Chapter One
Faye
Beep beep. Beep beep.
The machine echoed in my ears like a drumbeat sounding my doom. The sound of everything I’d worked for scattered to ash.
The sound of my mother slipping away from me.
I leaned back in the hard plastic hospital chair, rubbing my burning eyes. I had no idea what day it was or how long I’d been sitting there. A cramp shot up my leg – a dull ache that had nothing on the searing pain in my heart. I stretched out my leg, gasping as the cramp arced down the muscle.
It’s like they deliberately make hospital rooms as uncomfortable as possible. Because watching someone you love waste away doesn’t suck enough.
My foot brushed the violin case on the floor. Before I knew it, I held my instrument in my hands. The chin rest perfectly fitting my body and the familiar weight of the neck against my fingers gave me comfort. It felt as natural as breathing to run the bow across the strings, to play the familiar trembling notes of Bloch’sNigun.
The Swiss composer wrote this piece in the memory of his mother, and it’s based on Jewish improvised chants. The idea is that by losing yourself in music, you become closer to God. Right now, I felt like strangling the big bastard in the sky for what he’d done to my mom, but I wasn’t playing for him.
Beep beep. Beep beep.
Nigunwas one of my mother’s favorite pieces – I learned it to play for her fortieth birthday. She’d hosted her party in her chic warehouse office in the East Village. All her investors and the executive team watched me in awe while she glowed with pride.
Now, I played it beside her hospital bed, to an audience of one.
The doctors say she might be able to hear music inside her coma. This might be my only shot at speaking to her, at drawing her back.
Mournful notes rang out as my bow danced over the strings. The grey hospital room came to life in that moment, the sterile edges washed away under a wave of lament. I fancied I saw the shadows of others who had sat in this same chair to cry over their loved ones. I conjured their pain and made it my own.
Musicwasmagic.
I needed a little magic right now.
As I played, a cloying scent reached my nostrils. Fake floral – like the bowls of potpourri my grandmother used to leave around her house. Old English roses and hyacinths drenched in sticky toffee and covered in mothballs. The scent tugged at a forgotten memory, a ghost of the past.
My pinkie finger slipped on the string, causing a dull note. I winced, forcing myself to ignore the smell, and kept playing. It happened sometimes when I was lost in the music – the melody conjured images, smells, or feelings from deep in my subconscious. They felt real until I set down the bow, and then I’d realize how stupid that was.Obviously, I didn’t conjure scented memories with music.
It’s just the smell of the hospital disinfectant or something. Don’t get distract—
No, it’s not.Deja vu tugged at me, bringing with it an ugly foreboding.I’ve smelled thatexactscent before.
I reached the end of the piece and lowered the bow. A familiar ache settled along my arm – pain was another thing I never felt until after I stopped playing. I once smashed my foot while climbing on stage. I played Beethoven’s entireViolin Sonata No. 9standing on a broken toe, and I didn’t even notice.
Someone clapped.
What the fuck?
I jumped out of my skin.
My eyes flew to my mother, but she lay in the bed, immobile. The machine beep-beeped behind her. I whirled around.
“Brava.” A woman stood in the corner of the room. I hadn’t noticed her come in. Her Eastern European accent seemed so out-of-place in this ordinary hospital in the shittiest part of NYC. That wasn’t the only thing about her that was odd – an old-fashioned floor-length gown in black lace and linen clung to her ample figure, and she clutched a large carpet bag with gold clasps. The fake floral smell rolled off her in waves. “You are still talented.”
I set down the violin, angry she’d intruded. “This is a private room.” The one indulgence I’d made in this entire shitshow, so I could grieve and hope and rage in private. And soon even that would be gone unless I came up with more cash.
“I am aware. I wish to speak to you, Faye de Winter.”
How does this strange woman know my name?Her presence tugged at me, the deja vu growing stronger. That smell and her voice were so familiar. Even that black dress sparked some hint of memory, but I couldn’t think where I’d have occasion to speak with such a woman. She looked like she’d got lost on the way to a Twilight fan convention.
Beep beep. Beep beep.
