Page 60 of Goodbye Days

And then he’s gone.

Jesmyn’s voice sounds distant from underneath the piano. “Okay. Wow me.”

I affect my horrible British accent. “But what to play? What shall I regale you with? The Mozart? Pah. The Beethoven? Poppycock. The…who’s another composer?”

“Bartók.” She’s giggling.

“The Bartók? Stuff and nonsense. No, I shall play you one of my own masterpieces—”

“Play already, you dingus!”

“Shhhhhhhh…one of my own masterpieces entitled ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’.”

She giggles. I play it haltingly, clumsily. I finish with a flourish, stand, and bow. She applauds.

I slide under the piano and lie next to her. “How was it?”

“Bravo, maestro.” She pats me on the chest. “It sounds amazing under here.” After a moment or two, she says in a quieter voice, “This reminds me of when Eli would play for me.”

The air between us is like when a heavy wind stops and the trees become still.

“Yeah,” I say, because I don’t know what else to.

“Did he ever play for y’all?” Jesmyn turns on her side toward me, her hands palms-together under her face.

I turn toward her and mirror her position. “Sometimes. But I assume he wasn’t trying to kiss any of us.” We give each other wistful half smiles.

“I’m still not okay,” Jesmyn says. “I’m better, but I’m not back to normal.”

“I was coming down from another panic attack when I called you the other day and wanted you to play for me.”

“You win. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. What a shitty contest to win.”

“I keep crying randomly,” Jesmyn says. “Like the other day my mom sent me to Kroger to buy eggs and I’m standing there in line and the line is really long so I start crying. I never used to cry about stuff.”

“Remember how I talked about having the goodbye day with Blake’s grandma? That’s tomorrow.”

“Wow,” she murmurs. “Are you nervous?”

“Yes. I talked to her last night and she’s got a plan, so I guess we’ll go with it. It’s hard to know how to honor someone’s life.”

“Yeah. You’re smart and sensitive, though—you’ll be fine.”

“I’m not that sensitive.”

“First of all, sensitivity is an awesome trait in men; and second of all, yes you are, and that’s okay. I was trying to give you a compliment.”

“Sorry. Compliment taken.” The “in men” part salves the part of my ego that was wounded over being thought overly sensitive.

“What time is it?”

I look at my phone. “Four-fifteen.”

“Crap. I got a student in a half hour.” Jesmyn slides out from under the piano and jumps to her feet. I follow.

She faces away from me and steps backward, gathering her long, thick hair and lifting it. “Dust me off.”