But then, it might be even worse if she doesn’t. How am I supposed to forgive Charlie—fully and completely, the way I know I need to—if he’s buried something so deeply that I can’t fix my part in it?
Holy Moses, but this is a mess.
In my dream last night, he was dressed in a blue suit—bluer and brighter than men normally wear—but it looked wonderful on him. He was able to walk without even a trace of a limp, and he escorted me to a beautiful ornate door—one with carvings and leaded glass that shot rainbow-colored prisms like firecrackers when the light hit it. He held it open for me. I was about to walk inside, but all of a sudden, I realized I was just wearing a housecoat, and this looked like a grand hotel. I was afraid of embarrassing him. He just smiled and urged me in.
I walked through the door, and saw a giant white grand piano. It dawned on me that this was a performance hall, and I was at the edge of the stage. A large audience of fancy-dressed people filled the vast auditorium.
Well, I don’t play piano, beyond a few simple hymns I can play one-handed, and half of “America the Beautiful,” which was a song I had to memorize for a recital when I was eight. I’m certainly no virtuoso. I realized I was about to be humiliated. Even worse, I was going to disappoint Charlie, who just stood there, beaming.
“I can’t do this,” I whispered.
“Sure you can.” Charlie put his hand in the small of my back and urged me forward.
The crowd burst into applause. I skulked to the piano, my head down, and sat on the bench. The audience hushed to an expectant rustling.
I closed my eyes and tentatively began “Onward, Christian Soldiers” with my right hand. I knew only two chords to add with my left, but then, all of a sudden, I felt a surge of energy gather in my chest. It’s as if the notes were floating in the air, and I inhaled them, and they were rushing through my veins, and my fingers were flying across the keys. Out of nowhere, I was able to effortlessly play beautiful, magnificent, heavenly music—every tune I’ve ever heard,and other songs too beautiful to imagine, so beautiful that the roof floated off the auditorium. It was glorious and thrilling and freeing—like when I knew a photo was right, and my finger was just clicking away at the shutter, and I lost all sense of time. I was playing like that, just reveling in the music and the moment, so filled with joy that I was lighter than air.
Charlie smiled, his face just radiant, and said, “I’m so glad you’re letting all that music out. I knew it was in you all the time.”
And then I thought,How is this possible? I can’t play piano, and suddenly, I couldn’t. The music stopped. I was back to pecking out a melody with my right hand, and I couldn’t do even that. I hit sharps and flats. I felt so awful, so humiliated and embarrassed, like I’d let everyone down and made a total fool of myself. I ran off the stage and woke up in a sweat.
Well. It was so real. So real. Soreal!
“Mornin’, Miss Addie! Let’s start this beautiful day off with a dose of fiber,” said the aide, who disappeared into my bathroom and returned with a handful of pills and a glass of water. I think her name is Hazel—no, Hannah. I don’t much care for her. She fills in on Nadine’s days off, and she’s too cheerful, too bossy, too hail-fellow-well-met and jolly, like a department store salesman who reeks slightly of gin. Not that Hazel or Hannah smells of gin. Might do her good to have a nip or two, though. Maybe then she wouldn’t be so intensely smile-faced. But there’s something about her, something that tells me she’s not nearly as smugly cheerful as she seems. She’s got a secret life. If not gin, then maybe sherry or a little sweet wine. Or maybe cigarettes. Or gambling. Or men.
That thought makes me smile, because she’s got one of those no-fuss, short haircuts that does absolutely nothing for her appearance. No, not men. A woman doesn’t wear her hair like that if she wants to be an object of desire.
One of the hidden joys of being old and having people think I’m half-addled is that I can say whatever I want and just wait and see what happens. “Have you ever had a grand romance, Hannah?”
“A what?”
“Have you ever been passionately, madly, swept-off-your-feet in love?”
“Why—why—why on earth would you-alls ask such a thing?”
“Just curious. There are so many things no one ever discusses. And I don’t know why not, since those things are often the most interesting.”
She turned away. “I don’ know what you’re talking about.”
I waved my hand dismissively. “That’s what I figured.”
She turned back around, her chin lifted, her mouth in a tight, miffed line. “Well, it so happens Idoesknow a thing or two about romance.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I done been married thirty-two years.”
“Marriage and romance aren’t necessarily the same thing.”
“Well, course they are!” she exclaimed.
“Really?” Her certainty intrigued me. “How did you meet your husband?”
“I had a friend who fixed me up with her older brother. He had a stutter, an’ he was too shy to ask me out himself, so she set it up for us to meet at the movie theater.”
“How interesting! What happened?”
“The very next day, I married him.”
