The City Sleeps for Me

5 - Rebecca

Rebecca

The first note plays. Then the second. I breathe in the smell of the wooden violin, the notes that fold on top of one another like batter being poured in a bowl. 

I let the music wash over me like a salty ocean breeze. I can almost taste it on my tongue. Sad and slow and haunting, a little. 

I know I'm still in the room; I know Emily is playing the violin a few feet away from me. But it's hard to remember that once the music starts.

The pace quickens and the violin starts to cry. Notes bleed from the instrument. I make myself perfectly passive as the melody swirls around my ears like snow, settling and melting on my skin. If possible, it's even better than last time. How is that possible?

A fast dance, a tragic high note that's extended; then swooping into lower pitches, softening out the tension. The last note shakes, trembles, and Emily exhales deeply. 

The room is quiet, for a moment. Sentences are stuck in my throat.

"That was amazing," I say. But words sounds stupid, following music like that. 

She laughs nervously. "Thank you."

"Really. Do you perform anywhere?"

"No."

"You should."

Emily sighs, and I hear the unlocking of her violin case. "I don't know. I'm not as good as performing in front of other people."

"You were good in front of me."

"Well...thank you." I bet she's blushing. She brushes at her jacket, the crinkling noise hitting my ears, and sighs again. "It's getting kind of late."

"Yeah, I guess it is."

"Where do you live?"

I stand up and adjust my backpack on my shoulders, and curl my fingers around my cane. "Only a few blocks away."

"Do you want me to walk with you?"

I stifle a sigh. I've been managing for over seventeen years. "I'll be fine."

"No, I mean - no - not because... I just thought we should talk more. You know. If you're going to be listening to me play - I mean, just if you want to - we should get to know each other."

I shift my weight from foot to foot. I like the sound of her voice; it's nice, kind of raspy, like she's getting over a cold. 

"Alright," I say, and smile.

A cool breeze hits our skin as we push open the heavy library doors, and I stuff my free hand in my coat pocket. The sound of the evening city surrounds me, and I shiver slightly as a siren wails in the distance.

Emily matches her pace beside me. Her violin case thuds against her legs as she walks. I can tell she's a bit taller than me. "So," she says. "What school do you go to?"

"I'm homeschooled."

"Oh, really? Do you like it?"

"It's okay. Kind of lonely, sometimes."

"Well, you're not missing much. Public school isn't so great either."

We stop at a cross walk, car tires screeching against the concrete. Someone must be smoking nearby, and the smell curls in the fresh autumn air. The city hums.

"Is it dangerous?" asks Emily. "You know, walking around the city? Since you're blind?"

"It's not too bad. I have a mental map in my brain, so it's unlikely I'd get lost."

The cars stop, and we walk across the street. A dry leaf crunches underneath my sneaker.

"Besides," I continue. "My mom doesn't let me wander off too far."

"Is your mom really strict?"

"Yeah. Is yours?"

"I live with my dad. He's not strict, exactly. He can just be... moody."

I wonder what that's supposed to mean. Mom only has one mood, and that's worried. She almost never raises her voice, never gets too excited about anything... I can't imagine her being anything other than small and shy and kind. She had me through a sperm donor in her late thirties. I say that I guess the father had bad genes. Not funny, Mom says. Okay, not funny. 

I've been counting my steps on each block (eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen) and I stop in front of my apartment building. 

"This is where I live," I say. I dig my keys out of my coat pocket, the metal cool against my palm. "What about you?"

"Past second avenue. It's really far to walk, so I'll just catch the next bus."

"The bus!" I haven't ridden the bus or the subway in awhile. I've never been on one without Mom with me, either. 

"Yeah. Will you be at the library again?"

"I'm there almost everyday."

"Okay." I can kind of hear a smile in her voice, and she pulls her jacket tighter around her body as the wind picks up. "I guess I'll see you later, Rebecca?"

"Yeah. Goodbye, Emily."

I walk up the building steps and into the lobby, smell the familiar old shag carpets, shoeshine, and the faint whiff of John's pine tree scent.

In the apartment, Mom is on the couch, watching a reality TV show. A vanilla candle is burning somewhere. She turns the volume down as I walk in through the front door and lean my cane against the wall.

"How was the library, Rebecca?" she calls. 

"Fine."

"Is it cold out there? Did you talk to anyone?"

"It's a bit chilly." I pause, lean against the kitchen table, let my finger trace familiar grooves in the wood. "And no, just Mrs. Summers."

I don't know. For some reason I want to keep the girl with the kind voice and tragic violin separate from my mom. 

When I go to bed, I have two things replaying in my mind: the song, and "I'm Emily."

Maybe this is what a real friend feels like.