Want (6 page)

I keep my gaze down. “No.” I’m back to one-syllable answers.

He crouches there and waits for me to elaborate. I decide to keep my answers short and sweet, partly because I don’t want to spill my guts and partly because it’s just excruciating to talk.

“Okaaay,” he stretches out the word. “Let’s get you into the house. Need to get you cleaned up, then we’ll call the police.” He freezes, eyes wide as another thought occurs to him. It’s clear what he suspects. “Oh, Jesus, you weren’t
—
they didn’t…?” He leaves the rest unsaid. “So help me God, I will track them down myself.”

“No. It’s all right to get cleaned up.”

He relaxes a fraction and helps me stand. I realize his question means he buys the lie, at least for now. Another wave of dizziness rushes over me, and he catches my waist. We hobble across the yard toward the house.

Halfway there, he huffs and mumbles, “Screw this.”

And just like that, he gently knocks my legs out from under me and cradles me like a child, careful not to jar me too much or hold me too tight. It kind of feels like a scene from a cheesy movie, except he’s stepped out of a romance while I star in my very own horror flick.

My ribs ache, my head hurts, and I don’t have a good excuse yet for not calling the police. But at this moment, it doesn’t matter. None of it does. I can’t get past the protective kindness that radiates from Isaac. I’m sure he thinks I’m too out of it to notice him, but he doesn’t realize
—
and I don’t want him to
—
that I’m used to the aches and bruises, the dizziness and nausea. It’s the closeness, the protectiveness that overwhelms me.

I try not to think it, but the harder I try to push it away, the louder the chorus:
He cares. Someone cares.
And as soon as I allow myself to think it, another unwelcome feeling pushes it aside: humiliation. He’s only my piano teacher, for heaven’s sake, not a guardian. He didn’t sign up for this, and now everything will change if I’m not careful.

The last thing I need is pity. A couple more months and this won’t happen anymore.

“Which way to your room?”

“Up the steps and to the right.” After I mumble into his shoulder, I’m struck by the fresh-out-of-the-dryer smell of his shirt.
So clean.
So safe.

He tromps up the steps, and I count my blessings he’s in such good shape. He sets me on my bed, perfectly made up with the antique white coverlet tucked around the pillows. It seems Mama cleaned the crime scene this morning.

“Where’s the bathroom?”

“Across the hall.”

When he leaves the room, he gives me the gift of silence. The whole house is oddly quiet. No clocks tick, no birds chirp, no muffled traffic. Nothing. I’m numb.

I stare out the window in a stupor. It’s a beautiful morning. Joggers and stray cats carry on with their business as if it’s just another day, and to them it is. The buds on the mimosa trees are ready to explode. It feels like hours—seasons—have melted past when I hear Isaac rummage around and water run through the house’s antique pipes.

He kneels in front of me and brings a cold, wet washcloth to my face. He takes great care to brush back my hair and tuck it behind my ears.

I can’t look at him yet. He expects me to be devastated by my fictional mugging. I’ve been assaulted
—
that part’s true
—
but there are no strangers involved. He can’t guess that instead of being dazed by my injuries, I’m contemplating his quiet compassion, the feel of his long piano fingers wiping away the physical remnants of the attack. The emotional ones aren’t so easily purged.

A warm finger grazes my chin, turns my face toward his. I hear him breathe through his nose—the way men have of being heard, even when they’re silent. How hideous and absolutely pathetic I am, yet it doesn’t stop me. I blame the surreal circumstances, the strange lethargy that settles over my limbs, that calm, mellow feeling I get when someone
like
a doctor or hair stylist
is close to me and pays attention to me.

I finally meet his eyes. He’s on his knees in front of me like an old-fashioned suitor, washcloth still in his hand. He studies my face
,
not just the injuries, as if he’s really trying to interpret my blank expression. He probably wonders if I have a concussion or if I’m in shock.

It reminds me of when I was little and Mama would put a cold washcloth on my forehead when I was sick. The memory brings a shadow of a smile to my lips.

“Julianne, if you want to talk—”

I kiss him. I just lean forward and kiss him, lightly. He does not kiss me back.

Rejected.

He leaves, forgetting to call the police.

Guess I wriggled out of that after all.

Chapter Five

“Awkward” doesn’t quite do justice to our next rehearsal. It’s a comedy of errors:

[
Enter Isaac
.]
“Hi.”

“Um, hello, Juli.”
[
Looks miserable
.]

“So, where should we start?” [
Julianne twirls hair around finger
.]

“Juli, I
—
” [
Isaac rakes fingers through his hair. Both will be bald by the end of the week
.] “
—
let’s just start with
Wanderer
again. I
—
”

“Yes?” [
Holds breath
.]

“Nothing.” He goes three shades of red. He opens his mouth to say something
else,
clearly thinks better of it and snaps it shut
.

Please don’t say anything. If you say a word, I’ll crumble.

“Juli, if there’s something you want to talk about…”

I close my eyes and cringe. I so completely want to talk about it, but not with him. It’s not right. It’s not for me to dump on him. It kills me to be rude, but I have no choice. The best thing he can do for me is help me get the audition, get accepted to the New England Conservatory, and out of Mobile, where this will never happen again. My humiliation gives me the motivation I need to be a total wench to him.

“No, there’s nothing. You’re here to teach me, so teach.”

“I
—
okay.
None of my business.
But
—
”

“But nothing. I’ve got a recording to do, and we’re wasting time.”

I ignore the slapped look on his face. His lips are a thin line, but fortunately, he keeps them closed.

At least about that day.
He has no problem opening them to criticize my performance as the deadline looms. We spend hours and hours going over the same passages, to the point that I hate everything I play.

“Try not to be so heavy-handed. Technically, you nailed this a week ago, but you’re still not feeling it.”

I can’t feel anything, haven’t you noticed? Not even the new scrapes on my arms.

We’ve narrowed down the required pieces for my recording, which will then be part of my in-person audition if I get one. I also get to choose a large body of work from a twentieth or twenty-first century composer. Of course, I choose Rachmaninoff.

We’re fine-tuning his Etude-Tableau No. 5 in D Minor
when Isaac tells me it’s wrong.
Everything I do is wrong.

“If you’re not going to do this right, then don’t do it at all!”

Finally, I feel a twitch of emotion.
More than a twitch.
I always know from the
whoosh
in my ears that I’m about to blow. For a split second, I wonder if this is what Mama feels.

“
Fine!
If you know so much, then show me. You’ve been harping at me for weeks, but I don’t know what you want. ‘It needs
color
. Add some
color
.’ What does that even
mean
?”

I slam down the keyboard cover and grip the smooth, mahogany lid. I sink my fingernails into the finish. It feels good to ruin something so perfect and beautiful. I’ve also ruined my eager-to-please facade. As it falls away, I think of how disappointed Mama would be.

“I don’t know what you’re asking, and you won’t demonstrate. Why? It’s not because I haven’t asked.”

“Fine. Move over.”

My retort dies on an exhale. I fling back the bench and stomp over to the loveseat, throw myself down and cross my arms over my chest. Yes, I’m childish. I was ready for a fight and didn’t expect him to give in so easily. He adjusts the bench a good foot back from where I had it. He closes his eyes and begins, immediately immersed in the piece with the opening low roll.

And it’s magic.

The keys and fingerings are the same ones I play; the dynamics are similar, but the song itself, its
coloring
is different in every way
—
every nuance, every pause, every touch. He leans back on the seat, fingers upright and stiff, wrists lifted; then he leans in, presses deeper into the keys, rocks the piano’s frame with the pedal.

His eyelashes glow in the sunlight streaming in from the southern window. Dust motes float in the air, dancing it seems to the quiet energy of his music. I feel his sadness now more than ever. He says much, much more through the piano than he ever does with his spare words. Perhaps this is why he never wants to play for me; he knows I’ll sense whatever it is he doesn’t want to let out. It’s true
—
there’s something he’s hiding behind the teacher’s critiques and praise.

I leave my body then, transported into the world of heartbreak he creates with his fingertips. I’m suspended in air just like the dust motes, not even aware of breath or heartbeat. For once, I feel…whole? Whatever this is, I want to hold onto it as long as I can.

When he finishes, neither of us moves. I try desperately to hold onto the wholeness, but as the seconds glide by, it flees from me like every other good thing. His hands are in his lap, and he stares ahead at nothing. I slip off the loveseat and over to the piano to stand behind him.

Do I dare? Can I touch him again, or will he push me away?

I rest my hands on his shoulders, a test. When he doesn’t resist, I slide them down in front around his neck and clasp my hands. I lean my cheek on top of his head, and he places a warm hand on top of mine. It’s a gesture I’ve made many times with my brother. We stay like that for a long while until he releases a heavy sigh, and I know the
spell’s
broken.

“I think I better go.”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

***

It’s after dinner, and I’m headed out to
—
where else
?
—
the studio. R.J. is packing his truck for his return trip to college. He leaves in the morning, and I don’t think he can cram another thing
into
or
onto
that poor pickup.

“R.J.?
You under there?
Send up a flare if you’re okay.”

“Hah-hah. You suck. How about giving me a hand instead of being snarky?”

“Ouch. Sorry, R.J. I didn’t mean it like—” Unwanted tears burn my eyes.

“Aw, Juli, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just…nervous.”

I wipe away the evidence. “About what?”

He emerges from behind the overstuffed truck bed and stops in front of me. He puts his hands on his hips
—
once again looking like Daddy
—
but he doesn’t say anything. He gazes at the
back of the house like it’ll tell him what to say next. I can see him formulating the words, and it makes me nervous, too.

“Whatever it is, just tell me,” I say. “You know you can tell me anything.” I take his hand, and he pulls me in for a big bear hug. A lump forms in my throat at the thought of him leaving me alone in that house. It’s been so nice to have someone to talk to and share the blame.

He kisses the top of my head. “Let’s go into the studio. I don’t want to be overheard.” He nods toward the kitchen windows.

“Wow, this must be pretty big. Just tell me what it is before I puke all over your shoes.”

“You’d do that, wouldn’t you?”

I’m glad I can get a little smile out of him. We settle on the loveseat, and he slumps down until he’s practically horizontal. He links his fingers over his chest and twiddles his thumbs. His nervous gesture puts me even more on edge.

“So, here’s the deal,” he says. “Actually, there are two deals.
Or maybe three.
I don’t know. One is about me and the other is about you. Kind of.”

“Would you just spit it out?”

With a heavy sigh, he tells me his news. “I changed my major, and I haven’t told Mama or Daddy.”