Emily O'Malley fiction
We sit in perfect rows. It The tuning stops when is only rehearsal, but there is no he reaches the raised platform friendly chatter among us, nothing that tells the audience he is better to suggest that this is not serious. To than us. There is no exchange of us, a rehearsal is just as important pleasantries – he might not even as a performance. Random notes know our names. Instead, he taps mix together in the air as we tune his baton on the edge of his stand our instruments, the cacophony to get our attention. We sit up weighing us down andpressing straighter, hold our instruments and us into our seats. Our bows drag bows in front of us like sword and across the strings in short bursts shield. until we find the right notes. “We’ll begin with The bitter smell of rosin is Beethoven, Symphony No. 9. The almost suffocating to an outsider, first movement. From the top.” but we are used to it by now. Our He raises his arms before bows slide soundlessly across the him, so we raise our weapons. The hunks of amber, nothing like flick of his wrist counts time. His touching the strings. It is always arms sweep wide, and we begin to uncomfortably silent when we rosin play. our bows at the same time, so we What was cacophony take turns, following an unspoken before is euphony now. Our notes order. Our lungs must be half-full mingle across sections, the boom of the sharply sweet residue floating of the cello dancing with the airy in the air among the dust. violin. There is no guessing; we Out walks our conductor, know where the right notes are. striding across the stage. When we Our fingers seem to move without perform, he takes his time, basks in any sort of command. The stage the audience’s gaze. Today though, grows small below as the music the seats are empty except for our carries us up, up, through the purses and jackets in the front row. rafters, the ceiling, the sky. We look Maybe he imagines those are his down from space, listening to the crowd, the shells of us watching music. the soft flesh within, waiting to pass “Natalia, please.” The judgment. We are no better than orchestra is silent, instruments insects. returned to a rest position. Only 62 one of us was still playing, but now, cushions begging her to sink into nobody is. The silence sounds worse them. She is never comfortable on than the tuning, and we are drilled this sofa, her foot always shaking down through our seats, the wood back and forth at the ankle as if of the stage, the cement of the she is running late for something. building’s foundation, and layers of Maybe rehearsal. Her discomfort is dirt. We reach the Earth’s burning, out of place among the dim lights churning core. and paintings of birds. Anyone in Our conductor swings his the orchestra would notice that her arms again, and we fly up again. He foot keeps time for the trickling throws us back and forth, up and water running over the rocks in the down with his baton. Our arms are little fountain next to the couch. tugged by strings, him controlling “So, Natalia, how are you them. The music sounds beautiful feeling this week?” he asks her. Dr. from up here. Phillips is only a little bit older than “Natalia. You need to pay Natalia, with a shock of brown hair attention.” We are silent again. and sneakers that rest comfortably Everyone stares at the offender, the flat, not trembling a foot above the one of us who plays even when the floor. swinging stops. “Not good,” I answer Then, we try again. The slowly. “I don’t feel like me.” He music forces us up, lifting us higher stares at Natalia, searching the space and higher. We are among the stars between the thick frames of her now, and they sparkle in time with glasses to find the two green irises the beat. It is – that blink like “vacancy” signs for “Natalia. Enough.” her soul. Rehearsal is over for one of us. “How about you elaborate,” The only sound is a clack of the he tells her. His smile is tight-lipped. metal buckles on the case as the Dr. Phillips taps the nib of his pen viola is packed away, a velvet cloth on his yellow legal pad, and Natalia draped over the strings before the adjusts her shaking foot to match instrument’s casket is sealed. the syncopated rhythm. She stands, holding the case, I have no idea what to say. its weight heavy in her grip. Before, “It’s just like I’m watching my own there was beauty in the way she held body, but I don’t think I’m inside it. her instrument; now, her arms hang The only thing I’m part of is – ” limp. As she walks across the stage, “The orchestra,” he down the steps, her footfalls set the finishes, jotting something down tempo. We begin again. just underneath where he wrote --- the date. “We’ve talked about this, Natalia has perfect posture Natalia. The episodes.” She only on the couch, despite the thick swings her ankle in response. Her 63 thoughts drift back to the orchestra, her fingers drape over the strings, where we all play together. Part of calluses finding their makers. There something larger. is no stage, only a bay window “What do you mean, ‘part overlooking the city street below. of something larger?’” Natalia must Streams of light peeking over the have said the thought aloud because rooftops across the street reveal the Dr. Phillips leans forward, elbows on powdered rosin drifting off her bow his knees. as it mingles with the dust in the air “I like playing with and the floating strands of fur from the orchestra. It makes me feel her cat. The little gray thing slinks connected to something,” I say around her ankle as she stands tall finally. Natalia avoids eye contact before the sheet music. with Dr. Phillips. Stares at the floor For a moment, her right instead. She never noticed the flecks forearm bears all the weight of the of pink and green in the blue carpet bow, suspended above the strings. before, but it reminds her of the Then, it swings and tugs. Horsehair time she snorkeled over a coral reef against metal. The note is deep with Jeremy. He had loved her then. and sweet, drawn out for several “I miss Jeremy,” I tell Dr. measures. She lets her finger wiggle Phillips. Natalia’s voice sounds flat back and forth, the vibrato adding as the words come out. She did emotion to the note. The changes better when she was in a couple. are slow at first, a finger or a string Connected to another person. Now, at a time, nothing drastic. she only has the orchestra. Faster. From whole notes to Dr. Phillips squints at eighth notes. Sixteenth notes. Her Natalia, then says, “I have an idea. entire body rocks back and forth What if you didn’t go to rehearsals on her heels as her fingers dance this week? Play on your own instead. from note to note, never falling Just you. Can you do that for me, behind. The ceiling melts away, Natalia?” and she floats into the apartment “Yes,” I say, even as the hole above her, where the old woman is grows deep in Natalia’s chest. She is cooking soup. It smells warm and nothing without the orchestra, but gentle against the sharpness of the what Dr. Phillips says goes. He keeps rosin that flies off the bow with her alive. each change in direction. Natalia --- leaves the soup to boil over while the Tension runs the length woman watches Wheel of Fortune, of her left bicep, mounts the peak the booming voice of Pat Sajak of her shoulder, inches along the tinny underneath the sound of curve of her neck until it reaches Beethoven. The roof of the building her chin. The spot on her wrist just disappears. below her thumb strains slightly as The buildings that loom 64 tall in the bay window shrink as the music carries her toward the clouds. A pigeon tries to perch on her bow, but the notes change too quickly for it to latch its claws around the wood. She is forced to move into a crescendo to push herself through a cloud, thick with rainwater. As the air thins, the music seems louder. She does not need to breathe, not if she keeps playing. Even the clouds get smaller, dwarfed by the stars that twinkle in time with the tempo. Heat draws her closer to the fiery corona of an unknown star. Her fingers barely touch the strings anymore. The music is coming from the hole in her chest. It propels her through the aura of plasma until she reaches the star’s core. We collide. A supernova. I stop playing, let my arms fall to my sides. Viola hangs from one hand, bow from the other. The notes tremble on the sheet as I let out a shaky breath. It has been so long since Natalia and I have been one and the same. The hole in her chest is gone, filled with me. With music. My aura is not plasma, but rosin, tart and thick in the air. When I look out the bay window, all I see is my hand pressed against the glass.
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