Page 20 of Tone Deaf
I manage to get the guitar situated on my lap, but then I have to wiggle it a bit so the fingers of my splinted left arm can reach the fretboard. Fortunately, the splint they gave me only covers my arm from my elbow to my wrist, otherwise this would be impossible. I try a few test strums—considering my soreness, the wires, and my splint, I’m not playing with finesse.
Still, every strum of a chord is such a sweet and simple sound that it evokes another set of aches—ones tied to emotions I’ve buried deep down that are fighting to rise to the surface. While I’m not ready to face them yet, the music still lightens my mood. I don’t feel as glum as I did even though I’m still sitting in a hospital bed alone.
I lightly strum my fingers across the strings, and remember the day Granddad gave the guitar to me. It was the day before my mum and I left for the states. I was ten—almost eleven at the time, and I never thought back then that it would be the last time I’d see that old man ever again. To this day, I miss the gruff bastard.
I begin playing the first song I learned on this guitar. Granddad taught it to me while we were on one of our camping trips out in the Bush. It starts off soft, and as I rack my memory for the lyrics, I try whispering the words.
So focused on what I’m playing, I don’t see Lyric standing in the doorway listening until the end of the song. Then I hear him walk inside the room and close the door.
“Hey wait a minute. I thought you were off duty a couple hours ago.”
“Yes, I was until another nurse called in sick. And since I was already here, the hospital authorized the double shift for me.”
“That sucks.”
“Meh. We are short staffed, but I will love the paycheck. Anyway, I’m the only one who doesn’t have family or a pet at home, so why not.” Lyric shrugs and then takes a seat next to the bed.
“Still sucks,” I echo my sentiment. “So you’ll be taking care of me instead of Veronica?”
“You have two for the price of one.” He winks. “Now enough about me. What’s the song about? It’s beautiful but sad.”
“It’s called The Dying Stockman—it’s an old Bush song. My granddad taught it to me when I was a kid.”
“Now that’s kind of cool to learn something so old,” he says with a smile and I can see the charming person behind his strict nursing persona.
“If my granddad heard that, he’d wrap his knuckles on top of your head and declare he wasn’t old.” I laugh, and so does Lyric.
“Hey, do you want me to call your grandfather for you? I’m sure he’d be happy to hear from you.” Lyric stands, but I shake my head.
“No. Sadly, he died seventeen years ago. But I miss him every day,” I admit, my heart aching at the loss all over again. Needing to change the subject before I end up crying like a baby, I ask, “What did Dante want to talk to you about?”
“Umm…” Lyric looks away. Wait. Is that a blush across his cheeks?
“Are you blushing?”
“No,” Lyric protests in a whisper. “I don’t know if I should say anything now. It’s not official yet.”
“Official? Hmm. Now you have to tell me,” I push, hoping he spills the secret.
Lyric leans in, a smile splitting his pretty face. “Dante wants to hire me.”
“For what?”
“As a full-time caregiver—Dante’s words.” Lyric chuckles. “They made it sound like I’m going to take care of toddlers.”
“Some of us do act like it at times,” I say with a laugh, then wince from the pain. “Laughing makes my face hurt.”
“Then stop.” Lyric giggles again. “I assume Dante wants to hire me to tend to you, but you seem like you’re doing good. So I asked them who I would be taking care of, and they said I’ll be available for the band,” he explains with a shrug. “Something about you boys get into way too much shit. But I’m still waiting on Dante to call me back—they need to get the okay from the record label.”
“Are you considering it?”
Lyric’s questioning gaze meets mine. “I’m still thinking about the offer. It’s a commitment.”
“It is,” I say earnestly.
“What kind of situations does your band get into that would need a medical personnel member on the tour?”
“You’d be surprised.” I stop to think about all the craziness that has happened in the past couple of years, and have to admit, “Maybe Dante’s right.” I strum my fingers across the strings, smiling.