Page 98 of The Sound in Silence

A few minutes later, he’s pulling a needle from my arm, my hiss loud in the otherwise silent room. He’s probed my muscles and nerves and asked me a million questions about my cycle, which I’ve managed to answer most of them.

Irregular periods—even on the birth control pill, my cycle was only less sporadic than when not on it.

Hot flashes—since puberty. I’ve come to assume they were a part of my period, when I do have one.

He’s collected two vials of blood and caps them both off, wrapping them in a cloth which he places in his bag.

“Two because I’ll be running quite a few tests. Otherwise, everything else looks good.” He undoes the torniquet around my upper arm and dabs the small dot of red the needle left behind. “Band-Aid?”

I shake my head.

He drops a business card on the couch beside me. “Mr. Rossi has my number, but if you need or want to get a hold of me directly, call or text any time of the day.” He gathers his things and tips his head. “If that is all, goodbye and have a nice day. It was lovely to meet theFamiglia’s newest member.”

The moment he walks away, Carlotta appears from down the hallway, as though she was waiting nearby. She lets Dr. Rancott out and then offers, “Lunch? Build your sugars back up?”

* * *

Erico hasn’t been in contact all day, reminding me a lot of how marriage was at first. Sitting in the music room seems lonelier now than before. Without Erico’s visit, I’m playing for only myself and it’s more boring than it should be.

The last page in my notebook has a particular song I’ve poured endless hours into, writing it for Della and Nico’s wedding. It was supposed to be my gift to them because it was something Della and I grew up dreaming about, even when she adamantly refused to ever be married at all.

I didn’t sing it though. Didn’t even play it. The days leading up to the wedding, the dark clouds got grimmer and the realization of how stupid I am crashed down. Playing a song for my sister in front of all those people after the wedding planner spent days sourcing the best DJ. All those people watching. Judging. Singing was out, especially when I couldn’t even sing for myself.

Even before my interest in piano, I sang often. Everything and anything. Any little tune in a store, if I didn’t know the words, and sometimes, I’d invent the lyrics. After the accident, everything musical went away.

All the music notes in my life faded. Life isn’t a musical, so there was little point.

Considering singing, even when no one was around, was impossible. The single time I attempted, late at night, alone in my room, I couldn’t. My self-hating, dark hole was so deep, it felt impossible to drag myself out of.

‘Maybe you’re unable to sing to yourself because you lost faith in yourself. You feel like, after your mother’s death, there’s nothing else, but you’re wrong, Ariella. There’syou.’

Those words became her parting ones because Yasmine stood up, gave me a one-armed hug, and left my room of the medical centre.

Ironically, that became her final visit. Unknown to either of us at the time, because weeks later, everything with her father went down.

If I could learn to sing for myself again, perhaps I could sing for Erico.

I think he’d appreciate it. Maybe evenlikeit.

It’s something I could work toward. To sing for not only him, not only me, butus.

My phone vibrates, moving it an inch over the piano top, and I grab it quickly, heart hammering with hope it’s Erico’s deep, possessive rumble I’ll hear on the other end. Instead, the screen flashes with Dr. Rancott’s name. After he visited this morning, I imputed his number so I’d never lose it.

“Mrs. Rossi—Ariella, it’s Dr. Rancott,” he greets the second I answer. “I’m sorry to be calling you so soon, but I had a rush order put on a few tests this morning, on your bloodwork, and I received some distressing results.”

Ice freezes my nerves. Dread becomes everything I focus on, clinging to the kind doctor’s concerned tone.

Then he talks again, but my nerves are already ice. Which means, the only thing left is for them to shatter into thousands of pieces. Of sharp shards meant to stab, to protect myself from harm. But even wanting to do so is impossible when, in his next few statements, I lose everything.

Not only myself.

“Ariella…one of the tests was to check your follicle-stimulating hormone levels. They’re high. Higher than I’ve ever seen.”

He’s speaking literal science and I’m not following along, but Iknow. Without the definition, he’s already admitting something’s wrong with me. With myhormones. Hormones indicate a few things in a woman’s body, but the most prevalent—

I crumble. In the centre of the music room, with nothing to hold me up, my shaking knees drop me to the ground, right on top of the siren carpet.

“FSH is associated with women’s eggs production,” he continues hammering the life-changing news into my head. Like an ice pick—jab, jab, jab—in you go; sharp and meant to break apart ice until there’s nothing remaining. “The higher the trace of the hormone indicates a woman’s fertility chances. Matching your levels alongside some of the answers you provided about your cycle…”

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