Better Than This Page 9

  Tad shook his head. “I don’t know…”

  I clenched my jaw and glared at him.

  “You’re my friend. You got really sick. If Laird wouldn’t have been with you… If you had been alone, who knows how they would’ve found you. You may not be totally awake right now. Infection is serious—”

  His mention of Laird cut through me this time, and I realized I hadn’t asked about him yet. “What happened to him? Where’d he go?”

  “After he brought you in, he stayed for a little bit while they checked you out. He wouldn’t leave until he found out you were okay. I saw him before he left. He told me to tell you he would call.”

  A bitter laugh escaped me. “Yeah, right.”

  “I don’t know. He seemed like he really cared. I think he was telling the truth. He probably had to go to work or school or something. He’s in college, right?”

  I nodded. “I think so. Actually, I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head as I realized I didn’t really know much about him and hadn’t gotten the chance to ask earlier. “We didn’t get that far into the conversation before I started sweating like a pig and flipping out on him.” The memory of my time with Laird started coming back, and it was not a pretty picture. I pushed away the image of me yelling and ranting like a crazy person before fainting.

  Exhaling, I forced a smile. Tad didn’t need any more of my drama. Changing the subject to lighter ground, I said, “Hey, maybe if you stay long enough, my friends will come to visit. They did last time, which means you could get another glimpse of Lauren.” I raised my brows, though I doubted they would come.

  And what did that say about them? About my so-called friends?

  Who was I kidding? What room did I have to complain when I, myself had been withholding secrets from them?

  “Ahh, Lauren.” Tad sat back down and leaned into the chair. His eyes held a faraway gleam and a soft smile touched his lips. “All that long, blond hair. Those green eyes and full lips. And those legs…” he shook his head.

  I snickered. “Okay lover boy, settle down.”

  “I’m sure you haven’t seen the last of Laird.”

  I groaned. “I wouldn’t be too sure. Besides, it doesn’t matter. Our afternoon together was brief. What do I really know about him?” I shrugged, trying my best to keep my expression placid.

  “So, you’re saying you don’t care? You don’t want to see him again?” He stared at me, his eyes penetrating my indifference even through the thick frames of his glasses. And after a couple seconds, I cracked.

  “Okay, okay. Sure, I’d like to see him. It was nice while it lasted, but I’m not sure he’d say the same thing. Especially not now. I’m not so sure he was all that interested before and after today…” I let my voice trail off. “He’s probably like a lot of the others and is just curious about how or if I’m playing now.”

  “I don’t know. He doesn’t seem like the nosy type. I can’t see him just wanting to hang with you for gossip info,” Tad said. He nudged his glasses up his nose and continued, “You’re talented. He’d have to be blind not to see how amazing you are. Even now, you’re still better than most. Has it ever occurred to you he might actually like you? Like-you, like-you?”

  I shrugged. “I guess.” I didn’t doubt my talent. Or my previous abilities, anyway. I knew I was good, but I didn’t go around flaunting it. Besides, how good I was never meant much to me other than determining whether I got into Juilliard or not. It was the actual playing, the power of the music I created that mattered. When I had a guitar in my hands, nothing else in the world existed. Not my father’s demands or my mother’s drinking. I played the guitar for myself. I suppose the thought of someone finding me attractive hadn’t ever occurred to me. Other than my friends using me for the band, my father was the only one I ever got attention from for my music. And he thought my dreams of playing the guitar for a living were juvenile.

  But I also knew I was more than my guitar. Could Laird really have wanted to get to know me? All of me? The parts of Samantha Becker which had nothing to do with strings? The notion seemed impossible. If I was being honest with myself, I didn’t even know who that girl was. I don’t know who I am if I’m not a guitarist. How could Laird get to know a girl who doesn’t even know herself?

  Maybe not knowing myself was the real problem—the reason my injury seemed so unsurmountable.

  Tad’s mouth twisted. “Whatever. Don’t believe me, then. I’m only a guy, so I would know when a dude likes a girl, but—”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re twelve.”

  “Your point is?”

  I grinned and pushed myself up in the hospital bed, wincing at the stab of pain in my hand. “So, what now? What do I do?” I asked, gesturing to my bandages.

  Tad bit his lip and shifted his gaze to the floor. Several silent moments stretched on before he lifted his eyes back to mine. He frowned and my chest constricted. Whatever he had to say, I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like it.

  “Maybe it’s not worth it? Not right now, anyway.”

  “What?” I knit my brows in confusion. “Maybe, what’s not worth it?” I repeated slower this time.

  “Juilliard. Is it really worth all this?” He gestured toward my hospital bed. “I mean, you’ll play again. You love it too much. It’s in your blood. But maybe right now isn’t the time…” His voice drifted off.

  A bitter sound escaped my lips. “You, of all people.” I shook my head. “I thought you understood. This whole time I thought you had my back. You acted like you were behind me one hundred percent and now, one bump in the road and you’re bailing? Just like that?” I snapped the fingers of my right hand, remembering the way Tad did and said the same thing the first day I met him. “I guess I was wrong. You don’t understand. No one does…” My stomach sunk. I turned away from him, wishing I had never asked the question.

  “But it’s not about that…”

  The door to my room creaked open, followed by the clomping of heavy footsteps. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Tad glance up at the visitor. “Uh, I’m gonna go. I think June needs my help with a few things anyway,” he mumbled.

  I said nothing as he got up and walked around my bed with his head hung. I didn’t ask how he was going to get home or when I’d see him next. The ache in my chest stabbed too deep to speak, and the sight of my father only made the pain worse.

  As Tad retreated, my father moved toward my bed, his jaw set. The vein in his forehead bulged, and his dark eyes radiated anger. He wore a charcoal suit, the jacket unbuttoned and the tie loosened around his neck, signaling he came straight from the bank.

  I watched as Tad paused at the doorway and raised a hand in goodbye, a sad smile etched on his boyish face. Once he was gone, my father rested his hands on the railing at the end of my bed and said, “I thought once you lost your finger this would be over and you’d let this idiotic dream of yours go.”

  I froze at his words. Dream? Did he know about Juilliard? He couldn’t. But then, as if on cue, he said, “This little girl’s dream of playing the guitar for a living. Sure, I figured eventually you would try to play again, but not like this…” He glanced down at his hands.

  “Dad, all I did was practice. It’s not like I did anything crazy. I was—”

  “You overexerted yourself!” His voice thundered through the small room, startling me. “You didn’t take care of the hand. It’s not like you have a couple stitches or a small wound. You lost an entire finger! You didn’t listen to the doctors at all. You pushed your limits, were irresponsible, and this is the result.” He swept his hand around the room.

  My blood boiled and red spotted my vision. “Seriously? You came here to lecture me? You didn’t seem to care much until now. I don’t remember you or Mom ever checking my hand. I don’t remember you trying to take care of me. You’re the parent. Isn’t that what parents do? If my injury was so bad, where were you?” I crossed my arms over my chest, willing myself to calm down. “The wound got dirty,
that’s all. Otherwise it would’ve been fine. Playing the guitar had nothing to do with it.”

  He snickered. “We’ll see about that, because this time, no playing. You’re done. You won’t play again. Not until I’m satisfied your hand has healed and you’ve left this ridiculous dream behind. Playing a guitar is no way to make a living or build a future.”

  Sweat trickled down the nape of my neck, soaking into the back of my hospital gown—remnants of my fever or my father’s presence, I wasn’t sure. “You can’t stop me.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, good luck without your precious guitar.”

  My eyes widened, and chills wracked my body as his words sunk in.

  “I took your guitar. And you’re not getting it back. At least not for a very long time.”

  Please, not my guitar…

  “I’ll just use another one if I have to,” I said.

  My father shrugged. “Maybe. But I know some things about musicians. Especially guitarists. And they are creatures of habit. Playing on another guitar would take some adjusting with your injury. The one June gave you is quite expensive and vintage. You can’t just run out and purchase another one. And adjusting to your injury and a new guitar would be even more difficult.”

  My vision blurred with the heat of anger. I truly hated this man. Even through all the neglect the last ten years, the times he indirectly put me down, made me feel responsible for the accident that took my baby brother and my mother with it, I had never hated him quite like this. Maybe because, deep down, the little girl, the one which still yearned for her father’s approval, had still existed. But not today. He was right. The combination of dealing with my injury and a new guitar would be extremely difficult. As my gaze bore into his steel blue eyes, I vowed to do whatever necessary to play again—to prove him wrong. Even if the thought of having to play without my guitar—practically an extension of my body—destroyed me.

  “Why? Why are you doing this?” My voice shook.

  “Just a couple more days and the doctors said your whole hand would have needed to be removed. Another few days more, and maybe your arm. I’m not going to lose my daughter to some idiotic dream. This isn’t just some inconvenience. What happened to you is serious. Your health is serious. Not something to be thrown to the wind or disregarded!”

  My resolve to remain calm crumbled. “You think I don’t know that?”

  “You don’t!” He jabbed a finger in my face. “You won’t even look at your hand. You don’t acknowledge it. You just go on walking around like nothing ever happened. You need to accept this, Sam. It’s not going away and neither are you.”

  His words were true, every bit of them and made me hate him even more. But the subtle reminder I was going nowhere, that his intentions were for me to stay there and work at his bank after graduation, leveled me. I turned my head away and gritted my teeth until my jaw ached. There was not one ounce of my being in which believed he genuinely cared. His concern was either a ruse or centered on the fact that if something happened to me, his dream of the Becker Loan & Trust legacy would die with me.

  I sat there turned away from him, my jaw clenched as tight as my fisted hands until sometime later when I heard the subtle click of the door as it closed. After several minutes and no other sounds, I turned to see he had left.

  My gaze darted around the room until it landed on my hand. Tears blurred my vision before spilling down my cheeks. I hated what happened to me. Playing the guitar was my only source to heal, my solace in the harsh world of my life. But now for the first time ever, it was the cause of my pain, and I had no idea what to do about it.

  But the one thing I did know was no one could heal me but me.

  * * *

  The clock read two a.m. Tonight was another among many recent sleepless nights. I had just returned from the hospital a couple hours ago. I had yet to speak to Tad, nor did I want to at the moment. Something far more worrisome occupied my mind. Since the veil of anger at my father had cleared, my resolve to learn how to play with my handicap on a new guitar weakened.

  Part of me chided myself for having gotten so upset at Tad. Maybe I had been too hard on him. Despite the short time I had known him, he was the one person who had faith in me. Even when I had trouble believing in myself, he forced me to believe. It was his belief in me which made his suggestion I take a rest hurt so much more. Apparently, my dream of Juilliard wasn’t worth another potential trip to the hospital. But he was wrong.

  My father was another story. Used to his opposition, nothing he said surprised me. I didn’t believe his concerned father act. Because behind the façade thrived his selfish desires. And as long as I played the guitar and pursued music, his dream was in jeopardy.

  When Monday rolled around, I went to school with a new perspective, resolved at doing things my way. I strapped on my new determination like a coat of armor and opened the door to Mr. Neely’s classroom. If my father thought I couldn’t, then I would prove him wrong. There wasn’t much better motivation in the world.

  Chalk dust tickled my nose as I entered the room and I sneezed, alerting him to my presence before I could say anything. He paused the eraser on the board before continuing to clean the chalkboard at the front of the room.

  “I was wondering when you’d be back,” he said. He reached the top of the blackboard easily thanks to his height.

  What did I say to explain why I hadn’t come back since my first practice with him when he told me you were one of my best players? Because the truth hurt?

  I sucked in a deep breath, along with my pride. “I need your help, and… I miss playing together.” I hadn’t intended to say the last part, but it was the truth.

  He turned. Hooking his thumbs under his suspenders, his heavy eyes surveyed my appearance. “I thought you’d have the bandages off by now,” he said, nodding toward my hand.

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “I had a minor setback.”

  He just stood there, his dark eyes steady on my face.

  “So are you gonna help me or what?”

  “Of course I’ll help you, but if I do, you can’t get upset when I say or do something wrong. I want to help you, but I won’t be able to if you’re reading into every little thing I say. This may be new to you, but it’s new to me as well.”

  My cheeks burned. Had he known why I was upset? Maybe he realized what he had said the moment he said it. Maybe he regretted it, wanted to take the words back, but for some reason his observation irritated me. “Fine, but no elementary songs. They’re not going to help me. I need to start with the things we were working on before, things I will actually need to know for auditions. It may be harder, but we’ll just power through them. I’m not giving up yet on Juilliard.” My voice hitched on the last words.

  “Fair enough. I won’t tell you any different. Why don’t we stop wasting time, then and get started?” He turned and moved to his usual seat.

  He sat and glanced up at me still standing in the doorway. Raising one brow, he motioned toward the seat in front of him.

  “Um. There’s one more thing,” I said. “Well, two things actually. First, I need to take at least a few days off from playing. The doctor doesn’t want me playing at all for weeks, but I can’t sit around and do nothing. I’ll give it a few days if I have to, but that’s it, then I’ll just have to be really careful, take it easy when it hurts, and check my wounds frequently. But I also… Well, I kinda don’t have a guitar right now,” I said with a sheepish grin.

  His eyes widened. “You don’t have a guitar?”

  Telling Mr. Neely about my father’s insistence I quit wasn’t an option. If he knew my father was so against my playing, he might feel differently about helping me, so I shrugged and made my expression as neutral as possible when I said, “It’s a long story.”

  He placed his head in his hands for a moment, before glancing back at me. “Adjusting to the feel of a new guitar with your injury…” his voice trailed.

  “I know.” I walked forward and plun
ked down in the seat in front of him. Mr. Neely knew exactly how much my guitar meant to me—how I relied on it like a professional golfer relied on his favorite clubs—and it showed in his wide-eyed expression, but it didn’t matter now. “It’s a lot. The last two days, I’ve been trying to convince myself it’s no big deal, but I realize it will make things a bit tougher since I have so much to cope with already. If I had all my fingers, it would be no big deal. But that doesn’t matter. I don’t have the luxury of time, and I can’t worry about it.” I stared at my good hand for a moment. “I have no choice. I’ll get my guitar back soon enough, but in the meantime, I’ll just have to use a different instrument.”

  Mr. Neely’s eyes narrowed and shook his head. “I don’t want to know what happened with the guitar.”

  My lips spread into a smile. “That’s good, because I’m not telling.”

  As if contemplating his next move, he slunk down in his chair. A breath wheezed between his teeth as he exhaled. “You say you need a few days off?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay, then I have a way we can play without the guitar.”

  My ears perked. “How?”

  In a dramatic gesture, he raised his arm and tapped the side of his head. “In here.”

  10

  I pictured the play of fingers in my mind, just as Mr. Neely had instructed. They glided over the fretboard like a whisper. Bach’s Tocatta soared through my ears as my mind conjured the sounds emanating from each movement on the strings. Then I imagined my ring finger hitting twelve D and wanted to scream.

  “Grrrr. Even my mind can’t remember I’m missing a finger.”

  I sighed and squeezed my eyes shut. Reconciling the loss of my finger even in my mind was much more difficult than I would have ever thought. This piece was particularly troubling. I couldn’t decide whether to compensate with my pinky or middle finger. In some spots, like in the first bar, the stretch proved too much for my pinky. With no way to get there in time, my middle finger made for a better solution.