Page 21 of Hunger

Her memories open.

I reach.

Jenny is there at once. The depth and clarity of these memories is different from the others. This is a teacher who paid attention to her student. Every memory is sharp.

Jenny at eighteen, auditioning. Sitting on a chair in a practice room with the violin against her shoulder, her face set and her dark hair pulled back. The first notes of a Bach partita. The shock on Dr. Reeves's face when she heard them.

Jenny at nineteen, in a recital hall on a Friday evening, playing the second movement of a Brahms concerto. The audience small but quiet. Her bow arm steady. Her face transformed by the work of it.

Jenny at twenty, in Dr. Reeves's office on a winter afternoon much like this one, her hands twisted in her lap.

I have to drop the lessons. I can't keep up with both.

Jenny. Drop the pre-med.

I can't drop the pre-med.

You can. You can. You can do this. I've been teaching for thirty years and I'm telling you. You can.

My father.

Your father has his own life. This is yours.

Dr. Reeves.

Jenny. Please. Please listen to me.

I can't.

The conversation goes on. Dr. Reeves did everything she could. She offered to call Jenny's father herself. She offered to write to the music school admissions office on Jenny's behalf. She offered private lessons through the summer for free. Jenny shook her head to all of it.

The next memory is Dr. Reeves in the same office a month later, sitting alone, looking at the empty chair across the desk and grieving the loss of a student who hadn't died.

I pull back from the feeding.

I lower Dr. Reeves gently against the back of her chair. Her head lolls to the side. Her eyes are half-closed. Her breath is shallow but steady.

I rise. I cross to the sink. I rinse my mouth at her faucet and dry my face on a dishtowel that has cats embroidered along the hem.

I look at her for a moment before I go.

She'll wake in an hour or two. She'll be cold. She won't remember the last hour. She'll have a wound on her neck that she won't be able to explain to her doctor. She'll be afraid for a long time.

I'm sorry for this. I'm not sorry enough to undo it.

I leave the way I came in. The back door clicks shut behind me. The kitchen light is still on over the sink. The kettle is sitting where she left it.

I walk to the van.

* * *

The music shop is on Sixteenth Street near the campus. It's a narrow storefront wedged between a sandwich place and a bicycle repair. The sign above the door reads JENSEN STRINGS in faded gold paint. The hours on the door say it closes at six on Mondays.

It's past nine. The shop is dark.

I park behind the building. I check the alley. The alley is empty. I let myself in through the back door, which gives even more easily than Dr. Reeves's did.

The shop inside is dim. The smell of varnish and rosin and the resin-soft scent of horsehair. Violins hang from pegs along the walls. Cases are stacked in the corners. The counter has a glass case with strings and shoulder rests and accessories.