She doesn’t move a muscle.
“I’ll expect you to give Zoe your full attention,” Vanessa adds. “Do you have any questions before you two start?”
“Yeah.” Lucy’s head falls backward, like a dandelion too heavy for its stem. “If I don’t show up for these sessions, do I get a cut on my record?”
Vanessa looks at me and raises her brows. “Good luck,” she says, and she closes the door behind her as she leaves.
“So.” I pull a chair in front of Lucy’s so that she cannot help but see me, and sit down. “I’m really glad that I’ll be getting to work with you. Did anyone explain what music therapy is, exactly?”
“Bullshit?” Lucy offers.
“It’s a way to use music to access feelings that are sometimes locked inside,” I say, as if she hasn’t even spoken. “In fact, you’re probably doing a little of this on your own already. Everyone does. You know how, when you have a bad day and you only want to put on your sweats and eat a pint of chocolate ice cream and sob to the song ‘All by Myself’? That’s music therapy. Or when it finally gets warm enough to roll down the windows of you car, so you crank up the stereo and sing along? That’s music therapy, too.”
As I speak, I take out a notebook, so that I can begin to do my assessment. The plan is to write down comments a client gives, and my own impressions, and later to cobble them into a more formal clinical document. When I do this in the hospital, it’s easy—I assess the pain level of the client, her state of anxiety, her facial expressions.
Lucy, however, is a blank slate.
Her eyes stare straight over my shoulder; her thumb absently scratches at the carvings on the desk made by ballpoint pens and bored students.
“So,” I say brightly. “I thought that, today, maybe you could help me learn a little more about you. Like, for example, have you ever played an instrument?”
Lucy yawns.
“I guess that’s a no. Well, have you everwantedto play one?”
When she doesn’t answer, I move my chair forward a little.
“Lucy, I asked if you ever wanted to play an instrument . . .”
She pillows her head on her arms, closing her eyes.
“That’s okay. A lot of people never learn to play instruments. But, you know, if that’s something you become interested in when we’re working together, I could help you. I know how to play everything—woodwinds, percussion, brass, keyboard, guitar . . .” I look down at my notebook. So far I’ve written Lucy’s name and nothing else.
“Everything,” Lucy repeats softly.
I am so excited to hear her sandpaper voice that I nearly fall forward out of my seat. “Yes,” I reply. “Everything.”
“Do you play the accordion?”
“Well. No.” I hesitate. “But I could learn it with you, if you wanted.”
“Didgeridoo?”
I tried, once, but couldn’t master the round breathing. “No.”
“So basically,” Lucy says, “you’re a fucking liar, like everyone else I’ve ever met.”
I learned a long time ago that engagement—any at all, even anger—is a step above complete indifference. “What kind of music do you like? What would I find on your iPod?”
Lucy has slipped back into silence. She takes out a pen and colors an elaborate pattern on the inside of her palm, a Maori knot of twists and swirls.
Maybe she doesn’t have an iPod. I bite the inside of my lip, angry at myself for making a socioeconomic assumption about a client. “I know your family is pretty religious,” I say. “Do you listen to Christian rock? Maybe there’s one particular band you really like?”
Silence.
“How about the first pop song whose lyrics you memorized? When I was little, my best friend’s older sister had a record player, and she used to play ‘Billy, Don’t Be a Hero’ on repeat. It was 1974, and Paper Lace was singing it. I saved up my allowance to buy my own copy. Even now when I hear that song I get teary at the end when the girl gets the memo about her boyfriend’s death,” I say. “It’s funny—if I could pick one song to bring to a desert island, I’d take that one. Believe me, I’ve heard a lot more complex and deserving music since then, but for sheer nostalgia, that would have to get my vote.” I look at Lucy. “How about you? What music would you want to bring if you were stranded on a desert island?”
Lucy smiles sweetly at me.“The Very Best of David Hasselhoff,”she says, and then she stands up. “Can I go to the bathroom?”
