Until Then Page 7

  There must be at least 50 more messages from Crew. I’ve read them so many times that I know them by heart. While they do nothing to take away the sting he caused, I can’t bring myself to delete them. He’s spent the last year trying to apologize while I’ve spent the last year trying to forgive.

  Not forgive him.

  Forgive myself.

  I have never learned how to be my own hero. I’ve always relied on my father to come to my rescue — the voice in my head — since day one. But then he was abruptly taken away from me. So when faced with indecision, I never felt confident that I was making the right choice. I had trouble hearing his voice, even on the piano. Then this guy came along and said all the right things at all the right times, and I let myself believe that he understood me well enough to help me.

  I let myself believe that he could be my hero. Or at least teach me to be my own hero.

  I let him in. I confided in him, at first thinking I would never see him again, but then I respected his advice. It worked the first time. So I tried again. Admittedly, he gives good advice.

  I let my guard down. Like an idiot.

  And he struck. Like an idiot.

  Then I realized that not only am I not my own hero, I am my own villain. I set myself up, using words like, “you make me feel like a nobody.” Because then he abused the green light to treat me like a nobody.

  An empty nobody, as if my feelings didn’t matter. Or I didn’t have any feelings at all.

  I definitely deserved it. I’ve worked hard to forgive myself for being so naive, for not being stronger, more intuitive, more resilient. Yet I don’t seem to feel forgiven.

  The worst part is that I thought he actually did care. I was reading all his signs. In between his struggling words and intense pauses, I thought they all told me that I could relax, be myself, make a real friend. I thought they told me he wouldn’t hurt me. That I could trust him and be honest with him.

  After that night, I questioned my chances of being great at this honesty thing, at having friendships and relationships.

  I broke up with Goodwin. My father would’ve been right. He was a waste of my time. Given the fact that he started dating someone that night, I made the right call. I started to play more with Lily and her band in the clubs, and amazing things happened. I was composing again, songs with an edge and a good beat. The band loved them and created lyrics and other instrumentals to accompany what I’d already written. They invited me to be a permanent member in the band, and I leapt at the chance. We began to have a following, people who’d come to the different clubs we’d play. They supported us and cheered for us, even creating social media pages for us, which increased our following. We landed more and more gigs, playing in the kinds of places where my feet stuck to the floor and the sweat of the crowd was palpable in the air. It was so different than any musical performance I’d ever experienced. And I loved every sweaty, exhausting second of it.

  These new experiences changed a lot of things for me. I was happier, more fulfilled by my work. My mother also was happier. She found a small group of friends from the bookstore and joined their book clubs. She went out more, talked to people, and had some fun. It took three years, but she’s getting better every day. Every now and again I see her smile and laugh, and she doesn’t hide it as quickly when I catch her.

  “The only thing, Dad, is to take the leap of faith.” I breathe deeply to prepare my heart. “I’ve been invited to go with the band to Europe for a few months, they want me to play keyboards with them, which means taking a sabbatical from school.” I bite on my bottom lip, struggling with this particular choice. “I know you wanted me to be a world class pianist, Dad…for the rest of my life. I don’t know if I can do that —.” I pause to find the words that really say it for me. “I don’t know how much I want to do that. I feel like I’ve given all I have to give to that profession. I don’t have anything left in me that I haven’t fulfilled, nothing left to ‘wow’ the audience, nothing left to explore and flush out. I’ve been playing classically for almost fifteen years now, and I’m only 20 years old. I feel like my options are to either go and hide, like Bobby Fischer, or explore something else to master, like Josh Waitzkin.” I chuckle, wondering if my father would remember my stealing his book, Searching for Bobby Fischer, about the chess prodigy who became a master of many other disciplines. “I really like playing the clubs, Dad. But I don’t…I would never want to disappoint you.” I take a breath in and hold it. “Is there any way you could show me that you’d be ok with my traveling with the band? That you’re ok with my exploring this new path?”

  I need a piano.

  I wait for a sign from him, something out of place, something that tells me he’s listening and responding in his own way.

  And I wait.

  And I wait.

  And…I…wait.

  And I fucking wait.

  For nothing.

  There’s clearly a difference between getting a sign and hunting for a sign. Because then everything turns into a sign. Every chirp, every light rustle of wind, every rattle of leaves could become misconstrued as a sign. Then the signs get jumbled and confusing.

  Time to go. I stand up, press my fingers to my lips, and press them to the marble. “It’s ok, Dad. I understand. Now is not the time. Maybe someday.” I shake my head slowly. “I miss you every day, Dad. I’ll see you soon. Until then. I love you.”

  I turn and make my way out the cemetery to the street. I came to Austin early tonight, arriving around 5pm. Not because I was hoping to see Crew but because I needed some extra time with my Dad. I need to feel his presence surround me, hear his voice. I went around to some of my favorite places that remind me of him — the donut shop he’d take me to on Saturday mornings, the quiet part of the lake where we’d skip rocks, the movie theater that played old classics, my old house, the first venue where I played a show, and the first place I took piano lessons.

  Which is why I’m sitting at the diner eating banana waffles with blueberry syrup listening to Aunt Rosie whistle too loudly. I didn’t realize last year that this diner was across the street from Miss Leslie’s old piano school. Now I have a direct view of it.

  I sit on the opposite side of the diner, away from where I sat last time. I look past a few patrons to Crew’s booth, which is empty. I wonder if he’s been here since last year. I know he said he’d be here tonight, and I never expected him to show up.

  But I secretly hoped he would.

  There’s a lot that I would’ve liked to say to him, but he’s right. We should have talked in person. I wanted to tell him that I was wrong, that I should’ve given him the chance to explain, that I acted immaturely and without empathy. I wasn’t kind, and he deserves kind, at least from me. I wanted to explain that I’ve spent the last year thinking about him and the things he’s said to me. He had been helpful and patient, and I shouldn’t have discarded our friendship so quickly, if that’s what we even had. I wanted to tell him about —.

  “You doing alright tonight, little bird?” Rosie interrupts my thoughts with her louder than necessary voice. She’s standing over me holding a water pitcher with one hand on her hip and chewing her gum. I didn’t take notice before, but she’s stunning, like an actress from the 1940s. Her movie star red hair is curled and pinned up, her makeup emphasizes her long lashes, and her bright red lips are finely colored.

  I smile at her and speak clearly to keep from slurring my words and confusing her. “I’m fine, Ms. Rosie. Thank you.”

  “Please, call me ‘Aunt Rosie.’ Everyone else does,” she smiles brightly. Everyone? “You look like you were about a million miles away just now. Penny for your thoughts?” she asks and refills my water.

  I blink my eyes for an extra moment longer and remember how my father used to say that to me all the time. My heart flutters are the familiarity of it. I open my eyes and smile, remembering to be kind regardless of the state I’m in. “Thank you for your concern, Aunt Rosie. But I don’t think my though
ts are worth that penny.” I smile. “But I do have a question for you.”

  “What’s that, darlin’?” She shifts her hips.

  I’d love to ask her a slew of questions I have about Crew, most prominently — where I can find him. But the nerve hasn’t struck me yet. So I start small. “Are you really Crew’s aunt, or is that a title of affection?”

  Her smile brightens at his name. “Oh, I’m his aunt, alright. His mother, Julia, was my sister, bless her soul. I’ve been knocking sense into that boy since he was a little tyke. He needs a little kick in the pants every now and then.” She chews her gum like she’s a baseball coach with the bases loaded and the best hitter is walking up to the plate. “Now his brother, Sebby — well, he just needs to be tied down and shown what’s what. But Crew — he’s a good boy. He’s got his mama’s big heart and his father’s sharp wit, the best of both of them. You won’t find that southern charm in those New York City boys.”

  “Wait — do you know that I live in New York?”

  “‘Course I do. Crew doesn’t keep anything from me. Like I said, he and I have been tight since he was born. There’s not much he can get by me.” She winks, and I am warmed by her charm.

  “So, you knew who I was when we came here last year?” I ask meekly.

  She chuckles. “Little bird, I’ve known you since you were in pigtails.” Aunt Rosie flashes me a mega-watt smile and makes her way to her other tables while I sit quietly in stunned silence.

  Wow.

  I have no idea about the real truth, but it’s nothing like the story I’ve created in my mind. Crew wasn’t being a jerk. He was something else entirely, of which I’m entirely unsure.

  I want to know his story.

  I look up to see Aunt Rosie work her other tables with a charm only she can bring. When she shifts back and walks to the next table, I see him.

  Crew.

  In his booth.

  Eyes pinned on me.

  9.

  Crew

  The look she’s giving me makes me stone cold sober even though I haven’t had a drink in years. The adrenaline flood my veins. I can actually hear my own heart pounding out my thrill.

  I watch Summer gather her bag and stand from her booth, walking past the loud tables and stopping in front of the door, all while her eyes are locked on mine. She weighs her decisions — talk with me or bolt out the door.

  Please keep walking to me, baby.

  With each step Summer takes, my heartbeat increases exponentially. She pauses near the door then resumes walking toward my booth. She’s coming. I shouldn’t be this nervous, but I’m terrified of saying the wrong thing. I’ve scared her enough.

  “Hi, Crew,” she murmurs.

  “Hi, Summer,” I reply, giving the best smile I can without being too elated that she walked over. “Would you like to sit?”

  She lifts her chin and turns her face to the window. When she spots the school, she closes her eyes then looks back to me. “Only if you promise to stop being so weird.”

  “I promise,” I say quickly, relieved that she’s talking. As she puts her bag down and slides into the booth, Aunt Rosie smiles and winks to me, encouraging me in the same manner my mother had. For a moment, I can feel my mother with me, and I savor it.

  “What are you thinking about?” Summer asks, cutting to the chase.

  The girl wants honesty. I can respect that. “I was thinking about my mother.” Summer raises her eyebrows, encouraging my thoughts. “I remember how she could make me feel better by just smiling at me. It didn’t matter what I was doing or where I was — if I had any inner turmoil, I’d look to her. And she’d just smile. Her face would light up. Her eyes were so warm and loving. She was so calming. Then I knew that I could relax, that I was loved, that I’d be ok. It always worked.” I smile to Summer, suddenly feeling content that we’re sitting together in this booth. “Sometimes she’d cup my face and kiss my forehead, if she was close enough. Sometimes she’d just smile to calm me, like if I was on the pitcher’s mound. She had that magic.”

  Summer nods her head in empathy. I know she knows how this all feels.

  “My father did something similar. When I was little, I scraped my eye on a piano bench. I still have the scar.” She moves her hair aside to show me the scar on the side of her eyebrow; it’s pretty significant. “My dad would kiss it to make me feel better. Then with any future injury, he’d patch up the injury first but then also kiss near my eye.” She smiles at a beautiful memory. “Whenever I was nervous to play, I’d spot him in the audience, and he’d touch the spot above his eye with his fingertips, like his hand was kissing that spot on me. Made me feel instantly better.”

  I smile at her sweet story. We have so much in common, Summer and I. It makes it hard to breathe sometimes. “I miss her,” I say, feeling the tears threaten.

  “I miss him, too,” she replies, probably feeling the same thing.

  I decide right there to be more honest with her. She’s said many times that honesty is important and she hasn’t had that many close friends, and I want to be her friend. I desperately want to be her friend. “Can I ask you a hard question?” I mutter.

  Summer hesitates a moment then nods stoically.

  I steel myself because I sure as hell would never want to answer it. But for some reason, I really want to know what she thinks. “Which do you think is worse — the agony of living through the disease or the abruptness of the accident?”

  Her body stiffens for a moment, then she reaches up and splays her fingers over her heart and holds it there motionless. Finally, she steals a deep inhale and drums her fingers on her heart. Dropping her hand to her side, she says, “I can’t pretend to know what you’ve lived through, Crew.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to, Summer. I’m simply asking your opinion.”

  Watching her weigh her words is agonizing, but I keep quiet until she’s ready. “Losing someone without warning is the worst kind of cruelty. You have no chance to undo anything you’ve done wrong, no chance to let your heart bleed out, no chance to feel one more hug.” Her breathing accelerates as she’s speaking. “There’s no last real moment. There’s only whatever your last memory was — good or bad. That’s what sticks with you. Whether you want it to or not.”

  Her self-resentment seeps through her words. I can’t imagine what this poor girl has put herself through over the last few years. But her strength and courage far outshine her talent right now. I would give anything to hug her and take away her pain.

  “There’s not a day that goes by that I wish I had one more minute with him.” Her eyes start to well with heartbroken tears. “One more minute…to tell him so many things.” She laughs one chuckle while reaching for a napkin to catch her threatening tears. “Actually, I don’t think I’d need a minute.” She dabs under her eyes. “Just a few seconds would be fine.”

  “What would you do? What would you say to him?” I ask.

  Summer purses her lips together and takes a breath. “I’d tell him that I could never hate him, that I’m sorry for being so unworthy of him, and that —” Her words are broken and forced. “— he’ll always be the voice in my head, the song on my piano.” Tears begin to stream down her beautiful cheeks. Without breaking my stare, I reach and hand her another napkin. She mouths the word “thank you” and smiles, remembering that I can read lips.

  Fuck. I might have just fallen in love with her.

  10.

  Summer

  1:07am

  I’m surprised that I just told Crew all of that. But I’m more surprised that I was able to actually say those words out loud. For four years, I’ve wished every day that I could go back and redo that last moment with my dad. I’ve had to push myself out of making horrible, emotional mistakes. Hurtful mistakes. Grave mistakes.

  Because I made that mistake.

  No therapist that my grandparents pushed me toward could get me to admit that I held those last moments with my father in a dark place that often grabbed hold a
nd sucked me in. Because there’s no time for dire thoughts. I have to paint on my face and smile for the spotlight.

  “Watching cancer consume my mother was…inhumane,” Crew begins, giving me a reprieve from my thunderous emotions. “In the beginning, she was strong and brave and always smiling, no matter the pain. She protected me and my brother from it, coming to our games and making us breakfast like nothing was wrong. That lasted for a while. Until —”

  The pain of the memory makes him pause.

  “Until what, Crew?” I ask tenderly.

  Taking a deep breath, he continues, “Until it got so bad that she didn’t even know who I was anymore.” He grabs the back of his neck and squeezes quickly, probably in agony. These memories fucking sting. “Some days she was my mother, kind and sweet and nurturing. Other days, she was the worst version that my mother could be — loud, cantankerous, nasty. God, I hated those days, when the cancer was clearly winning and stealing my mother away. It all made me so angry.” He pauses to breathe and let the anger wash away. “Eventually, she wasn’t any of those things. She became apathetic and detached, having no idea who we were. Just staring at us like we had no business attending to her.” He shrugs.

  “Was there anything you could do for her?” I ask him.

  He takes a long pause with that one. “Not physically, no. I mean, the specialists were doing everything they could and attributed her change in personality to the treatment. But that wasn’t enough for me. So, I wrote her letters,” he finally replies.

  “Letters?” I ask wondering if that could’ve helped me.

  “Yes, letters. I talked about how much I loved her, the funs things we used to do, the things I looked forward to when she got better. I’d include pictures, too, and I’d leave them for her so she could read them when she felt more like herself.”

  “Do you know if she read them?”

  “She read some. She would thank me for writing them and hug me. But on her bad days, she didn’t read anything. The letters stayed sealed. Eventually, she stopped reading altogether.”