Chapter 23 Jamie
Jamie
My phone buzzes again from the other pillow, and I lurch upright, unplugging it from the wall in my haste to answer.
“Hey,” I say. “Marigold. Are you here? Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” she says. Am I overanalyzing it, or does her voice sound tight? I twist one hand in the bedsheets, gripping until my knuckles hurt. “Sorry I didn’t…sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. I’ve had a lot going on.”
“What happened?” I say immediately.
Even over the phone, her breath sounds unsteady. “I need to talk to you. Can you…can you come up? I’m in room 427.”
“Yes. I’ll be there in two minutes.” I’m already out of bed, struggling to shove my feet into my shoes without putting the phone down. “You okay?” I ask again, as if I’ll get a different answer this time.
“Just…come. I’ll tell you when you get here.”
Marigold’s room is on the floor above mine.
I skip the elevator and take the stairs, two at a time—faster.
I don’t like to imagine her sitting in that hotel room alone, in the dark, waiting—her mind circling the endless pessimistic possibilities.
I’m not sure how my presence is going to make it better, but I can at least try.
I can make sure she doesn’t have to be by herself right now.
At least the hallway layout upstairs is the same as my floor, so it doesn’t take me long to find 427. I almost forget to knock at the door, so used to having shared a room with her back at her dad’s place. But she opens it almost as soon as I do.
She looks about how she sounded over the phone, hair mussed about her face and dark circles marring the skin beneath her eyes. I step forward, and she sinks in against my body as I envelop her in a tight hug and press a kiss to her temple.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “You look…”
She looks like she’s spent all night crying. Even now, her eyes glisten a little, welling up with fresh tears.
“Come here,” she murmurs, grabbing my hand and tugging me into the room, leading me toward the bed. I sit down, but she stays standing, pacing a little in front of me, twisting her fingers together.
“You’re freaking me out,” I tell her. “Marigold…please. Whatever it is. Let me help.”
She offers me the tiniest unsteady smile. It’s enough. I cling to that, praying it means something.
“I’m sorry I’m late. I changed my flight to this afternoon.
I…I had an MRI yesterday and met with my neurologist again.
I know I didn’t mention it to you…maybe I should have, but…
I started having these…electric shock feelings in my back every time I bent my head while I was practicing.
He did another MRI. I—there are new lesions.
Two more, since when I was diagnosed.” Her voice catches.
“It shouldn’t be…It shouldn’t be progressing that fast. Right? It shouldn’t be. It’s too fast. It’s—”
A cold stone settles in the pit of my stomach. “Marigold, I’m so sorry. Does that mean…does he think it’s progressive?”
“I don’t know. We—he said we can’t know.
Not until we see what happens over a year or so.
He said”—she laughs, half-manic—“he said we didn’t know if it was progressive but then he basically immediately said, It’s certainly not good news that you have new lesions.
His fucking words. How the fuck am I not supposed to spiral over that? ”
“Isn’t there anything they can do? A—a medication, or something?”
“Yeah. He put me on some new drugs. But like…it doesn’t cure anything. And honestly, it hasn’t really helped yet. But I guess it’s only been a couple days.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say again. I don’t know what else to say.
I feel as if a bomb has gone off in my chest, leaving bloody shrapnel in its wake.
My bones physically hurt. I want to draw her into a hug, never let her go.
I wish I could tilt my head forward and kiss her skin, every joint, her temple—her crown.
Because that head contains the most beautiful mind I’ve ever known.
I reach out both hands, and she finally comes to me, curling up on my lap and letting me wrap my arms around her. She’s shivering slightly, even though it’s too warm in the room. I press my lips to her cheek, breathing in the scent of her hair.
I want to reach inside her body and curl my fingers around whatever part of her needs fixing, and fix it. I want to—I feel like there ought to be something I could do. But there isn’t.
Her hands grip my shoulders, fingertips digging in. “I don’t know how I’m going to do this,” she says. “How can I play like this? I can barely turn my face down enough to see my hands.”
God. I can feel tears prickling at my own eyes now. I try to mentally shove them back. I have to be calm. I have to be here for Marigold—I can’t center myself, can’t give in to the fear and pain and anger.
There’s only room for hers, right now.
“You know these pieces,” I say, rubbing my hand slow and firm against her back. “You know them so well, you’ll never forget them. I’ve heard you play, remember? That music lives in your bones. You’d play it perfectly even with your eyes closed.”
“As long as my hands aren’t next.”
“If they are, you’ll deal with that when it happens. But right now, all you have to do is get through one day at a time. Okay?” I squeeze her a little tighter. If I could hold her long enough, well enough, maybe I could make it true.
“Easy for you to say,” she mutters.
“I mean…yeah. But it’s still true. Do you think that’s what your mother would have wanted?
For you to give up?” I shrug a little. “I mean, I didn’t know her.
But you told me that she never quit—that she kept playing flute right up until the end.
Because she loved it. And I know that you love piano, too.
So I think you’ll keep playing, no matter what.
I don’t think you’ll ever stop loving it. ”
She tilts her head against my shoulder and sighs, eyes falling shut. “I hope you’re right,” she murmurs after a long moment. “Because at this point, I guess I have no choice. All I can do is enjoy what I have right now. I’ll keep playing as long as I can.”