Hope - Levy, Marc (web ebook reader .TXT) 📗

someday. And let’s suppose for a minute that she does wake up in some faraway future. What part of her will be brought back? Who will still be here for her? Ever ask yourself that? Did you ever stop to think of anyone else? Ever stop to think how terrifying these unanswered questions are for a father? Anyway,” he sighed, “so be it. It’s what she wants. All I can do is respect her wish. It’s her life, after all. We raise our children with love, knowing that one day they’ll leave us, and that we’ll have no choice but to let them go and make choices that we wouldn’t have made for them. The bittersweet proof that you’ve done your job as a parent, turning them into independent adults. At the same time, I can’t help but admit that I had thought that being an adult meant knowing what you want and what you believe in. Now, I have no idea what I want or believe.”

Sam fell silent, pausing for a moment. He felt awkward and drew Josh in for a hug.

“Thank you for giving her what I never could. Our love for Hope is the thing we share. So much love.”

Sam turned and started to walk away. He hadn’t even said goodbye.

“Don’t you want to stay?”

“No. She wouldn’t let me do that, either. She wants to be alone with you. It’s probably for the best. I’ll come back once it’s all over.”

As Hope’s father disappeared into the cab, Josh called out to him one last time.

“Sam,” he shouted. “The donation. Was that you?”

“It was Amelia.” Sam turned his face away. The car disappeared around the corner, and he was gone.

Josh climbed back up the stairs to the loft. Luke was already there, waiting for him in the armchair. Hope was lying on the bed, struggling to breathe, her lungs whistling with each sharp intake of breath.

Josh sat beside her. He took her hand in his and stroked her fingers, before turning to the window.

Through the glass, he gazed out over the red brick buildings in the neighborhood he and Hope had called home for a year now. Flashing red and blue lights flooded the deserted avenue, drawing closer and illuminating the entire room while the ambulance drew to a standstill at the foot of the building.

“Josh,” Hope whispered. “Don’t look. You don’t have to look. We don’t need to say anything. We never have.”

He leaned over her, kissing her pale, parted lips.

“It was a privilege to have known you, Joshy.” She smiled.

Those were her last words.

The next night, Luke went around to the loft, where he found Josh sitting in Hope’s armchair by the window.

The cherry blossom tree’s bare branches brushed the glass, and in the background, Simon and Garfunkel filled the lonely emptiness, the heavy absence of the person so loved.

MELODY

15

The crowd huddled together on the steps of Symphony Hall, unfazed by the rain that had been streaming down all evening. It was a full house.

They had flocked from New Hampshire and New York, Maryland, Rhode Island and Connecticut, and hooded figures a few feet away from the entrance were selling tickets for a fortune.

Cabs had been rolling by for hours now, stopping in front of the awning to deposit their passengers, before slinking off with nothing but a quiet whistle to indicate that they had ever been there.

So many bodies in so many elegant, exuberant outfits, some sensual, many titillating, women flitting by in the latest Iris van Herpen and Noa Raviv designs. John Twain, an anchor from one of the biggest online networks, rushed to interview the mayor and his wife as they glided across the hall.

Far from the clamoring crowds, Melly Barnett double-checked her makeup in the mirror as the stylist tucked her long hair into an updo, a little sliver of calm before the storm in the quiet peacefulness of her dressing room. Time to focus and get in the zone. She closed her eyes, laying her fingers on the hairdresser’s arm to practice the opening notes to “Young Dancers in the Moonlight.” Performing a piece by French composer Jules Matton demanded great talent and huge amounts of dexterity. Melly knew the audience would be unforgiving. A pianist of her caliber ran the gauntlet with each and every concert. The critics would be watching from the fifth row, where the acoustics were best. They were her real audience, and they would be expecting the finest performance. There was a knock at the door. George Rapoport, the director of the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra, was lurking in the doorway, afraid of disturbing her. He told her the doors had been shut and everyone had been seated.

Melly glanced at the flashing digital clock in the corner of the mirror.

“Just a few minutes until the curtain goes up,” the director said. “They’re waiting for you.”

Melly pushed back her chair and stood.

“Let’s surprise them by starting on schedule,” she replied as the stylist tugged at her dress one last time.

She followed the director down the corridor that led backstage, and, in one final attempt at subduing her stage fright, stopped for a moment to take in the hushed murmurs that swelled across the auditorium. She knew the fear would evaporate with her very first notes, once she had cut herself off from the world, once she had forgotten the eyes locked on her. Every time she prepared herself for stepping onto the stage, Melly wondered why she had chosen this path. She could have stuck to playing piano for her family, or chosen to keep to more modest gatherings, performing for people who would marvel at her ability without watching for the slightest misstep, a jumpy syncopation here, a clumsy articulation there. But fate had led her here. Or rather, her father had led her here, demanding nothing less than excellence from as early as she could remember. A