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Shirlene
Stan picks at the edge of the blanket on his bed. His feet and legs are swelling because his kidney function is shutting down.
“Should we up your medicine?” I ask.
“No! I’m not sleeping away the last days of my life.” His voice is sharp. He fidgets, on pins and needles.
I make every attempt to sound soothing, although my patience is threadbare. “The hospice nurse said it would help to calm you.”
“I said, no! You’d prefer me asleep. It’s easier for you.”
My stomach tightens. I can only think about crying or yelling, so I bite my lip.
“You wish I would get it over with.”
My patience begins to unravel. “What do you want from me, Stan? I’m doing the best I can, but I can’t make this go away. It is what it is.”
“Give me the meds, and make sure it’s enough to kill me so you can go on with your new family.”
The final thread snaps. “How dare you say I’d rather you were gone. Perhaps you wish you were, but I don’t. Remember, I was where you are. I died, and I suffered beforehand. But I never attacked you. I wasn’t mean to you, was I?”
He shakes his head.
“So give me a fucking break.” My heart is leaping out of my throat. I’ve never said that word aloud.
Stan’s eyes widen. “I’m sorry.”
I resent having to say it’s okay, so I simply nod.
He reaches out and takes my hand. “I don’t want to miss the time I have left with you.”
“What can I do to help you relax?”
He slips his fingers between mine. “It’s so nice to be able to touch you without causing you pain.” He stares at my hand, continuing to explore my fingers with his.
It’s comforting for me, and I hope it is for him. It seems to be. The fight is over, and my tension melts.
His eyes meet mine. “Remember what you used to do when I came home from work upset?”
My throat feels dry. “I can’t.”
“Please, Shirlene. It will help to soothe me. It may do you some good too.”
“But I haven’t been able to play in years.”
“You have new hands. Play the piano for me.” His eyes plead with me.
Arlene cries on the monitor across the hall. She shouldn’t be hungry or wet so soon. Our arguing disturbed her. She cries louder.
“Get that baby to shut up!” Stan shouts.
I have no energy to waste on worrying about Stan’s anger.
“Coming, sweetheart.” I dash down the stairs.
When I round into the living room, the piano calls to me. I pass it on the way into the den and Arlene’s crib. I check her diaper—she’s dry. She is whimpering in my arms as I carry her into the living room. She’s not hungry, but she’s in a mood. Both of them are in a snit, and Cam is out for a run.
I gently bounce her while pacing the room. Each time I see the piano, the longing builds in my chest. But reopening old wounds by attempting to play again is terrifying. When my arthritic hands wouldn’t do their job any longer, I closed the cover on the keyboard for the last time. Only losing Danny hurt worse. What if Rain’s body doesn’t have what it takes? I can’t risk such a disappointment.
Arlene starts to cry louder. I shift her to my left and sit on the piano bench. Do I dare? With my right hand, I raise the key lid and hit middle C. The sound startles her and pleases me. I slowly play a scale. My fingers are clumsy, but my heart sings along with the notes. My left hand itches to touch the keys too. I notice Arlene’s car seat carrier by the sofa. She wails when I settle her into it.
“Just a minute, pumpkin.”
I nestle her under the piano and go back to playing scales with both hands, and she quiets down. My reach is excellent as I coax my fingers to behave. My left pinky is especially lazy, which is no surprise. I’m asking these hands to do something I assume they’ve never done. Despite the extraordinary concentration it takes to persuade my hands into the proper technique, my mind flows with images of moving water as I glide up and down the keyboard.
I become aware of thumping in a different rhythm. I laugh. Stan is telling me to quit the scales and play. I have no idea what he’s using to bang on the floor above, but his communication is clear.
“Okay. Keep your pants on,” I mumble, opening the music cabinet.
I flip through the top of the pile. Chopin is too challenging. I land on Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” as a good starting point. I lift the music desk, and it clicks into position. After settling the sheet music on the shelf, my hands quiver above the keys. I take the plunge, playing a phrase, and the pounding overhead stops. Sensations of nature come to life in my consciousness. The gentle sway of a breeze through pine needles. A Northern Gannet gliding over the waves of the sea. A brook trickling over rocks. After the first page of the sheet music, it all comes back to me. I recall every note.