Reverb (23 page)

“Your child has been tucked securely into his crib. I imagine you would like to go say goodnight?”

“Yes. Thank you. I’ll be right back.” She goes in and kisses a dozing Cameron on his head, and then his cheek, and bids him sweet dreams, then leaves his room and closes the door softly behind her.

“Whose guitar is that?” is the first thing he says as she comes back into the kitchen.

“It was Jack’s. It’s one of the few non-essentials I took with us. Other than his laptop, that guitar was probably Jack’s most treasured possession. He played it pretty well for an amateur, and Cameron likes to fiddle with it every so often. Why do you ask?”

He shakes his head, shrugs, spreads his hands in surrender.

“Would you like to play it?”

“No.” Then, “Yes.” Then he laughs, but it isn’t with humor. “Thing is, don’t know if I can play anymore.”

“Well, give it a try and see.”

He gives her a quasi-grin. “Risky. If I can’t, I’m not quite sure I can bear the loss.”

“Maybe you won’t have to.” She goes back into Cameron’s room before he can protest and meets him in the living room with the guitar. Elisabeth sets the case on the floor, flips open the locks, and lifts the lid. An unexpected wave of profound sadness, then guilt as she stares down at Jack’s guitar. And suddenly she sees her husband sitting crossed-legged in front of her with the guitar in his lap. It’s three in the morning, in the basement of their Tel Aviv flat. Building foundation vibrates with the passing jet fighters. Cameron is just two months. He’s fussing in the bassinet. Jack tries to soothe him to sleep with music. Elisabeth is too exhausted to move, or she’d have gotten off the floor and kissed him right then.

She looks up at James standing behind her. His hands are folded over his chest, tucked against his side. He stares down at the guitar, his expression steely, unreadable. He finally glances at her, shakes his head slowly.

“I can’t do this now. I’m sorry.” He turns away, goes over to the window and looks out.

Elisabeth strokes the strings softly, just once, then closes the case and puts it back in Cameron’s room, fully expecting when she comes out that James will be gone. But he isn’t. He’s still standing by the window, staring out. She doesn’t know what to say to him, consumed by her own sadness. She sits on the couch, grabs the pillow, hugs it to her as she buries her face in it and succumbs to tears.

“I’m sorry, ‘Lisbeth. I know how much it hurts losing people you love.” He leans back against the wall, one bare foot up against it, James stares at the floor. His soft linen shirt is tucked loosely into his jeans. Thick waves of silky hair frame his sculpted face and are scattered in his striking eyes, which are fixed on hers. And as magnificent as he is, right now, she wishes he was Jack.

“God, I miss him. I miss him so much it physically hurts.” She hugs the pillow tighter to her, and cries and cries and she can’t stop. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you don’t need this.” She tries to smile at him as she sits rocking, holding the pillow to her chest.

“Don’t apologize for grieving, Liz. I buried my parents when I was thirteen, and then myself in music. Lost my muse a year and a half ago.” He looks down. “Been nothing since. Believe me, I understand loss.”

She’s floored by his words, suddenly incredulous. “Being a musician was what you
did
, James, not all of who you were, or are, or could be. Don’t you get it? Jack’s loss as a reporter will be marginal. A thousand others precede him. His loss will be felt much more profoundly by the son who will never know his father; by me, who won’t grow old with the man I committed to spending my life; by his parents who now have to face every day without the child they raised to outlive them.”

“I've no family. No love. No children. I’ve cultivated none of these things. My loss will be marginal.” He shoots her a cheeky grin.

“It wouldn’t be to me, and Cameron.” She sighs, shakes her head and sadness sweeps through her again.

“I’m sorry, ‘Lisbeth. I was being flip. It was careless.”

“But honest. You’re still there. You’re still on the cliff staring into the chasm.”

He half-laughs, shrugs then looks down again.

“Harboring the notion you’re nothing to anyone just makes it easier to check out, James.”

He looks at her then, searching and looks back down. “If I can’t play, well, that’ll just about kill me.”

“Only if you let it. You choose.” She stays fixed on him but he still won’t look up. “It’s as important as you make it.” She thinks she catches a quick smile then he folds his arms across his chest. She sighs. “James, you want to find some ground? Maybe it’s time to figure out what you have to give besides music, don’t you think?”

He glares at her. “You don’t get it. I don’t want to think.”

Jerk.
“God, I’m right back where I left off with Jack,” she practically growls at him. “No. Worse. You’re
consciously
avoiding yourself.” She buries her face in the pillow and screams.

He laughs. She glares at him. “Okay, Liz, what is it you want to hear? Wasn’t it you who told me on the beach this afternoon that you’re scared of everything all the time? Well, I’m with you. You should be.”

Blank on a witty retort.
She’s surprised he heard her earlier. Pleasantly surprised. “I might feel afraid a lot, but I refuse to live that way.” She stares at him. “Look, you said music gave you a foundation once. Maybe it can again. Take the guitar. Go play it, James. Prove to yourself you can, and that it’s not the end all. You can damn yourself to your fears, or have the balls to face them. It’s your choice.”

He studies her. “’Lisbeth, I’m not your second chance at fixing Jack.”

“Jack is dead. And I can’t possibly fix you, honey. You’re going to have to do that.”

His eyes narrow, but there’s humor in them. “Woman, you really are a hard case.” His expression hardens. “You’re mad at Jack. I get it. But I’m not Jack. You can share your anger with me, but not at me. I may deserve it for past crimes, but not with you. Not yet, anyway.”

“Not counting when you walked out this morning.” She instantly regrets saying it. It’s crass and shames her.

He sighs and shakes his head then pushes away from the wall. “It’s getting late. We’re both tired. We’ll talk tomorrow. Goodnight.”

She doesn’t say anything to stop him. He walks out and shuts the screen quietly, and she’s glad he’s left. She sits on that couch and cries. She cries for what she and Jack shared, and what they didn’t. She cries for Cameron, and the father he will never know. She cries for James, and the losses he’s suffered, of his parents, of his music, of his sense of self. She’s consumed with emptiness, aching for contact, with Jack, with James...

Never again with Jack.
And though the idea feeds into her sadness, it surprises her how distant the past now feels. Never again with Jack, is less weighted. She’s finally done with trying to fix them, trying to fix him, and getting nowhere—but contentious.

I’m sorry, Jack.

She sits on the couch and swears at herself, then to herself she’ll never try to fix anyone but herself again. James believes his worth is his music because it’s all he knows. And though music may ground him, it will never complete him. But he’s going to have to come to that on his own.

It’s close to four in the morning when Elisabeth goes into Cameron’s room and gets the guitar. She covers her son, tucks the blanket around him firmly and strokes his small head, then closes the door to his room and leaves the house. She makes sure all the doors are locked, something she hasn’t bothered with since moving in, though she’ll only be gone a few minutes.

She climbs the hill as quickly and quietly as she can. She doesn’t want him to hear her, doesn’t want to see him right now. All the lights are off when she gets up to his house. Elisabeth leaves the guitar on his back porch with a note. She hopes when he finds it in the morning, he’ll accept it in the spirit it’s been given.

Chapter Eight

I read the note.

Since it’s meant to be played, I thought you could be of greater service to this instrument than Cameron or I. Perhaps this guitar can help you find what you feel you’ve lost.

I’m sorry for last night. I was out of line. I apologize.

E.

I bring the guitar in the house and set it on the floor, kneel in front of it, flip open the case and stare down at it. Jack’s guitar. Cameron’s father’s guitar. A dead man’s guitar.
No use to him now.
It’s a beautiful instrument, a Maton Flamingo, rosewood, with an ebony fingerboard and bridge. I vaguely wonder how well Jack played it. I’m scared out of my mind to find out if I still can.

If I can master the guitar again, I can surely re-master most other instruments. And I’ll have my life back. Except not really. I’ll only have music back. And that hadn’t turned out to be enough.
‘I’m afraid of losing him
.
’
I see Elisabeth smoosh her face into Cameron’s neck and hold on tight after I lifted him out of the water yesterday. The image lingers, their exchange of love was palpable. And I know right then, with a clarity often sought but rarely attained, that even if I can make it with music again, it will never be enough.

I stare at the guitar.

And suddenly I’m five, sitting on the gray woolen couch in the playroom watching TV. Mike comes in carrying two guitar cases covered with snow, sets them down carefully in the foyer and brushes them dry with his scarf. One of the cases is Mike’s, with the stickers, dings and tears. The other I’ve never seen before. Mike brings both into the playroom and turns off the TV.

I loudly protest, but Mike silently flips open both cases, takes out his guitar, and hands me the other. He sits down on the couch and starts playing—very slowly, and instructs me to copy him. And I do. I sit on the floor at Mike’s feet and copy his fingering, getting it wrong more often than right at first, but Mike doesn’t seem to mind.

“Again. Again. Again.” Mike repeats it softly, for an hour or so until mom calls us for dinner.

By then I’m playing Frere Jacques right along with Mike. Mom joins us with her flute. Mike sets a fast rhythm, strums double time behind my picking. The flute quivers like snowflakes, dances around our melody. Sound resonates off the walls and moves through me, and we are one. Connected. And I am complete. I had to have more...

I’d missed the significance of that moment all those years ago with my parents. I mistakenly assumed it was the music that filled me up, but I realize now that deep resonance I’d felt had been the love we shared. We were simply creating the soundtrack for the scene. The music intertwined, blended with feelings of security, contentment, profound joy, that were subsequently rekindled every time I played.

Jack’s guitar mocks me, and I glare at it. ‘Have the balls to face your fear,’ I hear Elisabeth, recall certainty in her clear hazel eyes, even wet with tears of grief. A sweeping wave of sadness rushes through me for her loss, and mine.

I miss you, mom, and Mike,
and I see them again, that night, her short, dark hair in her striking green eyes as she blows on the flute. She kisses Mike on the lips after we stop playing and he turns to me with his broad bearded smile. I smile, but it hurts inside—the gnawing, unrequited longing for them.

I sit on the sleeping bag and lift the guitar slowly from the case, position it in my lap and strum it. It’s horribly flat, so I start tuning it, but as soon as I put pressure on my fingers sharp pain goes shooting through my hands.

Put it down. Put the fucking guitar back in the case.

No. Don’t.

“Let the music suck you in and block out the pain.” Mike’s talking about the fatigue in my fingertips that day I was learning to play. “It’ll get easier, I promise. Don’t stop. Focus on the music and keep playing, James.” Mike coaxes me on. ‘Don’t quit. Keep playing and the pain will go away.’

I tune the guitar, repeating Mike’s words in my head like a mantra. ‘Don’t quit. Keep playing.’
It hurts.
Block out everything but the music.
Listen...a little higher. There it is. Perfect G. Hear it. Feel it resonate in you, through you.
It still hurts, but the intensity ebbs.

I’m doing it, Mike. Exactly what you told me to do. I’m blocking out the pain. I’ve been doing it my whole life now.

Laugh at the thought. “Internal, external, I’ve been shutting it all out with music...”

Except I can’t anymore.

My hands are killing me, ribbons of pain shoot through my fingers as I pluck the strings. E, A, D, G, B, E.
Perfect. Good. Okay.
I
s
hake my hands out, ball them and shake them again, trying to relieve the aching. The piano at Martin’s had been a lot easier. I played like crap, but at least it didn’t hurt as much. Strumming sends cramps through my palm straight to my head. I stifle a scream and stop playing. My hands are shaking. Fingers are rigid, contorted. Eyes start tearing.
Christ, it hurts.

I grit my teeth against the pain as I strum a simple
Am7-Bm7b5-E7-Am
progression, tears streaking down my face. I stop playing, wipe them away on my shirtsleeve. Stretch my hands out again, resume playing, go back to picking—arppeggio first.
Smooth it out.
Move to tremelo.
Keep it smooth
. Okay. And alternate. Okay. Watch my fingers move, find the groove, sync the riff.
I’m doing it
. The pain numbs, subsiding, but tears come again. Sudden suffocating heaviness in my chest, I stop playing. My hand closes around the neck of the guitar and I squeeze, letting the stings dig into my palm.

I put the guitar back in its case, close and snap it shut. Ball and stretch my fingers again, then pick up the case and put it in the bedroom I never use, among the stacks of books and clutter of clothes scattered about. I take off my jeans, pull a pair of sweats from the floor and slip them on before leaving the room, then go for my morning run.

I stop by Elisabeth’s as usual, on my way back. She’s in the kitchen, wearing a gauzy white summer dress I’ve not seen before, making scrambled eggs and bacon. She looks stunning, her auburn hair tied back with a scrunchy, cascading down her back, fine strands falling out all over the place, softening her defined features. Cameron’s in his highchair rolling blueberries around his tray, and then taking delight in smashing one, and finger painting with the juice. He offers me the smashed berry as I sit at the table.

“No thanks, little buddy. You go ahead.”

Cameron pops the blueberry in his mouth. “Mmmm. Yum, yum.” He smiles this delightful grin and I’m pulled into his lightness, smile back at him.

“Thank you for the guitar.” I watch her cook the eggs, flip the bacon. “I know it meant a lot to you. I’m really touched. It was very kind.”

She flashes a shy smile. “Did you play it?” She tucks a fine, loose wisp of hair behind her ear.

“A little. Hurt like hell. Been awhile. My fingers aren’t ready.”

“Your fingers or your heart?”

“Both, probably.” She goes straight for the truth. No holds barred. It’s unnerving. And humbling because she nails me so much of the time. She puts a plate of eggs and bacon in front of me, sits down with a plate of her own, and starts feeding Cameron. We eat in silence for a while, but I feel her tension mounting.

“I know I apologized about last night in the note, but I want to let you know face-to-face that you were absolutely right. I was taking my anger at Jack out on you. It was uncalled for, you didn’t deserve it, and I’m sorry.” 

“And a lot of what you said is right. Again.”

She gives me a temperate smile. “Either you missed your calling as a diplomat, or you’re mocking me, James.”

“I’m not, ‘Lisbeth. Love is costly. The pain of loss is almost intolerable, so I’ve deftly avoided emotional commitments by burying myself in an abstraction. And you called me on it last night.” Stay fixed on her with my confession. “I don’t want to ever go there again.”

She watches me for a minute. She goes back to feeding Cameron, then changes her mind and hands him his fork. She grasps his tiny hand and helps him scoop the eggs, then guides him lifting the fork to his mouth without losing them. Her unwavering patience and tenacity as Cam misses or plays with bite after bite belies their incredible bond, the unconditional love she feels for him. ‘You’re safe here,’ she’d said a while back, and right now I believe her. I’m sated, grounded, glad to be a part of the scene.

A mischievous smile appears on her face.

“Why are you smiling?”

“Because you are.” She stares at me. “What are you thinking about?”

“That foundation can be found in many things.”

Her smile softens. “You’re coming along.”

I laugh, take another bite of eggs. Warm, rich and salty. Every mouthful tasted better than the last. I want more. Need more. I’m starving.

She rubs her nose against Cameron’s. They exchange Eskimo kisses. Laugh. She helps him with another bite, congratulates him when he gets it right, then looks back at me. “How were your parents killed?”

She rarely asks personal questions off-the-wall, out of any context, so I feel obliged to answer. “Plane crash, along with nine others, in a private jet on the way back from a benefit concert. Why?”

“I’m sorry.” She stares into me, like she feels my sudden rush of sadness. “My parents are still alive, alive and vital and still living in the same house where I grew up in North Hollywood.” She gives me a quirky grin. “I need the distance between us right now, but life without them seems fantastically alone. Does it feel that way to you?”

“Yes. Sometimes...A lot, actually.”

“You mentioned you have a ‘real’ father. I assume you meant a biological father?”

My breath catches in my throat. “Yes.” She watches me. I look away.

“Family is a big part of my foundation. Always thought when my parents died, I’d still have Jack. But now, when my parents and in-laws are gone, Cam and I’ll have no one. And where do orphans go for Thanksgiving?”

I catch the laugh in my throat and it comes out more like a cough. Can’t tell if she’s serious. Her expression seems genuinely sad. “I’ll make Thanksgiving dinner, ‘Lizbeth. Don’t worry about it.”

A surprised smile sweeps across her face, eyes more green than brown this morning sparkling with delight. “So… what are you making for this Thanksgiving feast?”

“Whatever you desire, my lady.”

“You think you’re that good?”

“I was taught by a master, and I learn quickly with things I want to know.”

Her smile takes on a Cheshire grin, mimicking mine perhaps. “And will the guest list include your father to this holiday dinner?”

I stop breathing, force myself to start again when I realize I’m not. “I have no relationship with my father, and have no intention of having one in the future.” I put my fork down, push my plate away. She studies me. I feel the wave coming. “And I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t.”

“
Okay
.
”

I stand, push the chair to the table and hold on to the back of it. “My father was the one who had me set up for dealing.” Everything starts to spin, and I grip the chair and close my eyes and words fall out of my mouth. “And I hate him. I really hate him. I want him dead, gone, off the face of the earth for the hell he put me through.” I try to control my trembling, open my eyes to stop the spinning. She’s staring at me. Cameron is, too. I try to laugh off my anger but it clings—chokes. “You don’t understand. The controlling fuck
set me up,
ripped my life apart. He had no right, and I’m justified in hating him.” I feel warm tears spill down my face and look down, wipe them away with my shirtsleeve.

I feel Elisabeth fixed on me. “James, I’m not your judge,” she says softly. “You are.”

“‘Ames sad.
Ah.
Make awl beta, Mama,” Cameron instructs.

I laugh off my tears, comb my hand through my hair and smile at Cam. “No worries, little dude. Your mama’s already helping me get better.” I finally look at her.

She studies me, trying to get inside my head.

“Up. Up. Up, Ames.” Cameron lifts his tiny arms to me to lift him from the high chair. I do, thinking he wants to get down, but then he hugs me, throws his arms around my neck and pulls himself into me, wrapping his legs around my side, pushing his face into my neck. There are no words to describe the feeling that overwhelms me with his tender-hearted action. I wrap my arms around him, holding him to my chest, my hand on the back of his head; soft, fine wisps of his hair caressing my fingertips. It takes every bit of my will not to break down again.

Cameron pulls back, put his tiny hands to my jaw and holds my face. “Awl beta, Ames?”

I smile from the inside out. “All better, Cam. Thanks.”

Ear-to-ear grin across his angelic face, then he looks at his mama.

Misty eyed, but no tears, she gives us her beautiful, soft white smile, but it fades when she focuses on me. “I’m sorry for what you’ve been through, James, for whatever you’re going through now. But I believe things happen for a reason, even if we can’t see it at the time. Maybe the road you’ve traveled was the only way to enlighten you.” She says it gently, simply assessing the possible, but it still irritates. “And, as harsh as it sounds, whatever led you here, well, for that I’m grateful.”