CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Our big day started with the telephone rudely ringing on the night-stand. It was Cassie, which would be bad enough without the slight hangover.

“Bonjour, ma sœur,” she trilled in my ear. “How’s the genius superstar today?”

I moaned into the phone. My head felt like one big toothache.

“I was afraid of this.” Cassie directed this comment away from the phone, probably toward my mother. “Listen, Liza, we’re in the limo and we’ll be at your place in half an hour. Mom and Dad are with me.” Mom and Dad shouted greetings. “We’ll have lunch, go over a few things, then we take you to Arla Shay’s salon to work a miracle.”

“What time is it?”

“Liza, you’re not still in bed, are you?”

“Of course not.” I pulled the covers over my head.

“Right, well, it’s almost eleven. I told you I’d be there before noon. Were you planning to sleep through your concert tonight?”

“Not on purpose.”

“Fine, be funny. Maybe you thought you’d do your own hair, too.” In the background, Mom was talking nonstop to her. “Calm down, Ma, she’s not cutting her own hair,” Cassie said. “We’ll be there soon, Liza. Wear something decent.” Click.

I peeked out from under the blanket and daylight brutalized my eyes. Patrick came into the bedroom bearing a mug of coffee. He had obviously showered, dressed, and been waiting for me to wake up. The TV in the next room blared talk-show nonsense. Suddenly, I realized Patrick’s mother was still in my living room. I dove under the covers again.

“Hey there, princess, time to wake up and snort the coffee,” Patrick said, pulling the blanket off my face.

“I feel like a bad day in Hell.”

“No surprise there,” he said, “but this is not your day to languish in misery.”

“Can I do that tomorrow?”

“Okay.”

I guzzled caffeine, wrapped myself in a robe, and headed for the bathroom. Mrs. Florio barely looked up from the TV as I walked through the living room. With rare good grace, I was the first to say good morning. She pointed out that the morning was almost gone.

The hot shower had a slightly rejuvenating effect. I dressed in a dark blue cotton sweater and old pants that had grown big on me, then sat at the kitchen table waiting for my family. The yellow roses were fully opened and sweetly scented the room. I sighed at Patrick.

Cassie and my parents sensed the strain as soon as they arrived at my apartment. Patrick fidgeted and his mother seethed in my direction. Mom, my protector, bristled. She and Mrs. Florio locked eyes like rival cats on disputed turf.

“So nice to see you, Mrs. Florio,” Mom said coolly. “I hope you’ll be coming to our après-concert party tonight.” Parfait, Mom was picking up Cassie’s dopey French, too.

“We’ll see” came the icy response.

A few more pleasantries passed before my father commented on the roses.

“Yes, Dad, gorgeous, aren’t they?” I walked over to Patrick and hugged him around the waist.

“Don’t thank me.” He raised his hands in denial. “I can’t take credit for those.”

“I wish someone would take the credit,” Mrs. Florio said. “Look at this card. Unsigned. ‘I loved you before him.’ What kind of card is that, I’d like to know. Loved you before Patrick? What’s that supposed to mean, Liza?”

Everyone but Mrs. Florio realized that “him” referred to Franz. Somebody loved me before Franz showed up. Cassie and my parents turned uncertain faces toward me, then looked at one another, then at their respective shoes. Patrick was unreadable.

“I have no idea who the flowers could be from, Mrs. Florio,” I said. “Hey, it doesn’t even say my name. Maybe it’s a mistake.”

A chorus of agreement from my family: Sure, sure, that’s it.

“You could call the florist and find out,” Mrs. Florio suggested.

“Forget it,” Mom jumped in. “It was a private card for Liza in the first place. Anyway, there must be thousands of men out there who would send roses to our famous daughter. Right, Maxie?”

“Without a doubt, darling.” My father was wearing a new black suit for my special day, the highest honor he could bestow. “Who could not love our Liza?”

Mrs. Florio, that’s who. And possibly Mrs. Florio’s little boy.

“Liza, why don’t you get together whatever you need for tonight,” my sister said. “We won’t get back here before showtime.”

Showtime. Cassie’s casual reference to Carnegie Hall made my whole body go crumbly. Patrick grabbed my arm before I could sink to the floor. He escorted me to the bedroom.

I packed a small bag with things you take for an overnight stay in the hospital: fresh underwear, hairbrush, robe, a novel I’d been reading for months. I threw in some extras for later—jacket, shoes, jewelry—and soon I had actual luggage to haul around for my two-hour concert.

“You planning on moving into Carnegie Hall?” Patrick said. He’d observed my packing process in vague amusement, but he was also troubled. “You know, you don’t have to do this.”

“Pack?”

“Play,” he said sharply. “You don’t have to play tonight. As far as I’m concerned, you never have to go back to Carnegie Hall.”

His face was resolute and marked with worry.

“I don’t know what happened to you there yesterday,” he said, “but why tempt the Fates? We’ve already seen one dead spirit commandeer your life. Who’s to say that you can’t be invaded again by other spirits? And that it couldn’t be much worse than it is?”

This talk was too painful to hear. I tried unsuccessfully to blot it out. The combination of wine, Chase Barnes, and purple leather pants had made me cocky the night before, but my self-assurance vanished like starlight in the morning. I wasn’t sure I could make it through a whole night among Franz’s dead friends. On the other hand, I was so far down this path I wouldn’t know the way home. Every scenario was scary, but turning back was not an option.

“Think good thoughts for me,” I said.

“Always, babe.”

Dad laughed at my luggage, while Cassie admired my restraint. We exchanged last-minute hugs with Patrick and his mother. She was still testy but wished me luck. I told Patrick he should come early and visit backstage before the performance. Anyway, I’d see him seated in the front row between my mother and his. He promised to wave and make funny faces. Then we set sail for Carnegie Hall.

After some discussion, we decided on lunch at the Stage Deli on Seventh Avenue. Cassie had wanted to drag us to yet another of her “absolute favorite” chichi bistros, but Dad spoke up for pastrami on rye. I added my vote for real food. The Stage is a place for carnivores and peasants like me.

The deli was packed, but the owner recognized me and found us a table within minutes. A taste of celebrity privilege. Our grizzled waiter bore a fresh mustard stain on his sleeve and an impatient twitch. The clank of dishes and silverware proclaimed this as a place for serious lunchers, not dawdlers. We all ordered the Stage’s gargantuan sandwiches, except for Cassie, who never eats more than two peas at a sitting.

Throughout lunch, my parents rhapsodized over the food while Cassie fretted over last-minute minutiae. I barely noticed them. My corned beef on rye was too absorbing, succulent, thrilling in texture, taste, and all other aspects. When I wasn’t terrified about Franz, his influence was magnificent. My simple sandwich had become ambrosia on stardust, a Gershwin tune with Picasso on the side.

“Liza, honey, does that man look familiar to you?” My father was pointing toward an elderly man wearing a tweed jacket and bow tie.

The man in tweed noticed us, too. He waved his fingertips at me.

“Liza, is that the man—?” Dad said.

He did look familiar. When the waiter cleared away our dishes, the man approached our table.

“I don’t mean to disturb you, Miss Durbin. It’s such a pleasure to see you again.” A-gayne, he said. “You probably don’t remember—”

“Yes, I do, actually,” I said. “You’re the man from Nordstrom’s, aren’t you?”

He nodded in courtly fashion. I introduced my family, though his name escaped me.

“It’s Sturtz. Dr. Abraham Sturtz. I’m so pleased to meet all of you.”

“What brings you to New York, Dr. Sturtz?” my father said.

“Can’t you guess? I came to hear your daughter play.” He turned his well-lined face toward me. “One can’t play piano as you do and keep it a secret for long, can one? I bought my ticket as soon as I heard of your debut, my dear. I sent you a card. I hope you received it.”

I had misplaced it, but I thanked him for sending it.

“Let me give you my card again,” he said. “I don’t mean to be pushy, but I’d love to talk with you about your experience. What a gift you’ve been given.”

Dr. Sturtz bowed to each of us slightly, then returned to his table to finish his soup. The tweed jacket he wore was the one I had seen him in several months earlier, when all this started. Maybe he wore it in case we ran into each other, a marker to be remembered by. In any case, the power of my box-office draw was not in doubt.

We traversed the city in a white stretch limo chosen by Cassie to fit the day. In our lead-dog alpha car, we oozed entitlement. Cassie knew something about how to get noticed.

We pulled up at Shay Salon just after one o’clock. In the ultraposh waiting area, my father looked as comfortable as a U.S. Marine at a tea party. He checked his watch, promised to come back, and bolted for the exit. When he returned a few hours later, he was staggered by our transformations. Mom, Cassie, and I had been coiffed and buffed to a lovely glow. I got the shortest, best haircut of my life, plus a nice splash of red tint that brought me in line with the other Durbin women.

“Three gorgeous redheads, and they’re all mine!” Dad said.

“Don’t you love the red on Liza?” Cassie said. “My idea, of course. Lose a couple more pounds, Liza, and we could pass for sisters.”

“It’s not too red, is it?” I asked.

My mother and sister found the question too ridiculous to answer.

As we were leaving the salon, Arla Shay assured me that she and Gilda would meet us in plenty of time to do my makeup. They would come directly to my dressing room at Carnegie Hall.

An afternoon of pampering could not obliterate my terror. The out-loud mention of Carnegie Hall reminded me of the task ahead, and I fought the urge to cry.

It was close to six. Rain clouds crowded the sky. As we drove toward Carnegie Hall, my dread materialized as an extra creature in the car. It growled in my face and squeezed its tentacles around my torso. I sat in silent panic and watched the passing street numbers tick off my fate. Mom was talking to me. Dad, too. No discernible words, just talk. Fear paralyzed me, urged me to run. I might have, too, except for Franz.

Franz felt my fear, understood its source. He attempted to gentle my soul with his confidence. Nothing to be afraid of here. We will prevail. The concert will be brilliant. He would never leave me, his only living friend, to rejoin his dead ones. Never. Life was too spectacular to give up for a has-been past. Franz and I could only succeed together, so we would.

The limo stopped at the Carnegie Hall stage door and I stepped out, still not quite ready to communicate. My parents exchanged concerned looks. Cassie prodded me to say something, anything. It took all my energy to cross the sidewalk. A few plump raindrops fell on my nose and cheeks. My hair sensed a coming downpour and sent up antennae.

The backstage crew greeted me and we found Greta waiting for us. In the back of my mind was an expectation that my mother and Greta would exchange the sigh of long-lost friends. I was sure Mom had sent her to me in the first place. If they knew each other, though, they hid it well. Instead, Greta inquired about my health and readiness. She wore the same worried look as my parents. I hugged her for reassurance, which she did not enjoy. She led me onstage for a final reacquaintance with the concert grand I had chosen. She wisely insisted I warm up and get comfortable. The piano felt good, but being onstage brought back my dread. We returned to the dressing room, where my family waited.

“Sacré bleu, sis, you gonna walk around like the living dead all night?” My sensitive sister could see I was nervous. “Did you give them your list at the stage door?”

“List?”

“Your guest list, remember? Like I told you a million times?” Eye-rolling and a huffy sound. “So Arla and Gilda can get in. And so Barry and the kids can come back to see you. And Fred. Patrick, maybe? You said you’d make a list.”

Cassie grabbed my purse to search it for the list in question. Amazingly, she found it.

“Fine. I’ll just go deliver the list for you, Liza,” she said. “How would that be? And you can sit here and stare at the walls with your mouth hanging open. Okay? Or, better yet, you can pull yourself together and act like this is the most important night of your life, which it is.”

Cassie left with the list. My parents followed, probably to confer privately about my dumbstruck weirdness. I was alone in the Carnegie Hall dressing room ninety minutes before showtime.

The room was unexceptional, except for the many floral bouquets. I checked a couple of the cards to confirm they were for me. One was from Fred, another from Hoffman and Pardo.

There was something else about the room. In addition to the utilitarian mirrors, sink, chairs, and such, it had the ethereal imprint of history. I chose not to envision the performers who had dressed, primped, or warmed their vocal cords here. Sitting in front of the mirror, I swear I saw no remnants of blue eyes in heavy makeup, or damp blond hair in braids. No one made faces in the mirror, practicing expressions for dramatic effect. I absolutely did not see a young woman cry on her mother’s shoulder—nor could I have said whether she cried before or after her performance.

I saw none of this because it was impossible. I closed my eyes to see none of it.

“There you are, Liza. How’re you doing tonight?” I hadn’t heard Mikki come into the room. She pulled up a chair beside me. Dressed in gray silk and pearls, she looked perfectly composed, as always. Following my gaze to the mirror, Mikki spoke to my reflection. “Your folks are a little concerned. Do you feel like talking?”

“It’s been a rough couple of days, Mikki,” I managed to say.

“Did you bring your SHOO blasters?”

They were in the luggage we’d hauled from Brooklyn that morning. I suddenly craved their comfort. I shoved a Girl Scout badge into my bra and spritzed myself with Shalimar.

I wanted to tell Mikki about the ghosts at Carnegie Hall the day before, and about Franz’s reassurances. I would have told her about Chase and Patrick and his mother, too, but my parents walked in then with Cassie, Barry, and the kids. Instant commotion.

Brittany and Cameron jumped me like puppies. They asked questions about everything they saw and told me about their trip to the city. I found myself clutching them fiercely.

“Did you change your hair, Liza?” Barry asked.

“Only drastically,” I said.

“Looks great.” He gave me a proper brother-in-law hug and whispered in my ear: “Did you like the flowers?”

I looked around the room, hoping one of the arrangements was from Barry. My mind ricocheted to the yellow roses on my kitchen table at home.

Gilda arrived next with assorted powders and eyeliners. Brittany and Cameron couldn’t sit still, so I gave them the job of reading the cards that came with the flower arrangements.

“Best of luck, Liza. Stricker, Stricker and Feinsod.” Brittany struggled with the names on the card. “Who’s that?”

“No one you’d want to know,” I said. “Read me another.”

“With the greatest admiration, Abraham Sturtz.” Brittany pronounced it “Struts.” “Who’s he?”

“A man I met,” I said. “A nice one, I think.”

“Make her eyes look bigger,” my sister said to Gilda. “Liza needs big eyes tonight.”

I watched Gilda’s progress in the mirror. It was like watching a Polaroid picture develop from its first washed-out image to its supercharged finale. To tell the truth, I looked like a painted toy. When I protested, Gilda patiently explained what it takes to glow from a distance. She promised that my everyday eyes were equipped to stun the balcony.

“This one says ‘Chase Barnes’ on it,” Brittany said. She was holding a card plucked from a lavish arrangement. “That’s my teacher’s name, Mrs. Barnes. What kind of name is Chase?”

“A stupid name,” I said. “Hey, has anyone seen Patrick yet?”

“Did I mention there might be some media at the party tonight?” Cassie said. “They’re not officially invited, but they’ll come if they want to. You’re a celebrity tonight.”

“Has anyone seen Patrick?”

And so it went.