right—but the food is inedible. Two days of picking mysterious things off my tray has been enough.
Mom sees my glance. “Are you sure you don’t want something more to eat?”
“No. Besides, they said I might be able to get out of here today.” I smile sweetly at her. “And if I don’t, will you please,
“That would be awfully nice of me,” she says, coming around to my back to fluff up my pillow. “We’ll see.” Apparently now that my death is no longer imminent, I don’t get everything I want.
On the other side of the curtain, I can hear the hallway door open and the squeak of Dr. Shapiro’s shoes on the polished floor. He knocks on the side of the door before pulling the curtain back.
“How are things today, Miss Ryan?” he asks, glancing at the computer screen next to the bed.
“Better,” Mom jumps in. “She seems to be getting some feeling back in the tips of her fingers,” she adds. “And the color seems to be better too. We’ve been keeping a careful eye on that for the past twenty-four hours.”
“Thank you,” he says brusquely to Mom, and then turns pointedly toward me. “May I have a look?”
I nod and take a deep breath. When it’s wrapped up tight in white bandages, I don’t have to think too much about what’s going on underneath, but whenever he wants to have a look, the reality of what happened sets in. Dr. Shapiro tries hard to be gentle, but just a bump sends a shooting pain straight up to my shoulder.
“Let’s see what we’re working with here,” he says, unhooking my arm from the sling that keeps it upright and unwrapping the bandage. My arm looks small and bright yellow, which he said is from the antiseptic they use during surgery. Running straight down the inside of my arm from wrist almost to elbow is an angry red line covered in shiny black stitches. I can hear Mom sharply inhale.
Dr. Shapiro doesn’t say anything, just looks at the scar from several angles. He gently pinches the ends of my fingers. “Can you feel that?”
“Some,” I say.
“Still feel a little numb?”
“Kind of. Mostly from my middle finger to my pinky.”
“Hmm,” he says. “Let me see you move them.”
The fear that it is going to hurt is worse than the actual pain as I carefully bend my fingers down as far as they’ll go.
“Well,” he says, opening up some new gauze to put over the stitches, “the wound is healing nicely, and I don’t see any signs of infection. Which is great.”
“What about the nerve damage?” Mom asks anxiously. “Will she have the same range of motion as before? You know that Nicole is an exceptionally gifted cellist, and I can’t imagine what it would do to her career if—”
“We’ll have to wait and see, Mrs. Ryan,” Dr. Shapiro says sharply, cutting her off mid-sentence. It’s so embarrassing that she doesn’t see how much she annoys him. “Right now I’m more concerned with infection and saving her life than I am with some of the fine motor skills she may lose,” he continues. “The ulnar nerve was completely severed, along with extensive tissue damage. At this point, she’s lucky she gets to keep her hand.” He smiles apologetically at me. “The scar shouldn’t be too bad,” he says. “I’m good with a stitch, if I do say so myself.”
I look at my arm, all packaged up tight, as he hooks me back up to the pulley system. From the outside, it’s all going to look completely normal, but I know with stone-cold certainty that it will never be the same. The thought that I won’t be able to play again feels like a big empty space inside, as if more than just some nerves and tendons have been severed. I’ve been feeling guilty about making the cello my career since I found out the truth about my “gift.” Maybe now, I’ll have no choice.
“I think we can let you go later today, if you promise to keep it elevated as much as possible.” Dr. Shapiro turns to Mom. “I’ll give you some information about physical therapy and rehabilitation before she’s released.”
“I want the best therapists in the city,” Mom says as I cringe from embarrassment. “Nicole has a promising career ahead of her, and to have something like this end it would just be so … tragic.”
Dr. Shapiro smiles a tight smile. “I’ve done everything I can do. Now it’s just a waiting game to see how well the nerves react.” He squeezes my foot through the covers. “I’ll check back in before you go.”
I wait until the door shuts behind him to say anything. “Do you even hear yourself?”
“What? It’s true! In order to become a truly world-class musician, you need to have quick reflexes and strong fingers. If you don’t get all of the feeling back, I just…” She puts her head in her hands. “I just don’t know what we’ll do.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” I demand. “Didn’t you hear him? I could have bled to death, and all you care about is whether I can play the cello again! Sometimes I think you don’t even care about me. Just what I can do.”
Mom stands up and takes a step toward the bed. “How can you say that? After everything we’ve done? You know we love you.”
“I know you love the fact that I can play the cello. And that you get to be the mother of a child prodigy,” I say, anger and frustration spilling over into my words. “But guess what, Mom—you can’t be a child prodigy if you aren’t a child anymore. And I’m not. Pretty soon, I’m just going to be a regular adult who happens to be good at the cello.” I wiggle my fingers in the bandages. “Or at least that’s what was going to happen. Face it: I’m not that special anymore.”
Mom makes a move to touch my shoulder but I shake her off, so she takes a step away from the bed. “You know you don’t mean that,” she says, struggling to keep her voice even. “I know how upsetting this is. We’ll get the best therapist in the city and begin right away. If you want to be truly world-class, you can’t afford to lose too much ground, or else—”
“You’re not listening, Mom!” I shout. “You have to accept the reality that it might be over. I might never play again.” Even as I say the words, I try not to concentrate on them, to fully comprehend that I might never pick up a bow again.
“You listen to me,” she says. “You
“Well, it looks like destiny has other ideas now,” I say.
Mom is just gearing up for a repeat performance about my wasted talents when there’s another knock on the door.
“Can I come in?” Rayne asks from out in the hallway. I can’t tell if she’s overheard us or not.
“Please,” I call out. Mom seems to deflate into the chair by the window, aware that our “discussion” is over, at least for the moment.
“How’s it going?” Rayne asks, stepping further into the room, her eyes flickering momentarily to my bandaged hand and then to my face.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I get out of here today.”
“Awesome,” she says, bending down to give me an awkward hug. “What time?”
I glance at Mom. “Did he say what time?”
“No,” she says. “Probably before dinner, I’d imagine.” She stands up. “I’m going to get the nurse to start the paperwork so that it doesn’t take all day.”
I breathe a sigh of relief once she’s gone and the door has thunked closed. “Mom wants me to stay home all week, but I can’t wait for things to get back to normal,” I say. “I’ll probably miss school again tomorrow, but I might be able to go back on Wednesday.”
“Good,” Rayne says. She looks back at my arm again. “Is it going to be back to normal?”
“Sure,” I say, sounding more confident than I feel. “It just might take a little while to get all of the feeling back in my fingers. It’ll be fine.”
“Will you be able to … play anymore?”
“I don’t know,” I say, trying to sound indifferent. “And if I can’t, who cares? You’re the one who’s always saying there’s more to life than practice. Maybe I need to take a break.”
Rayne studies my face. “Yeah, but
“So now you’re on Mom’s side too?”
Rayne sits down on the edge of the bed. “I’m not taking a side.” She grins. “Especially your mom’s. But there must be a reason that you’re so good at cello. I’m not good at anything, but if I was, I’d make the most of
