CHAPTER TEN

Patrick was waiting with fresh coffee when I woke up the next morning. I said I had an appointment, and he said he’d tie me to a chair if I tried to leave without an explanation. Time for full disclosure.

This was not my first time telling the tale of Franz and me. It was becoming my special story, like the favorite yarns people cultivate over years, ready to produce at a moment’s notice. This would be my defining tale. When I was telling it to Patrick, the words flowed through a practiced groove. Patrick showed amazement, disbelief, delight, and worry in all the right places. My life felt like someone else’s work of fiction.

Patrick barely said a word. His eyes asked the questions.

“Patrick, you heard me play,” I said. “Did you really think I could pick up that talent while you were gone for a few months?”

“That’s not any harder to believe than this story,” he said.

I couldn’t disagree. Mainly, though, Patrick wanted to know why I hadn’t told him sooner.

“You were in Italy when it started,” I said. “What would you have said if I called you from New York to say that Franz Schubert had invaded my soul? Literally invaded my soul?”

“But I’ve been home for weeks, Liza. When were you planning to tell me?”

“I thought about it every day. I didn’t want to keep a secret, but I couldn’t bear telling you.”

“You told everyone else. Why keep it from me?”

“So you wouldn’t look at me that way, like I’m some sort of alien. So you wouldn’t change how you feel about me, like everyone else has. You saw my family last night—nothing’s normal anymore. You were the one who just loved me. You could think I was just this great musician instead of some freak to fuss over.”

“So we’re never alone, are we? We’ve never been alone since I got back?”

“He sort of sleeps sometimes but he’s always here.” I still couldn’t explain this well. “I’m pretty sure he didn’t choose to be stuck in me, either. None of us has a choice here.”

“Neither of you, you mean.”

“Right. Neither of us has a choice. You do, of course.” My throat tightened as the tears burst free. “Can you stand this, Patrick? Can you believe what’s happened? I can’t, I still can’t believe it. It’s made a mess of my old life, my real life. My new life scares me to death, and you’re thinking I’m some freak from Pluto, and I don’t blame you.”

I was fighting off sobs and tremors. Somewhere inside, Franz Schubert was moved and tried to comfort me. Whether he felt distress or compassion I can’t say, but he consoled me with sweet music. I settled down enough to continue talking.

“Nobody else has experienced this, as far as I know, so how can I go around talking about it? Eventually I’m going to have to tell the world. I can’t pretend it’s me playing forever. Schubert deserves the credit, anyway. So I feel crazy. Who wouldn’t? I try every day to keep things under control, act like a sane person. I’m doing pretty well, really. You should’ve seen me a couple of months ago. You wouldn’t believe the progress. But I don’t know if things will ever go back to normal. And I don’t know what happens with us, Patrick. Do you?”

“I don’t know what to think, Liza. This thing that’s happened to you obviously makes no sense, but I guess it explains your behavior. I just don’t know what we do next. How do we think logically in a situation that makes no sense?”

Patrick rubbed his temples, struggling to stay calm when he had every right to go nuts. I sensed his fuse burning along a danger line of unfolding thoughts.

“This is the reason you couldn’t say yes to Milan, isn’t it?” Patrick’s self-interest surfaced in his tart tone. “I thought you were hesitating about me, but it was about him. He’s part of every decision and every moment between us. Isn’t that right?”

I reminded him I had no choice in it.

Patrick stood up straight and froze in thought. “Shit, that guy’s been in bed with us, Liza. Doesn’t that strike you as kinky? I had a right to know. You should have told me about this, don’t you think, Liza? Does he zone out when we’re in bed, or close his eyes, or get off on it, or what?”

The truth is, I could feel the times when Franz was awake and enjoying the moment with us. Yes, it was kinky and I wish he’d stay away, but that was not an option. Hell, Franz watched me change my Tampax, bore witness to every belch, felt me go weak at the sight of Chase Barnes— I had no secrets from him. And, strangely enough, he still stuck by me.

“Don’t worry, Patrick. I think he just tunes out our sex life. It’s not what he’s here for.”

Patrick doubted this ridiculous lie, which really bugged me.

“Maybe he’s a homophobe,” I suggested.

“Maybe he’s gay,” Patrick countered.

Could be. Or maybe he got off on me in the mirror. Maybe this was the stuff of fantasy for most men—penetrating a woman’s body in full, experiencing her pleasure, sampling things from the other way around. But it was definitely not the right time to pursue these thoughts with Patrick. He was having a hard enough time believing what he’d heard so far.

We talked about what it all might mean, and how it would affect us. Patrick knew I needed his support, but the situation was complex and he needed to adjust. We were deep in discussion, making a little progress, when the apartment buzzer called to us. My father’s voice was on the other end.

“Paging Liza the Genius,” he said. “Train leaving for Durbin’s Sporting Goods, all aboard.”

Patrick groaned, but I suspect he was as relieved as I was to have a distraction. Apparently the family had already forgotten about our sudden, awful departure from the Asian restaurant the night before. Dad had promised a trip to the Bronx, and he wasn’t going to let us down. Within minutes my small apartment was brimming with Durbins.

Cameron and Brittany exclaimed over my awesome Times Square billboard. Cassie shared in their exuberance, safe in the knowledge that I wouldn’t disembowel her in front of the kids. Barry looked embarrassed. My parents asked why I was still in my bathrobe at half past eleven.

“Just throw on some clothes, quickly, or we’ll be late,” Mom said.

“Sure, just throw on some clothes, Liza.” Cassie ran our mother’s words through the scorn mill. “Mo-om, have you seen this sister of mine? Sacré bleu! She has a public to think of. There are reporters out there, photographers, potential fans. She can’t go out in just anything.”

Cassie looked stunning, as usual. And perfectly appropriate, if you consider a sporting goods store in the Bronx to be the social equivalent of high tea at the Plaza. Her red curls were bunched high on her head and dropped down to perfectly frame her face. The black sundress floated like a breeze around her svelte self. Even her many-strapped espadrilles were cunningly designed to make her feet appear slightly less enormous. She looked upon me with pity.

“Well, I’ll go throw something on,” I said. “Back in a minute.”

I ran from the living room and locked the bedroom door before Cassie could follow me. She banged and pleaded, demanded to help me. I searched my drawers for something special. I chose the egregious mustard-colored sweater that Fred gave me for Christmas. It was too heavy for the day but the look of horror on my sister’s face was worth a bucket of sweat. She nearly heaved at the sight of me. Even my father looked alarmed and inquired about my health. Barry discreetly suggested that I let Cassie fool with my hair. Instead, I pulled it into a ponytail, creating the effect of an abandoned eagle’s nest hanging from the back of my head.

I enjoyed my fashion mayhem until we reached the front stoop and a photographer pointed his oversized lens at me. I instinctively slapped my forearm over my face, like the handcuffed criminals on the evening news. Very classy. The dreaded Norma Stein of The Brooklyn Buzz was there, too, in search of the truth, no doubt.

Professional Publicist Cassie Whitman sank to the occasion and handed Norma a copy of my bio (which I was curious to see myself ) and a glossy photo of me slung over a piano wearing the blue dress and my sister’s better body. Cassie gave a freshly minted business card to Norma and the photographer and said she’d be glad to talk to them at another time. We had a pressing engagement at Durbin’s Sporting Goods, you see.

We walked past this media throng, all two of them, with the harried air of superstars. Mustn’t be late for our fans in the Bronx.

The Whitmans’ shiny silver vehicle was just a few blocks away— a sporty, luxurious tank that could fend off invading troops from Canada but was a snug fit for our crew. We were squished in unpleasant ways until Patrick suggested we split up. My parents jumped at the offer to ride with us in Patrick’s mother’s Cadillac.

“Aunt Frieda’s sorry she couldn’t make it today,” Mom said, leaning toward the front seat to be heard. “She’s so proud of you. She played a little piano, too, in her day. Nothing like you, Liza, but Uncle Seymour thought she was good.”

“Is Frieda your sister?” Patrick said.

Mom appreciated Patrick’s interest in our family, despite his record as a lousy home-wrecker.

“No, Frieda was married to my brother, Seymour. I wish you’d met him.”

Mom was eager to acquaint Patrick with the wonders of Uncle Seymour. Smart, dashing, generous to a fault. Seymour, of course, was the relative who mysteriously became the U.S. Navy’s table-tennis champion. He was also an ace businessman and an amateur inventor on the side.

When Seymour met Frieda, he and my parents had just opened Durbin’s Sporting Goods as partners. He stopped in a hardware store one day and noticed her working on the ledger books. He invited her to lunch on the spot. They were secretly engaged before dessert arrived.

They were married less than three years when we lost Uncle Seymour. It happened in the basement of Durbin’s, where he spent long hours inventing clever appliances. Seymour perished in a rare electric-mop accident, the details of which are so ludicrous that the family was sworn never to repeat the story to strangers, lest some boob laugh out loud at the tragic, “nothing-funny-about-it” demise of Uncle Seymour. (Ask me about it later.)

“And you stayed close all these years, even though she’s not family.” Patrick obviously admired this.

“Well, she inherited half the business. Lucky for us, too. A real knack for money. Besides, we consider her family. I think Frieda’s always been family,” my mother said. “Part of our soul group, so to speak. Do you know about that, Patrick?”

He did. She was talking about the reincarnation theory in which we travel from life to life with the same circle of souls around us. We find each other in different bodies, roles, sexes, and relationships—sometimes siblings, sometimes parent and child, friends or lovers. We repeat this until we get things right.

Franz might have found me that way, I suppose. Maybe he missed his cue to get reborn and hunted around till he caught up with his group. If he’d been on time, I might’ve been a child prodigy. Or maybe his spirit jumped centuries to call in a favor I owed him. If you believe in the theory, that is.

“It may not be true,” my mother said, “but why not? Half the world believes in reincarnation. Haven’t you met people you’re sure you knew before?”

I didn’t know about Frieda in previous lives, but I couldn’t imagine this one without her.

Frieda missed her chance to have children with Seymour, and no man measured up to him afterward. So we were her family and I was her favorite. She made me feel special by offering odd and glamorous advice that other adults never seemed to mention: Liza, whatever you do, don’t becomea female wrestler. And Liza, always remember to misbehave quietly. And Liza, you have invisible talents that only you and I can see through our special glasses. Then we’d put on our matching shades with rhinestone trim. Unique in all the world, she said.

Aunt Frieda also gave me my first piano lesson, as my mother told Patrick.

“Liza wasn’t six yet,” she said. “Frieda had so much patience with her.”

The brand-new piano was delivered on a weekday, the best surprise ever. Aunt Frieda sat me on the bench and held her hands over mine as I stretched my fingers across the bright new keys. She gave me one lesson a week and listened to me practice, too. At some point, my parents promoted me to lessons with Clara Wolf, an official piano teacher.

“Your aunt was very hurt by that,” my father said. “She thought we were insulting her.”

“I’m sorry, Max, but Liza needed a professional teacher.” From my mother’s tone, I knew why Frieda felt hurt. “And just look how those lessons are paying off today.”

I laughed so hard I got hiccups.