Sing

CHAPTER 4.

MONICA

Another nurse came at the 2am shift change to kick me out. She took Jonathan’s blood pressure and tapped on the computer. This happened every night, as if he didn’t need a full night’s rest. I slid off the bed, kissed him goodbye and left.

My studio time started at 11am, and I wanted to be fresh. I tried to pick up another hour of sleep, but succeeded in two things. Worrying about Jonathan’s arrhythmia, which would postpone his graft yet again, and thinking of new ways to add percussion to Collared, which needed some kind of thump with the stringed hum.

So freshness was a fail, but punctuality didn’t have to be. I decided to conserve the gas in the car by getting ready early and taking the bus to the studio. This would have been considered a major faux pas, unheard of, even shocking by most of my friends. One simply didn’t take the bus.

But it was a straight shot across Sunset, and I found looking out the window while someone else drove meditative enough to make it worth my while, and it wasn’t rush hour, so I wouldn’t be late. I didn’t need to bring anything but my vocal chords and my viola, so I didn’t need to lug instruments in the trunk. Just me, and my thoughts, and Los Angeles lumbering by my window.

I was imagining Jonathan naked, and tapping my thumb to a song without words, the tempo an expression of his curves and edges, the notes colored by the flavors of his skin, the dynamics became his voice when he commanded me for his pleasure. My mind curled into itself, conjuring a song from his body as the bus lurched and heaved to its own time, drawing me to a state of melancholy contentment.

The phone rang. I considered letting it vibrate my hip until it went to voice mail, but it kept ringing, and the protective coil around my song shattered, leaving me with the music, but not the mood. Might as well answer.

It was Margie. Up until the day before, I didn’t know if she was calling about my contract with Carnival, or Jonathan. I spoke to her more than I spoke to myself.

“Hi,” I said.

“Where are you?”

“Santa Monica and Canon.”

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was taut. “Did you guys discuss you not coming or something?”

“No?” I sat upright. “What’s going on?”

“He’s in surgery today and I thought you might want to be here when he got out. Unless something changed with you two.”

“No!”

Fuck. I rang the bell to get off at the next stop. If I picked up a connection, I could make it in an hour.

“What was that?” Margie asked. “Are you on the bus?”

I anticipated a full-on shitstorm. In my haste to get off the bus, I dropped the viola case and it popped open next to the driver, who yelled at me, leaving me to scramble to get it together before it got stepped on, while the phone was pressed between my jaw and shoulder. I didn’t have a free hand to pick it up, so I had to listen to Margie have a fit over my location and circumstance, which irritated me enough to shoot back at her. “Parking is fifteen dollars and it’s permit parking on the street over there at this hour and I don’t need to blow gas money when the bus is fine.”

The bus dumped me in front of the Beverly Hills Police station. I headed across Santa Monica, scuttling to make the light.

“Wait,” Margie said, and I immediately regretted blowing off steam at her. “Did you know about the graft or not?”

“I was on my way to the studio, but I can make it there in an hour if I get the Rapid at Beverly.”

“Stay where you are. Lil is coming for you.”