Page 104 of And Still Her Voice
I closed my eyes to ward off one of the eminent headaches that had traveled with me since childhood. And now that I was pregnant and full of strange hormones, they’d practically taken up full-time residence.
“Yes, just give me a minute,” I said, thumbing my temples as if that had ever prevented the aura and then the blackness, like a curtain going down on the stage of my brain.
“Migraine?” Tommy asked.
I’d lost my ability to speak. I held up a finger, nodding would hurt too much. I felt nauseated.
“She gets them all the time.” I felt his soothing arm wrap around me.
“My wife used to get them, too,” Mr. Jones said. “Best thing for her was to be in a dark, quiet place.”
I wanted to resist and run, but the tiny lightning-like zigzags were flashing the warning across the back of my eyelids.
“Why don’t you rest over here for a bit?” I heard Mr. Jones say.
I pried open my eyes and my vision became limited to only what I could see through the shattered glass of my brain. I reached out for Tommy’s hand and he led me to what felt like a small sofa. As I lay down, I could hear the sound of the drapery rings scraping across the iron rods and then everything got darker.
“While she’s resting,” I heard Mr. Jones say, “I’ll show you the grounds outside.”
Their voices faded away and everything went black as pitch. But then, in the distance of my mind, a pinpoint of light appeared, slowly growing larger until a tiny bubble came floating up from somewhere deep down in the recesses of my being. And then, within the bubble like a snow globe, a brilliant golden piano sparkled onto center stage.
CHAPTER 39
Cleopatra
As Anna rests, I must break my promise to let her tell her own story, especially about her baby, but it’s only to fill in another breach in time. I can no longer remain silent.
With one eye open, I see Thomas returning from his tour outside with Mr. Jones. I call out to him as he tiptoes past, but it’s as if he’s gone tone deaf while taking in the grandeur of this home. So, throat cleared, I yell, “Thomas, darling, do you not hear me?” He continues to take in his surroundings as he scans the chamber room. “Thomas, darling, it’s me Phoebe, Anna’s Grandmother.”
He shudders, pivoting toward me, eyes wide as the two moons of Mars. “Anna, you’re up,” he says, narrowing his eyes, cocking his head.
“It’s me, Phoebe,” I respond. “Didn’t you simply adore the grounds outside? And, what about the hybrid orange-lemon tree?”
He nods slowly, understandably confused.
“Wesley grafted it,” I say, failing to mention his ashes are also buried under the tree. “Isn’t it all simply splendid?” Thomas is taken by the hand and led into what used to be the chamber room. “I remember how this room had become the center of everyone’s world, a place so many found solace, if only for an evening.”
“Anna, why do you sound weird?”
His hand is let go and her fingers trill across the surface of the polished dining room table. “Oh, the concerts we would have here. Through the table’s luster, one can almost see this home filled with all of the movers and shakers of Los Angeles. Right here where the dining table is once stood the most magnificent body of craftsmanship, all nine feet of the regal Steinway—Cleopatra, I’d named her.”
Thomas looks from me to the space where Cleopatra once stood.
“I remember the day Wesley surprised me with her,” I say, as the memory, muffled for years, plays out like a sonorous sweet melody. “I hadn’t owned one this grand ever. It was 1918 and I’d just returned from a year overseas touring Europe with the famous composer Charles Wakefield Cadman.”
“1918?” Thomas asks. “Charles Wakefield Cadman?”
“You know, “The Land of the Sky Blue Water.”Founder of the Hollywood Bowl. In any event, prior to that, during a break from the tour—a honeymoon, actually,” I say, tittering now as I remember, “after all, we were still newlyweds before I left. Oh, I do feel like I’m blushing. Darling, is my face red?”
“Not really. As a matter of fact, you look pale,” he says, staring at us now quite tentative, like he was on his first date—a date during which, by the way, I did excuse myself. After all, what grandmother wants to see their granddaughter naked with some naked fellow? During the last several years, I have tried to give them their space—to mind my own business—but it’s been a lifetime since I’ve visited my home and now as the scent from the gardenias fills the room as they soak in the shallow crystal dish I kept on the piano, I can see my golden-haired boy pushing up on his toes from underneath.
“Why do you sound so strange?” Thomas asks.
I hear the familiar creak of the kitchen door swinging open. “Oh, you’re awake,” Mr. Jones says, walking in from the kitchen holding out a glass of water.
“Yes, thank you, you’re such a dear,” I say as Mr. Jones sets a glass down on a coaster.
“I was just telling Thomas about the honeymoon and how this home came to be.”
