Chapter 22
T oday is a day that by the end of it, it will be a miracle if I haven’t thrown up at least twenty times or martinied myself into a stupor.
The hospital is busy, teaming with a vibe and a buzz that feeds the hum rushing through my system.
I’m excited beyond words about this, but my nerves are also getting the best of me.
What if the kids don’t like me?
What if I don’t do a good job with them?
“You’re fine,” Kaplan says without so much as a glance in my direction.
I didn’t even have to say a word, but somehow, he knows.
That’s Kaplan for you, I guess. He always seems to know.
He shifts, adjusting my cello on his shoulder because he wouldn’t let me carry it myself.
Even though I do that every single day of my life.
My mother wouldn’t like it, was his reasoning.
“You didn’t have to walk me up, though. I know you’re busy,” I tell him as he presses the button for the neuro floor. A floor that is not his.
He doesn’t reply, just crowds me to the back as other people get on with us.
“I got a text yesterday,” he whispers, leaning down and catching my ear so others can’t hear.
I blink before tilting my head up to his. “What does that mean? From who?”
“The older brother of an old friend of mine is coming to Boston this February for a quick trip. I haven’t thought about her, the old friend that is, or her brothers in… Anyway, I’m walking you up.”
I shake my head. “I have no idea what any of that means.”
“Neither do I. I have no idea what it means.”
“You’re being cryptic as hell.”
“I know. But when it comes to this particular old friend, I can’t help it.”
“Ummm…” I think about this. “Okay.” Yep, that’s all I got. “Well, if you ever figure it out, I’m here for you.”
“Love you too, babe.” He tosses me a wink and then the doors part.
His hand meets my lower back as he guides me through and onto the floor, swiping his hospital badge even though I have one now too.
“Don’t show fear. Whatever you do, listen, make eye contact, treat them as their own human being and not a disease or condition, but above all else show no fear. ”
I pat Kaplan’s shoulder as we reach the common room at the end of the hall, taking my cello from his back and placing the strap over my shoulder. “You’ll make a great dad one day.”
“Shhh,” he admonishes, feigning panic as his head whips dramatically around.
“There are ears in this place. And they hear everything. Don’t speak such blasphemy.
” He gives me a wink. “Knock ’em healthy, babe.
” He drops a kiss on the top of my head and then saunters off, every single nurse and patients’ mother doing a double take as he passes.
The room is already loaded with instruments stuffed into the corner as if someone dumped them in.
I cringe and go at it, getting the room set up and ready.
I have an hour before the kids come and it ends up taking me that entire hour to get the room set up exactly how I want it.
Hospital lights are harsh, so I brought in lamps with color changing light bulbs that through an app I have, will pulse and change colors to the beat of our music.
I also set up the small area rugs on the floor, one for each kid, and chairs set in the back in case any of us—including myself since I play the cello—will need to sit.
When the first knock comes on the door, I practically squeal, holding in my desire to jump up and down and clap my hands like a twelve-year-old.
A swell of fresh nerves fight their way into my bloodstream, but I tamp it all down as I open the door, allowing six kids to enter, filing in one by one.
Some are hooked up to oxygen through nasal cannulas.
Some have IVs going. A couple are bald—shaved heads with stapled scars in different places.
All staring at me and then at the room as if they’re not quite sure what they just walked into or what they signed up for.
For a second, I can’t catch my breath and it has nothing to do with my nerves. These kids are all around Stella’s and Layla’s age. I don’t know their situation or their diagnoses, but theirs is a visceral sucker punch. I quickly recover, a new sense of warmth and purpose spreading through me.
Three nurses hover by the door, making sure their charges are okay and as they should be.
“Everyone pick a spot. Don’t worry about the instruments yet and if you’d rather sit in a chair, just let me know.” I turn to the door. “Do you want to stay?” I ask the nurses.
“Nope. We’ll be back in an hour and a half. Just hit this button”—one of them taps her finger on a small keypad that has a red button on it—“if there’s a problem.”
“Got it. Thank you.”
I get a good-luck grin from each of them and then they shut the door, leaving me alone with the kids, who have all taken seats on the floor, even the kids with oxygen tanks and IV stands beside them.
“I’m Raven Fairchild,” I start, taking a seat in the one remaining spot, sitting cross-legged. “I am a cellist by trade and currently play for the Boston Symphony Pops Orchestra. Couple rules before we get started, okay?”
They groan collectively and I can’t help but smirk.
“Come on. They’re not so bad.” I shift a little, rocking back and forth so I can get comfortable.
“This is a safe place. That means we don’t laugh at anyone.
We don’t judge anyone. We show respect to our fellow musicians.
Everyone has a different way of expressing themselves and that’s cool.
That’s art. That’s music. So I will not tolerate talking shit about anyone. ”
I get some giggles now for my swear, which was obviously my intention.
“That is also the last time I will swear in here and that’s another thing we can’t do because I don’t want to hear about it from your parents or nurses.” I feign horror and the resulting smiles tell me they’re starting to warm up to me.
“So, we just play music? That’s it?” a girl with huge brown eyes and a shaved head with a giant stapled scar by her temple asks.
“What’s your name?” I ask her.
“Genevieve, but everyone calls me Gen.”
I nod. “Gen, that’s one of the things we’ll do for sure.
If you’re interested in learning how to play an instrument, I can help with that.
If you just want to jam out, I can do that too.
If you want to listen to a song and talk about it after, that’s cool with me.
This is your space more than it’s mine. Let’s go around and introduce ourselves and then I thought we’d play a game. You in?”
They tell me their names and I drag a chair out of the corner and open up my cello case, setting myself up.
Their eyes are curiously glued to my instrument and then my phone as I bend, start the app, and hit play.
Music streams through the speaker of my phone and the light morphs in sync, transitioning between red, pink, blue, purple, green, yellow, and orange.
I get a couple of oohs and aahs and cools from them.
“Who can tell me the name of this song?” I ask once the song is about halfway through.
Beth raises her hand like it’s school and I nod in her direction. “Lady Gaga’s ‘Alejandro.’”
“Perfect.” I hit pause and the lights return to normal. Then I get myself ready and start playing “Csárdás” by Vittorio Monti. It only takes me a few measures before their eyes light up.
“Hey, she stole that,” Marcus grumbles indignantly.
I shake my head, coming to a rest. “She didn’t. She had permission to use it or it’s not under copyright anymore. Trust me on that. Want another one?”
“Yeah,” Cindi exclaims, playing with the tubing of her IV that’s attached to a port in her chest.
“This one might not be so obvious.” I hit play and music filters in through the room, the light show starting again, and I can’t help my smile as all of their faces glow with excitement.
“Oh, that’s ‘Memories’ by Maroon 5.”
“Yup.” I point my bow at Tom.
I hit stop and start playing Pachelbel’s “Canon in D minor”, which is traditionally a cello piece, so it really soars through the room. The kids stare intently at my cello, listening closely, and once they hear the similarities between the chord progressions, I start getting some nods.
“Wow. Weird.”
I stop playing and set my cello aside, rejoining them on the floor.
“It is, right?” I tell Gen. “There are tons of other classical pieces out there that have influenced modern music. Classical music is my jam. I perform it. I write it. I live it. I breathe it. And at my funeral, they’ll be playing it.
But it’s not what speaks to everyone, and I get that.
I thought I’d play something I wrote and then how about you each take a shot at making something else out of it?
Anything you want. Something that gets you going.
That you connect with. We’ll record it and then play it in my app, so the lights dance with it. Sound fun?”
I play for them something I wrote years ago and then each kid goes for an instrument and then it’s all a lot of noise.
Pounding of drums and banging of piano keys and clomping of xylophones.
Once they’re satisfied with their masterpieces, I have them each playing it while I record it and the lights flash along to our symphony.
The hour and a half fly by and when I call an end to our session, I get some groans of disappointment, which kind of makes me want to weep happy tears.
This has been one of the best mornings of my life.
I stumbled upon psychology as a way to help me overcome my own inner demons, but the reward of helping others—especially children—is like nothing else.
“I’m here next Friday with you since I’m on this floor only once a week. Think about what you might want to do, and I’ll leave the instruments here so you can come and play them during the week.”