I pick up the photograph by my bedside and sink to the floor where I lose the fight.
One drop, then another falls onto the frame before I brush them way.
I’m vaguely aware that the door is opened before I see Beth’s feet before me. When I look up at her, her face is warm, illuminated by her concern for me. I know I don’t deserve it, but a part of me wants it anyway.
I look away from her, unable to maintain eye-contact and she quietly sinks to the floor beside me. We sit in awkward silence for eternity, and I place the frame beside me on the floor.
“I’m sorry,” she says silently after a while, her voice hoarse. I glance over at her to see a tear slip out of the corner of her eye. “I didn’t think it would…I’m sorry,” she fumbles over her words but even confused, she gives me clarity.
“It’s just…” she pauses and everything inside me wants her to continue. Every time she speaks, there’s a beam of light that flashes in the darkness.
“What?” I ask her softly and she wipes her cheeks quickly before drawing her feet up before wrapping her arms around them and resting her chin on her knees.
“I haven’t heard that song in so long. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Her voice is barely a whisper.
I turn to look at her, confused by her crazy explanation.
“What do you mean?” I ask, trying to keep her talking.
She pauses and leans her head back on the bed, taking a deep breath as another tear escapes her.
“When I was little, I met someone who changed my life.”
I nod, trying to follow the light as my breathing steadies.
“She told me that I was born with notes for fingernails, a musical staff for vocal cords and music coursing through my veins.” She blushes and I feel my lips quirk upwards, though the smile doesn’t reach my eyes.
“She was a brilliant musician. The best I’ve ever met. She gave me my very first violin. She said I was meant to play, and I’ve been playing ever since. She’d travel every year to host classes in our community and others like it, for people like me. People who wouldn’t be able to experience music in its most natural form because they had no one to bring it to them. No one to teach them the power of music…the beauty of it…the importance of it.” She blushes, and the light starts to flicker like a flashlight in need of batteries.
“She trained me for years,” Beth continues and her voice breaks. I glance over to see her face wet again. She’s abandoned all efforts to dry her tears.
“That song…when I heard that song, it reminded me of her. I didn’t feel like a spectator listening to it. It felt like it was written for me. The more I played, the more I remembered. It felt familiar because she taught me that song. It’s the last song she taught me before she stopped coming to do the classes.”
The train is off the rails in my chest and she looks over at me with wide-eyed worry.
“Are you okay?” she asks, holding onto my shoulder and what’s left of my resolve joins the lamp in the corner of the room.
“What happened to her?” I ask her, my voice trembling.
She sniffs. “I don’t know.” She sulks. “I think that’s the worst part. She was more than a teacher to me. She was my friend. I loved her.” She smiles and I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut by an iron fist.
“You can remember her?” I ask.
“I don’t think I could ever forget her.” She smiles sadly, “she made me the musician I am. She taught me...she taught me that you can be in this world and escape it, all at the same time.”
“What was her name?” I ask her, though I already know what it is. Still, I need to hear her say it.
“Eloise.”
My hands shake as I reach for the frame beside me and hand it to her.
It takes a while for her to make the connection, but as she does, she clutches her chest in a breathless gasp as fresh tears roll down her face.
“Oh my god,” she whispers. “Is this you?” She points at the little boy, barely recognizable beside the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and I nod.
If only I could actually remember her.
27
My mind races to make sense of the picture in my hand.
“Is this,” the question lodges in my throat, unwilling to come out. “Is she,” I take a deep breath and the tears spill out all over the frame. “Do you know her?” I ask instead and he takes a deep breath.
“I should,” he nods, pushing himself off the floor, but I stay there, unable to move. I didn’t expect to ever see this face again. “She was my mother,” Maverick confesses. The lump in my throat hardens and my stomach falls away at the obvious use of past tense.
I nod gravely. “What happened?” I ask softly and he stares at me, as though tunneling into my soul to uncover my memories of her.
What did he mean he should know her? That makes no sense.
Why wouldn’t he know his own mother?
“You should go,” he says softly, but I don’t turn away in obedience. I need to know.
“Maverick, please.”
“Beth!” he snaps, and I slowly scramble to my feet. For a second, the challenge is still there, begging me to find out, begging me to prod. But as much as I need to know, is as much as Maverick needs to forget.
Quietly, I turn and head for the door. When I look back, seeing just how many pieces of Maverick are chipped away at the surface, my feet pause. The love I had for his mother, won’t let me leave him. Not like this.
I walk back over to him and he stares at me with wild pained eyes.
“I said-”
I throw myself against his chest, wrapping my arms around him. He flinches, but he doesn’t push me away.
I can hear the irregularity of his racing heart and I squeeze him tighter. His arms slowly wrap around me. The hitches in his breathing and the vibrations in his back tell me that he’s crying, but I don’t say anything. I just let him cry.
Without explaining it to me, he’s already said so much. She’s gone.
I have no idea what happened, but if I could have cried myself to sleep for months after the community center director told us they couldn’t contact her, I cannot imagine what it must have been like to have her as a mother and then lose her. I can’t imagine not remembering her.
I would be devastated.
When the hug ends, I wordlessly leave his room and head for mine where I erupt into an avalanche of tears.
My thoughts crash and stumble over each other as I baptize the pillow in sadness.
She hadn’t abandoned us. She hadn’t abandoned me.
She had died and abandoned Maverick.
Was she ill?
Was it sudden?
Was she in pain?
What happened?
I want to know the details, but now doesn’t feel like the right time to be asking those questions.
A warm shower seems like a magic potion as I drag my feet to the bathroom. It works wonders to calm me, but my heart is still in turmoil when I towel dry and change into pajamas.
After a few minutes of back and forth, I decide to check on Maverick. He really shouldn’t be alone. If he wants to go back to being a jerk tomorrow then he can, but tonight, I’m going to do Eloise a favor and be what he needs.