Of Mice and Men

It started with a skein of yarn.  It's been a Whitman kind of week and I'm more full of "multitudes" than even my normal wont, so bear with me.  The yarn: a laceweight of course, to be ordered for the new location when my home base yarn shop moves down a few roads.  Soft, a mohair and silk blend, I think, ridiculously luxe with its scatter of glittering "stars," the kind one goes into a specialty shop to feel up and covet but never actually--gasp!--buy and knit.  Mentally smacking myself upside the head, I set my eyes on a dusky rose.  Even though I had no business thinking about another lace shawl with Project Mozart grinding to a halt and shop samples churning away in baby alpacas and hand-dyed wool/silks and me already far behind on mystery shawl KAL.  I couldn't help it.  My silly lace-obsessed brain started designing.

I wanted to call it "Night Blooming" as a play on the dusky rose with stars colorway.  Like jasmine and other sweet-smelling nocturnal blossoms, and in keeping with a pattern consisting of a flowery Estonian lace border and a body that's essentially yarn-over/k2tog/ssk "stars."  Also in keeping with the fact that, since it starts with the border and works its way up, you get the hard part over with and then start flying by night since your homework is much easier than your classwork.  Speaking as a frequenter of a yarn shop that does classes.

And that was that.  Except, unfortunately, for the poetry.  It's the end of National Poetry Month, and I spent yesterday evening reading Whitman and this morning walking the beach for inspiration and performing something of a brain dump.  But while I love poetry and poets and all that jazz, it occurs to me that if you were to moor me on a desert island with the essentials but nothing but books of poetry for company, when someone finally came to retrieve me I'd have accomplished nothing.  Or close to nothing.  It has to do with literary choices.  I need my stories.

Anybody who knows me or my bookshelves knows I gravitate toward sci-fi and fantasy.  Probably always have and always will.  My favorite movies and TV shows reflect that, as does my list of favorite authors, which includes among them Douglas Adams, Neil Gaiman, and, yes, in spite of the heat he's gotten lately for his sociopolitical rantings, Orson Scott Card.  Ender's Game struck a chord.  I can't help it.  It (and, yes, Speaker for the Dead too), for lack of a better word, spoke to me.  Spoke to the plight of the gifted child who was always bound to be a little bit different, who had the potential to be the loneliest being in the universe.

Oh, don't get me wrong.  I'm no Ender Wiggin.  Everybody knows that.  I was your standard gifted classes socially awkward physically weird nerd kid.  But sometimes I wish I were a bit more like Valentine.  That's right: Valentine.  The turned-over, soft-spoken middle child, the anonymous mover of worlds and peoples, storyteller of an entire species, and above all, even when pressed into service as the mouthpiece of hate, an agent of love.  The character who, I sometimes wonder, might after all be the one her creator identifies with most.  Demosthenes.  Think about it.

Valentine.  My little 18-stitch-repeat lace border naturally wanted to form itself into hearts.  Valentine Wiggin, blooming and coming into her own among the stars.  How could I resist?  And so, if I ever manage to get this shawl designing scheme off the ground, Valentine, this is for you.

Penance

It occurs to me I put a lot of words into my last post.  Not all funny happy ones either.  There was a--well, not really an incident--back in college after my poem "Cinderella Revisited" appeared in the school literary rag when people actually asked (often second-hand) whether I was depressed.  Yep, I was an opera singer, and Anne Rice is a vampire.  By the way, if the latter is true, I'm checking in with my psychiatrist friends, but I still never sang for an audience unless you count middle school parents back in eighth grade.

So, anyways, because I subjected my handful of robot readers to a crap-ton of text, I think it's high time for some picture updates to make up for it.  Think of it as my Easter observance.

For instance, finally seeing the pattern taking shape in Path of Flowers stole now that I'm approximately close to halfway through...maybe?  Wishful thinking?  The yarn ball feels smaller?  That's what she said?

Also, Raiden has come round to Sandpiper scarf.   It does look gorgeous in person, though, and is pettably soft in that impossibly light gossamer made-of-nothingness way baby alpaca laceweight has.  If it weren't for the blueness, this might be confused for a spiderweb.  Raiden likes spiderwebs.  And spiders.  They're her favorite snack.  Crawly is the new tasty?

I really couldn't resist the headbanging pic.

Or the close-up, where if you hallucinate a little you might actually make out the sandpiper tracks.

Of course, all that laceweight took time away from KAL shawl, which is progressing more or less according to pattern.  In fact, I may have been taking out my tension on this particular project because I have a little more yarn left over than predicted.  We'll see if that keeps up.  Better tension in my yarn than tension in my back muscles?

An up-close at the "lacy wasp" section, where the holes were made up of double yarnovers, a traditionally Estonian lace type technique that I've usually done in finer-gauge yarn.  It's weird actually being able to see the texture of one's stitches.  I feel like I'm knitting a road map.  Totally see myself traveling/lounging in this baby when it's done.  Because as I pointed out at Knit 'n Purl while the boys were lamenting the lack of occasion for a shawl, I'll wear one whenever and wherever dammit.  Shawls are cool.  Gotta be at least fez territory.









There.  Picture penance.  We'll work on designing again when I have needles and brain cells free.

Mental Health Break!

Like you didn't see this coming after the knitting litany of last post!  You didn't?  Well, how about it's my first day back at work, on call, during a full moon and a total eclipse/blood moon?  It's hard to ignore the gut feelings with that one.  So to blow off some steam, I decided to settle down to a bit of writing.  Didn't forget about the writing, did you?  My favorite thing about writing: I don't have to have a clue what I'm doing.  Honest.  You know that platitude about how writers are great illuminators of the human condition?  My favorite thing about the characters that write themselves in my head is they have no clue how to be functional humans.  Because anybody who tells you they have it all figured out and in the bag is probably trying to sell you something.  Like lawn and shrubbery care.  That's a story for another day.  So, anyways, speaking of humans without a clue of how to be human, the main characters in "Prodigal" are no exception.  And I loved the opportunity to geek out about music.  We're singing Gershwin next month, by the way, and if anybody lives/plans to travel to the Myrtle Beach area around that time should seriously consider coming for a listen.  Google Carolina Master Chorale Gershwin concert or some permutation thereof for details.  Meanwhile, have a story.

Prodigal

            I found her picture again today.  Who can say how long it had been there, tucked between the big cabinet and the wall where I never bothered to clean properly.  She must've been—twelve, thirteen?  Thin face, olive-leaning complexion, slight scowl, and very burgundy hair.  Precocious rather than pretty, though in later years of course she became quite the stunner: even the tabloids couldn't uglify her that much.

            It was in the summer after that picture was taken that Lily Kyle came to stay with us.  Thomas took to her immediately, which was only to be expected, I suppose.  I admit I liked her well enough, eventually.  Though the circumstances didn't exactly foster trust.  “Why is she coming here?” was the question that remained stubbornly unanswered, up to the moment she followed the crowd into baggage claim with the violin in tow.

            “You're Kiri,” she said at our first meeting, not really a question.

            “And you're Lilith,” I said, catching her tone.

            “Lily,” she corrected.  “I've decided to go by Lily.”  Her fingers tightened protectively on the handle of the violin case as she said it, as if preparing for some kind of confrontation.

            Now was not the time to argue stage names, I guessed.  “Here, let me get your other bags,” I offered instead, hoping to sound casual.  “Did they feed you on the plane?”

            She snorted wickedly.  “Only for a nominal fee.  I chose not to pay.”

            “Do you talk like that around your friends too?” I asked, grinning in spite of myself.

            “Measure of a friend,” she said.  “Lead on.”

            When one is hosting one's niece for the summer, one is supposed to ask the normal prying-aunt questions like how's your mother, how's everything back home, and so forth, and accept the monosyllabic answers from the passenger seat.  Something about Lily stopped me.  My own sister had been more than a little vague about the whole arrangement.  I could only assume it meant trouble, though on whose end I figured on never knowing.

            So of course it was Lily who broke the silence.  “Do you have any noise curfews?” she asked, still holding onto the violin like an overprotective mother.

            “Not...really,” I had to admit.  “Thomas has his sleepless nights, and I sing in the shower pretty much whenever I grab one of those between shifts.  Feel free, you won't disturb us.”

            “You sure?”  And there came the look that made me grasp for a subject change.

            “Your mom says you're pretty good,” I offered.

            She shrugged, but not out of any true humility.  “Yeah, I guess so.”

            “Aren't there summer programs out there?” I wondered out loud.

            Now it was her turn to evade the subject.  “Hey, you think he'll play duets with me?” she asked, looking and sounding younger and greener than I'd thought she could.  “I mean, I know he's my uncle and all, but even some of the normal kids have heard of Thomas Morgan.  I've got one of his recordings in my bag.”

            I had to smile a little at “normal,” at how a hint of angry color came into those hollow cheeks at the word.  “I'm sure he'd be happy to.  It's not every day you meet a fellow prodigy.”

            “Mom tries not to use that word,” she half-mumbled.

            “Understandable.  She has to deal with the side effects.”

            She started slightly.  “What would those be?”

            “Sooner or later, one or both of us will find out,” I prophesied, hoping vaguely that I would be wrong.

            “You know why she makes you uncomfortable.”

            Knew it, maybe, but damned well wasn't about to admit it.

            “You must be the prodigal niece,” came the voice at the door.

            “Thomas Morgan, I presume?” Lily answered, abandoning all attempts to hide more than a little excitement from her voice.

            “What are you doing out of bed at this hour?” I demanded.  The nagging wife, as always.  “Sorry, love,” I added sheepishly.  “I guess neither one of us was planning on getting much sleep tonight.”

            “Nope,” he replied with one of his most charming crinkly grins.  “So this is Lily Kyle.  Good name for a violinist.”

            She blushed bright as her hair and seemed at a loss for words as they exchanged handshakes.  He gave her the musician's once-over, taking note of the finely controlled motions of her hand muscles, the calluses on the tips of her long, tapered fingers.  Paganini and Liszt, I thought whimsically, watching the two of them.  Virtuoso hands, practically cliché, but compelling nonetheless.

            His hair had come back darker, I noticed in the garage light, less sandy than before.  His hands were the same, of course.  Could I admit to falling in love with him for his hands?  Never, because it wasn't true, strictly speaking.  But sometimes I imagined a heaven in which I was able to find him again by those familiarly beautiful fingers at play on a set of piano keys.  Those were usually the daydreams I kicked myself out of, chuckling afterward at the random melancholic hopeless romanticism I definitely wouldn't admit being prey to.

            “Let me help you with your stuff,” he said, and I remembered we were all still standing in the garage, me with my mouth hanging open, probably.  “Kiri got your room all set up this afternoon.”

            She hesitated with the big rolling suitcase.  “Are you sure?”

            He sighed.  “I'm not dead yet.  And unless you're planning on making another Monty Python reference I suggest we drop it and make ourselves useful.”

            “Please tell me you've heard of Monty Python,” I added, rolling my eyes.

            Lily looked from one of us to the other, seemed to come to a decision, and held out the violin case.  “Here, you do the honors.  There are things in my suitcase that I'd rather crawl under a rock than have spill out on you when the zipper busts.”

            He raised an eyebrow.  “You sure?”

            She shrugged.  “If you break it, you owe me something nicer.”

            “I can deal with that.  Welcome to your summer home.”

            “Why do you like her so much?”

            “You know damn well why, Kiri.”

            “Of course I do.  But that doesn't mean I don't need you to tell me.”

            Lily could play.  Not that I actually doubted it.  And I was used to coming home and exchanging antiseptic vapors for wafting notes, though normally not hers.

            She was standing at the living room window when I drove up, by all indications utterly absorbed in the piece she was working on.  Bruch, maybe.  She got this almost beatific smile on her face whenever she nailed a particularly difficult passage.  That was the first time I really thought of her as beautiful, framed in the window with her eyes half-shut and hair flying.  I knew what it reminded me of, recognized the dangerous prickle starting in my throat at the memory.

            “Penny for your thoughts?”

            “Like you don't know,” I muttered, turning around.

            “Kiri, no matter what anyone else says, you are not a screw-up,” he said, resting his hands on my shoulders as if with the weight of his words.

            I caught my reflection in his eyes and watched them for a while, imprinting the dark gray irises and long lashes in my mind for the umpteenth time.  “I love you,” I murmured.  “Does that count?”

            “Always.”

            The music stopped abruptly, and we both started a little at the grate of the window opening.  “Hey, what are we doing about dinner?” Lily called from inside.

            Thomas looked down guiltily.

            “Exactly where is that roast you planned to put in the crock pot?” I asked.

            “In the fridge where I left it to thaw,” he answered with a shrug.

            I threw up my hands in mock exasperation.  “You're not one of those weird kids who don't eat pizza, are you?” I called through the window.

            “Pepperoni and anything else you want,” she hollered back.  “I'll even eat the vegetables.”

            “Well, that takes care of that.”

            The music resumed, and we cleared our throats and chuckled.  “She has your timing,” Thomas pointed out wickedly.

            “Yeah, so it would seem.”

            “I couldn't get anything out of her either, if you're wondering.”

            “I'm not that surprised.  If she's anything like Sasha, it'd be easier breaking into a top-secret military base.”

            “How do you know I haven't done that?”

            “For starters, the cops haven't come by yet.”  I looked over my shoulder at the figure in the window, once again absorbed in its bow work.  “And I'm going to leave it at yet.”

            “Probably for the best,” he agreed, grinning.  And there it was underneath the levity, that hint of something darker and sadder that ebbed and flowed with the past year.  “Do you trust me, Kiri?” he asked, serious again.

            “Of course,” I answered, reaching out a hand subconsciously to trace the gaunt outline of his cheek, the taut, sensitive play of muscle and bone just under skin.

            He nodded slightly, caught my wrist and held it there for a moment longer.  “You think she means trouble.  Sasha might too.  She doesn't.  There's more than one way the story ends.”

            “How can you be so sure?”

            “Because of you.”

            I raised an eyebrow.  “Me?”

            “Yes, Kiri Curran Morgan.  You.  Bet you never thought of that.”

            “Hey, who's ordering?” Lily broke in, stopping in the middle of a measure.

            We looked at each other and burst out laughing.

            “What's so funny?”

            “I asked you if you trusted me.  You said yes.”

            “I know.  And I do.  But that's not it.”

            “Then what is?”

            She scrutinized us over pizza and sodas until I had to start wondering if I had sauce on my chin.  Just as I went for the napkin, she seemed to decide she couldn't hold it back anymore.  “Why you two?” she asked bluntly.

            “Excuse me?” I said with my mouth still full.

            “Not why did Mom send me here, 'cause it's probably something I don't want to understand,” Lily backtracked.  “I mean, how did you two end up, you know, together?  You do know Kiri and my mom and the grandparents and how they are, right?”  This last she directed at Thomas like a challenge.

            “Oh, you mean the physicist, the analytical chemist, the cognitive psychologist, and the doctor?” he recited with the requisite sarcasm.

            “Ooh, how did the nerd girl get together with the famous musician?  I got this one,” I volunteered with my hand in the air.  “You've seen our bookshelf?”

            She nodded and looked confused.

            I gave her the brightest smirk I could muster.  “Can you guess whose books are whose?”

            “Um...” I watched her mentally catalog the eclectic collection of classic literature, mystery, sci-fi, comic books, medical journals, computer manuals, and historical tomes.

            “I'll give you a clue,” I offered.  “Ask Thomas about his other degrees.”

            He gave me a sidelong look and added, “I think she means extracurricular activities.”

            “What did you and your hacker friends call yourselves again?”

            “We weren't hackers, we were consultants,” he protested.

            I rolled my eyes.  “Remind me which federal agency you pissed off.”

            “In our defense, they offered us jobs afterwards.  It was tempting.”

            Lily almost fell off the beanbag chair.  “Wait, when did you do all that?  I thought you studied at the conservatory.”

            He shrugged.  “I got bored sometimes.”

            “Most of us got drunk or high when we were bored,” I chimed in.  “Thomas Morgan audited classes at MIT.  Same thing, I guess.”

            “Was that a confession, Kiri?” he teased.

            “Shut up.”

            “Did you, Kiri?” said Lily.

            “Why don't you ask your mother?”

            “Fort Knox?  I'd have more luck getting answers from you when you're drunk.”

            She gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth.  I stared at her for way longer than it should've taken to act.  I could've slapped her for it, if she wasn't completely right.  After a few moments I gave up and let the giggles take over.

            Lily's shoulders relaxed as she laughed.  “Oh my god, can you imagine what Mom would've done if I said that in front of her?” she snorted, still blushing fiercely.

            “Actually,” I admitted, “I can't.  It's different being her kid sister.”

            “Yeah, I guess so.  Does she talk to you about me?”

            “In a way.  Did she tell you much about us?”

            She frowned.  “Not really.  I mean, she would mention you, like where you moved to and what you were doing at your job and stuff.  And when you two got married.  Thanks for the wedding invitation, by the way.”

            “What did you care?  You were, what, nine?  Besides,” I said, suddenly recalling the act of meticulously sealing the envelope with a sort of savage satisfaction, “we did send one.”

            “Oh.”

            “Yeah, oh.  Sasha said you were busy performing or something.”

            “I guess.”  She sighed and did some counting on her fingers.  “It's possible.  If you do it again, invite me.”

            “What, get married?”

            She thought about it and looked more upset than I did.  “I didn't mean to bring that up.”

            Thomas gave us a tolerant half-smile.  “The elephant in the room?” he said.  “We can talk about it if you want to.  I don't mind.”

            “I don't know if I can,” said Lily.  “I'm not like Mom and Kiri.  I don't usually deal with that stuff.  And you two met at the children's hospital.”

            “Yeah, so we're old pros,” I chipped in sardonically.  “Med student and volunteer.  Heme-Onc ward.  Speaking of death and dying, we practically marinated in it.  Is that it?”

            “Something like that, yeah,” she said a little resentfully.

            “Six months.  Give or take.  You should be fine.”

            She opened her mouth, closed it, picked up the violin and started plucking chords.  He recognized the tune, of course, waited for the notes to die away before speaking.  “I'm sorry,” he said.

            “So am I.”  She stopped plucking but didn't put the violin away or look up.

            He stepped over to the piano, lifted the lid, and played the first bars like a peace offering.

            “Mozart?” I asked, recognizing the melancholy open intervals.

            “One of Kiri's favorites,” he answered, addressing Lily as she picked up her bow.  “Play with me.”

            She peered at him through lowered eyelids.  “How do you know I know it?”

            “Because you've heard it.  And because I know her.”

            He did.  She did.  And I sat and listened to them play the concerto and wiped the tears from my face and didn't know what to think or feel.

            “What did you mean, because you know me?”

            “Exactly what I said, Kiri.  The sooner you admit it, the better.  For all of us.”

            “I know.  But I hate it when you remind me why.”

            “Gah, start over!” Lily's voice shrilled over the wrong notes that came to an abrupt stop.

            “Bow-tied?” Thomas teased.  “Come on, you picked this one.”

            “Very punny,” she shot back.  “Anyone ever tell you you suck?  Besides, no fair, Mozart wasn't a violinist.”

            He raised his eyebrows at her.  “Technically he wasn't a pianist either.  The modern pianoforte wasn't invented until the end of his lifetime—”

            “—so technically he wrote for harpsichord and organ and fortepiano and blah blah blah it was Beethoven who wrote for piano blah blah blah,” I interrupted, dropping my bag and keys on the counter.  “How many times has he given you that lecture now?”

            “Um, about eight, I think,” she answered.

            “Got it memorized yet?  He might quiz you.”

            “I thought I wasn't supposed to be in school.”

            “If this was school,” he corrected her, “I'd be telling you to get back to work.”

            She made a face.  “You're on.”

            It would be a flat-out lie to say I wasn't a little jealous.  They spoke the same language, after all.  When they played like that, I felt like I was the interloper, not Lily.  Only when they played.  But when the old bitterness came welling up, it was hard to choke it back down.

            The notes flew across the room, ricocheted off the walls, soared around the ceiling fan, and enveloped them in their own frenetic bubble.  She tossed her hair back and laughed, a giddy, happy sound she reserved for just those moments.  He acknowledged it with a nod and a smile, his concert-hall equivalent.  All the while the music kept on, seeming to laugh and joke along with them.  She hit the sixteenths again with a confidence I hadn't heard before, let out a surprised squeal, and launched into the cadenza with renewed gusto.

            “Hey, slow down!” Thomas protested.

            “Never!” she giggled.

            He hit the closing chords a little stiffly and winced.  “Seriously, slow down,” he gasped.

            “What?”

            But he wasn't listening to her anymore.  The music seeped away once their fingers stopped, and what came in even more all-encompassing was the silence.  For a few drawn-out seconds she paused with the bow a few millimeters above the strings, staring uncomprehendingly.

            I already had the kit out, gloves on, syringe drawn.  By the time Lily put down the violin and bow, the worst was over.  He took a few deep breaths like a drowning person finding the first gasps of air and relaxed a little.  “It's okay,” I whispered, smoothing his hair back from his face.  “Just close your eyes and count to thirty, slowly.”

            He opened his eyes and gave me a bleary grin.  “I'm a musician, Kiri.  I don't count that high.”

            “Five measures of six-eight then, smart-ass.”

            “Okay, doc.  Whatever you say.”

            I waited the interminable minutes while he did as I asked and the drugs kicked in.  “Same as before?”

            “I think so.  It feels the same.  Not as far apart though.”

            I kissed his forehead.  “Poor darling, it's not going to be easy.”

            “For you two especially,” he murmured.  “Where's Lily?”

            For a few seconds, a very few, I was angry.  Then I looked up and saw the discarded instrument.  Lily never left her baby lying around on the floor like that.  No vintage Stradivarius had it better.  “Stay,” I commanded him.  “I'll go look for her.”

            She wasn't in her room, which didn't surprise me all that much.  One thing she and I didn't have in common: she kept the place meticulously picked up.  No clothes on the floor or carelessly thrown over chairs.  Papers neatly stacked.  Bed made—heck, it practically looked like it had never been slept in.  No, this wouldn't be where she ran to.  If it were me...

            Down the street there was an old-fashioned metal swing set that someone had put up for the neighborhood children.  She was sitting on one of the swings and smoking something I strongly suspected wasn't a cigarette.  One arm was hooked around a chain, the other wrapped around her opposite knee, which she'd pulled up in the half-slacker, half-contortionist pose only an adolescent girl could pull off without looking completely ridiculous.  She looked up briefly when I sat down on the other swing and the metal jarred with my presence.  “Want one?” she offered.

            “Might consider it,” I said.  “How'd you know?”

            “Don't worry, Mom knows about these.  Says it's the least of her worries about me.”

            “I figured that.  Still isn't good for you.”

            “Didn't stop you,” she pointed out.

            “Yeah, well, I'm kind of an idiot.  Especially when I was your age.  Just ask your mother.”

            “You know she doesn't snitch on people.”

            “I wish she would sometimes.”

            She must've built up a tolerance, since the look she gave me was still completely coherent, and oddly perceptive.  “You don't get along, do you?” she inquired.  “Mom does this kind of recoil thing when she talks about you.  Like you slept with an ex-boyfriend or something.  Did you?”

            I started.  “What do you think?”

            “Who was it?  Someone I know?”

            “Nice try,” I said, grinning lopsidedly.  “You can see why I'm wondering why she sent you out here, though.  Most sane sisters would be afraid I'd corrupt you.”

            She laughed dryly.  “Like that could ever happen.”

            I chuckled.  “Spite, then?”

            “Who knows?  Look, can I trust you not to tell him I'm scared to go back there just now?”

            “You can, but I'm pretty sure he knows.”

            She looked stricken.  “How do you do it, Kiri?  You're so calm and collected about it.  I mean, if it was me, I don't know if I could stand it.”

            “I must be a better actress than we all thought then,” I said wryly.  “It's okay to be scared shitless, you know.  I am, when I think about it.”

            “Then how?” she demanded, tossing the half-smoked joint on the grass and stomping on it like she meant to eradicate it from existence.

            “Not how,” I corrected.  “Why.”

            She looked up, confused.  “Okay, why?”

            “Love.  Plain and simple.  So simple it took me about thirty years to figure it out.”

            “But you figured it out,” she said wistfully.  “Maybe there's hope for me then.  Hey, did you know Mozart only lived to be thirty-five?”

            “Yeah, Lily, I know.”  It was awkward, the feel of her bony shoulders against my arm, but it also felt awkwardly right.  “It's going to be okay.”

            “Promise?”

            “No.  But it will be anyway.”

            “Are you going to tell her?”

            “Hell no.”

            “She deserves to know the truth.”

            “I know, love, but I'm not ready for her to find out.  Not just yet.”

            “You okay, Kiri?” Lily called as I dashed past her and straight to the bathroom.

            “I don't know.  Tell you in a few,” I called over my shoulder.  “Right now I really need a shower.”

            No matter how many times it happened (hell, I worked in a nursing home, so it happened a lot), I couldn't avoid the waves of almost physical revulsion, the need to wash away the taint of death and disease.  It wasn't until I'd been standing under the stream of hot water long enough to turn my skin a few shades of pink that my brain cleared sufficiently to allow me to take in my surroundings.  Clean tiles.  Soap and shampoo foam.  Steam wafting from the faucet and rising from skin and hair.  Slightly too-hot water, remedied with a small adjustment of the knob.

            “Who and what?” Thomas called from outside the door.

            “Mrs. Johnson,” I called back, barely remembering to give the alias.  “Complications of Alzheimer's.”

            “Want to talk about it?”

            “Not particularly.”

            “Want to sing about it?”

            Lily's confusion was practically palpable, but she didn't comment.

            “Maybe in a bit,” I said, mulling it over, already feeling a little ridiculous.

            I turned off the tap, toweled off, and put my hand on the knob, hesitating for reasons I couldn't come up with.  My reflection wasn't something I usually paid that much attention to, but on a sudden impulse I peered into the still-foggy mirror and wondered—what?  How much of myself there was in Lily?  Same small nose and mouth, same nondescriptly brown eyes and hunted expression, with the imp that lurked beneath just barely visible to those in the know.  And I wondered if, and how much, she knew.

            The notes were out of my mouth before I realized it.  Gershwin's Bess, coming to terms with her own destructive desires.  Why not?  Not forgetting I had an audience so much as not caring.

            Moments later, he joined in at the piano, floating the accompaniment over intimately as a kiss.  I  couldn't help smiling and following his lead, letting the underused high notes come out into the light of day and savoring the release.  Arias I hadn't remembered learning at fourteen spooled out like a taut fishing line.  It wasn't a conscious choice anymore, to sing.  More a matter of staying alive.

            “Oh, Kiri,” Lily breathed when I finally opened the door.  “I didn't know.”

            “Neither did I,” I admitted.

            “I did,” said Thomas.

            I've never been ashamed to kiss my husband.  Not even while wearing nothing but a towel, with Lily watching two steps away.  Which was why in the moment I didn't realize what she was staring at, not until she gave a small gasp of recognition and something like horror.

            “Lily, what is it?” I asked, following her gaze to the scars on my bare wrist.  “Oh.”

            Her hands shook a little as she rolled up her sleeves to show me.  “You knew, didn't you?” she accused me.

            “No, but I suspected.  Paring knife?”

            She nodded.  “You?”

            “Thread snips.  Mom kept them in her sewing basket.  Anything serious?”

            “No,” she protested.  “I just...”

            “Needed to feel something?  Yeah, so did I.  That's what the drugs were for, and the men.  'Cause sometimes even the music wasn't enough.  Right?”

            Her mouth dropped open for a few seconds as we stared at each other.  Then she glared.  “Why should I listen to you, anyway?  Just 'cause we have that in common doesn't mean I'm going to end up like you.”

            “Like me?” I asked quietly, knowing exactly what she meant, feeling Thomas's arms tighten around me and resenting it.

            “I...I mean...”  She turned on her heel, went to her room, and shut the door.  Only instead of the teenage drama queen stomp-and-slam, she did it quietly, tentatively, as if she were literally walking on eggshells.  From behind the door came the sound of the violin, playing Gershwin.  Lily didn't cry, not ever.  The infernal instrument did it for her.

            “Well, that went smoothly,” I muttered, gritting my teeth.

            “You're not screwing it up.”

            “How can you be so sure, every time?”

            “Because I believe in you.  And because one day she'll come to you for help.”

            “Why would she do that?”

            The voice on the line was close to hysterics, and I felt horrible asking her to repeat herself.  “Lily, please calm down and tell me,” I said, trying to sound as soothing as possible and probably failing.  “You're where?”

            “Kiri, I'm sorry, I panicked,” she almost sobbed.  “Please come.  I don't know what to do.”

            I made my abject apologies at work and followed her directions as fast as I could.

            The scene pieced itself together in my mind from what she hadn't said as much as from what she had.  I saw them in their usual spots in the living room, him at the piano bench and her standing with the violin.  It was one of his good days: he thought he could handle a simple piece, and it had been too long since he'd heard that laugh of hers.  The Mozart concerto again, maybe?  I could almost hear them at it, the long notes of the slow movement, and then the pause, the gasp, the clatter of wood and wrong notes, and Lily's choked scream.

            She didn't care that neither one of us was a hugger.  The ambulance ride must've taken it out of her: her face was practically bloodless, and she shook so much her teeth chattered.  “Where?” I asked simply, and she pointed rather than trusting her voice.

            I flashed back to that day almost a year ago, watching through the sliding glass doors and hearing the shrills as they worked.  He'd made me promise afterwards, when the machines and drugs and noise and funny smells and tastes (“Why do the smells and tastes even matter?” I'd asked exasperatedly) were only a bad memory: never again.  “It's not Lily's fault,” I whispered into the glass and plastic that separated us, as if he could hear me.  “It's not her fault, love.”

            “Please,” I said a little louder.  Repeated it over the cacophony until my throat burned.  “Please stop.  He never meant for this to happen.”

            “Clear!” somebody called, and I looked away at the jerk-thud sounds and tried not to sob out loud.  The monitors shrilled back their erratic answer like some demonic call-and-response.  I put my hands over my ears, as if I could drown it out if I put enough pressure on my eardrums.  There might have been blood on my fingers when I pulled them away.

            Lifetimes later, it seemed, the figure at the head of the bed stopped calling out instructions and looked up.  “Kiri?”

            “Yes,” I answered.

            He nodded and held up a hand.  “I'm sorry, Kiri,” he said quietly.  “Do you want a moment?”

            “Yes.”

            They turned everything off and took out the tubes more silently and efficiently than I would've thought and left us alone.

            “Lily,” I said to the girl huddling wordlessly in the corner.  “It's okay, Lily.  You can come closer if you want.”

            She stood up, still shivering, and walked toward us.  “I...”

            “Shhh.  You don't have to say anything.  We know.”

            He looked more peaceful than I'd imagined.  His lips were still warm against mine, forehead too.  “Goodbye, my love,” I whispered.  “Oh, my darling, good night.”

            Lily put out a hand, tentatively, rested it for the briefest of moments on his cheek, pulled it away. “I loved you too,” she said.  “But you knew that.”

            “Come on, let's get you home,” I said after a little while longer.  “They know where to find me with the paperwork and red tape.”

            “Do you think there's a place up there for people like us?  For me, I mean, and for Lily?”

            “I'll make a place for you, Kiri.  Always.”

            “But how?  How can you know that?”

            “Doesn't matter, does it?  Because no matter what, I'll always find you.”

            She stayed a few days longer, until we could make arrangements.  It wasn't a big or drawn-out affair, and anyways she kept to herself, barely left her room and almost never spoke when she did.  I don't remember much about the drive to the airport or the actual parting.  But in those first raw, antiseptic-smelling moments, it came out of her in a flood that, for us, seemed more appropriate than tears.  Why she'd come.  What she'd done to earn this sentence.  The choice that wasn't a choice at all.

            “She was going to make me quit.  I told her I'd rather die, and I meant it.  I would've done it too.”

            “You weren't in control anymore, Lily,” I murmured.  “That's the point.  That was always the point.”

            She grabbed a fistful of hair and tugged, looked absently at the strands coming away in her hand.  Like a caged bird pluming itself.  I let out a low inward whistle at my sister's nerve: it was a hell of a gamble.

            We sat on the couch with our blankets and tea, reflecting each other's hollow-eyed haggard expressions, the calm after the storm now, and I thought about why Sasha had sent her to me.  “You wanna know about these?” I asked finally, holding out my arm.  “Might distract you some, and he'd want you to know.”

            She looked up and gave me a wan little smile that wasn't really a smile.  “Sure, why not?”

            “Summer before high school.  I'd just turned fourteen and was the youngest person from my school to get accepted to the summer music program at the conservatory.  I spent the summer living with Sasha and her fiancé.  I was a piece of work, and everybody knew it.  Sasha did her best about the drugs, but that wasn't the worst of it.”

            “What was?”

            I sighed, trying and failing to find the best words for it.  “I tried to seduce Jeremy, her fiancé.  He was cute enough, and about to graduate from law school, and honestly I don't have a clue what was going on in my head at the time.  He didn't fall for it or anything, just went to her about it.  You don't know what your mother was like in her early twenties.  She was pissed off, and rightly so.  Called me an attention-seeking whore and said I needed to be thrown out on my ass or dumped off at the nearest mental institution.  Which was true.  I retaliated by hiding out in my room and downing a bottle of sleeping pills.”

            Lily frowned at that.  “Pills?  What about the cuts on your wrist?”

            “Oh, right,” I chuckled.  “Those happened a few months before that.  I wasn't serious then.  Mom knew about them too, come to think of it.”

            “What happened after the pills?”

            “What do you think?  Sasha thought I was being too quiet and picked the lock.  If you've never had your stomach pumped, I don't recommend it.  I don't recommend involuntary committal, either.  Anyway, no more summer program after that.  I spent high school trying to get my head screwed back on straight.  Part of that was no music.  You know how it speaks to you, makes you feel things you sort of can't completely control?  Music was my first drug, so as part of giving up the substances, I gave that up too.”

            Lily seemed to be trying to figure something out.  “Wait,” she brought out slowly.  “Mom was only engaged once.  She married my dad after he graduated from law school, and then they waited until they were both settled before they were willing to bring a kid into the world.  Dad's name is...”

            “Jeremy Kyle.  Yep.”

            “Wow.”  She stared at me for a while and repeated it.  “Wow.  No wonder Mom became a psychologist.”

            “Yeah,” I said.  “And no wonder she sent you here, this summer of all times.”

            “Revenge?” she asked

            “Depends.”

            “On what?”

            It was harder to get out than I thought.  “When I said I met Thomas on the wards...I lied.”

            She raised an eyebrow.  “Which part?”

            I played it again in my head: that hot, sticky season of commuting between Sasha's apartment and the conservatory.  Singing Violetta's arias in the subway stations for extra cash.  Playing hooky in the college bathrooms, doing things I'd rather have forgotten.  Sneaking into the practice rooms after class and hearing the Chopin Nocturne, pausing to make sure my ears weren't playing tricks on me, then admiring the cleanness and sweetness.  He wasn't handsome, exactly, at our age: apple-cheeked, sandy-haired, and a little awkward, but with beautiful hands.  “I know you,” he said solemnly, turning around to greet me.  “The little soprano with the voice of an angel.”

            “Who do you think you're calling little?”  Smiling a bit even at the perceived insult.

            He shrugged, because it was true.  “I'm Thomas,” he said, holding out one of those wonderful hands.  “Thomas Morgan.  If you ever need an accompanist...”