“No reason,” she says. “Now come on.” She stands and begins walking away.
If you’re fine with her making the decisions, go to section 808.
If you lie back down on the bench, go to section 815.
Your third afternoon at Community House, Irene—the redhead—invites you to come along with everybody to a movie.
In your mind you see a dark room full of people all sitting still, watching and listening. Your arms tighten up, and then you start shaking all over.
After a minute Irene says that maybe you should just stay here today.
If you insist on joining the outing, go to section 815.
If you’re fine with Irene making the decisions, go to section 822.
A couple evenings later you and a few others are in the living room watching TV. When the show ends, Irene gets up and turns off the set. Nobody objects.
“I’m going to read awhile,” she says. She crosses the room toward an armchair, pausing at the stereo to start up a CD.
The drums kick things off, and then comes the bass. A bottleneck guitar eases into some Delta blues.
You get shaky, and stand to leave.
“Wait a minute,” she tells you, looking concerned. She turns off the CD. She glances around the room at the others. “I think I need some tea. Come on.”
You follow her to the unoccupied kitchen. She runs water into the kettle. Not looking at you, she says, “Music. It’s a problem?”
You don’t feel entirely steady, so you slide into one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table.
She lights a burner and sets down the kettle. “Especially guitar.”
You let out the breath you’ve apparently been holding. “I used to play.”
She pulls out the adjacent chair and sits. “And then your hands got messed up.”
You nod. Though you don’t know whether she’s watching, because you’re staring at your lap, where your hands are holding each other. As well as they can.
You’ve had this conversation enough times, back when you were in the hospital, to know that next she’ll ask how that makes you feel. And then you’ll be having a Therapeutic Dialogue.
You wait, but for several seconds she doesn’t speak.
“That,” she finally says, “truly sucks.”
A minute later the kettle starts whistling, and she stands. You hear her open a cabinet.
“Damn. We’re out of green. Chamomile okay?”
If you wait silently for your tea and then carefully pick it up with your right hand, go to section 831.
If you look up and say, “Sure. Thanks,” go to section 845.
A week later there’s a trip to an art gallery.
You go along.
If, when you’re standing in a crowded room where everybody is attentively staring at the same big painting, your heart starts hammering and you have to leave, go to section 859.
If you don’t leave, go to section 870.
You’ve been at Community House for three months now. Sometimes you help Irene or the other staff with grocery shopping. Often with cooking. Lately you’ve been able to sit still while CDs play, and a few nights ago you realized that your right hand was fingerpicking along with an old Ry Cooder track. (Though at that realization you did have to leave the room, and for a couple of hours it felt like all the fingers you don’t have anymore were spasming in boiling water.)
But what surprises you the most, what truly astounds you, is that some of the other residents lately have been asking if they can talk with you. Have been asking your opinions about their stuff. As if it matters what you say.
This afternoon you’re sitting at the kitchen table with Irene, stuffing fundraising envelopes. The sun is warm on the back of your neck. Through a screen, birds arpeggiate.
“I’m going to a concert next week,” she says. “Some Canadian folksinger.” She positions a stamp at an envelope’s corner, presses it down with her thumb. “Come with me?”
“Sure,” you say. “Thanks.”
If you lift a fundraising letter from the pile and fold it precisely into thirds, giving the task absolutely all your attention and thinking hard about nothing else at all, go to section 884.
If there’s no way you’re going to let her drag you to that concert, go to section 896.
Could be worse, you think, sitting in the darkened room. The guy’s guitar playing is rudimentary, but his lyrics actually make sense. And he’s got an interesting, gravelly voice that he keeps sending out on surprising trajectories. It twists and soars until, sooner or later, it always ends up crashing back home.
Irene is working her usual nonchalance. But you’ve noticed her glancing your way every minute or two. You consider telling her that she can relax, that you’re doing fine. Then you feel the singer’s diminished chord echoed on your left hand’s own phantom fretboard, and you think maybe you’d better wait a bit and see what develops.
Now he’s introducing his next song, explaining that it’s about a man sailing away on a long expedition, leaving the woman he loves to await his return. “Couple months ago,” he says, “a guy came backstage after a show, looking really sad. And he told me how his girlfriend was about to leave for Europe for a year, and so he had to ask me about the traveler in my song: ‘Did he come back?’ And I told him, ‘Of course he came back! This isn’t a blues song!’ He seemed reassured.”
Everybody chuckles. Then, just as he leans forward and is about to start playing, you hear a soft voice.
“Sometimes they don’t come back.”
Two rows behind you sits a woman whose face you can’t quite make out in the darkness. You can’t be sure the comment came from her. But you think it’s Lisa Muroni. Paul’s wife, widow.
If you sink down into your seat and hope that Lisa doesn’t recognize you, go to section 898.
If you sit up and try to pay attention to the singer, figuring that somehow you owe that to Paul, go to section 901.
You’re sitting on the curb outside the club, watching cars and pedestrians. Two songs after the break you told Irene that you needed some air, but that she should stay for the final few tunes. After considering you for a few seconds, she nodded.
You’re thinking about people who go away. About the ones who never come back.
And about the ones who do. Even if it takes them a long, long time.
The show lets out. Irene lowers herself to the curb by your side, and helps you watch traffic. She passes you her open can of ginger ale. You take a sip and pass it back.
After a while there are no more pedestrians and not many cars. Irene stands.
“Let’s go back to the House,” she says.
You look up at her.
And ask, “What if I don’t?”
For a few seconds she squints at you.
And then, slowly, she nods. She hands you the empty soda can, as if presenting you an award.
“I guess that would be for you to find out.”
You reach out your left hand and take the can between your thumb and middle finger. The can wobbles in your uncertain grip, catching a glint from a nearby streetlamp. And in that glint, for just a second, your life takes a step back so you can get a really good look.
If you return with her to the House, and over the following days realize that helping other people is something you could learn to be good at—
If tonight’s show has left you wondering whether you could learn to play guitar left-handed or maybe pick up some different instrument, or take voice lessons, because you’re realizing that during these past couple years a lot of new songs have been growing in you—