Part 25 (2/2)

Haden is quiet for a moment. ”Can I use the word beautiful to describe music?”

”Yes, of course.” What an odd question.

”I can't think of another word for it.”

”That's okay. Music is hard for just about anyone to describe, let alone for someone who hasn't developed a musical vocabulary.”

”I'm not used to being at a loss for words.”

I believe him. This is the eleventh song I've played for him and he's stayed mostly silent during all of them-verbally anyway. I noticed that by the fifth song, the sphere of silence that normally surrounds Haden had started to wane. It was like when we sang together for the first time, and I heard a soft, resonating pulse of sound coming off him for the first time. And now with each musical number I played for him since then, his inner tone had grown ever so slightly. It is like no other inner song I'd ever experienced before.

”It might be easier to describe how it makes you feel.”

That hesitant, uncertain expression crosses his face. Has no one ever asked him to talk about his emotions before?

”Sad,” he says. ”It's a sad song. But optimistic, too.”

”Optimistic?”

I'd played him a song called ”I Will Follow You into the Dark” from the Death Cab for Cutie alb.u.m he'd picked out. It is a simple song, just a singer and a single guitar, but it seems to have had a strong impact on Haden. His inner tone beats twice as strong as before. It almost sounds hopeful.

”I don't know if optimistic is quite the right word. But it's about two lovers,” he says. ”Yes?” I nod.

”They've been together for a long time. They've seen many things and loved deeply. But she's about to die. And he's telling her not to cry or worry. Because she won't be alone. Because he'll follow her into the dark. He's telling her to have hope. Yes, that's the right word for it.”

”I guess so. But who would do that? It's kind of a ridiculous notion, don't you think? Can he really promise that he's going to die right after her so she won't be alone?”

”I think it's less about death and more about a willingness to follow someone into the unknown. For love.”

”Maybe.”

”Would you ever do something like that? If you loved someone enough, would you follow him into the dark?” He looks at me with those jade green eyes and, for the slightest of moments, I think I see dark amber fire rings dancing around his pupils.

My impulse is to look away, but I don't. ”No,” I say. ”I'm not a follower.”

”Hand in hand, then?”

I do look away now. ”I don't think I'm capable of loving anyone that much.” I turn my back on him and move to the stereo.

”Even if it was your destiny?”

I give a short laugh. ”Destiny? I don't believe in all that fate mumbo jumbo.”

”How can you not believe in fate?” His question sounds like he thinks I'm being blasphemous.

”I believe in goals, and working hard for what you want. And choices. I make my own path; n.o.body else chooses it for me.”

Haden's hopeful tone disappears. That sphere of silence returns, surrounding him and stretching to the corners of the booth. I can't stand it.

I remove the disk from the stereo, and look for a new one to replace it.

”What about to save the person you loved?” he asks.

”Maybe,” I say, thinking of my mom. I'd come here to save her- in a way. Well, to save her from losing her shop and her livelihood. But it had been my choice, in the end. ”Depends on the person, I guess.” I find the disk I'm looking for and put the new CD into the player. ”Let's try a modern song without lyrics this time. This is by one of my favorite bands, Stars of the Lid. Just concentrate on the music. Open yourself up to the emotion it evokes.” I press play and let the music fill the silence in the booth. ”It's a beautiful song, one of my favorite pieces of modern music, but it also reminds me of a discordant lullaby. Like something's broken or missing in the music-but in a very deliberate way.” My back is to Haden as the song plays, but I can feel his warm presence only inches away in the tight booth. The air grows heavy, hot, electric, and a new strain of notes fills the booth. But they're not coming from the stereo.

I turn to Haden. His lips are partly open. A red blush paints his pale yet olive cheeks. This new sound is coming off him. It's the sound that sorrow makes.

”What . . . what is the name of this song?” he asks, with a tremor in his voice.

”'Requiem for Dying Mothers.'”

He purses his lips. His nostrils flare. A wet sheen fills his eyes. ”Turn it off. Please. Just turn it off.”

”Okay.” I turn and hit the stop b.u.t.ton. When I look back, Haden is gone. The gla.s.s door to the booth swings shut and I see him heading out the front of the store.

I find Haden outside. He leans against a wood railing that overlooks the beach, his face buried in his arms.

When we drove to this store, it was the first time I'd glimpsed the ocean in my life. The first time I'd heard the song of the sea. It'd been mesmerizing even through the windows of Haden's car. Hearing it now, so close, mixed with tones of sorrow coming off Haden, it sounds like the ebb and flow of throbbing, raw pain. Like from a wound that can't be closed.

”Haden?”

”Go away. Please,” he says. ”Don't look at me.”

I ignore his request. ”Did something happen to your mother?” It's the most intrusive question I've ever asked him, but I have to ask it. The sound of his sorrow is too overwhelming not to. ”Did she die?”

”Yes,” he says softly. ”In my arms. She died in my arms. When I was seven.”

”I'm sorry.” Tears p.r.i.c.k at the backs of my eyes, as I can't help imagining myself in his place. ”I shouldn't have played that song. . . .” ”You didn't know,” he says into his arms, which cover his face. ”I try not to allow myself to think about her. But that song . . . it sounded like . . . felt like . . . I don't know how to describe it. It reminded me of how I felt when she died.” The tone that comes off him changes, warps from sorrow to something else. At first, I think it's helplessness. No, I'd almost say it sounds like shame. He stands up straight now, wiping the tears from his eyes with his s.h.i.+rtsleeve.

”You must think I'm disgusting.”

”For tearing up? No.” I reach toward his face, then stop, not sure what I was going to do. I place my hand on his shoulder instead. ”It's a perfectly human thing to do.”

His face reddens slightly. ”That's the problem,” he mumbles and places his hand over mine. His skin is hot, but it's a welcome warmth against the breeze, which carries in the salty cool air from the ocean. My arm tingles and I feel the hairs on my forearm stand on end as if with static electricity. Haden lets go of my hand. I look up at the darkening, cloudy sky. ”I think a storm is coming. Should we go?” ”Yes. I think that would be wise.” I head back to the store to gather my things from the booth, but as I look back at Haden before opening the door, I notice that it sounds like the storm is raging inside of him.

Haden parks behind Joe's red Porsche in my driveway. His car is so silent, I don't notice we've come to a stop until he clears his throat. ”Thanks for the ride,” I say, picking up my tote bag.

”Thank you for the education.”

”I'll send you some more songs tomorrow. We need to settle on something for the festival.”

”We?” he asks. ”So you'll do a duet with me?”

”Yes.” I open the door. He looks at me.

”Daphne, do you have plans tonight?”

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