Oona slapped her thighs and stood, returned to the track with brisk steps. “You know how messed up it is to be told what you’re like by someone who’s a stranger to you?” She picked up the pace, ignoring the twinges in her joints. “Not as messed up as wondering if what’s happening to you is actually happening. Every time I go to sleep, I pray I’ll wake up from this nightmare, a teenager again, with Dale beside me.”
“If that’s what you want, I hope that happens.”
“Oh, come on, don’t be condescending. However much I’ve changed in the last thirty years, I’m sure I still have a low tolerance for bullshit.”
His bewildered laugh curled around them like a ribbon.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“It’s nice to see moments of my old friend. It’s not entirely you and yet it’s still you.”
Her pinched heart sent a sharp volt through her, demanded more room to expand. How gracious for him to persist and sidestep her barbs. “How did we meet, anyway?”
“It’s a long story. We bonded over music. I promised not to tell you more than that.”
“No spoilers”—air quotes and a smirk—“right?”
“That’s right.”
“What about the girl lost at sea?”
“What girl?”
“In that Kate Bush album.” She cast her stinging eyes up to the sky, which was white as paper. “Does she ever get rescued?”
“She does,” came the reply. Earnest, firm. “She definitely does.”
6
It would be a difficult year for Oona, though she’d do what she could to make it better. The money helped, as money often does. The financial cushion was welcome, but it also felt like a lawsuit settlement or insurance payout for whatever accident or act of God resulted in those years lost. At least any struggles awaiting her wouldn’t be monetary. But being able to buy anything put a spotlight on the things that couldn’t be bought (lost friendship, lost love, lost time), human nature being prone to focus on what was lacking.
Hoping to find a medical cause for the missing years, Oona got a full medical work-up. Apart from the extra weight, she was in fine health, and a brain scan revealed no abnormalities. She considered a psychiatrist but heeded the letter’s warning not to reveal her true condition to others. Better to be insane in the comfort of her home than a mental hospital.
And what a home it was—vast but designed for comfort. There was a rec room with classic arcade video games and pinball machines. There was a home theater with red velvet couches and a projection screen across an entire wall. But her favorite was the music room, with its shag carpeting, beanbag chairs, and massive stereo. Custom shelving housed a staggering collection of vinyl, and the opposite wall held guitars that had belonged to Lou Reed, David Gilmour, Prince, David Bowie, and other music legends. At first, reverence kept her from touching them, but after a few days, she grew emboldened and took a turn at each guitar. She strummed chords and picked out melodies the way Dale had shown her on his own guitar, imagined stadiums full of cheering fans and intimate recording sessions. It lifted her up and up and up—until a stab of guilt sent her plummeting down. She returned the guitar to its spot on the wall.
The guitar is Dale’s instrument. Keyboards were mine.
Yet there were no pianos or keyboards in the house, and her fingers thirsted to strum and pluck and pick at guitar strings, anyway.
But what if—
No. It would be disloyal to Dale.
She vowed to keep the instruments as nothing more than a display, a dream out of reach.
In the days that followed, Oona wandered through her house like a marble rolling around an empty box, often retreating to the music room. Despite her extensive record collection, she fixated on that one side of that one Kate Bush album, played over and over. She’d lie on the floor and pretend the carpet was an ocean, close her eyes, and wait for stormy seas to carry her away.
Until one day the music stopped mid-song. When she sat up, Kenzie was standing beside the silenced record player, a laptop under one arm.
“Mind if I sit?” Without waiting for an answer, he dropped onto the carpet beside her and opened up the computer. “I want to show you something.”
“If it’s another cat playing the piano, I’ll pass.”
“No, it’s your music collection.”
“I can see it from here.” She gestured to her record shelves.
“That’s only part of it. There’s more in here.” After a few taps on the keyboard, he turned the screen toward her. “This is your iTunes library. That’s the total number of songs you own.”
“Forty-two thousand? And is this how long it would take me to listen to all of them? A hundred and twenty-four days?” A film of sweat broke out on her forehead.
“Yeah. And look, you can play any song just by clicking on it.” With the push of a button, jangly guitars filled the room, followed by a man’s sultry croon.
Oona’s eyes darted to the corner speakers. “It’s like some kind of magic trick. Hey, is this Roxy Music?”
“Bryan Ferry. He’s released some great solo albums since your time. And not just him.” He spent the next few minutes showing her the basics of digital music.
“I still don’t know where to begin.” A trill of alarm in her voice. “With any of it.”
“All right, step away from the panic attack. Breathe with me.” Once he staved off her hyperventilation, he continued. “Nobody expects you to know all the things. It’s not like there’s gonna be a big test. Start with the bands you already know, or with some of these playlists I made for you. As for the rest of it…” Cautious optimism wrinkled his brow. “Wikipedia’s a good place to start.” He pulled up the website and explained how it worked. “Maybe do a quick overview of each decade first?”
As she clicked around, she bobbed her head slowly. “Seems a little less overwhelming.”
“You got this. Just learn a little something new every day. And let me show you modern conveniences once in a while. Though they can be inconvenient, sometimes—I spent two hours picking out a new pillow the other day.”
“Two hours? How many pillows are there?”
“Too many. The curse of plenty. But we’ll save online shopping for another time. And we’ll need to talk about your money at some point, but I don’t want your head to explode. For now, give iTunes a chance?” He held out the MacBook until she nodded and took it from him. “Holla if you need anything. You’ve got a few hours before your mother comes by for dinner. After we eat, we’ll watch Purple Rain.”
“What?”
“It’s a movie. You’re gonna love it.”
* * *
She did love Purple Rain, as well as Back to the Future, and all the eighties John Hughes movies Kenzie chose (“Next week, we’ll start on the nineties. Two words: Pulp Fiction”). While she got accustomed to cable, DVR, and Netflix, she preferred he take the reins of what they watched so she could focus her exploratory energy on music. After the initial intimidation of her iTunes collection, she rejoiced at catching up on decades of discographies from her favorite musicians, though she still often opted for the lush crackle of a vinyl record. But she also gave the playlists a chance, which enlightened her on some new genres that emerged in recent decades. She warmed to the rhythm and cadence of hip-hop, the raw growl of grunge, the mechanical seduction of electronica.