The City Sleeps for Me

7 - Rebecca

Rebecca

Almost everyday, Emily's violin sings to me. One day, she lets me hold it, and she presses my fingers down into the strings and tells me which notes are which. I imagine them like a language that can be translated; E means warmth, C means power, B means rain, and together in a song they tell a story. But I don't say that out loud. That's stupid.

Almost three weeks have passed since I first heard her play. 

"Are you humming?" Mom asks in the kitchen one cold, rainy evening. Chocolate chip cookies are in the oven, and the sweet aroma washes over the entire apartment. I hear her fingers typing on her laptop, the humming of the dish washing machine, the dull splattering of the rain against the windows.

"I guess so," I say. 

"I haven't heard you hum before."

"Well, I hum now."

"Hm," says Mom, and the typing stops like she's thinking about something. I sit at the kitchen table, running my fingers over the grooves in the wood. "Rebecca, can I ask you something?"

Oh, boy. "Sure."

"John mentioned to me yesterday that you walked home from the library with another girl. Did you make a friend?"

Her words are trying to sound careless, but her voice is tight, and I know she's been thinking about it non-stop. Something in my heart twists. 

"Um, yeah," I say carefully. "We just met at the library."

"You need to be careful, Rebecca."

I bite my lip so I don't sigh with annoyance. "I know, Mom."

"Why don't you invite her over for dinner?"

"Here?"

"Why not?" 

"If you want me to."

"I'd like to meet who you're spending all this time with."

"We just met - okay. Whatever."

"What's her name?"

"Emily."

My mom breathes deeply and runs her fingers across the chain of her necklace. "Okay. I'm sure she's very nice."

"She is."

"I can't help but worry about you sometimes, Rebecca."

"Mom, I'm almost - okay. Fine. I'll ask her. I'm going to my room."

I know her eyes are following me as I walk to my bedroom, and I flop down on my bed, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender. I wanted to keep the girl with the kind voice and tragic violin separate from my kind and tragic mother. 

She worries about me way too much. I know it's all love, but still. If she told me I wasn't allowed to go to the library anymore, or walk around by myself anymore, or listen to Emily play anymore, I would go insane. 

I run my fingers over my teddy bear, try to tune out everything except for the splattering of the rain against my window. After awhile, I pull my headphones over my ears and play the audiobook.

Cheesy romance novels are nothing like real life.

~

The next day in the library, Emily plays a new classical piece I haven't heard before, upbeat and fast and exciting. 

"Was that a new one?" I ask after I'm finished clapping.

"I learned it yesterday," she says. "That's why there were so many mistakes."

"Mistakes? I didn't hear any mistakes."

I hear her sit on the ground, stretching out her feet or legs on the soft carpet. She plucks a few stray notes, a sadder, softer melody.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and run my hands over the smooth denim of my jeans. "So," I say, clearing my throat. "This is going to sound weird. But my mom invited you over for dinner."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Your mom? Isn't she super strict?"

"Very."

There's a pause. "Well, okay," says Emily, and there's a smile in her voice.

I'm a bit surprised. "You don't have to come, if it's too weird..."

"No, no, it's not weird! We're friends, aren't we?"

Friends. Friends is such a nice word. One of my favorites, probably. Mom is my friend. John is my friend. Mrs. Summers is my friend. And now, Emily is my friend too. You know, not too many people want to be friends with the blind girl. I tug at the sleeves of my knit sweater and smile. "Of course."

Most of the time when people meet me they say something like, Oh, you're blind? I'm so sorry! Emily said, You want to stay? 

"Is your mom a good cook?" asks Emily.

"She's pretty good. Actually, she's kind of amazing."

"Then I'm definitely coming," she says, and laughs. A note rings out (warmth), then another, and I hear her adjust the peg and play the same note again. 

We walk home, kicking dry leaves, and I stuff my cold, gloved hands deep inside my coat pockets. 

"Maybe Friday?" I ask as we near my apartment building (step number six, seven, eight, nine).

"Sure, Friday works for me."

(Twelve, thirteen, fourteen.) I stop and pull out my keys, twisting the metal through my fingers. "Sounds good."

"Yeah, sounds good."

"Goodnight, Emily."

"'Night, Rebecca."