She sat next to him, spoke more gently. “Tell me everything you know about it.”
Chapter 11
Grandma Nora
3 Years Ago
Everything that Ray knew about the violin came from Grandma Nora, of course. And the bulk of what he’d learned came from a few all-too-short weeks that Ray spent with her when he was a sophomore.
One rainy April evening his aunt Rochelle called to tell him that Grandma Nora had been diagnosed with lung cancer: “Typical Mama,” she’d said, voice thick with tears. “They’re saying she only has about six weeks, and I just wanted to let you know in case you wanted to come see her.”
He hung up and immediately booked the nine-hour bus trip to Atlanta.
When he arrived at his grandmother’s house, no walker, no pink housecoat, and no smiling face awaited him as he trudged up the path to the front porch.
He rang the bell and Uncle Larry answered, embraced him.
“How’s she doing?” Ray asked.
He shook his head. “She’s a tough old lady, but it’s not looking good.”
“Is everyone here?”
“Rochelle is coming in tonight. Everybody else is here.”
“My mom, too?”
“Yeah. She’s in the kitchen.”
As Ray edged past him into the foyer, Larry put a hand on his arm. “Ray, when you go in to see your grandma, know that she’s lost a lot of weight. I don’t want you to be shocked.”
Inside, everyone hugged him or rubbed his shoulders. Even his mom stood up and gave him a very fake, very tactile hug. “Go see your grandmother. Don’t stay in there too long. She needs to rest.”
Aunt Joyce, sitting next to the bed, stood up when she saw him. He took her place. Grandma Nora was a shell, the color drained from her face. There was no sparkle in her eyes. He wasn’t sure she even recognized him. Even if she did, Ray doubted she could muster the strength to even give him the hug he desperately needed. He sat down, took her hand, careful to be gentle. “Grandma?” the word caught in his throat.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t move. He tried again. “I came to see you.” He was losing the struggle not to cry. He kept blinking. “How are you feeling?”
“Oh, baby, I don’t think Grandma is doing too good. They tell me I have cancer, baby.”
“Grandma…I’m so sorry. What can I do for you?” Ray gave up on trying to hold back his tears.
“All you can do is what you always do. You make me so proud.” She took a breath. It hurt to watch. “I’m happy to hear that you’re playing your fiddle good.”
“I’m doing my best, Grandma. Every day I’m trying so hard to make you proud.” His voice broke.
“I know you do, baby. Did you bring it?” A breath. “Your fiddle? You gonna take it out and play for me?”
“Of course.” He stood to retrieve the instrument case, which he’d left in the living room.
“I don’t think she means right now,” Aunt Joyce said softly from the doorway. He hadn’t realized she was still there. “Why don’t we let her rest for a little? You want to sleep a little bit, Mama?”
“Yes, baby, maybe I’ll rest a bit. And then Ray can bring up his fiddle for me.”
“Okay,” Ray said. He sat back down and reached for her hand again.
He sat with her as she slept.
* * *
—
The next few weeks passed in a blur, taking turns at her bedside, and when he couldn’t be with her he sat in the hallway, staring blankly at his textbook: A History of Western Music. He played for her whenever he could—The Lark Ascending and de Falla’s Spanish Dance—always finishing with “Rhosymedre.”
Often, she’d talk, drifting in and out of consciousness. She seemed desperate to tell him as much as she could about her family, especially her grandfather, and Ray was desperate to hear—as if injecting her memories would allow her to live on.
“Whose fiddle is that?” she asked him the first morning he was back, as he opened the violin case. “You said you’d brought PopPop’s fiddle?”
“This is PopPop’s fiddle,” he said, showing it to her.
“Why isn’t it in the case? The one with the loose handle? It’s green inside.”
“You mean the alligator-skin case? It’s under my bed, at school. I just wanted something to protect PopPop’s fiddle a little better,” he explained.
“That’s good, baby. That’s real good. Sure wish you’d brought it, though.” Then she told him what she remembered about the violin—much he’d already heard, but some was new.