Chapter 22
Josh
My room feels like a hotel suite. When I look out the window, Stockholm lies at my feet. Even though I've been to this city several times, I can't get enough of the gray roof tiles, the leafy green trees lining the waterfront, and the glistening water of the canal. I lean against the windowpane and observe the locals going about their daily lives like miniature people beneath me. It's better than turning around and facing where I really am.
In the clinic.
Behind me stands a white-covered hospital bed. Next to it, a wooden trolley serves as a bedside table. And despite the elegant seating area, indirect lighting, and golden fixtures, the smell of disinfectant reminds me every second of what lies ahead.
Everything will be decided in a few minutes.
Thirty percent of these procedures have no significant outcome, and more than half of the patients end up with even greater limitations than before. The words of my doctor have been burned into my thoughts. In fact, there's only a twenty percent chance that I'll be back to normal after the operation.
I try to breathe calmly, but I can't. Anxiously, I run my hands through my hair.
Tamika is currently keeping the press at bay. She still insists on hiding my illness. She's probably right when she says the fans wouldn't forgive me for such weakness. After all, they want to hear me play above all else. The fact a regular person is behind the music doesn't fit the image they want to have of me.
I convinced Sophia and Maya not to visit me in advance. I wanted to be alone. Just me and the music that has accompanied me since we embarked on the journey to Sweden yesterday. Even now it is with me. It has always been a comfort to me, more than any person could ever be. And it should give me the strength to believe, despite the crushing statistics, that my hand will be okay again. At least, that's what I thought. But today, everything is different.
Without Maya, I feel lonely. And the only thing I wish is that it wasn't so.
A cool breeze creeps around my legs. Shivering, I turn away from the window to find the source.
The door of the room is wide open. In the doorway, Maya and Sophia stand hand in hand. Maya nods in my direction while my daughter shifts from one foot to the other, indecisive as if she doesn't want to come in.
Moved by this sight, I remove the headphones from my ears.
"He won't be mad, I promise." Maya sounds so empathetic that I want to hug her immediately.
Sophia's small body sways back and forth. "He said we shouldn't disturb him."
Maya drops to her knees in front of her and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. "But that's only because he's scared."
My daughter nibbles on her lower lip. "I get scared sometimes too. "
Hearing that from her does something to me. Suddenly, there's a weight on my chest. Isn't it her father's job to take away her worries? Shouldn't I be the one taking care of her? Instead, it's obvious that the two of them are here to care for me.
"Come in," I say, trying to smile despite the panic before the operation. "I'm glad you're here."
As I speak the words, I realize they are true. Music has always been my home, but the glow in their eyes right now fills me in a way I haven't experienced before.
"Really?" she whispers in awe, glancing questioningly at Maya. She still hesitates to enter the room.
"Really." Maya gently nudges the little one toward me. Then she looks directly at me, signaling me to kneel.
I follow her instruction. Sophia approaches me, her joy reflecting in her expression like a sunrise. Instinctively, I open my arms, and within seconds, she cuddles against my chest.
"We'll stay with you until they come to get you," Sophia mumbles into my sweater. "So you don't have to keep thinking about the surgery."
I wish I could hold on to her forever. We've never been this close before. For the first time since her birth, I feel a connection between us. It's stronger than I could have ever imagined.
"That's wonderful." My voice trembles. Overwhelmed, I look up at Maya, who still stands in the doorway. I silently mouth a heartfelt, " Thank you ," although I know it's far from enough. She lowers her gaze, her cheeks flush, and a playful smile reveals her dimples. I wish I could go to her and hold her in my arms too.
Then I would smell the fragrance of her skin and feel her warmth. I could place my index finger under her chin, gently lifting her head to let her know how proud she should be. That there's no reason for her to diminish herself.
And then, when she would look at me from her deep dark eyes, I would not let go of her gaze. We would draw closer to each other until our noses touched.
The world isn't filled with wonders. You are . That's what I would tell her, if I were still capable of speaking.
And then, then I would...
Before I can finish the thought, she suddenly lifts her eyelids. Within a fraction of a second, I know that we both feel the same longing at that moment.
We look at each other. I offer her a smile.
She bites her lower lip, her eyes turning sad. Yet she doesn't look away. And she doesn't run away either.
It's as if she's letting go of something at this moment. As if her heart has decided an inner battle for itself, which it has always lost until now.
Now she lifts the corners of her mouth. Slowly, as if in slow motion, that unique radiance appears on her face, a sight I can't get enough of. Out of nowhere, a melody resonates within me, but I don't feel the urge to put it down on sheet music right away. Because I know I won't forget it. Not as long as she's with me.
"Mr. Friedberg?"
Who is speaking here?
I blink back to reality and spot a nurse standing in the middle of the room .
My God. It's happening.
Should I really go through with it? What if something goes wrong? What if I can't play anymore after this?
"Please take a seat," he says in English, pointing at the wheelchair in front of him.
My gaze shifts between him and the means of transportation. "Is it really necessary?"
He shrugs. "Hospital protocol."
Of course. I signal him to wait for a moment. Seeking support, I embrace Sophia one last time.
"We're rooting for you, hoping everything goes well," she says, and it becomes clear to me that it can't be any other way. No matter how the surgery unfolds, at least with Sophia and me, everything will be fine.
"Thank you," I reply, although this small word can't come close to expressing what I'm feeling right now.
Then I tear myself away from my daughter. Because it simply has to be done. Unsteadily, I walk to the nurse and sink into the wheelchair. On our way out, we pass by Maya.
I dare not touch her. She dares not stop me.
"See you later," she murmurs.
How much I would like to ask her to be here when I wake up. And to look at me again, just like she did earlier. But even that takes courage I don't have. So I only say, "See you later," just before I'm out of earshot.