Page 67 of Whiskey Lullaby
“Sure,Pops.”
“Your check is on the counter,Noah.”
“Thanks,John.”
He gave me a fleeting glance, then made his way to histruck.
“Guess we’re done,” Bosaid.
The engine to John’s old truck fired up and we grabbed the tools. John pulled off, Sampson chasing down the driveway after him. We propped the tools against the shed, then headedinside.
It was always so quiet in their house. Clean and put together. I grabbed the check from the kitchentable.
The floor behind me creaked and Bo glanced up. “Momma, youokay?”
“I’mfine.”
I spun around and Claire was standing in the doorway, holding onto the frame. Her skin had a yellowish tint to it. And even though purple rings surrounded her eyes, I could see Hannah. The petite nose. The cupid’s bow of her lip. Her deep brown eyes. God, it hurt because that was Hannah’s heart rightthere.
“Hi, Mrs. Blake,” Isaid.
“Hello, Noah.” She smiled before letting go of the doorframe. Bo hurried across the kitchen, grabbing her elbow. “I’m fine,” she said and headed down thehall.
“Momma…”
“I’m fine. I just want to play mypiano.”
Bo started after her. “Do you feellike—”
“Please… please!” Her voice shook. “If I’m going to die, I want to at least pretend I’mnot.”
Bo’s shouldersfell.
“Noah, I hope you don’t mind, but I have a favor to askyou.”
“Sure…” I didn’t know what she could want from me, but I’d have done anything sheasked.
I followed her to the living room where she took a seat at the piano and immediately began flipping through sheet music. “This was one of Hannah’s favorites to play for me,” she said when she placed the open book on the music rack. She placed her fingers over the ivory keys and a tragically beautiful melody followed. “Do you know this song,Noah?”
With closed eyes, I listened. I knew the song. It was one I’d played many times before. “Breathe” by Will Champlain. “Ido.”
“Hannah told me you had the most beautiful voice she’d ever heard,” she said. “I’d love for you to sing this for me.” She patted the spot on the bench next to her and I moved beside her, carefully taking aseat.
I was nervous for some reason. Terrified I’d fuck up and sing the wrong line. I never gave a shit if I messed up when I played at Tipsy’s. When I sang the second line, everything inside of me tensed. I was singing a song about dying to a dying woman. There was a slight shake to my voice and she placed one hand on my knee before going back to the keys. Halfway through, she stoppedplaying.
“I just want to hear yousing.”
So I sang the rest with my eyes closed. When I finished and opened my eyes, her hand was clutched to her chest. She slowly pushed up from the piano bench. “Thank you,” she whispered. “You have agift.”
“Thank you,ma’am.”
“Whenever she’s sad, sing that song to her and tell her I’m still with her.” She patted my arm on her way out of theroom.
I swallowed, my breath sticking like molasses in my throat. “Iwill.”
Moments like that, they’re why I pretended I didn’t have a heart. Sometimes, life hurt toomuch.
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