Face The Music

Primetime

Two more weeks, and somehow, Josh was still here, still coming by to see me, still helping to take care of Aunt Lynn. He said that he didn't have to tour anymore, for a couple of months, at least, and he'd rather spend time with me and Aunt Lynn than the guys from the band because he was always around them anyway. 

"Kiera, honey?"

Absentmindedly scratching at a scab on my arm from when Aunt Lynn had scratched me yesterday as I was getting her out of bed for go to her checkup, I turned around to look at the graying old man standing in front of me. "Yeah?"

"I'll take care of her today. You've been working too hard, and I think you should take a break. I know your aunt isn't exactly easy to be around...anymore. Go on. Have some fun with that young man who's always around now." He smiled a weary smile at me, eyes crinkling at the corners and shadows deepening below them. I guessed he hadn't slept too much either. 

I put an arm on his shoulder and sighed. "His name's Josh, Uncle. And I suppose you're right. Maybe she needs to see your face, anyway."

With a bitter laugh, Uncle Henry replied, "Oh, I highly doubt that. But go. I'll see you when you get back." He nudged me with his elbow and shuffled into the dreaded bedroom, as if he, too, felt the dank, despairing aura that radiated from it. Aunt Lynn was slowly becoming someone we dreaded to see. It was hard enough knowing that she couldn't remember us – it was even worse that she hated our guts.

With quick steps, I bounded down the stairs, suddenly eager to escape from the house and the oppressive feeling of being tied with a chain to one who you used to love. 

"Josh?" I called down the hallway. "Where'd you go?"

He answered from the kitchen, and he walked out with a glass of milk in one hand and a peanut butter cookie in the other. "What's up, sugar?"

"Ha, sugar? Don't even." I crossed my arms, grinning. "Help yourself to my homemade cookies, why don't you? How are they?"

He rubbed his stomach as best he could with no free hands. "Mm, delicious. I had no idea they were homemade. Truly, they're better than anything I've tasted in stores. The princess has many talents, eh?"

I laughed to myself. The Canadian never failed. "The princess can also kill your ass for calling me all these atrocious pet names. Kiera works just fine most of the time, thank you. But I didn't call you to argue about my magnificent baking skills. Guess what?" My fingers spread, I paused.

"Hm." Ticking off imaginary fingers, he began listing the possibilities with excitement. "You...have a secret foot fetish. You have a voice more legendary than mine, but you don't exhibit it because it could convince a man to drown himself because of his love for you. You...secretly have a girlfriend you never told me about, and I've been attempting to woo you this entire time to no avail. Or, you have a serious STD and maybe it's better that I don't attempt to woo you at all." For a moment, he looked at me with an odd glint in his eyes, and then it was back to the lazy expression, all cool grins and twinkly irises. 

"Okay," I stood up taller. "First off, fuck you, I don't have any STDs or foot fetishes. I've been trying, but damn, it's hard when A, you've never had sex before, and B, feet are mediocre at best. As for the siren song, I guess you'll never know, because I don't sing in public if people can hear me, and unfortunately, I don't have a girlfriend. So keep that wooing thing going. Maybe it'll work." Two thumbs up, and then I grabbed his hand and dragged him out the front door, shutting it quietly so I didn't wake a potentially dozing Aunt Lynn. She didn't like to be awake. Funny thing for one who used to cherish life more than anything.

"By god," I said, "you're a horrible guesser! Uncle Henry says we're free for the day, and I've been dying lately. Where shall we go?"

"Oh! I guess that makes more sense. Dammit. I wanted the siren song to be true. Maybe we should just...go to a karaoke bar, or something." His hands were stuck in his jean pockets, and he winked. 

"Hey, watch your mouth, you child. Who says I don't really sing like a siren? No," I shook my head at the sudden hopeful look he gave me. "No karaoke bars. Why don't we just...go to the park? I'm feeling minimalist, today."

Josh shrugged a lazy shrug and nodded. "Sounds about right to me."

–––––––––––––––––

Marigolds have incredible lifespan, it seems. Even after all this time, some were still open and flourishing, their bright yellow and orange petals laughing at me with their cheer. I had half a mind to step on them, but Josh's idea was better.

As we lay on the flower beds, velvety petals brushing up against our backs, I closed my eyes to the sun. What a beautiful day, today was. I opened my mouth. "Josh," I said, "I've been thinking about how I can help Aunt Lynn. How can she remember things? What can I do to show her what it used to be? So she can learn who we are again?"

To my surprise, he answered, "I've been thinking about that, too. How could you save Aunt Lynn? I have an idea, but I don't know how you'd feel about it." He was unconsciously plucking flowers surrounding us from their stems, ripping off the petals and shredding them in his deft hands. The tips of his fingers were tinted a yellowish purple. 

"Tell me," I said. And now I was plucking petals, trying to catch onto something that would let me hold onto my grip on the world.

"You could keep a journal. A visual journal, a sensory journal, an auditory journal. It could help her learn to read again. Write about what you did today, what you've done on previous days. Save a few of the thicker petals and press them in the notebook. Cut out pieces of cloth and spray scents, and bring back food that she'd remember from restaurants. Most importantly, I think, play piano. Record that, and have her listen to it. I know she must have seen you a million times when you played as as concert pianist. She would remember that most of all. Do all of that for her. I know she'll remember, then." Maybe he hadn't been shredding the petals without thought, because after the monologue, he threw the little shreds into the air, raining down a sweet-smelling rainbow of confetti. Some of it stuck in his blue hair, and as I went to pull it out, he did the same for my purple. 

"Yeah, I used to play a lot for her. When we came to visit, she'd ask me to play, and I swear those sessions were longer than the actual concerts. And she came to almost all of my concerts. She always understood music more than mom, or dad, for that matter, did. That's a great idea. But oh, my god. She won't understand any of it now, will she? The music? She won't get it. I can't imagine that – playing a recording for her, and she giving me this blank stare of 'what was that?' It'll kill me." The petals were almost completely out of his hair now, and as I pulled them out, I laid them sitting in a little pile at my side. I could feel the tightness in my throat rising again. Breathe, Kiera. Breathe, and don't cry. Haven't you done enough of that in the sheets for the past weeks?

"Does it matter? She has to learn. And I'm sure it's all in there somewhere. It'll come back, okay? You just have to teacher her all over again, is all. Try it out. It's your best bet, for now," he whispered in a gentle voice. His fingers rushed forward to grab mine, which I hadn't realized until he stilled them that I had been twisting the petals over and over, staining my own fingertips a strange dark color. Steady, steady, my hands were still. 

"You're right. Thank you." 

For the rest of the afternoon, we talked about little things, inconsequential things. The weather was beautiful today, and it reminded me of California in the spring. Marianas Trench was working on some new songs for their upcoming album, and it was taking longer than anticipated. I'd never had chocolate milk before. The dusk faded in without us noticing, and once it became dark, the crickets began their nightly onslaught of awkward sound, and we went back home. It rained that night.