CHAPTER EIGHT

I became Voodoo Woman. I carried a bag of charms, rags, and tokens at all times. Mikki told me to do this.

I saw Mikki right after the weekend at Cassie’s. It had been an intense family experience, with countless reminders of who I am and no question about where I came from. My family blessed me with plenty of free advice on how to run my life. There was a consensus for me to move into Cassie’s, where there was plenty of room and always somebody around—just in case. This was clearly not Cassie’s Plan A, but she nobly admitted its merits. I did not.

Even with all that family around, I was slipping more. Franz and I would play piano for long stints, and I’d be lucky to remember half of it. Playing left me physically and emotionally drained. My body ached, especially my back, arms, and neck. I could barely stand afterward, yet it was hard to tear myself from the piano.

Retelling this in Mikki’s office on Monday, I could see her concern. That’s when she told me about Sensory Heightening Orientation Options. She had developed it a few years earlier for a client with multiple personalities and had great success with it.

Since memory is often aroused by senses instead of words, the idea of SHOO is to keep plenty of props around to trigger memories in emergencies. If I found myself drowning in Franz, I could whip out a piece of my past and stay afloat on that.

I went out to Long Island yet again the next day, ostensibly to say good-bye before my folks left, but covertly to raid the house for SHOO fodder. I casually asked for favorite photos, borrowed a scarf from my sister, took Cameron’s hairbrush, stole my mother’s perfume, and helped myself to all kinds of nonsense that only I could love. They’d never miss these things, and I didn’t want to alarm anyone. Besides, this was my secret stash, the start of my voodoo arsenal.

SHOO kept me sane, somewhat. My oversized handbag contained my “blasters”—memory sparkers that worked only for me. If I ever got mugged, some guy would be stuck with my Girl Scout wilderness badge, a box of macaroni and cheese, a hanky drenched in Shalimar, a nasty old troll doll, and other embarrassing stuff.

I rented a piano, too. Why shouldn’t Franz be happy? When you’re sharing a body, it’s got to be better to have two partially content souls than two that are struggling and strangling each other. So the piano was a terrific surprise.

“What the hell are these people doing here? I didn’t order a piano!” Fred had been home, asleep in bed, so I probably should have called first.

“Why are you sleeping so late on a weekday, Fred? It’s after eleven.” I was frankly annoyed at finding him home.

“Not the point, Liza, definitely not the point,” Fred rumbled. “These people are building a piano in my living room. That’s the point.”

I’d let myself into Fred’s apartment with my best-friend key and the piano pros moved in the used baby grand in pieces. We’d pushed the sofa and chairs against the wall to make room. They were screwing on the last leg when Fred woke up. It was a Thursday and I thought he’d be at work. On closer scrutiny, he looked awfully pale and his eyes were glassy.

“Are you sick, Fred? I’m really sorry I woke you.” Insincere contrition did not move him. “Look, I know it’s an imposition, but I didn’t have a choice. No one in Brooklyn delivers pianos to fourth-floor walk-ups anymore. We’re just lucky you have a first-floor apartment.”

“We are? Please explain how this makes us lucky.”

This had to be Franz’s bad influence on me. I’m not above imposing on a friend, but normally I call first.

“You’re right, Freddie. I’m the lucky one. I have a best friend with a first-floor apartment, and it happens to be you. I saw the piano and was too excited to wait. Please forgive me.”

“You could have asked, or at least called, for Christ’s sake.”

“Yes, you’re absolutely right,” I said. “Next time I show up with a piano, I will definitely call first. We’ll only play during the day, when you’re at work, I promise.”

I pointed out that the piano did wonders for his apartment, which was filled with the remnants of college days, a few art posters, and inexpensive furniture. The piano added panache.

“Maybe it would help if you played at my next party.” Fred was teetering toward surrender. “I could impress women if I had you serenade us on first dates.”

“First dates, new women? What happened to the lovely Jana? Deported back to Slovaboobchek?”

“Only if you turned her in.” Fred looked grim suddenly, as well as sick. “We’re taking a little hiatus, that’s all. We’ll see how things go when she comes back from Maui. She went for a week with this friend of hers, an immigration lawyer.”

“The one you’d like to smash with a sledgehammer and feed to wolves?”

“Yeah, him.”

I commiserated with Fred, suggesting that a break from Jana might be good. As we talked, the movers finished assembling the molasses-colored Baldwin. The store’s elderly piano tuner was giving it a test run. He played scales, ran up and down the keyboard, and threw in a shake of ragtime. Then he got out his tools to make final adjustments. Fred winced with every note.

“You have the flu, don’t you?” I observed brilliantly. “Temperature? Headache?”

“I feel like my body’s been through the clothes dryer. My head’s about to explode.”

“Poor baby.” I pressed a palm gently to his steamy forehead. “I’ll play quietly.”

My routine included playing with Schubert at Fred’s, getting shrunk by Mikki, fending off family advice, avoiding friends, and jolting myself with voodoo blasters to keep sane. I still wanted to get to the Young Writers Project on Thursday afternoons, but I had already missed two meetings due to overwhelming weirdness. Quite a life.

Fred’s neighbors quickly noticed the new commotion in their building. The at-home crowd included one harried mother of baby triplets, a retired history professor, an outgoing widow, and some shadowy types I saw but never met. Their reactions were mixed.

The mom was too terrified by her brood to relax and enjoy anything. She could not hear music, just the racket from downstairs that kept her kids awake at naptime. At least once a day she banged on the woodwork to make her point. I can’t blame her. We were one more addition to the noise that already devoured her apartment.

Professor Hoffman wore a faded suit with sneakers every day, and tried to catch me whenever possible for a friendly interrogation. Where do I study, who were my teachers, when do I perform, would I be interested in an older man? I was vague about all but the last. Lucky for Mrs. Pardo, the widow.

Mrs. Pardo was a human Chihuahua, complete with bug eyes and jumpy ways. She dropped by a few times on minor pretenses (could I recommend a good podiatrist?), but she was really aching to know who Fred’s new roommate was. Her daughter was about my age, single, and Fred appeared quite taken with her when they met, she told me. I explained that I was not a roommate and wasn’t involved with Fred, thanks for dropping by, so long. She wasn’t buying it.

Hoffman and Pardo quickly formed an alliance (a spy network?). In my lucid moments, between piano raptures, I saw them through the window. They’d stand outside on the front stoop in the dead of winter. Sometimes other neighbors from the block would join them to listen. On a warmish day I could draw a respectable crowd. But Hoffman and Pardo were usually in their own conversational huddle. They claimed to be great music lovers and to admire me completely. But they were clearly suspicious about the mystery musical wonder in their building.

This sublime daily existence was interrupted unexpectedly and permanently by my whining apartment buzzer one cold February night. A stranger wanted in.

“Who did you say you are?” I yelled into the speaker.

“Pretsky. Greta Pretsky. A friend of the family, so to speak.” She had a vague European accent.

“I have lots of family. Who sent you?”

“I’d rather not say.” Oh, that’s persuasive. “It is very important, Miss Durbin. You’ll be glad I came.”

I ignored her. She buzzed again.

“I’m sixty-four years old, five feet tall, you have nothing to be afraid of. I teach piano at Juilliard. Please let me come up. I’ve heard we should meet.”

I knew at first sight that Greta Pretsky was a liar.

Five feet tall, my ass. She was an Eastern European pixie who stood about eye-level to my waist. Still, lots of people lie about such particulars—even about their weight at times (though I’d have no firsthand experience there, since I truly believe that socks and a glass of water add an extra eight pounds, minimum). I let her obvious fib pass and ushered her in.

“Who sent you, Miss Pretsky?”

“It’s Mrs., may he rest in peace. Doctor, actually. And it’s not important who sent me. I’ve heard you’re quite astonishing.” My mother, for sure. But how did she know Greta Pretsky the Juilliard professor?

“What’s important is that I find out about this ‘miracle’ for myself, yes?” she said.

Her demeanor struck me as dubiously sweet. Gray hair with a little blue rinse, a plump cozy body, and apple-dumpling cheeks. Her eyes, though, were steel-gray without a trace of blue, and I sensed more of a glint than a sparkle. This was a woman who had spent her life being underestimated.

“What have you heard about me?” I asked. “You might not find my ‘miracle’ believable.”

“I’ve seen many unexplainable things in my life,” she said. “The only thing I’m sure of is this—the more things we believe are possible, the more things become possible. You agree, yes?”

Could it be? A genuine open mind? She didn’t seem to be mocking me, nor was she awed. Dr. Pretsky appeared to be fully focused, interested, and ready to hear my story.

She listened to the whole thing with intensity, interrupting only when I left out key connecting thoughts or she had a question. Not a single Oh, wow, or Holy moly out of her. Finally, she asked me how conversant I was with music. This was not the usual reaction to my tale.

“I don’t understand most of what I’m doing. To be honest, hardly anything.”

“You must become familiar with the language. Musicians speak another language when they talk theory and technicalities. To share what you know, to make the most of this gift, you must be able to communicate.”

“I’m not sure about sharing.”

“Nonsense. Of course you will.” No room for objection, or even hesitation. “Come to Juilliard, to my studio, tomorrow, early. First thing in the morning. We’ll get started, yes?”

I must have looked petrified. Dr. Pretsky tilted her head and smiled, a soft smile that made me smile back.

“Let me see your hands,” she said.

She appraised them carefully, front and back.

“Extraordinary,” she said, with a whiff of envy.

I saw that her fingers seemed long for her stature, but they were dwarfed by mine.

“I know that this is scary for you, Miss Durbin.” She rested a hand on my arm. “But being scared won’t make it go away. If you stay scared, you will waste it. Here is my card. Come to my studio at Juilliard tomorrow morning, as early as you can, so we have privacy. The rest of the world will find you soon enough, yes?”

We shook hands at the door. If she hadn’t treated me to that sweet smile again I might have ditched her card. But fear was getting me nowhere, and I had to trust someone.

I dug an old teddy bear out of my voodoo bag and slept with it all night.

Ich lasse mich nicht wegjagen . . . I won’t be chased away. Her toys and charms are nothing compared to her own ferocity. I struggle every day to be heard, grateful mostly for her ignorance.