He said, Autumn Leaves.
A shiver dances slides down my spine, and I pull the blanket up to my chin, my whole body chilled.
No more notes from Robbie, I tell myself. No more.
I point the remote at the television, relying on it to distract me from my own life for a while.
It’s past midnight when I finally allow myself to switch the television off, mid late-night talk-show. And the scrunched-up note is still glaring at me from its spot on the floor across the room. I can’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking. Thinking about what it means.
I turn onto my side in bed, facing the window and there’s a reflection of my ukulele against the glass pane. I haven’t picked it up since he came into my room yesterday.
Him. That mystery man. Jez.
He looked like he knew me. He really did.
But there’s not even the slightest whisper of recognition in my mind. I’ve searched. I really have. I wish I did remember him. Because maybe I could be with him right now.
I’m not going to be able to sleep. That’s clear at this point, I slip out of bed and pick up my ukulele. It’s too late to play now, I don’t want to disturb the other patients.
But I need to. It’s like an itch in the tips of my fingertips I just can’t scratch away.
And I can process the tangled thoughts in my brain when I play.
I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it until yesterday and the notes had just come tumbling out of me.
Then that… guy. That stupid guy had to come into my room, my life, and scare me.
Screw that. Screw him.
I tuck the uke under my arm and poke my head out into the hallway. The nurse’s station is empty, they must be busy with someone, I slip quietly past it, and tip toe down into the last room on the floor. It’s the family room, where visitors can come and sit and visit with the patients, away from their private rooms. It’s the only non-white room on the floor. It’s carpeted and warm, there are couches and tables set out and book shelves full of books and games and large TVs mounted on the walls.
I slip inside and pull the door as far closed as I can. It’s heavy and there’s an open gap but I leave it.
The room is dark, there’s just the soft, ambient light filtering through the gap in the door and the flickering LED lights on the electronic equipment.
It’s such a stark contrast to the busy activity of the day.
I never come here.
The only family I have visiting is Paige, and it’s probably better to contain her within the four walls of my own private room.
I choose a chair against the wall that looks out into the rest of the room and the window. There’s something comforting about seeing all the empty chairs and tables, neatly set up, awaiting the break of day to welcome the loved ones. I smile benevolently out at them, seemingly calm in this environment. Away from the confines of my bed, but still safe within the walls of this hospital, with not another soul to bother me. To hear me.
Just me and my ukulele.
“Autumn Leaves,” I say softly, “Les Feuilles Mortes.”
I don’t know why he wrote that. But it’s been burrowing into my brain since I saw those two words on the page.
The burrowing of an earworm that just won’t rest for the night.
I untuck the ukulele from under my arm and rest it on my thigh, the neck firmly clasped in my hand.
I’ve never played the song before.
But that’s never stopped me.
Here goes.
I sing the tune in my head first, just the first few notes, to get into the right mind frame. It rarely takes more than that. Then I hum it quietly out loud.
And then I play.
One note. At a time. Slowly.
One clear note, held for just a split second too long, as I enjoy the reverberation of each pluck of my uke’s strings, closing my eyes, almost imagining the notes traveling like waves out into the empty room. Ripples of sound.
“Da, Da, Da, Daaaaa.” I hum quietly along. So quiet I only know I’m humming by the tickling in the back of my throat.
The song is so enchanting. Simple. Melancholic.
I reach the chorus, and while almost every memory I have of the song has it increasing in tempo, it seems such a travesty to break the somberness of the melody. My fingers disobey the norm, and each note is plucked, singularly. Slowly. Meaningfully. Deliberately. Each individual reverberation living a complete life of its own before the next one fades into the world and then out again, at its own pace.
What a masterpiece, I think to myself as I play.
What a privilege to live in a world where this song exists.
And before I realize it, I whisper a thank you.
Thank you, mystery man.
For the song.
JEZ
She’s playing it.
Like I knew she would.
I knew she’d understand. If not the meaning, she’d be compelled, just as I am, to know what that song would sound like coming from her. From her own fingers.
She’s playing it.
And it’s everything I thought it would be, and more.
I lean my head against the wall outside the family room, holding my breath, hoping nothing disturbs this moment.
Her shadow across my glass window as she’d tiptoed down the hall had promised me something special. I’m glad I’d followed my instincts and followed her.
Autumn, she said she always loved autumn. Autumn the season, Autumn the word. This song is perfect for her.
I brace for the familiar chorus, wondering how she’ll interpret it, hoping she doesn’t disappoint.
And the notes lingering in the air, one by one. Giving my ears the space to enjoy it, before it begs for the next one.
Perfection. She understands the pleasure of anticipation. Music is nothing but a reflection of humanity.
Who is this woman? How can she read me with her eyes and write my soul with her music?
Noemie, my brain whispers, rolling the letters of her name over in its cortices.
I finally have a name for her. To go with the face, the laughter, the body, the memories.
Noemie.