I wanted so badly to ice my hand—the only thing that seemed to provide any relief once the pain started—but didn’t think that would look too great. Nor would walking off the stage while he was performing. So I stayed and listened and danced and felt my hand throb.
The one song break wasn’t enough, but I knew it was all he would be able to give me. I played through the pain for the next two songs, and then it was time for our duet to close the show.
* * *
—
“Only love can break your heart,” your dad said, walking toward me. “But you know I love you.” And then he bent and kissed me—way before it was choreographed. “I’ll have to say I love you in a song.”
I turned away from him, the way I was supposed to. “Come on, Rob, not this again.”
The audience cheered. We had real fans now, and they loved this part.
“Go, Queenie!” someone yelled from the crowd. “Glad you’re back on keys!”
“Love me do,” your dad sang.
We got through the medley. We got to the final kiss. Everyone clapped and hollered and whistled, and then we left the stage and, out of sight of the audience, I collapsed into a mess of tears.
“It hurts so much,” was all I could say from my spot on the floor. “It hurts so much.”
Your dad got a bowl of ice for my hand, and two shots of vodka for me.
“Here,” he said, crouching down next to me and handing me one. “Medicine. I promise it’ll make you feel better.”
I did the second shot he brought over. And then a third that Tony was carrying. Between that and the ice, the pain dulled.
“Maybe some weed, too?” your dad suggested.
“I just want to go home,” I told him.
I could tell he wanted to stay, to celebrate our gigs the way we usually did, but he came home with me. We were silent as we rode the subway with our instruments. My hand still ached—just an echo of the pain that had been there, but enough to make me remember. I couldn’t do that again.
“I think I need a break from the band,” I told your dad.
“You can just sing more, play less. Give your hand a few more weeks. We can get the douchebag keyboardist back.”
I laughed.
“I’m serious,” your dad said. “We need you.” Then he looked me straight in the eyes. “I need you. I hate being up there without you. You make it all magic.”
I laid my head on his shoulder. “We’ll see,” I told him.
I didn’t feel like I made anything magic. I felt like our world was unraveling and it was all my fault.
22
Emily was curling her hair, the music switched to jazz, when Ezra got home. The front door slammed and it made her jump.
“Ezra?” she called out. He didn’t usually enter the apartment that way. She wondered if it was the miscarriage that was upsetting him—or something else. Living with him often meant picking up on the tiny cues.
“Hey, Em,” he called. “Want a glass of wine?”
Reflexively she was about to say no, but then answered, “Sure. But aren’t we about to go to a fund-raiser with lots of drinks?”
Ezra came to the bathroom with a glass of cold white wine in each hand. “You look great,” he said, handing her one.
She looked at his face. It looked tired. His eyes were puffy. Was he that much more upset about the miscarriage than he let on at home? Was he crying at work, where she couldn’t see him?
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Rough day,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb.
“What happened?” She took a sip of the wine and then put it down on the bathroom counter so she could finish her hair. She wondered if one of his patients had taken a bad turn, or if he’d gotten into an argument with the hospital administration again about getting his patients into clinical trials. She hoped it wasn’t Malcolm.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said.
She looked at him, her eyebrows drawing together. Something was wrong. Something other than what they’d experienced together.
“Ez—” she started.
“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t try to shrink me.” He took a big gulp of wine. “I’m gonna jump in the shower. I’ll be ready in fifteen.”
Emily was taken aback. He’d never said that to her. Never implied that he saw her questions as intrusive. She didn’t say anything. Just nodded and looked back at the mirror, watching herself raise the curling iron to her hair, wishing she could walk through like Alice and spend some time in a world on the other side. It felt like the white knight was talking backward. Was the red queen off with her head?