How can you not remember me, Noemie?
The memory of her face, completely blank at meeting me again, flashes in my brain, the way it has a hundred thousand times since yesterday.
I don’t know what’s happened.
But I’m going to reverse it.
She will remember.
The song finishes at her touch. And she sighs.
Play it again, I want to beg her. But I can’t. Not yet.
I hear her shuffle inside and I quietly push away from the wall and jog back to my room.
And play the song over in my head until I fall asleep to the scent of cinnamon and the sound of leaves falling.
***
“Robbie, my man,” I say to him, as I wave him into my room the next night.
His eyes narrow and I imagine his hands would be on his hips if he wasn’t busy tidying up around my room. “What do you want?”
“So jaded for such a young soul,” I say, hoping he’s forgotten the times I’ve teased him for his graying sideburns.
“I am young and yet wise. Wisdom comes with a built-in bullshit detector, so I know of what I say when I ask you, ‘what the hell do you want?'”
I clutch my chest and drop my jaw. “I’m shocked that you would think of me in such a way.”
“You’re a celebrity.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“Kinda.” I shrug, not sure I want to commit in case I’m about to get in trouble.
“You’re used to getting what you want.” Another statement. Again, true.
“Also kinda.”
“So, it’s almost like my bullshit detector goes into overdrive around you.”
“So rude, wait until I set my minions onto you!”
He stares at me with a steely look in his eye, “Go ahead. I’m pretty quick with a needle.”
“Oh. Well, my minions are scared of needles. They’re scared of a lot of things. Mostly they just talk a big game.”
“Like master, like minion.” He’s grinning now, knowing he’s just won that round.
“Hey!”
“I apologize, please, Sir master of minions, what can I, the lowly nurse who once had to give you a lollypop after you complained about a butt injection do for His Highness?”
“That’s better. Um, I need another favor.”
“I live to favor you, Minion-whisperer.” He bows low and I bite my lip not wanting to give him the satisfaction of my obvious amusement.
“Okay, knock it off, you’re creeping me out. I need you to write me another note.”
There’s a micro expression of interest, but he hides it well. “Write your own damn note.”
“I… I can’t. I tried.”
“Let me see.”
I point to the trash can, filled with scrunched up pieces of paper. He takes one out, looking it over.
“Hmmm, looks like something my kid brought home from kindergarten.”
I grimace and he just grins and gives me a wink.
“Hey, man, yesterday, you couldn’t even hold the damn pen. Now I can almost make out the letter H. I’m proud of you.”
“That’s an N.” I sigh, but secretly, I’m thrilled that he noticed I’m trying.
“Exactly. You got something on the page. You’re doing good.” A warmth spreads through his eyes and I let myself enjoy it for one second.
“Go back to being a smartass.”
“I will, once I write this note.” He pulls a pen out of his pockets and tears off a blank piece of paper from the notepad by the bed. “What do you want me to say?”
“Write, ‘Ne Me Quitte Pas.'”
“We already went through this yesterday, man. English or you’re on your own.”
“Fine, write ‘If You Go Away.’ But then I want you to write the other thing as well, I’ll spell it out for you.”
He copies down the letters I dictate and holds it up, sounding out the words.
“‘Nee mah kwitte paz’. Would you look at that? I can speak frenchie.”
“Yeah, you speak French as intelligibly as I write it, right now.”
“Well, then, I deserve a thumbs up for trying.”
I hold up my hand, my thumb pointing sideways, while my other fingers curl into an ugly array of talons. But it’s something.
“One day at a time, man. One bloody day at a time.” He pats my legs, reassuringly. “Hey, why don’t you try this for some motivation? Use your ding-dong like a squeeze toy, bet you’ll be grasping that thing so tight you’ll be able to pull it right off in no time.” He throws his head back and I’m pretty sure the whole floor can hear his deep, belly laugh.
“Just go deliver the fucking note, Potty Mouth Postman.”
He gives me a wink before he strolls out of my room like he owns the whole damn place.
I wait.
I wait so long it feels like a whole week passes. I try not to watch the clock, but after a while my eyes get tired just from following the second hand around the numbers.
At one point I feel like I dose off, but then I hear her. The sound of her door, far down the hall from mine, sliding open, and then a few second later, her shadow casting against my open door.
I wait for a few moments, my heart already pounding in my chest. Then I slide out of bed, and take the same few steps I did yesterday, to lean against the wall outside the activity room.
Waiting. Again, just waiting.
It’s like my whole life has been reduced to this.
Waiting.
Waiting to heal. Waiting to leave.
Waiting for her.
There’s the sound of some soft strumming, as she tunes her ukulele. And then it starts.
It’s the song. Ne Me Quitte Pas. She knows. Of course she knows the song.
She was born to play music like this
Music from the soul. Songs of heartache and yearning.
I reply the lyrics in my head, words of promise and hope, of perfect summer days and nights.
Change it to winter, and I’ll understand every word of this song to a level that runs deeper than my bones.
I lean my head back, closing my eyes, breathing in her music through my skin.
I have the unique honor and privilege of creating music with some of the absolute best that the world has to offer. Within my own band. Sebastian is a once in a generation cello prodigy. What takes me hours or days to learn, he picks up in a heartbeat. Marius revolutionizes how the world views the viola, and Brad can make grown men cry with a single pull of his bow.
I am blessed every day to have the very best at my fingertips. And they inspire me every time we perform.
But this woman.
She’s given me something I’ve missed for long.
The element of surprise.
She plays this instrument, this joke of the music world instrument, and creates stories of utter humanity. Out of songs I’ve heard a thousand times, she makes them new again, makes them hers.
It takes everything I have not to go in there.
Go in there and tell her – you’re healing me. With every single note, you’re single-handedly making me whole again.
The song ends. and I know it’s time to go again.
I linger, hoping someone will intervene and bring me face to face again with her.
I know she’s not ready.
But when she is, I’ll be here.