thinking that any minute he might wake up, open his eyes, and blink uncomprehendingly at the stark white walls, the tubes running through his body, the kaleidoscope of my face, so familiar and so strange all at once.

“I don't know why I'm here,” I whisper, and even though I'm careful to be quiet, my voice echoes a bit in the mostly empty room. The silence is soothing rather than unnerving, a hush, and I feel for some reason like I'm in church, the bed an altar, that it wouldn't be totally out of place for me to ask for forgiveness, even if none is coming any time soon. If I had my violin with me, I would play in the fractured light coming through the window, the shafts of sun warming my fingers. The music would fill the room with the force of a spell finally broken, waking Jesse from his slumber like a prince in a fairy tale. “Ever since Luke died, I feel like all I do is apologize to everyone, all the time.” Jesse's eyes are still closed. If he's listening, there's no sign of it. “But I am sorry, so sorry my brother . . . did this to you.”

I look around the room, at the blinds, at the vases of flowers wilting on their stems, sad-looking bouquets of daffodils, stalks of freesia, and baby-blue carnations. When I look back at Jesse, his left eyelid twitches, and I wonder if he can hear me or if it's just a reflex, an involuntary movement, no more meaningful than scratching extremities in your sleep. I kneel down by the side of the bed, the floor hurting my bones, and rest my forehead on the mattress, my face cooled by the thin white sheets, which smell of bleach and strong detergent, Jesse's hand still in mine. The tears flow from my eyes, hot and fast, soaking the sheet. I hold on to Jesse's hand more tightly, and my nose begins to run. I am making deep, guttural sounds that come from someplace inside me that's been sealed off from the light, a place I've been afraid to examine too closely, or even acknowledge at all.

“He wasn't all bad, Jesse.” I am mumbling into the sheets, my lips thick and swollen. “He wasn't. No matter what people tell you when you wake up . . .

(if you wake up)

“I miss him sometimes.” I swallow hard, lifting my head to wipe my eyes with the back of one hand. “And I feel like shit for missing him, like I shouldn't bother because of what he's done. Because he hurt so many people. But I can't help it. He was my brother.”

My brother.

Jesse sleeps on, oblivious, his mouth open slightly. I let go of his hand and drop to the floor, scooting backward so that I'm sitting against the hard white wall. I wait for a feeling of lightness to overtake me, a sense of forgiveness that will lift me back up into the land of the living. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait to feel something, anything that will let me know I've been heard, that I'm not alone. I'm straining with every pore of my skin, reaching toward the white light of absolution. I can hear the carts rolling in the hallway outside, delivering dinner, my own heart pounding away in my chest. But as hard as I try, nothing comes, so after a few minutes, I open my eyes. The room is the same, the IV dripping some clear chemical potion into Jesse's left arm, the dusty venetian blinds covering the window, the TV with its blank, dead screen hanging from the ceiling.

I wait, my eyes locked on Jesse's motionless form inside the metal cage of the bed, the waning sun setting his hair alight. I watch as it makes its way down his chest and begins to slip farther across the floor, the room darkening as the sun fades in a haze of pink, tangerine, and violet, and night, with its stealthy black wings, spreads slowly, inevitably over the room, the universe, our still, waiting bodies.