Page 11 of Over the Edge

Her home has always reminded me of a museum. Everything is from a time when things were built to last. Her walls are covered in old framed photographs. Some are of her from past performances. Others are from each of her three weddings. Scattered throughout are a few of her children and grandchildren who rarely visit. She’s never cared for them because she thinks they’re greedy and boring, and there’s nothing worse to Alina than being boring.

One of the first things I realized coming here as a kid was any question about these pictures would be answered with a story. Once I learned that, I used it to my advantage to prolong my visits. The alternative was going home, seeing if my mom came back when night inevitably came. Thinking about those times is bittersweet, back then I thought of her as my mom and not Lana. Alina’s has never been my home, but it’s never felt empty, not even when I’m the only one here. It’s too stuffed with old memories to let that happen.

That time talking about Alina’s weddings, after telling every detail down to the flowers in each bouquet she’d simply said, “I loved them all. That’s why.” Some part of me believed if that were true, maybe she had enough love to spare for me. I’m grateful it turned out to be true.

The sound of the piano pulls me back to the moment, followed by Alina’s voice. “Accompany her, dear boy?” she calls from where she’s getting Evelyn settled at her parlor grand piano, which is roughly a foot larger than a baby grand and has a fuller, richer sound.

It’s the first instrument I ever learned to play. I make sure to keep it tuned so I can accompany her during my visits, since Alina hasn’t been able to play it since her arthritis has made it impossible, but she still loves to sing. My old cello rests on a stand beside it, one that was suited for me when I was fourteen and about five inches shorter.

“Give me a minute to tune.” I move from the coffee table to retrieve my cello.

Evelyn nods in acknowledgement, already immersed in flipping through the age-yellowed sheet music of a German aria.

I rosin my bow, falling into muscle memory of the act. Everything is in good condition. I’ve played a few times since I arrived two weeks ago. Once ready, I pull out a stool and position the cello between my knees and bend my body to adjust to the size. Starting with the C and working my way through, adjusting the tension in the strings accordingly. In the background, Evelyn’s fingers skim along the keys, stopping and reviewing any areas of the song giving her trouble in a flurry of sound.

Ready, I look toward Evelyn and her eyes lock with mine. Holding. We’ve heard each other play before, so many times over the years that the moments blended together. But never like this.

“Alina, we’re ready for you,” I say, breaking the spell.

Alina’s teacup clinks as she places it on its saucer. She adjusts her silky shawl over her shoulders then takes her usual place in the hollow curve of the piano. A breath and a roll of her shoulders then Evelyn and I start, perfectly in sync.

We play three and a half measures before Alina’s velvety voice fills the room. I’ve heard this song a thousand times and can play it from memory without a second thought, but with Evelyn at the piano it sounds startlingly new.

She has a musicality that animates the song, she breathes through the rests, giving life to the respite between notes. It’s been years since I’ve heard her, but even back then she was talented. You couldn’t walk into a room and not stop to listen.

I used to go get water from the kitchen during band practice and she’d be at the piano in the living room. I’d watch, but she never noticed. She never looked up when she was playing, the instrument capturing her full attention. I thought it was a shameshe didn’t turn it into more than a hobby. She’s better than her brother ever was.

Playing together now has a natural give and take as we support Alina’s voice. It’s imperfect in parts. Evelyn plays a wrong note then I come in a beat too early. We've never played together. But when we weave together just right, it’s like we’re being carried together on the stream of sound.

The need to stay and the instinct to get up and leave crush against each other like I’m caught in a fault line. When I was in Fool’s Gambit, I lived for this moment when everyone on stage or in rehearsal fit together. I belonged in those moments with those people. It was undeniable. For the same reason I turned down Wesley’s invitation to go to LA, this moment with Evelyn makes me want to run.

I stay.

It’s one song, even if it’s sweet poison.

Evelyn catches me looking when I didn’t even realize that I was and something foreign pinches in my stomach. Her lips have parted and her face is flushed. Our eyes remain locked for another heartbeat before she breaks away.

Alina draws out the visit another hour after we finish the song. She brings out an old photo album, poring over old costumes and cast pictures. Evelyn drinks up the experience, indulging Alina to talk about her favorite times in Vienna and Milan.

It’s been an effort to urge them toward the door. I know if Evelyn stays any longer, Alina will invite her for dinner. We’re nearly done with the night, I just need to get Evelyn the rest of the way off the porch and headed home.

“This was the perfect welcome to town,” Evelyn says. “Thank you.”

“You haven’t seen the town. You’ve just been in this house humoring me. I stole your first night. Let me make it up to you,” Alina insists. There’s a dangerous glimmer in her eye that makes me certain generosity isn’t on her mind. “Garrett, take her into town tomorrow.”

“I can’t—” I start.

“You can. You have no plans. You’ve spent the last two weeks fixing the house. There’s no more to fix. If you wanted a new project, then I’d have to break something.” She wields each sentiment like a blade slashing through any hope of escape.

I’ve spent the last two weeks working to that end. I couldn’t stay still and have filled my hours with every project I could find. It’s part of the reason I came here instead of a regular vacation spot. I knew I could be practical and effective with my time. Still, I spent three days that first week in a dark room fighting migraines that hit me full force the moment I remembered the cases I was falling behind on. But because of my work on the house, I’m fresh out of reasons to say no to Alina’s proposal.

“Hasn’t stopped you before,” I mutter under my breath. There have been times in the past when I’ve let a month or two go by without visiting and a text will come through with a picture of a porch step that needs to be replaced or a gutter that’s been torn from the siding. Every time there are signs of suspicious methods. There are only so many times the siding can come loose from the house before it stops being a coincidence.

“There’s no better way to get to know a place than spending time with alocal.” Evelyn's voice is sweet but there’s something akin to Alina’s upturned scheming expression on her face.

“Ten a.m. I’ll meet you by the gazebo,” I say.

6

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