Transcendence

it.”

If she only knew how close she is to the truth. The reason I was so good at cello. I realize that I’m already thinking about it in the past tense. Something I used to do. Something that used to define who I was. And for the first time since I woke up and saw Griffon sitting by the bed, tears spill over my lids and down my face before I can do anything to stop them.

“Oh crappity crap crap,” Rayne says, lunging for the tissue box and handing it to me. “I totally didn’t mean to do that.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say, losing myself completely into blubber mode now. “It’s just something I have to deal with.”

“But maybe it will be okay,” she says eagerly. “They can do amazing things these days. Maybe it’s just going to take a few weeks or a few months and everything will be just like it was.”

“Nice try, Mary Poppins,” I say to her. The tears that haven’t made their way out of my body seem to be congealing into a tight, hard ball in my chest. “But you know and I know that it will never be the same.”

“I refuse to know that right now. And so should you.” Rayne gets up and starts poking at the cards and flowers that are set around the room. “You sure got a lot of stuff,” she says. “Too bad nobody likes you.”

I laugh, because the biggest and craziest bouquet of wild-flowers is from Rayne and her mom. “Yeah. All of a sudden I’m the most popular person around. I guess almost bleeding to death has an upside.”

“Must have been some mess,” Rayne says, and makes a face. I’ve been trying not to think about that too much. By the time I’d woken up in my hospital room, my clothes were gone, and I’ve been wearing this hospital gown and my robe ever since. I realize now that they were so covered in blood Mom probably threw them away.

“Who sent you bamboo?” Rayne asks, looking at a small red pot with some green stalks in it.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t remember seeing that before. Is there a card?”

Rayne peeks among the leaves. “Nope. This pot has three stalks growing in it. That means long life for Chinese people.”

“How do you know all this stuff anyway?”

Rayne shrugs. “You know cello. I know rocks and flowers.” She rubs a silky green leaf with her fingers. “Weird. I wonder who it’s from?”

Long life. And he’d said he’d been Chinese a few lifetimes ago. I smile, knowing exactly who the bamboo is from.

Seventeen

Gabi closes her locker with a bang and I jump. “Nervous?” she says, and laughs.

“No,” I say. “I was just thinking about something else.” All week, the smallest sound or movement out of the corner of my eye causes my heart to race, and I’ve been imagining I see Veronique everywhere.

“I think I know what that ‘something else’ is,” Rayne says. “Or, rather, who that someone else is.”

“Not true,” I say, automatically feeling for the outline of my phone in my pocket.

“Going to see him today?”

“No,” I said. “Probably not until tomorrow. I haven’t seen him since I got out of the hospital.”

“Well, it’s too bad you didn’t screw up your right hand,” Gabi says, looking at the splint on my arm. “Then you wouldn’t have to do Ms. Lipke’s famous timed essay this afternoon.”

“I’m seriously beginning to hate that woman,” Rayne says. “Did she give you one first period?”

“Yup,” Gabi says. “Sixty minutes of writing on one of the books we’ve read so far. We did Their Eyes Were Watching God, so at least you know it won’t be that one.”

“I’m so not in the mood,” Rayne says. “It would almost be worth slitting my wrists to not have to do that today.” She looks at me. “Crap. Sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

“It’s okay.”

“See you guys later,” Gabi calls, rushing down the opposite hallway.

Just as the bell rings, I slip through the door of the orchestra room. I’ve felt so out of place here the past few days, just being able to watch and not join in. I start toward my usual chair on the end of the cello row, but then hesitate. I have no cello with me, and I can’t play even if I did. At the last second, I head toward the back of the room and settle into one of the stools near the percussion section.

“Nicole?” Steinberg asks, looking out over everyone as they get out their instruments and start tuning up. In addition to teaching me privately, he’s the orchestra director at school. I miss our afternoon sessions at the studio, but without being able to play, there’s no point in showing up. “You don’t have to sit back there, you know,” he says. “You can stay in your usual position as long as you like. Did the doctors say when you might be able to play again?”

I shake my head. “Awhile.” Despite the fact that the sounds of tuning echo through the room, I’m acutely aware that everyone in the orchestra is paying attention to our conversation. Claire White ducks her head, pretending to concentrate on her bow, but I know she’s thinking the same thing that I am. “You should give my chair to Claire.” She’s sat next to me for the past three years, always ready for any challenge opportunity.

Steinberg glances back at my row. “You don’t need to decide that now—”

“I already did,” I say. “I’m no good to anybody at the moment. Claire deserves it. She’ll be great.”

“For now,” he says.

“For now,” I agree. “Then I’ll come and challenge to see if I can win it back. Someday.”

“Someday soon,” Steinberg says. He gives me a barely perceptible wink before walking briskly back to Claire to whisper in her ear.

Claire looks back at me, and I give her a little wave of encouragement as she slowly gets up and shifts her music onto my empty stand, the red spots of embarrassment on her cheeks almost matching the red in her hair. I keep my head up and look straight ahead as the rest of the row realizes what’s happened.

I sit motionless through warm-ups and Beethoven’s Coriolan Overture, a piece that I’ve played a thousand times before. The fingers on my left hand twitch as they sit mostly unfeeling, weakly mimicking every single note of a piece that I know deep down I may never play again. As the music from the orchestra cascades over the small room, I start to feel the now-familiar break from reality as a memory begins.

Strong hands hold me up by my arms as my legs buckle. My face is wet with tears as I struggle to get the image of a broken Alessandra out of my mind. Signore Barone speaks to the policemen who crowd the rooftop in a language I’ve come to recognize as English, his eyes shining with tears as he points his finger repeatedly in my direction. They begin to jerk me roughly toward the stairs, their faces masks of disapproval and contempt as I begin to comprehend what’s happening.

“I did nothing wrong!” I cry, panic filling my body, but the men holding me up obviously do not understand my pleas. “It wasn’t me! Please, won’t somebody listen? Won’t somebody listen to what really happened?”

“It can’t be!” Paolo cries, rushing through the door and onto the roof, pushing past us as if we are invisible. “They say she has fallen! Where is Alessandra?” His face is filled with pain and disbelief as he rushes to the crowd surrounding the edge of the roof, below which she lies broken and bloodied. He peers over the side of the building, then falls to his knees, his hands over his face and a guttural, keening sound coming from his throat. “She is not gone! She can’t be gone!” he cries over and over, rocking back and forth with the rhythm of his words as Signore Barone puts a protective hand on his shoulder.

“Somebody help me!” I cry, but my words are useless as I am dragged roughly to the doorway. Paolo glances up as the door closes, his eyes gleaming with hatred.

I look around the music room as the last notes from the Overture fade away, still filled with the panic I’d experienced that night on the roof. Alessandra died falling off the roof, and I was accused of doing it. My memories don’t go further than the stairwell, but I somehow know after that night in that lifetime, I never played the cello again.