Chapter 8
8
August
I t’s been thirteen days since I woke up holding Sophie’s hand at the hospital. Thirteen days of her showing up at my studio prepared to nurse a wound she didn’t cause. And thirteen days since a secondary infection took me by surprise.
My symptoms started off small at first—a shiver at the briefest touch of our hands, a twinge at the sound of her voice in my headphones, an ache at the end of every work session after she says, “Good-bye until tomorrow.”
Only every tomorrow feels like a fever dream I don’t want to wake from.
I know the prognosis should scare me—terrify me, even. I promised myself I wouldn’t let this happen again. I swore it. The last time I cared about a woman, my whole world came crashing down. And yet nothing about this, about her , feels like a repeat of Vanessa.
And yet I’ve been wrong before.
“There you go, Mr. Tate,” Sophie says as she lowers my freshly b andaged hand to the gray sofa cushion wedged between us. We learned quickly that the studio bathroom isn’t large enough for two people plus a medical supply kit, and given that Sophie is a coworker, it hasn’t felt appropriate to invite her inside my house alone.
“From everything Bruce explained about the stages of healing, I think you’re ahead of schedule. You’ve been a superstar patient.”
While Sophie turns to sort the remaining supplies, I clear my throat and debate for the thousandth time if I should capitalize on the moment and make good on that dinner date Dr. Rock suggested in the ER.
I flex my healing hand for courage. No pain. I open my mouth, the words on the tip of my tongue, when she flips around with a huge grin on her face. “I think it’s time I give you this. You’ve earned it.”
She holds out a yellow paper star with the words Superstar Patient written on the front in black, bold letters, complete with a safety pin through one of the points. At first, I’m speechless, but then I see the badge she’s pinned to her own shirt.
The badge I’d made and figured I’d lost in the unexpected shuffle to the hospital.
She must read the unspoken questions on my face.
“I found it in the pocket of your sweatshirt that night in the hospital. Hope I was right in assuming it was meant for me? I’ve been saving it for just the right moment.” She touches her wrinkled star. “Thank you for this, by the way. I’ll wear it with pride.”
I blink, nod. “You’re welcome.”
She holds up my badge. “May I do the honors? I’m not sure your hand has graduated to safety-pin dexterity quite yet.”
I try to laugh, but my throat dries out as soon as she touches my chest and tugs at my shirt. “First you bandage me like a pro, and now you’re coming at me with a needle. I think you’re more medically inclined that you realized.”
“’Fraid the closest I’ve come to nursing was playing Florence Nightingale in a musical several years back.”
“ A musical,” I muse, hoping her fingers linger longer than necessary.
She pats the badge on my chest and pulls her hand away. “Yep. I actually majored in musical theater.”
“I’d guessed you were a singer.”
“Yeah?” She laughs me off as if I’m joking. “How’s that?”
“Because I’ve heard your voice.”
She pulls a goofy face. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember breaking into song in front of you, August.”
I fixate on her perfect lips as she says my name. “It’s in the way you speak—your pitch control and clarity, your resonance and range. You also have a reverence for enunciation and tone I’ve rarely heard in my field. It’s hardly a perfect science, but in the same way a coach can recognize a trained athlete by the muscle groups they’ve built, a trained ear can recognize a professionally trained voice.”
Her amusement slips into a stunned expression I’ve only seen her wear a handful of times. “You’re completely serious.”
“I rarely joke about what I hear in my sound booth.” I pause, wondering how far I should take this. “If I had to guess, I’d say you’re a mezzo-soprano with a sweet spot similar to Adele’s range—A4–E5.”
Sophie’s jaw slacks. “How can you possibly know that when you’ve only heard me read fantasy fiction?”
I shrug again. “Am I wrong?”
Slowly, she shakes her head back and forth, but it’s the way her eyes shimmer and her words fall hoarse that makes me realize I should have stopped while I was ahead. “What are you?”
The question strikes me in the hollow of my throat. “I’m a sound engineer.”
“What else?”
I’m not sure if it’s the question she asks or the expectation behind it that sends my mind swirling down a funnel of no return. Without warning, I’m back to the conversation I overheard between my parents after they listened to me play an entire song from the radio o n our old, out-of-tune piano stored in the garage. I hadn’t missed a note. I was seven years old.
“But how, Brian?” Mom whispered. “Tell me how that’s possible when he’s never taken a single piano lesson? Neither you or I can sing, much less play an instrument.”
“ I dunno ,” Dad said in that bewildered way of his. “Perhaps God’s given him a special ear for music.”
Mom’s laugh-cry was muffled then, and when I peeked around the corner into the kitchen, I watched their embrace, Dad’s arms tightly secured around her back . “Do you think he could be some sort of prodigy? He’s constantly drumming on every surface—chairs, countertops, windowsills. Even my leg when we all sit together at church. It’s like there’s always a song playing in his head. I thought it was just a boy thing, but maybe it’s—”
“It’s not for us to determine, Sara. We can hire a music teacher and get an assessment. But even if he is ... special , fixating on a singular gifting is not our job. Our job is to help him mature into a man of character.”
“August?” Sophie’s voice slingshots me back to the present, where concern has crimped her brow. I blink and work to smile normally.
This isn’t where I wanted our conversation to land before Sophie takes the booth for our next session. I was thinking more along the lines of discussing the possibility of a nice restaurant in Napa where the two of us could—
Sophie stands abruptly from the sofa and moves to assess the framed pictures of artists I’ve worked with in the past. She sweeps her pointer finger through the air as if she’s puzzling something out. “You’re a sound engineer now, but you worked as a music producer in LA.”
“That’s right,” I say carefully.
And then she rotates to the assortment of guitars hanging on the opposite wall near the keyboard and synth pads in the corner. “At first I thought these instruments were here for aesthetic reasons.” She slowly turns in my direction. “But you can play all of these, can’t you?”
I hesitate. “Yes.”
I watch a switch flip on inside her at my answer. “Does that mean you compose?”
“No.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not exactly the truth, either. She didn’t ask if I have ever composed, but if I compose. As in present tense. And that answer is accurate.
Somehow, she doesn’t appear deterred by my short response.
“May I?” She points to my 914ce Builder’s Edition Grand Auditorium acoustic guitar. It’s my second favorite Taylor.
“You play?”
“Only good enough for a campfire setting.”
I chuckle at that but stop laughing when she whips out her cell phone and does a quick tune using an app. After securing the strap around her neck, she faces away from me and strums a chord.
“What chord am I playing?” she asks.
Tiny pinpricks of sweat break out under my arms. I don’t care much for this game, but I keep my voice light and unassuming. “How would I know? I can’t see your hands.”
She glances at me over her shoulder and narrows her eyes in a don’t-toy-with-me kind of way. She strums another chord. “What about this one?”
“Sophie, I think this party trick of yours might need some work.”
She stops the resonance of sound with her palm and twists to face me.
This time, when our gazes collide, I wonder if this is how it happens. How a man lost at sea finally surrenders to the siren’s call. Sophie is beautiful and generous and filled with the kind of magnetic goodness I’d do almost anything to stay close to. But it’s the admiration in her eyes that feels altogether unsettling.
Vanessa never looked at me like that.
With her, every step of our relationship was a premeditated equation. She knew all there was to know about me before I ever laid eyes on her that first time. She knew I traveled with a band who sang about Jesus on stage and lived like they knew nothing about Him as soon as they stepped off it. When she found me, I was days away from throwing in the towel and going home with my tail tucked b etween my legs. My parents had never been on board with LA. My mom hadn’t felt a peace about the band I produced for, even from the start. Vanessa had come along at just the right moment, stroking my ego with a dream job I couldn’t say no to. And just like that, I’d become the ace up her sleeve.
There was nothing she denied me as long as it meant I remained at her studio, and eventually, at her home. I certainly wasn’t the first man under her employ to fall prey to her snare of chart-topping clientele, massive bonus checks, and the high-roller lifestyle I’d been convinced I wanted.
Until I wanted none of it.
Until the shame of my recklessness had become like barbed wire around my neck.
Is that why I was so drawn to Sophie? Because everything about her felt like the opposite of everything about me?
My breath shallows at the crackling silence between us now, and I’m acutely aware of every curve my guitar hugs on Sophie’s figure. I’m so aware, in fact, that I’m waiting for her fingers to strum again and force me to answer when instead she closes her eyes and belts out a vocal run that causes every hair on my arms to stand and salute. My imagination hadn’t done her singing voice justice. It’s spectacular. Mesmerizing, even. Her vibrato, her control, her rising crescendo when she hits the high note and simultaneously forces the air from my lungs. With expert skill, she eases back the reins and opens her eyes.
“D-sharp,” I say breathlessly.
Gazes locked, she sings another.
“G.”
She launches into several scale sequences, and I answer them all without hesitation. She confirms my responses one by one as she plucks the corresponding notes on my Taylor.
A tiny curve lifts the corner of her lips. “Why, August Tate, you have perfect pitch.”
My nod is honest, yet subdued.
“You’re the real party trick,” she says with far too much pleasure.
“ Actually, I’m just a career nerd who prefers to stay behind the scenes.”
She tilts her head in observation. “I’ve befriended a lot of stay-behind-the-scenes types over the years, and do you know what most of them have in common?”
“I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me.”
“Secrets.” She shrugs, but there is zero nonchalance about it. “Secret hopes, secret dreams, secret pasts.”
“Interesting,” I say, tapping my chin. “Especially since I don’t recall you volunteering much in the way of personal information over the last two weeks, either. I think you might need to expand your theory.”
If she’s surprised by my bluntness, her expression doesn’t show it. She walks toward the sofa, and my gaze climbs the length of her lean, shapely legs to where her elbows rest on the body of my guitar. She’s so close when she stops that if I didn’t tip my chin, I’d be smacked in the face by my Taylor’s ebony bridge.
“You want to know one of my secrets, August?”
I swallow. “I would.”
“I’ve always been envious of people with perfect pitch. Do you know how rare that is?” She doesn’t wait for my response. “One in ten thousand.”
“And your voice is one in ten million,” I say evenly, though my pulse is erratic. “It’s exquisite.”
She blinks down at me, the teasing in her gaze cleared by the time she manages to speak. “Thank you, August. That means ... a lot. It’s been a while since I’ve sang in front of anyone, much less someone with your skillset.”
I want to understand what she means by a while . Actually, I want to ask a hundred follow-up questions starting with, Why are you reading books when you should be performing on a stage? But before I can utter a word, Sophie has already turned back to the wall to hang up the guitar, and when she faces me again, it’s clear the spell has been broken. It’s also clear she broke it on purpose.
She picks up her work backpack near my sound table. “I have a shift at the winery this evening, so we should probably get started. There are some grueling, emotional scenes on the agenda today.” She sighs dramatically. “Chapter thirty-nine.” She clutches at her heart, which just so happens to be located directly under the badge I made her.
Before my mind even has a chance to fully reroute, she’s already hoofing it to the sound booth. Sophie may not be a behind-the-scenes type like me, but I have no doubt she has secrets, too. None as terrible as my own, I’m sure, but secrets nonetheless.
Despite the quick mood shift, Sophie’s performance in the booth is unmatched. Of the handful of completed projects voiced by the other narrators I’ve produced up to this point, it’s difficult not to compare the difference in talent level. There is such emotional tension in every scene Sophie reads that I find myself sitting on the edge of my seat as I follow along with her on my own iPad. In today’s four-hour session, she’s stopped three times—all of which were her asking to reread a section because she thought she could do it better a second time. She rarely skips or mispronounces a word or even has a tickle in her throat. She’s disciplined to drink her hot lemon tea even though I know it must be stifling in there. She’s the true prodigy among us.
It’s difficult not to let my eyes drift from the words on the screen I’m supposed to be following, but her animated storytelling could be a main attraction. I’d certainly buy a ticket. Even now, her ponytail swishes violently as she reads the end of a battle scene I can see perfectly in my mind. I would have cared far more about my English classes if I’d known fiction could read like this.
“‘Rayun! No!’” Sophie screams in character. “‘No, no, no! Please, don’t do this. You have to wake up—you hear me? You are not allowed to die. We’ve fought too hard together for you to leave me now.’” Sophie wails into her microphone and soon real tears streak her cheeks. I’m not going to lie, even with her earlier warning, I did not see the death of such a beloved character coming. Sophie’s voice cracks with raw emotion, and to my surprise, I have to blink away the heat building behind my eyes. “‘I’ll take you to the healer. You just have to stay alive until I can—’”
A t the tap on my shoulder, I nearly jump out of my skin.
Gabby’s face is angled as she leans against my desk. She’s waving and speaking, and for a moment I’m so disoriented by the sound of Sophie’s grief in my ears that I can’t tell if my sister’s presence is real or imagined. The instant I tug off my headphones, the world around me slowly returns, and with it, my bearings.
“G-Gabby,” I stutter. “You’re here? You’re home?”
“Surprise!” My sister’s easy grin is familiar, and yet she looks different somehow—more mature, more like a woman than a teenager. How is that even possible in only four weeks’ time? It must be the new way she’s styling her hair.
I stand and throw my arms around her in an embrace that hides little and holds nothing back. I pick her up as she squeals and squirms, and I know she’s equal parts delighted and mortified by me. And I hope that never changes. It took us close to a year to get comfortable with physical affection after living apart for so long, but not anymore. Not after all we’ve been through together.
Gabby’s home. Gabby’s safe. Gabby’s here.
And I’ve missed her. More than I dared to admit to myself.
When she pulls back an instant later, I spot the tiny hardware inside her ears and wonder how often she wore her aids during camp. I want to ask, but I won’t. Questions about her customized bilateral routing of signal—BiCROS—hearing aids is one of the quickest ways to kill a good mood. But this tiny transmitter and amplifier system is the best solution we have as of right now. I sold my favorite guitar to afford them, and I’d do it again to be able to communicate with her.
For now, the technology allows Gabby’s dead ear—her right—to pick up sound through the transmitter and send a signal to the active hearing aid on her left. Even with extensive hearing loss on that side due to trauma, the system helps balance the sound she can hear, much like a regular hearing aid. It’s been deemed a miracle for some, and for others, like Gabby, the adjustments are ever-changing due to her degenerative condition. Noisy rooms and environments frustrate her to no end, as does trying to localize sound. But it’s s omething. And until I can afford something better, something more permanent, this something is better than nothing.
“Is Aunt Judy in the house?” I ask.
Gabby shakes her head and signs at the same time she speaks. Another surprise. She’s tried this in the past, and from what her ASL tutor and speech therapist have explained, the two languages are quite different, each with their own rules, patterns, and grammar codes. It’s often been too frustrating for her to keep it up for long, but I’m struck by how quickly her hands are moving when she says, “Aunt Judy didn’t take me home, a friend did.” She raises up on her toes and claps her hands. “Do you have plans for dinner tonight? Because we stopped at the grocery store on our way home. I took a cooking class at camp and learned a new recipe. I can’t wait to make it for us!”
She signs whatever menu item she’s referring to, but I have no clue what it is. Her speed is nearly triple what it was before she left, and I make the sign for her to slow down. In the early days of Gabby’s recovery from the accident, before we knew if she’d have any hearing in her left ear at all, the doctors had encouraged Aunt Judy and me to take some online ASL classes in order to motivate Gabby to learn. Turns out, Gabby didn’t need much in the way of motivation. I only managed to learn the basics before the swelling in Gabby’s head went down enough for her to test slightly above profound loss in her left ear.
“What’s that sign?” I ask, but before Gabby can respond, she catches sight of the woman engrossed in an epic performance in my booth. Though neither of us can hear what Sophie is saying into the mic from this side of the glass, it’s obvious she’s continued on with the scene—which looks quite distressing. Did Rayun make it to the healer in time?
Did I seriously just wonder about the fate of a fictional character?
Gabby swivels back to me, and her rapid-fire questions knock me back a step. “Why is there a woman crying in your booth? What is she saying? Does she need help?”
I raise both hands in an attempt to bring calm, but then her focus m oves to my bandage. Her eyes go wide as she grabs my arm and assesses me accusingly. An entirely new set of questions begins. At the time of my injury, it seemed unnecessary to recount the whole medical drama over text. Especially when our texting sessions were often sporadic and limited.
I’m regretting that decision now.
“What happened to your hand?” she demands.
“It’s no big deal. Just a cut that got infected. I saw a doctor and got on some antibiotics. My friend’s been helping me with fresh bandages.”
“How did it happen?”
I grip the back of my neck.
“August?”
“I was fixing the roof of Mom’s greenhouse.”
“The roof?!” She glowers at me with the look of offended teenage girls everywhere. “Remember how you gave me that whole big speech at camp drop-off about not taking any unnecessary risks? And then you go and get on a roof?”
I feel a swift kick of guilt as her accusation lands.
“You should have texted me,” she says, crossing her arms.
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
She rolls her eyes. There is no need for interpretation there.
I press my right fist to my chest and rub in a clockwise circle. Sorry. That is one sign I know well. I used it a lot in the early days. Sorry , but you can’t go surfing with your friends this weekend. Too risky. Sorry , but turning up your music that loud can damage your remaining hearing. Sorry , but Aunt Judy isn’t your legal guardian. I am.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But I’m good now. I promise.”
She drops her arms and then gestures to the booth again, where Sophie has balled up a tissue in her hand and is currently blotting her eyes. I have no clue how she hasn’t seen us out here. A testament to her professional focus, I suppose.
“So?” Gabby asks. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Sophie,” I explain. “She’s an actress Chip hired to narrate audiobooks for his publisher. She’s been coming to the studio for the last few weeks. The scene she’s reading is sad.”
Her gaze shifts left to right. “Does that mean Chip’s your boss now?”
I scratch the back of my neck. “In a way, I guess. I signed a contract to produce ten audiobooks for Fog Harbor, with an option for more.”
Her eyebrows spike in an expression I’ve seen many times. “And Sophie works here with you every day?”
“Most days.”
She peers at me as if she’s working out a calculation, then rotates toward the glass that separates the studio from the booth. Only it’s empty.
“Hello.” Sophie appears around the corner and gives us both a little wave. Her cheeks are splotchy, and her eyes still hold the hint of tears, but her smile is heartfelt if not a little curious, too.
My sister’s countenance changes in an instant.
“Hello,” she says perkily as she stretches out her hand. “I’m Gabby, August’s favorite little sister.”
It’s also her favorite little joke.
Sophie extends her hand to Gabby and introduces herself, as well, though I can tell she’s trying to place the unique tone she hears in Gabby’s voice. Though my sister’s been speaking English since she was adopted at six, the trauma she suffered to her head and eardrums in the accident has slightly altered the way she speaks. She graduated from physical and cognitive therapies not long after the first year, but Gabby will remain in speech therapy for the foreseeable future.
If only there was a specialized therapy for her hearing prognosis, too.
Gabby turns to me and signs, Wow! She’s very beautiful.
I give a slight shake of my head to deter her from going any further with this game she loves.
But in true Gabby style, she is not easily put off. She counters with a simple sign I’m sure is the equivalent to me being the same no-fun brother she left a month ago, followed by an eye roll.
I am not amused.
When I finally look over at Sophie, her gaze is pinging back and forth between us, her eyes round and on alert. I may have left out a few things when I mentioned my sister to her.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “My sister seems to have left her manners at camp.”
“I have great manners,” Gabby retorts. “My brother said you’re an actress. Did you come from Hollywood? Because you are super, super pretty.”
“Oh, thank you.” Sophie laughs and touches a hand to her chest. “I think you’re really pretty, too.” She glances at me. “As for Hollywood...” She shakes her head.
“What?” Gabby asks, focusing hard on Sophie’s face. Unfinished sentences can be difficult, especially when the speaker’s head is turned. Gabby uses several senses to reach the accuracy she has with her aids—lipreading being a key player.
“Um, I...” Sophie starts, obviously flustered by how to finish. “I’m sorry. Am I doing something wrong?”
Gabby looks at me and signs that she doesn’t know what she’s saying.
I place a gentle hand on Sophie’s back. “It’s best to use complete sentences. Gabby’s aids pick up a lot, but certain tones are more difficult than others. She also lipreads.”
“Oh, okay, sure,” Sophie says, bewildered. “I’ve never ... I mean, I wish I would have learned more than the alphabet in ASL.”
Gabby smiles patiently. “If you ever decide to learn, you should teach my brother.” She winks. “He basically only knows how to ask where the bathroom is and how to tell me to stop being annoying.”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes, but Sophie laughs. And I can tell Gabby enjoys that very much.
“What were you saying about Hollywood?” Gabby asks.
This time, I watch as Sophie readies herself to answer. “I’ve never acted in a movie, but I have been in a few musicals.”
“She’s been on Broadway,” I add proudly.
S ophie looks surprised at my knowledge of this, and it’s then I remember it was Chip who told me this information, not Sophie herself.
“Broadway? I love theater!” my sister erupts. “I’m hoping I can join a drama club with a few of my friends from church,” Gabby says with a glance back at me.
Oh, good. More things to be involved in at church.
“That’s sounds wonderful!” Sophie replies with an enthusiasm I don’t share for multiple reasons. The biggest having to do with a certain friend we haven’t yet discussed in context. “I actually got started with acting at a small drama club not too far from here.”
“Can you stay for dinner?” Gabby asks abruptly. “I’m making homemade fettuccine Alfredo. August says I’m almost as good of a cook as our mother, and she was fantastic—right, August?” Then to me Gabby says, “Can Sophie stay for dinner? Please?”
Though I’d imagined asking Sophie to dinner many times over the last few days, this wasn’t what I’d had in mind.
“That’s okay, really.” Sophie waves her hand dismissively. “I’m sure you two have a lot to catch up on.”
“Most of what I have to catch Gabby up on involves you.” My honesty is almost as unexpected as the way Sophie’s gaze locks on mine. “If you’re available, we’d love to invite you to have dinner with us tonight.”