HEAL YOU | JENLISA

FORTY-ONE

JENNIE

* * *

IT TAKES ME A LONG TIME TO GET TO THE POINT WHERE I FEEL mentally strong enough to practice music. Months and months. But then I obsess over getting a new violin. I won’t touch Priscilla’s old instrument. I’d rather do any number of horrible things to myself.

Naturally, this is when my mom decides to drop by my apartment. I’m stunned when I hear her voice through the intercom one afternoon. “Jennie, it’s me.”

I’m even more stunned when I buzz her in, and moments later, I open my door and see her standing there in white slacks, a cream-colored silk blouse, and an Hermès scarf artfully wrapped around her neck. She looks casual but stylish, but she’s aged since my dad passed away. The new lines by her eyes make me sad. Priscilla must have returned to New York by now. That means she’s been living in that giant house all by herself. She must be lonely.

“Hi, Ma. Uh, come in. Sorry it’s so messy.” If I’d known she was coming, I would have straightened things up more. As it is, I only had time to sweep my dirty dishes off the coffee table and stick them in the sink and haphazardly straighten the pillows and blankets on my couch. My bed’s not made. The laundry is overflowing. My bathroom is a disaster. I pray for her not to go into my kitchen.

She perches herself gingerly on my armchair and looks around, spending extra time on the pair of women’s running shoes in the corner next to an open duffel bag stuffed with clean workout clothes. There’s a small pile of business management books on the end table next to her, and she scans the titles with interest. “Your Lisa moved in with you?”

I sit on the couch and look down at my knees. “Yeah.”

“You’re happy with her?” she asks, and the way she says it, I feel like she honestly wants to know.

I can’t help the soft smile that curves over my lips. “Yeah.” Without her, I’m not sure I’d be holding it together right now. As it is, I miss her the entire time she’s gone for work. When she messages me during the day, it makes me nauseatingly happy.

“Your music? How is that?” my mom asks. “How is unnie’s violin working for you?”

I avert my eyes and shake my head.

“So stubborn, Jennie,” she says in a tired voice. “Here, I want to buy you this one.”

She takes her phone out of her purse and shows me an email that Priscilla forwarded from an instrument dealer. In the body of the email, there’s a picture of an elegant Guarneri violin. Guarneri was an Italian luthier during the 1700s who rivaled Stradivari, the creator of the famous Stradivarius violins. The most expensive violin in the world is a Guarneri. This is not that Guarneri, of course. According to the dealer, this Guarneri sustained serious damage on multiple occasions and has undergone extensive repairs, so its price reflects that. But it still costs as much as a house.

“Ma, it’s too nice. I can’t—”

She makes a scoffing sound. “It’s not too nice for my daughter. Priscilla said the sound is very good. You’ll like it.”

An uncomfortable sensation crawls over my skin, and I hand the phone back to my mom. Speaking in a soft, measured tone and keeping my demeanor the way I’ve learned to around her, I say, “I love that you want to get me this. It means a lot to me. Thank you. But—”

“You won’t play it if she picked it out for you,” my mom observes, seeing me in a way I didn’t think she could. “I was there, I heard what she said, it was not kind. But just forgive her already. Let it go. Let things go back to the way they used to be. She told me she’s sad that she’s losing you and Ba at the same time.”