Chapter 1
One
AURELIA
“Sad, isn’t it?” a woman said. “A girl so young, with her whole life ahead of her, now just...”
I hear footsteps approaching. Heels. A door squeaks open, and the voice that follows is more familiar than the one from the woman who just spoke.
“Just what?” she asks, in a heavy accent. Russian, if I’m not mistaken.
“Be careful what you say, 1devochka.“ She exhales. “Any updates?”
“No, ma’am.”
A pause.
“You aren’t useful,” she continued. “You are what we call in my country, 2ty prosto pustoye mesto.“
Then she chuckled. “Or in your country, empty space. Go. Be useful somewhere else.”
She sounds angry. At least her voice does. And I know that voice. I can’t bring myself to open my eyes and put a face to it. I try to move my hand, to touch hers, but my body refuses to cooperate with my brain.
What happened to me?
Warm fingers touch my cheek as I hear footsteps leave.
“Aurelia,” her voice is softer now, “you have to wake up, 3malyshka. They can’t keep you here anymore.”
A drop falls on my cheek, between her fingers, and she quickly wipes it away. I try to open my eyes again, but it feels like they are stitched together, and no matter how hard I try something holds my eyelids down.
Another set of footsteps walks in. This time they are heavier, and a male voice says, “Oh, Dasha, did you come to pay your final respects?”
I try to open my mouth, but I can’t move it either. My tongue feels glued to plastic that runs down into my lungs, and every breath burns, like the air doesn’t belong to me.
“How can you be so heartless? This is murder,” Dasha says to the man.
“Look at her,” he says, louder now. “No one wants to spend their twenties hooked up to machines.”
His voice drops. “And she’s not even family anymore. We can’t keep paying hospital bills for someone who’s never going to wake up.”
“It’s all about money, always about money. Daniel wouldn’t want this,” she shouts at him.
“He can’t decide, can he?” His voice is shaky now. “Because he is dead, and no one can bring my boy back.”
Dead?
Why can’t I remember?
Why does it hurt so much?
I feel something wet trailing down my temple. I try to lift my hand to wipe the tears from my face, but I still can’t move. Whoever is next to me gasps, and the sudden light above me is covered by a shadow.
Someone’s fingers touch my face, then pull my eyelids open. A sharp light flashes in front of my eyes, and my pupils follow it as it moves left and right. Whoever stands in front of me is blurry. Everything is blurry. I can’t remember how I got here, or what happened.
“She’s waking up,” a female voice says. “I’m going to get a doctor.”
It’s quiet in the room now. No one is saying anything anymore. Maybe because they are afraid of me waking up, or maybe of what I will find out. And I’m scared too, because I feel everything all at once, and also nothing at all.
My eyes are open now, and I feel like Dasha is taking my hand. They move left and right, then stop on a glass of water on the small table next to the bed. I’m so thirsty. My whole throat feels so dry, and all I want is to drink water.
I manage to lift my hand just a little above the bed, and I point toward the glass. Dasha stands up, and as she lifts the glass, a doctor and two nurses come inside.
The doctor comes closer to the bed, points a small light into my eyes, and says, “Miss Vale, my name is Dr. David Reynolds, and you have been in an accident.”
He licks his lips and continues, “You’ve been in a coma.”
While he speaks, the nurses take the plastic tube that is connected to some kind of machine and pull it out of my mouth. I finally feel something. I can move my tongue, but my lungs still burn as my mouth stays open without my control.
“We were not sure if you would wake up or not,” the doctor continues, but all I try to do is move my legs, ignoring every word that comes from his lips.
I move my leg off the bed, but the nurse puts it back. As I look at Dasha, all I see are tears, and slowly it all starts coming back.
Flashes of light appear in front of me, and that feeling in my lungs returns, like I am drowning all over again. As I scream, I see my parents floating away, and I see Daniel drowning in front of me.
I move on the bed, left and right, and the only sound that comes from my lungs is uncontrollable screaming. Tears fall down my temples as the nurses try to hold me in place. While the doctor tries to say another word, one nurse holds my arm while the other puts a needle into my vein.
My eyelids fight with my eyes again, and in just two blinks I am already drifting away. This time, I can’t hear them anymore. I only see darkness, and little spots of light that slowly disappear as well.
I wish it had been simple. I wish my parents had been bad people. But they weren’t. They were good, and somehow terrible things always happen to good people. Some of us are left behind, forced to keep living for them, carrying the pain because there is nothing else we can do.
I already know the story they will tell when I open my eyes again. They will say I am lucky to have survived. They will say I still have my whole life ahead of me. That I can live. That life is a gift.
But what if it isn’t?
What if my life is already over?
I have nothing left. No one.
When I open my eyes again, the first thing I see is a long strip of light on the ceiling. I stare at it, maybe a little too long, until I hear the sharp screech of a chair scraping against the tiles. I turn my head to the right and see Dasha standing up.
My mouth is less dry now, and there is no tube down my throat. But my whole body still feels weak and numb, and as I try to lift myself into a sitting position, I struggle to hold myself upright.
Dasha looks at me. I see her more clearly now: her wrinkled face, red lipstick on her thin lips, and gray hair twisted into a neat bun on top of her head.
We say nothing. She quickens her pace toward me until her hand meets mine. She just looks at me and starts to cry as she helps me sit up.
“How long have I…” I clear my throat, stopping.
“Three months,” she sniffs. “It’s April 8th today.”
A tear slips down my cheek. My first thought is to ask what happened, but it’s useless because I know what happened. I want to ask what happens now as well, but I know the answer to that question will only be lies.
“4Malyshka, I wish I had good news,“ she says. “With your parents gone, the bank took the house, and…”
I turn to the side, looking at the window with gray stripes for curtains, watching how the world outside just continues. Rays of sunshine reach my face, making my eyes close again.
“There is something else…” she hesitates. “Please, say something,” she whispers, coming closer.
My heart is beating a little too fast. I can hear every beat in my ears, and the sound pulls me back to when I was just six years old.
It was a bright day, just like this one. It was the middle of the Cold War, and a Russian teacher arriving in San Francisco was something people whispered about. All those whispers eventually reached the San Francisco Conservatory of Music.
My school teacher sent them a letter about a young piano prodigy who had a bright future and needed a good tutor to guide her. That was how it all started.
My parents were nervous at first. Russia was still the enemy on the evening news, and money was something they didn’t have. Not enough to afford a school like that or a private teacher. But they were reassured that Dasha was the best teacher I could ever have and that I would receive a scholarship.
I remember that my mom made me wear a white dress with a black ribbon around my neck. She put my hair into a ponytail and tied it with a matching ribbon. My black shoes were too tight, just like that year was for my parents. They were struggling, and I was their only hope.
And the school was right. My future was bright.
My father was so proud. He couldn’t stop talking to his friends about me.
About how a blue-collar man had a daughter who was the best piano prodigy San Francisco had ever seen.
Soon enough we were living in a new house, surrounded by new friends, and my parents started new jobs that made them almost disappear from my life.
So Dasha became one of the people I knew best. Every time I was alone, or when no one came to pick me up, she would show up with strawberry ice cream and stay with me until someone eventually remembered, always a moment too late, that they had forgotten.
I open my eyes, and I’m back in the hospital. Dasha is sitting in front of me, holding my hand. I sniff, wiping my tears that keep running by themselves.
She swallows a lump in her throat and says, “This will be hard to hear.”
I turn my face toward her.
What can be harder than losing my whole family?
“Some of the nerves in your right hand were damaged in the accident. You may still be able to play, but it won’t be the same. It will hurt.”
I press a hand on my chest. My breathing becomes shallow, and my mouth opens, but no air comes into my lungs. I look at Dasha. Her lips are moving, but I hear nothing.
I know playing won’t be possible anymore, not like before.
“I...” I try to say.
It all comes to me at once. And as Dasha pulls me into her arms to hug me, I scream into her shoulder, my mouth opening as the sound tears out of me. I lost my mom. I lost my dad. I lost Daniel. My chest shakes. My heart doesn’t beat faster. It slows as tears pour out of me.
One of the nurses comes to the door, and when she sees us, she simply turns around and leaves.
I look at my hand. It doesn’t make sense. My fingers move. Everything feels normal, but when I lift my hand and curve my fingers, pain shoots through it.
For the first time since I was six years old, I didn’t know who I was without a piano in front of me. My parents had a dream, and with them gone this is all I had left. But even that now feels like it’s gone with them.
“It will be okay, 5malyshka.”
But it won’t be.
My whole life I saw everything through rose coloured glasses, thinking everything would work itself out. But now, for the first time, I see the world as it is. Black and white.
1. Girl
2. You’re an empty space.
3. Little one
4. Little one
5. Little one