Page 128 of Fire

We both nod.

She begins by reviewing his family history. Focal dystonia can be hereditary, but given how difficult it is to diagnose, there would likely be no record of it.

“There is, however, a slight chance it could be passed down to your children,” she states after explaining some of the genetic elements.

My stomach does a full somersault when I see the way Hendrix smirks.

After the baby bomb, she begins to ask when he started noticing the symptoms. Like the nurse warned us, many of thesequestions are redundant, but neither of us minds. I appreciate her being thorough.

“Does it ever happen when you’re not playing?” she asks.

“Only when I’m plucking out a rhythm,” he says before explaining, “It’s something I do when I’m bored or nervous.” His fingers twitch on his thigh. “Kind of like now.”

She smiles and nods. “My son plays the cello, and he does the same thing.”

She asks a couple more questions. Does he experience any pain? What makes it worse? What does it feel like when it happens?

Then she moves on to the neurological part of the exam. She tests his reflexes and strength. She has him touch the tip of each finger to the tip of his nose. He passes it all with flying colors.

None of us expected anything otherwise.

“Now, for the part of the exam that is slightly out of the ordinary,” she says after typing a few notes.

“I’m guessing this is why I brought my bass?”

“Yes,” she confirms with a warm smile. “I’d like you to play something, preferably a piece you’ve played in the past when you’ve experienced these symptoms. We’ll have you run through it several times since repetition seems to trigger it. This will let me observe what the two of you have already seen.”

And allow her to make her final diagnosis.

“Okay,” Hendrix agrees. He reaches over and grabs the case while I stand to give him space to play. He’s methodical as he places the large black case on the exam table and lifts each latch. When he pulls out the acoustic bass, he handles it as if it’s precious, like it’s part of him.

I want to scream.

This isn’t fair.

You could be wrong, a tiny voice inside me whispers. It’s my final sliver of hope, and I hold on to it as he slides the strap overhis shoulder and takes his seat to perform what could be the most important show of his life.

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and starts to play.

I recognize the song almost immediately. It’s quickly become one of my favorite Manic at Midnight songs. It’s called “Someday,” and it’s a song Asher wrote for their latest album. It’s as beautiful as it is tragic, talking about how he’s so alone, but maybe someday it will all be worth it.

Hendrix plays the chorus perfectly on the first and second tries.

But it’s the third that his fingers stick, and the music comes to an abrupt halt. He stares at his hand and the way his fingers curl, as if they just betrayed him.

Dr. Deshmukh nods and jots down a few notes. She doesn’t say anything but asks him to play it again. He does, five more times. He’s only successful on two of the attempts.

“It’s not usually this bad,” he tells her. “I can get through a whole concert with maybe one mistake, if any.”

“You’re stressed,” she explains. “That, combined with the repetitions, is causing your symptoms to worsen.”

“So I’m guessing I failed that test?” he says after she tells him she’s seen enough, and he places it back in the case.

“It wasn’t a test, Hendrix, and you are a very talented musician,” she says.

“But for how much longer?”

She folds her hands in her lap and tilts her head in a way that’s all too familiar, because it’s the same expression I have just before I deliver bad news to one of my patients.