Hala looked over at the silent auction. “I heard there’s a ski weekend in Vermont in the offerings. Did you see it?”
“I did,” Emily said, finishing the last of her wine and handing the glass to a server who was coming by to collect the empties. “Over in the right corner, I think.”
“Thanks.” Hala walked over, leaving Emily to wonder what in the world happened to Ezra today at work. What could have left all the doctors shaken?
As she was wondering, the pianist who had been playing jazz all evening started the “Maple Leaf Rag.” Emily was drawn toward the piano. She stopped a polite distance away and watched the musician’s fingers fly over the keys. Soon Emily’s fingers were playing an imaginary piano, mimicking what the pianist was doing exactly. The music was still inside her; it had always been inside her, she just hadn’t let it out for years.
xix
Your dad and I fought for the next two months, while I sang more and played less and left frustrated after every gig, mad at myself and mad at the world. We fought about how much my hand hurt. （“It’s excruciating,” I said. “It can’t be that bad,” he said.） We fought about the stupid tambourine. （“I hate it,” I said. “Singers play them all the time,” he said.） We fought about whether I was a singer at all. （“I’m a keyboard player,” I said. “Who can’t play the keys.” “You have a beautiful voice,” he said. “Just sing with me.”）
We fought about other things, too. About the fact that he was graduating that May, and I wasn’t. （“Just quit school,” he said. “Come with me on the road.” “You have a degree,” I said. “I want one, too.”）
And then one night, at the end of finals week, we fought about you. （“You know, I really was pregnant,” I said. “I could feel it.” “That’s bullshit,” he said. “No one can feel that so early.” But I could. I did. I knew it was you in there.） We were both high. We’d been fighting about other things first. We were frustrated with each other. With the world. With the hand we’d been dealt and were trying to play out, but we both thought we should throw different cards on the table. I hadn’t planned for you, I hadn’t wanted you, but as I found myself upset with your dad about so many things, I discovered that part of what I’d been upset with him about all these months was the way he’d denied your existence. Created a world in which I couldn’t talk about you, think about you, come to terms with my own guilt, not just for my stupid actions but for what was in my heart—what was in his heart, too. And perhaps, though I didn’t realize it until just now, I was angry at him for us getting pregnant at all.
I wouldn’t look at him.
“Maybe this isn’t going to work,” he said, finally. His voice was flat. It felt like we had reached the end. There was a cliff, and we had to either hold hands and jump and trust that together we could make it to the other side, or each find our own way down alone.
For the first night in a really long time, we slept in separate beds, in separate rooms, in separate dorms. The next morning I played the keyboard until my hand was burning. An hour and a half. That was all I could do, and even then, I was pushing myself to endure a pain so intense, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to handle it again. I wasn’t strong enough. My hand wasn’t strong enough. And I knew that if I couldn’t play, we wouldn’t be able to work anything else out. That was the crux of it. That was what bound us together. Our music was our love, and our love was our music. I couldn’t quit the band and still be with him. And I didn’t want to stay in the band if I couldn’t play the keys. I felt like a novelist who had lost the ability to type, an actress who had lost the ability to speak.
I went over to your father’s dorm with a garbage bag filled with the things he’d left in my room. “I think you were right,” I said, when he opened the door.
He took the bag I was holding out to him. “Queenie,” he said, “I didn’t—”
“Don’t,” I told him. “This isn’t going to work, and we’re only hurting each other now.” Tears were gathering in my eyes. I wiped my nose on the back of my hand.
He was quiet, the garbage bag clutched in his hand. I could tell he was trying to figure out what to do, what to say, whether to say anything at all.
“I’ll always love you,” I told him, my voice choked in my throat. “I’ll always love what we had—and what we created.”