Chapter 10 A Rehearsed Routine
A Rehearsed Routine
Catherine
Catherine woke to April rain hammering against her bedroom window, a crick in her neck, and something hard pressing into her cheek.
She blinked, still disoriented, then realized her phone was there beneath her face, the screen fogged from her breath. She peeled it away, checked the time, and lay still for a moment, piecing together when she'd fallen asleep.
Fragments of Theodora's last story came back to her.
Something about Mary smuggling cookies past the nurses' station to Harry, then returning with banana bread to negotiate with the security guard who'd caught her.
The details had softened at the edges somewhere along the way.
They must have both drifted off mid-story.
Catherine stayed there a moment, holding onto what she could remember of it, before finally pushing herself out of bed, tying her robe as she went to make coffee.
The rational part of her brain noted that she was functioning perfectly normally.
The less rational part had already checked her phone twice before the pot had finished brewing, left it on the counter where she could see it while she showered, and was currently engaged in a quiet argument with itself about whether taking it into the bathroom counted as excessive.
She decided it did not.
The rest of the day passed almost without her noticing, one hour folding into the next, until Catherine found herself in bed that night with Persuasion open on her lap.
She had just turned the page when her phone lit up, throwing shadows across Jane Austen’s words.
Catherine reached for one of Theodora’s early sticky notes to mark her place, the one that read:
I’ve taken your mail hostage.
It is now collateral in our ongoing noise negotiations.
Expected release window: 2–4 business days, assuming good behavior.
- 14C
For the record, no, Catherine had not stopped playing. And yes, Theodora still hadn’t returned the mail. It was fine, though. Theodora had provided photographic proof of life. The hostages consisted of a Chinese takeout menu and a flyer for double glazing.
Catherine answered on the third ring, pressing the phone to her ear just in time to hear a ragged inhale on the other end.
The phone crackled with a tired "Hey." She paused, then: "Shit, were you sleeping?"
Theodora's voice had that sandpaper quality it always got when she was tired. In the background, a car horn blared, then faded. Catherine glanced at her screen:
10:18 PM
She sat up straighter against her pillows, her fingers tightening around the phone. “No,” Catherine said. “I was just reading. I thought you were off at nine-thirty tonight. What happened?”
There was a pause. Then, “Sixteen-year-old kid. Bad weather. Lost control and ran off the road.”
She exhaled softly. “The steering column went straight through his chest. We cracked him open in the ER. Didn’t even have time to get him upstairs, so we did the thoracotomy right there.”
Another pause. “His parents were screaming about how long it was taking while I had my hands inside his chest, trying to clamp the aorta and get his heart moving again.”
Catherine set the book aside entirely, pulling her knees up and wrapping one arm around them while she held the phone with the other.
"We got him stable eventually. They took him to surgery, and last I heard, he was still alive, but fuck, Catherine, his parents' faces when we finally let them see him." Theodora's voice cracked slightly. "All those tubes and lines, and his mother just…"
"But he's alive," Catherine said. "Because of you."
"Because of a lot of people."
"Perhaps. But you were the person with your hands inside his chest, Theodora. You did that."
The silence stretched, but Catherine could hear Theodora breathing on the other end, evening out. After a moment, she said, "Thanks. I just…I needed to tell someone who wasn't there. You know, someone who wouldn't just brush over it and move on to the next trauma."
"I understand. I'm here," Catherine said, and meant it.
“Yeah,” Theodora said. “I know.”
They stayed talking for several minutes more, until Theodora got home and climbed into her own bed, her breathing gradually losing its edge.
When they finally ended the call, Catherine set her phone back on the nightstand and didn’t pick Jane Austen up again.
She lay there in the dark instead, stuck on the image of Theodora’s hands inside someone’s chest, on the strain of keeping another person alive through sheer force of will.
It followed her when sleep wouldn’t come, into the morning, and into the quiet spaces between lessons.
After that, the calls became routine. Not planned, exactly, just something that happened, day after day.
Theodora’s name lit up her screen at odd hours—after shifts, between patients, once memorably at three in the morning when Catherine answered a FaceTime to off-key singing that only tequila could inspire and Natalie’s slurred voice in the background announcing they were serenading “the hot pianist.” Catherine had cringed the entire performance, but found herself smiling at the ceiling for ten minutes after hanging up.
So when her phone buzzed during Eliza’s lesson the following Tuesday, Catherine barely missed a beat. She glanced at the screen, saw Theodora's name, and felt the corner of her mouth lift involuntarily.
Catherine glanced at the device, then at her student, a focused twelve-year-old whose parents actually made her practice. Thank God. "Keep going through the F major scale. I'll be right back."
She stepped into the hallway with the phone, pressing the answer button. "Hi. I can’t talk, I'm teaching. Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, sorry, I'm on a break. Just one minute?"
Catherine put her ear to the door and heard the girl’s slow progression, "You have exactly sixty seconds. How’s your shift?”
“It’s been… a day. But I don’t want to talk about it until I’m out of here. Distract me. How’s the lesson going?”
“It’s going well. She’s actually willing to put the work in, which makes my job a little easier.”
Theodora's voice dropped to a playful purr. "Is that praise I detect? Are you going soft on me, Miss Matthews? Next, you'll be telling me you don't care about perfect fingering technique...though I've always found a little improvisation more satisfying personally."
Catherine scoffed, but it came out breathy. She pressed her back against the wall, grateful Theodora couldn't see her face warming. She checked her watch, needing something to focus on besides the flutter in her stomach.
"Forty seconds left," she said, pleased that her voice sounded steadier than she felt. "Use them wisely."
"No pressure or anything," Theodora said, the smile audible in her voice. There was a brief pause. "Okay, um. Tell me something nobody else knows about you."
Catherine blinked at the phone. Her lips parted, then closed. She glanced back at the practice room door, buying herself a moment.
"Something nobody knows about me," she echoed, voice low. The only thing that came to mind was the one thing she wasn’t ready to say; it pressed against her throat like a held breath, then sank back down where she kept all dangerous things.
"I'm terrified of birds," she said in its place.
"Parakeets, specifically. My grandmother had this bright blue one that would sit on top of her upright and wait.
The second I started playing on her piano, it would launch itself at my head.
Every time. Like clockwork. I still flinch when I hear wings flapping. "
Theodora's laugh burst through the phone, bright and infectious. "Oh, my God. That explains so much about your personality."
"Shut up, Theodora," Catherine said, glancing at her watch. "Ten seconds left." She pressed her lips together, but couldn't quite stop the smile that crept across her face.
"Okay, okay. Dinner tonight? Think you could make that stir-fry dish again if I grab the ingredients? I can’t stop thinking about it."
The invitation settled warm in Catherine's chest, a sensation she was becoming alarmingly accustomed to. “If I must,” she said. “I noticed the instant noodles were sold out at Yorkies this morning, and I refuse to believe York Avenue has collectively lowered its standards. Which just leaves you.”
A laugh crackled through the line. "Guilty," Theodora said, her voice dropping to something softer. "I just—" She paused, and Catherine heard her exhale. "It's stupid…But I just wanted to hear your voice for a minute before diving back in."
The words landed like fingertips against Catherine's sternum, gentle but insistent. She didn't know what to do with them or how to respond to such honesty.
"I'll see you tonight," she managed, keeping her voice steady despite the sudden flutter beneath her ribs.
"Sure thing, catch you later."
Catherine stood in the hallway for a moment after Theodora hung up, phone still warm against her palm.
When she returned to the lesson, she corrected her student's pacing twice before realizing she'd given contradictory instructions.
The girl looked up, confused, and Catherine cleared her throat, refocusing.
* * *
That night, the knock came at seven-thirty exactly.
Catherine dried her hands, smoothed her sweater for no real reason, and went to the door.
Theodora stood with her hands tucked behind her back, bouncing gently on her toes, wearing dark jeans and a rust-colored Henley that made the copper in her hair look almost unreasonably good. Catherine took this in, found it noted against her will, and stepped back to let her in.
"Theodora."
"Catherine." She moved past her with that restless energy she carried everywhere, then turned with a grin that was, frankly, suspicious. "I have something for you."
"You brought cheese the other night. And dessert last week." Catherine closed the door. "I'm beginning to suspect you think I don't feed you adequately."