Page 87 of His Sound
I didn’t think she noticed. We’ve never talked about it. I thought that when I started making myself invisible, I faded into the background for her too.
I only notice I’m crying when I start to speak. My voice comes out thick and cracked. “That’s life, though, isn’t it? Things happen, and they change you. I don’t blame you for doing what you had to do. All things considered, you did a pretty good job, Mom. You did areallygood job.”
Her shiny eyes are locked on mine. I know she can see herself reflected in them.
“I guess I must have done something right,” she whispers. “Justlookat you, Molly. You’re the bravest, most brightest thing I’ve ever seen. I’m so proud of you.”
“Thank you,” is all I can manage, before I really start to sob.
She scoots over and wraps her arms around me. I lean into her like I’m a kid again, and she leans into me like I’m all grown up. It’s in that moment that I realize I finally am. We cry together, with tears that are equally happy and sad. We cry for things lost and found. We cry for the past and we cry for the future. We cry for words that shouldn’t have been spoken, and for words that weren’t said enough.
When we stop crying, we smile, and I know everything is going to be all right.
“I want you to take that job, Molly.” Mom sniffles and unravels herself from me so she can wipe her eyes.
“That’s good.” I’m sniffling too. “Since I kind of already dropped out of all my courses at McGill...”
“Molly Myers!” She swats my leg. “Just promise me one thing, okay?”
“Of course.”
“If things don’t work out—If you get into trouble, you come to me, okay? I don’t want you to be afraid of me saying, ‘I told you so.’ I want to be sure you know I’m here to support you if things go wrong.”
I nod. “Okay. Thank you, Mom.”
She reaches for the plate of cookies still resting on the coffee table and offers it to me. We both take a bite out of sugar cookies covered in red and green sprinkles.
“You know,” Mom comments, “I always told you university was important because it would give you options. I want your life to be full of open doors, Molly. I didn’t want you to have to force the doors open like I did, but I think you have what it takes to open those doors for yourself. Going into real estate was one of the hardest, riskiest things I’ve ever done, but it’s been one of the most rewarding. So as much as it scares me to see you on the same kind of uncertain path, I’m going to do my best to trust it’s the right one for you. It just might take some adjusting, okay?”
I laugh and reach for another cookie. “Got it. Thank you for trusting me.”
I go to bed that night feeling more at peace than I have in months. I didn’t realize how much the prospect of telling Mom about Metro Records was weighing on me, pressing down on my chest and constricting my lungs. It’s like I can breathe fully now, expand myself to take in more air than before.
I wish I could say I felt the same easing in my heart, but it feels like it’s wrapped in elastic bands, always pinching and squeezing until I’m left with nothing but a tight and warped little knot where I used to swell with something I think might have bordered on love.
I really think I could have loved him.
I bought his Christmas present a few days before we went to Trois-Rivières. I saw it in the window of a pawn shop, and I knew it was perfect: a vintage brass harmonica from the forties, still with its original leather carry case. The delicate scrollwork engravings caught my eye even before I knew how old it was, and when the shopkeeper let me have a closer look and pointed out all the antique details that made it special, I couldn’t walk away without it. I also walked away with a very big dent in my bank account, but the look on JP’s face when he opened it and the sight of him raising it to his lips for the first time would be worth it.
Or at least, it would have been.
Matt said I changed JP for the better, but JP hasn’t tried to show me that himself. When I left him in the hotel room, a big part of me was expecting him to show up at the bus station, drag me out of the terminal just as I was stepping on board, kiss me senseless, and tell me he was ready to face his fears. I thought I could coax him into the right decision by giving him an ultimatum, but whatever held him back was stronger than the thought of letting me go.
I just wish he would talk to me. I know there’s something more than us at work here, that something is hurting him, and the thought of JP in pain is enough to make me feel hurt too. If he showed just a hint of turning in my direction, I’d run straight for him with flailing legs and arms, but when I asked him to trust me, all he did was take a step back.
I wonder where he’s sleeping right now, if he’s in his childhood bedroom too, staring up at a ceiling streaked with shadows he memorized as a kid. I wonder if his heart is wrapped up in elastic too. The pressure is so sharp, the pinching so painful, and I know that even with everything all wrong between us, just the sound of his voice would ease the tension.
I reach for my phone on my nightstand and pull up our text conversation. The last thing he sent me was a message letting me know he was on his way to the bus station in Montreal, followed by a photo of him with his duffel bag over his shoulder, covered by a filter that makes him look like a pirate. He’s a big fan of stupid photo filters.
I stare at his smirking face, obscured by a skull and crossbones eye patch, and before I can talk myself out of it, I hit the button to call him. It’s almost midnight now. The phone rings for so long I’m about to hang up, but then his voicemail comes on. It’s the same greeting as always. He rattles something off in French and then adds a quick sentence in English:
“You have reached Jean-Paul Marc Joseph Bouchard-Guindon, but if you are a sexy lady, you may call me JP. You may also leave me your number.Merci.”
Flirt, I think, as the long beep follows.
I realize then that I’m smiling.
“Um, hi.” My voice sounds breathy. “I, uh...”
I cradle the phone against my cheek, trying to figure out what to say, or how to explain why I’m calling in the first place. I’m not looking for answers. Part of me is mad thatI’mthe one calling, not him, but I need a moment.
One more moment of feeling close to someone who’s so very, very far.
“I’m just calling to say...”
I trail off and can’t help laughing to myself when I realize I’m literally quoting Serena Ryder right now. His name even fits perfectly into the chorus of ‘Calling to Say.’ I sing the words into the receiver, my voice warbling just above a whisper.
“I’m just calling to say merry Christmas. Merry, merry Christmas, JP.”
The message beep sounds again.
