Preludes, page 6
A perfectly ordinary day at the park.
Something teased at Anne’s ears, soon to materialise into a recognisable and not entirely unwelcome sound. That awful tinny tune could only mean one thing: an ice cream truck. Someone had very good business sense. The driver would almost certainly make a few dollars here, especially so if the teenagers at the table were to judge by, each rooting through her pockets for something, presumably enough coins for a frozen treat.
“Ice cream!” Six-year-old Jakey came running. “Annie, can we get ice cream? Can we?”
“Please, Annie!” Dylan echoed his brother’s pleas. He was a precocious four years old, always eager to do just what Jake could do. “Ice cream! I want chocolate. With sprinkles!”
“Does your mama let you get chocolate with sprinkles?”
Jake shook his head, but Dylan looked up with the innocent eyes of childhood. “No. But Papa does. Please!”
“I don’t know, guys. We had a treat before we left the house, and we’ll have a cold drink when we get home. In fact, it’s getting warm. Why don’t we head back now? Maybe we can walk past the corner store and get a tub of frozen yogurt.”
Jake nodded his agreement, but Marie’s temperament came out in her younger son. “No!” Dylan stomped his little feet on the dry ground. “I want ice cream. I want chocolate ice cream. With sprinkles!”
And before Anne could stop him, he dashed off in the direction of the ice cream truck, which had just pulled to a stop on the other side of the road, since the near side was lined with cars. A chorus of shouts from the playground bounced off her and the heat of the sun faded to nothing. All she saw was her nephew running towards the garish white van with the tinny speaker.
She had to stop him. Now.
“Jake, stay here. Don’t move. Dylan! Come back!” Anne leapt to her feet to run off after her errant nephew. Her foot got tangled in her tote bag’s straps and she fought to free it so she could hurry after the little boy. “Come back right now!”
But the boy either didn’t hear, or didn’t care, and kept running. Those little legs were fast, and he was already at the street. The seconds it had taken Anne to free her feet were too much for her to catch him. It was normally a quiet neighbourhood road, little travelled by anyone other than local residents and the occasional ice cream truck. But not today.
Anne saw it all as if in slow motion, part of some bad movie. The van that came around the corner, not speeding but faster than it ought. The parked cars, lining the sidewalk at the edge of the park. Strange, unrelated images like the red bike leaning against a tree and the small plane flying overhead, the drone of its propeller a distant buzz above the everyday sounds of children at play. And Dylan, short, too short to be seen, dashing out into the street from between two of those parked cars, just as the minivan hurried along its way. Anne tried to force her legs to move more quickly, but she too was caught in this timeless, endless, relentless progression towards disaster.
And then, like in that imaginary movie, the slow-motion pan ended and events sped up to their horrible conclusion. There was a screech of brakes, a sickening thud, and a scream that Anne would recall for the rest of her days. The world crumbled beneath her.
“Dylan!” Was that her voice? Could she shout like that? Panic propelled her faster than she thought she could ever move, but it was too late. The minivan stood still in the middle of the road; a small blond body lay crumpled on the ground before it, blood pooling from under one shoulder. The universe reeled around her.
“I’ve called 911,” someone shouted. Who was that? She tried to spin about to see, but she could not move. The world was a kaleidoscope of whirling images. Nothing made sense. What had she done?
She had to do something, take some action. She was Anne, the one everyone relied on in a crisis. But every rational thought was gone, the world a senseless whir of motion and dread.
“I’m a doctor. Can I look?” A shape came into focus. One of the two chatting women, breathing hard.
A doctor. That was good. Anne nodded. She was numb, paralysed in her terror. Her nephew. Little Dylan. Oh my God.
The woman knelt down by Dylan’s inert body and did some things Anne could not see. “He’s breathing fine,” the doctor looked up. “I won’t move him. I hope the ambulance gets here soon. Are you okay?”
Time stood still, a mess of chaos and inertia, as people buzzed about. The doctor stood by Anne with her arm around Anne’s shoulders. At last there was a distant wailing, and then a closer one, as Jake ran up and threw his arms around Anne’s neck, his hot tears mingling with the sweat that now had nothing to do with the hot sun.
“Stand back. I’ll direct the EMTs. Here they come now. That was fast.” The doctor. Thank heavens someone had done something useful, had been able to think.
Anne stood there in a daze. She should act. She should do something. But still, she remained rooted to the ground as activity erupted around her. There was a wall of sirens, a cacophony of flashing lights, and people who hadn’t been there before. The paramedics were now there, tending to Dylan, asking questions, saying things that didn’t quite coalesce into words.
The doctor was talking to them now. “…ran away… parked cars… tried to catch…” Nothing made sense.
And then there was Jake. Who would look after Jake? The little boy was sobbing at her side, calling out his brother’s name. Anne took a deep breath and pulled her nephew to her side in a crushing hug. In a voice steadier than she thought possible, she reassured him. “He’ll be okay, sweetie. Don’t worry. We can go with him to the hospital…”
“I’m Sylvia,” the doctor approached her again. “Marie’s neighbour. Hi Jake.” Her voice was calm, a cool, still place in the midst of a cyclone.
“Hi, Doctor Alvirez,” the little boy replied, all but inaudible in the din. Good. He knew her.
The doctor looked up. “You’re Anne, Marie’s sister. I’ve seen pictures of you and she talks about you. Look, I can take Jake if you want to go in the ambulance with Dylan. They won’t let you both go. My daughter is in Jake’s class at school. He often comes over.”
Jake nodded again. “Kailey’s my friend.” He pointed to where a little girl stood at the edge of the green space. She gave him a timid wave in return.
Alright. She had to make a decision. She had neglected one child and let him run in front of a moving car. How much worse could it be to abandon the other to the care of a stranger? “Can I get your phone number?” There. That was responsible adult behaviour, right?
Sylvia Alvirez reached into a pocket and pulled out a business card, listing her clinic and pager number. She found a pen somewhere and scribbled another number down on the back. “My cell. Marie has it, but here it is again.”
Numb. She was numb. A hand snaked out to accept the card. It was her own. She stuffed it into her tote bag. “Thanks.” She forced out the word.
“Ma’am?” The paramedics called her over. They had transferred Dylan to a gurney and were ready to load him into the back of the ambulance. “Coming with? You can tell us what happened again on the way.”
Another nod.
Marie would kill her. If she didn’t die of horror and self-recrimination first.
Anne heard Marie and Charles before she saw them. They came rushing into the hospital waiting room in a cloud of wails and moans. Or, rather, Marie was the source of the lamentations. Charles was deadly silent. She had called them as soon as the ambulance had arrived at the hospital and a small army of white-coated doctors and nurses swarmed around the little boy. Marie’s protestations at being disturbed at the game quickly dissolved into cries of horror before Charles took the phone. Once Anne explained things, he cursed once and hung up. She knew she would see them soon enough.
There was little enough to do now. Dylan was still unconscious, and he was being shuttled from place to place for tests and imaging and procedures that Anne could not start to comprehend. Cervical spine… Trauma routine… CT scan… The terms hovered in the air like a swarm of noseeums that she could not avoid but equally couldn’t quite catch. Things were attached to his head, his arms; machines beeped and whined; the smell of disinfectant was everywhere. And all Anne could do was sit in the cold, sterile waiting room until they returned him to… wherever.
Soon enough, Marie’s wails sounded through the hallways. She stormed up to Anne, her face a red mess. “My baby! Anne, what did you do to my baby? Why did you offer to watch them if you couldn’t keep them safe? My baby!”
“Marie…” Charles growled. His voice was quiet but fierce. “It’s not Anne’s fault. Dylan runs.” His face was white, his hands clenched at his sides. He turned to Anne. “How is he?”
She pulled her sister into a hug as she answered. “He’ll be fine. The doctors won’t tell me much since I’m just his aunt, but there’s no serious injury. The driver slammed on her brakes as soon as he dashed out from between the cars, and it hardly tapped him at all. Most of his injuries are from where he fell, not from being hit. He scraped up his back pretty badly and he broke his arm when he landed on it. They’re just keeping him because he hit his head. The doctors will tell you more.”
At that moment, an impossibly young man in a white coat walked through one of the doorways. “Mr. Musgrove? Mrs. Musgrove? I’m Dr. Chiu. Come with me. Your son is sleeping normally…” He led the two anxious parents down a long hallway. Anne knew she wouldn’t see them again today. She sent a quick text to Marie asking her to call when she got home and turned to collect her tote bag from the seat behind her.
A shadow emerged from the corner of the waiting room by the nurses’ station, all long limbs and worried lines on his face.
“Fred.”
He must have been there all along, not wanting to intrude. Of course, he had been with Charles and Marie at the game, and had probably driven their van to the hospital. Neither of the Musgroves would have been in any state to negotiate Toronto traffic.
“Annie. He’s okay?”
She nodded. She was still numb. He walked up to her and let her fall briefly against his chest, pulling her close with one arm. Then, just as quickly, he released her and stepped back. He would comfort her, but only so much. Fine.
“How are you getting home? Walking? I’d offer to drive you, but we took Charles’ car and he’ll need it to get home later. I can call a taxi or an Uber.”
Another nod. “No, that’s fine. Walking is good. It’s not so far. I’m just out along Queen Street, past Spadina. It’s only about 20 minutes. I need… I need time to think. If only I’d acted a moment sooner. If only I hadn’t tripped on these damned straps. If only he hadn’t been so fast. Why didn’t I expect him to dash off like that?”
The words flooded out of her before she could stop them.
His entire stance softened. “It’s not your fault, Annie. Charles was telling me in the car how impulsive he can be. Let me walk you home. You can yell at me the whole time.”
He walked over and took up her bag, then put an arm about her shoulders again. She leaned into him for a moment before following him out of the hospital.
She hardly spoke on the walk, and Fred did not push her. Before, so long ago, he had always understood her so well. He knew when she needed to vent and when she needed to process things internally. He knew when she needed physical contact and when she needed to be left alone. Now he seemed to sense her need for silent companionship, and he walked beside her, not too far and not too close, until they arrived at her building. Anne knew the walk took about twenty minutes, but it could have been seconds or hours, such was the unsettled mess in her mind.
She would never stop berating herself for what had happened, but Fred’s presence was somehow comforting. Even in her distress, even now that he was back and clearly wished to be far away from her, he grounded her. Now he stood there by the big set of doors to her building, neither moving inside nor shuffling away to take his leave. Waiting… waiting to see what she needed.
Anne spoke before she could think. “Come up? I could use a drink.” They were some of the first words she had said to him since they left the hospital.
“Sure.” He followed her up the elevator and down the hallway to the one-bedroom unit she called home. She fumbled in her pocket for the keys and unlocked the door, stepping aside to let him enter.
As she closed the door behind them, he stepped towards her with his arms wide. She needed a hug. He knew that, too. She collapsed against him, and at once the dam burst. All that dry numbness, all that paralysis and horror, dissolved at once into a flood of pain and despair, and heavy sobs racked her body. She hadn’t even realised until now that she had not shed a single tear so far. Until now, when it all came out in a horrible torrent. Fred held her close and let her cry, and then when she stepped back to take a breath, he found a tissue in his pocket and handed it to her so she could dry her face before bursting into tears once more.
In time, the tears ran dry and Anne’s choked breathing started to settle. Fred pulled her closer, wrapping her in his arms, a warm blanket to reassure and to soothe. She laid her head against his chest to let him stroke her hair. His hand was gentle, each stroke hinting at affection, bringing back all those buried memories. The constant beat of his heart was comforting, grounding. A solid rhythm, steady and sure, holding the universe together.
Out of instinct, she responded by enfolding him in her own arms. He would leave soon enough, but for now, she welcomed the comfort.
“There, there,” he murmured into her hair. “It’s okay. It’s alright.” She felt the soft pressure on something against the crown of her head. Not his hand. One was on her back, the other at the back of her head. He was nuzzling his face against her hair. Another murmur, another caress. Was that a kiss? She burrowed her face into his shoulder and let him cocoon her in his arms.
Another kiss on her hair, a tightening of his hug about her shoulders. One large hand moved down her back to press her into him and she sniffed back a tear and looked up at him.
Those lips that had, moments ago, nestled in her hair now came down to kiss her forehead right between her eyes. He moved his other hand to wipe the tears from one leaky eye, and then he leaned forward to kiss her head again. Then her cheek. Then those lips that she had once known so well moved again and touched her mouth.
Just a brush.
A butterfly’s kiss.
They both pulled back and gasped at each other, but before Anne could say anything, Fred growled, “Damn it,” and leaned forward again with much more amorous intent. Anne met him halfway in a passionate kiss.
It had been eight long years since they parted so badly. Almost a decade since they had indulged their passion. After Fred had left, Anne cauterised her wounds with endless work and had wept out her pain in the notes of her Preludes. With every passing day, she had fortified the wall growing around her heart, dampening her distress, dampening her joy as well. She had cultivated that wall, tended it, kept it strong, so nothing—no one—could hurt her again.
Now, with every touch of his hands and every caress of his lips against hers, that wall started to weaken. All those years of repressed emotion pressed at the barricades, crying for freedom, and right now, with Fred kissing her like she was everything in his world, she didn’t care.
Her fingers threaded themselves in his thick dark hair, even as his hands ran up and down her back, those long fingers playing arpeggios with her nerves, bringing her senses to a crescendo that threatened to overwhelm her. Promised to overwhelm her.
When they moved to the couch, she echoed his touch. When they moved to the bedroom, it was she leading the way. And when their symphony reached its crashing climax and every brick around her heart crumbled into dust, she revelled in the release and the freedom.
It was not just her body that thrummed with the echoes of their lovemaking; her soul, too, was freed. After so long in its fortress, as much a prison as a stronghold, it soared and gloried in its expansiveness. Now she saw the heavy dungeon in which she had buried herself, and now she understood the joy of escape. And she knew that no matter what happened, she would never again trap her essence behind those artificial walls. Be the reward pain or exaltation, she would no longer sublimate her emotions in her life or in her music. Now she could let her art soar as free as her spirit in glorious creations, even greater than what she had done before.
She nestled against Fred’s chest, revelling in the feel of his arm around her. Her fingers swirled through the hair on his chest and he purred in satisfaction. Just like before. This was new and familiar, a revelation and a coming home. Recapitulation—the return to the grand themes that begin a work. Home. The world was back on its axis.
She had been so wrong; Professor Russell had been so wrong. She had lost nearly a decade, but she need mourn no more.
Fred was back.
They stayed in bed all night, talking about music, talking about Dylan, making love again.
But in the morning, when Anne opened her eyes to the crack of light slicing through the blinds, Fred was gone.
Chapter Eight
Lacrimoso
His note had been simple.
Sorry, Annie.
We shouldn’t have done that. I know you want to put the past to bed, but not so literally.
Forgive me?
Fred
And that had been that.
No flowers, no promises, no confession of a lifetime of regrets. Just “sorry.”
Anne felt her heart had been ripped out once again. But this time would be different.
A steel thread of anger pierced through the pain, stiffening her spine. Anger at herself for succumbing so quicky to Fred’s charms. Anger at Fred for treating her so coldly, for leaving again with nothing but a few words on a piece of paper. Eight years ago, when they parted ways, she had crumbled into herself, but not now. Now she would step on this experience and climb higher. There would be memories, yes, and regrets too, but they no longer defined her and held her down.
