Where She Went (21 page)

She walks around the room, running her fingers lightly along the picture frames. “I’m running out of space,” she says. “I had to put up a bunch of Kim’s recent shots in the bathroom. Have you talked to her lately?”

She must know what I did to Kim. “No.”

“Really? Then you don’t know about the
scandale
?”

I shake my head.

“She dropped out of college last year. When the war flared up in Afghanistan, Kim decided, screw it, I want to be a photographer and the best education is in the field. So she just took her cameras and off she went. She started selling all these shots to the AP and the
New York Times
. She cruises around in one of those burkas and hides all her photographic equipment underneath the robes and then whips them off to get her shot.”

“I’ll bet Mrs. Schein loves that.” Kim’s mom was notoriously overprotective. The last I’d heard of her, she was having a freak-out that Kim was going to school across the country, which, Kim had said, was precisely the point.

Mia laughs. “At first, Kim told her family she was just taking a semester off, but now she’s getting really successful so she’s officially dropped out, and Mrs. Schein has officially had a nervous breakdown. And then there’s the fact that Kim’s a nice Jewish girl in a very Muslim country.” Mia blows on her coffee and sips. “But, on the other hand, now Kim gets her stuff in the
New York Times,
and she just got a feature assignment for
National Geographic
, so it gives Mrs. Schein some bragging ammo.”

“Hard for a mother to resist,” I say.

“She’s a big Shooting Star fan, you know?”

“Mrs. Schein? I always had her pegged as more hip-hop.”

Mia grins. “No. She’s into death metal. Hard core.
Kim
. She saw you guys play in Bangkok. Said it poured rain and you played right through it.”

“She was at that show? I wish she would’ve come backstage, said hi,” I say, even though I know why she wouldn’t have. Still, she came to the show. She must have forgiven me a little bit.

“I told her the same thing. But she had to leave right away. She was supposed to be in Bangkok for some R & R, but that rain you were playing in was actually a cyclone somewhere else and she had to run off and cover it. She’s a very badass shutterbabe these days.”

I think of Kim chasing Taliban insurgents and ducking flying trees. It’s surprisingly easy to imagine. “It’s funny,” I begin.

“What is?” Mia asks.

“Kim being a war photographer. All Danger Girl.”

“Yeah, it’s a laugh riot.”

“That’s not how I meant. It’s just: Kim. You. Me. We all came from this nowhere town in Oregon, and look at us. All three of us have gone to, well, extremes. You gotta admit, it’s kind of weird.”

“It’s not weird at all,” Mia says, shaking out a bowl of cornflakes. “We were all forged in the crucible. Now come on, have some cereal.”

I’m not hungry. I’m not even sure I can eat a single cornflake, but I sit down because my place at the Hall family table has just been restored.

Time has a weight to it, and right now I can feel it heavy over me. It’s almost three o’clock. Another day is half over and tonight I leave for the tour. I hear the clicking of the antique clock on Mia’s wall. I let the minutes go by longer than I should before I finally speak.

“We both have our flights. I should probably get moving,” I say. My voice sounds faraway but I feel weirdly calm. “Are there taxis around here?”

“No, we get back and forth to Manhattan by river raft,” she jokes. “You can call a car,” she adds after a moment.

I stand up, make my way toward the kitchen counter where Mia’s phone sits. “What’s the number?” I ask.

“Seven-one-eight,” Mia begins. Then she interrupts herself. “Wait.”

At first I think she has to pause to recall the number, but I see her eyes, at once unsure and imploring.

“There’s one last thing,” she continues, her voice hesitant. “Something I have that really belongs to you.”

“My Wipers T-shirt?”

She shakes her head. “That’s long gone, I’m afraid. Come on. It’s upstairs.”

I follow her up the creaking steps. At the top of the narrow landing to my right I can see her bedroom with its slanted ceilings. To my left is a closed door. Mia opens it, revealing a small studio. In the corner is a cabinet with a keypad. Mia punches in a code and the door opens.

When I see what she pulls out of the cabinet, at first I’m like,
Oh, right, my guitar
. Because here in Mia’s little house in Brooklyn is my old electric guitar, my Les Paul Junior. The guitar I bought at a pawnshop with my pizza-delivery earnings when I was a teenager. It’s the guitar I used to record all of our stuff leading up to, and including,
Collateral Damage
. It’s the guitar I auctioned off for charity and have regretted doing so ever since.

It’s sitting in its old case, with my old Fugazi and K Records stickers, with the stickers from Mia’s dad’s old band, even. Everything is the same, the strap, the dent from when I’d dropped it off a stage. Even the dust smells familiar.

And I’m just taking it all in, so it’s a few seconds before it really hits me. This is
my
guitar.
Mia
has my guitar. Mia is the one who
bought
my guitar for some exorbitant sum, which means that Mia knew it was up for auction. I look around the room. Among the sheet music and cello paraphernalia is a pile of magazines, my face peeking out from the covers. And then I remember something back on the bridge, Mia justifying why she left me by reciting the lyrics to “Roulette.”

And suddenly, it’s like I’ve been wearing earplugs all night and they’ve fallen out, and everything that was muffled is now clear. But also so loud and jarring.

Mia has my guitar
. It’s such a straightforward thing and yet I don’t know that I would’ve been more surprised had Teddy popped out of the closet. I feel faint. I sit down. Mia stands right in front of me, holding my guitar by the neck, offering it back to me.

“You?” is all I can manage to choke out.

“Always me,” she replies softly, bashfully. “Who else?”

My brain has vacated my body. My speech is reduced to the barest of basics. “But . . . why?”

“Somebody had to save it from the Hard Rock Café,” Mia says with a laugh. But I can hear the potholes in her voice, too.

“But . . .” I grasp for the words like a drowning man reaching for floating debris,“ . . . you said you
hated
me?”

Mia lets out a long, deep sigh. “I know. I needed someone to hate, and you’re the one I love the most, so it fell to you.”

She’s holding out the guitar, nudging it toward me. She wants me to take it, but I couldn’t lift a cotton ball right now.

She keeps staring, keeps offering.

“But what about Ernesto?”

A look of puzzlement flits across her face, followed by amusement. “He’s my mentor, Adam. My friend. He’s
married
.” She looks down for a beat. When her gaze returns, her amusement has hardened into defensiveness. “Besides, why should you care?”

Go back to your ghost
, I hear Bryn telling me. But she has it wrong.
Bryn
is the one who’s been living with the ghost—the specter of a man who never stopped loving someone else.

“There never would’ve been a Bryn if you hadn’t decided you needed to hate me,” I reply.

Mia takes this one square on the chin. “I don’t hate you. I don’t think I ever really did. It was just anger. And once I faced it head-on, once I understood it, it dissipated.” She looks down, takes a deep breath, and exhales a tornado. “I know I owe you some kind of an apology; I’ve been trying to get it out all night but it’s like those words—apology, sorry—are too measly for what you deserve.” She shakes her head. “I know what I did to you was so wrong, but at the time it also felt so necessary to my survival. I don’t know if those two things can both be true but that’s how it was. If it’s any comfort, after a while, when it didn’t feel necessary anymore, when it felt hugely wrong, all I was left with was the magnitude of my mistake, of my missing you. And I had to watch you from this distance, watch you achieve your dreams, live what seemed like this perfect life.”

“It’s
not
perfect,” I say.

“I get that
now
, but how was I supposed to know? You were so very, very far from me. And I’d accepted that. Accepted that as my punishment for what I’d done. And then . . .” she trails off.

“What?”

She takes a gulp of air and grimaces. “And then Adam Wilde shows up at Carnegie Hall on the biggest night of my career, and it felt like more than a coincidence. It felt like a gift. From them. For my first recital ever, they gave me a cello. And for this one, they gave me you.”

Every hair on my body stands on end, my whole body alert with a chill.

She hastily wipes tears from her eyes with the back of her hand and takes a deep breath. “Here, are you going to take this thing or what? I haven’t tuned it for a while.”

I used to have dreams like this. Mia back from the not-dead, in front of me, alive to me. But it got so even in the dreams I knew they were unreal and could anticipate the blare of my alarm, so I’m kind of listening now, waiting for the alarm to go off. But it doesn’t. And when I close my fingers around the guitar, the wood and strings are solid and root me to the earth. They wake me up. And she’s still here.

And she’s looking at me, at my guitar, and at her cello and at the clock on the windowsill. And I see what she wants, and it’s the same thing I’ve wanted for years now but I can’t believe that after all this time, and now that we’re out of time, she’s asking for it. But still, I give a little nod. She plugs in the guitar, tosses me the cord, and turns on the amp.

“Can you give me an A?” I ask. Mia plucks her cello’s A string. I tune from that and then I strum an A-minor, and as the chord bounces off the walls, I feel that dash of electricity shimmy up my spine in a way it hasn’t done for a long, long time.

I look at Mia. She’s sitting across from me, her cello between her legs. Her eyes are closed and I can tell she’s doing that thing, listening for something in the silence. Then all at once, Mia seems to have heard what she needs to hear. Her eyes are open and on me again, like they never left. She picks up her bow, gestures toward my guitar with a slight tilt of her head. “Are you ready?” she asks.

There are so many things I’d like to tell her, top among them is that I’ve always been ready
.
But instead, I turn up the amp, fish a pick out of my pocket, and just say yes.

We play for what seems like hours, days, years. Or maybe it’s seconds. I can’t even tell anymore. We speed up, then slow down, we scream our instruments. We grow serious. We laugh. We grow quiet. Then loud. My heart is pounding, my blood is grooving, my whole body is thrumming as I’m remembering:
Concert
doesn’t mean standing up like a target in front of thousands of strangers. It means coming together. It means harmony.

When we finally pause, I’m sweating and Mia’s panting hard, like she’s just sprinted for miles. We sit there in silence, the sound of our rapid breaths slowing in tandem, the beats of our hearts steadying. I look at the clock. It’s past five. Mia follows my gaze. She lays down her bow.

“What now?” she asks.

“Schubert? Ramones?” I say, though I know she’s not taking requests. But all I can think to do is keep playing because for the first time in a long time there’s nothing more I want to do. And I’m scared of what happens when the music ends.

Mia gestures to the digital clock flashing ominously from the windowsill. “I don’t think you’ll make your flight.”

I shrug. Never mind the fact that there are at least ten other flights to London tonight alone. “Can you make yours?”

“I don’t
want
to make mine,” she says shyly. “I have a spare day before the recitals begin. I can leave tomor-row.”

All of a sudden, I picture Aldous pacing in Virgin’s departure lounge, wondering where the hell I am, calling a cell phone that’s still sitting on some hotel nightstand. I think of Bryn, out in L.A., unaware of an earthquake going down here in New York that’s sending a tsunami her way. And I realize that before there’s a next, there’s a now that needs attending to. “I need to make some phone calls,” I tell Mia. “To my manager, who’s waiting for me . . . and to Bryn.”

“Oh, right, of course,” she says, her face falling as she rushes to stand up, almost toppling her cello in her fluster. “The phone’s downstairs. And I should call Tokyo, except I’m pretty sure it’s the middle of the night, so I’ll just email and call later. And my travel agent—”

“Mia,” I interrupt.

“What?”

“We’ll figure this out.”

“Really?” She doesn’t look so sure.

I nod, though my own heart is pounding and the puzzle pieces are whirling as Mia places the cordless phone in my hand. I go into her garden where it’s private and peaceful in the afternoon light, the summer cicadas chirping up a storm. Aldous picks up on the first ring and the minute I hear his voice and start talking, reassuring him that I’m okay, the plans start coming out of my mouth as though long, long contemplated. I explain that I’m not coming to London now, that I’m not making any music video, or doing any interviews, but that I’ll be in England for the kickoff of our European tour and that I’ll play every single one of those shows. The rest of the plan that’s formulating in my head—part of which already solidified in some nebulous way last night on the bridge—I keep to myself, but I think Aldous senses it.