Chapter 12 Measures of Doubt
Measures of Doubt
Catherine
Once they were back at The Lenox, Catherine watched the elevator numbers flicker upward, newly aware of how little space separated her and Theodora.
Her breathing felt louder than it should. They were alone together all the time, but something about the elevator felt different tonight.
At 14C, Theodora unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping aside to let Catherine in.
Catherine moved past her and reached for the light switch without thinking, the left one, not the right that only lit the hallway, but the one that cast a warm glow over the living area.
She slipped off her shoes by the door, kicking them askew, and draped her coat over the back of what was now her chair.
The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen, and Catherine knew without looking that it contained at least two bottles of Sunkist that hadn't been there before they met.
She spotted the gray throw blanket on the arm of the sofa—the one Theodora had originally tossed at her with an eye roll when she'd complained about the draft from the window, but which now seemed to wait for her.
Theodora closed the door behind them and moved past Catherine toward the kitchen, her hand going straight to the wine rack on the counter.
"Red or white?" Theodora asked.
"Red, please," Catherine said, moving into the living room while Theodora dealt with the wine. She ran her finger along the spines of the medical textbooks stacked on the coffee table: Harrison's, Robbins, Netter's Atlas, names that had become familiar over the past few months.
In the corner by the window sat the small electric keyboard Theodora had bought after the fourth DVD, angled to catch whatever light came through the blinds. Catherine was still looking at it when she heard the pop of the bottle behind her, then the careful sound of wine being poured.
A moment later, Theodora was at her shoulder, glass extended.
Catherine took it, their fingers overlapping briefly in the transfer, the contact registering somewhere deeper than it had any right to.
They settled onto the couch close enough that Catherine felt the cushions shift under Theodora's weight, though not quite touching.
As she turned toward Catherine, the movement released several strands of copper hair from her braid. They fell around her face, capturing the warm glow from the lamp beside them.
Catherine found her gaze drawn to those loose strands, to the line of Theodora’s jaw, to the way her fingers curved around her wine glass with the same gentleness she brought to everything she touched.
She forced herself to look away, lowering her eyes to her own glass instead.
Theodora took a sip, then set her glass down on the coffee table with a quiet clink. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, almost tentative in a way Catherine rarely heard from her. "Thank you," she said. "For tonight. For Harry. For all of it."
Catherine shook her head. "You already thanked me."
"I know. But I wanted to say it again. Properly." Theodora's gaze held hers, green eyes serious in the dim light. "What you did for Harry, that wasn't nothing, Catherine. That was—" She paused, searching for words. "That was one of the kindest things I've ever seen."
The praise made Catherine uncomfortable in ways she couldn't articulate. She took another sip of wine, using the gesture to buy time, to push down the complicated feelings rising in her chest.
"He matters to you," Catherine said finally. "So he matters to me."
The words hung between them, and Catherine heard the implication in what she’d said, the admission she hadn't quite intended to make.
Theodora's expression shifted, something unguarded crossing her face before she looked down at her hands. The gesture felt like retreat, like she'd heard what Catherine hadn't meant to say and was giving them both space to pretend otherwise.
The silence held for long enough that Catherine thought it might be easier to let it continue, to finish her wine and return to 14D with everything still safely unspoken.
But Theodora was looking at her with that steady gaze, head tilted, eyes focused but soft around the edges, the same way Catherine had seen her listen to Harry.
Catherine looked at her. Then at the keyboard in the corner. Then, back at Theodora's face, and something that had been held very tightly for a very long time loosened, just slightly, just enough.
"I should explain," she heard herself say. "Why I reacted the way I did at the church."
"You don't have to—"
"I know." Catherine's voice was quiet. "But I want to."
Theodora held her gaze for a moment, then nodded.
Catherine looked down at her glass. "The warning signs were there months before anything actually happened. I just ignored them, because there was always another performance, another rehearsal, another interview that couldn't be moved. It kept getting pushed down the list."
“And then I’d booked the Royal Albert Hall.
Solo. I was the first classical musician they’d ever put on that stage alone with no orchestra, no vocals, just me and the piano.
The tickets were gone within hours, and critics had already called it the performance of the season before I'd played a single note.
And my mother—" She gave a small, humorless laugh.
“She called to tell me the entire family had bought tickets.
She made a point of mentioning exactly how many people would be in that room.
Five thousand nine hundred, she said. All expecting me to be perfect. "
She paused. Her jaw tightened, just briefly.
“Simon said if it went well, everything would change. Bigger venues. Longer contracts. He started talking about expanding my brand. Features in Vogue. Late-night talk shows where I’d play a toy piano for social media views.
He talked about sponsored partnerships. About becoming an ambassador for whatever house was designing my concert blacks.
Prada. Valentino. He didn’t care. He just wanted whatever deal gave him the biggest commission. ”
Theodora shifted closer and took her hand, folding it gently between both of her own. Catherine threaded their fingers together without thinking about it and held on.
“It was the pressure of that,” she said.
“Of being expected to live up to something that hadn’t even happened yet.
It was too much, and I was so tired, Theodora," Catherine continued, the admission coming easier now that she'd started. "But there was no time to stop or room to breathe. Simon had everything scheduled back-to-back, and I’d agreed to it all because that’s what you do when you’re successful.
You keep saying yes because no stops being an option.
I had a publicist, a manager, an agent, a booking director, and a tour manager.
Piano technicians, assistants, and people whose entire job was handling my travel, visas, and contracts.
Stylists. Accountants. Lawyers. All of them were depending on me to keep going. "
“Then, the night of the performance, I remember standing backstage.
My hands were shaking, they wouldn't stop shaking, and my vision kept blurring at the edges.
" She paused, swallowing against the tightness in her throat.
"I thought it was just exhaustion. I told myself I'd get through it, then sleep for a week. "
"I made it through the first movement. Rachmaninoff.
Piano Concerto Number Two. I could play it in my sleep, had played it in my sleep, practically.
The muscle memory was so deep I didn't have to think.
" Her voice dropped lower. "That should have been a warning, too. I stopped thinking, and my body took over. I felt like I wasn’t quite in control anymore. "
Her fingers had begun to tremble in Theodora’s grasp. Small movements, barely visible, but she felt them like tremors through her entire body.
"Halfway through the second movement, something changed. It's hard to describe. Like, suddenly I was watching myself. I could see my hands on the keys, could hear the music continuing, but I couldn't feel the connection anymore.”
She paused, her throat working up and down. Theodora's presence beside her felt solid, anchoring, but Catherine couldn't look at her. Not yet. Not while she was saying this.
"The next part is fragmented. I remember the piano keys getting closer to my face.
The sound of my body hitting the bench. People yelling, though I couldn't tell if it was in the audience or in my head.
Then there were hands on me, moving me, voices talking over each other using words I couldn't understand. "
"When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed surrounded by lights and people I didn't know." Catherine's voice had gone quieter, barely above a whisper. "My mother was there. Simon, too. They were so disappointed in me…”
She stopped, the words running out, her breathing uneven despite her best efforts. “The doctors were talking about things I couldn't follow, but I knew, even then, that something fundamental in me had broken."
She finally turned to look at Theodora, meeting her eyes in the dim light. She’d braced herself for questions, for the gentle probing about diagnosis and medication that doctors couldn't seem to help themselves from doing, but Theodora didn't ask questions.
"Thank you for telling me." Theodora's voice was so quiet and careful that Catherine almost couldn't bear it. "I'm so sorry about tonight. If I'd known, I never would have suggested it."
"Don't be." Catherine looked at their joined hands. "I'm not sorry we went. It was hard, but I think I needed it." She paused. "And I'm glad you were there."
They sat in silence for a moment, hands still joined between them on the couch. Catherine felt the quiet settle into her like something physical, the particular lightness of having put something heavy down, of having said the thing and survived the saying of it.