Just Listen

"I don't have to." She picked up her pen again. "They're just to fill in the factual stuff, if I need it. But the personal history is all my memories. We're supposed to do it one year at a time." She nodded at the pad in front of her. On the top line, I could see she'd written eleven (11). There was nothing else on the page.

"Must be kind of weird," I said. "Thinking back, year by year."

"It's hard. Harder than I thought it would be." She opened a book by her elbow, flipping through the pages, then shut it. "I don't remember that much, for some reason."

I glanced over at her pots again, the sun spilling across them. On the other side of the window and across the street, the golf course was green and bright.

"You broke your arm," I said.

"What?"

"When you were eleven," I said. "You broke your arm. You fell off your bike. Remember?"

For a moment she just sat there. "That's right," she said finally, nodding. "God. Wasn't that, like, right after your birthday?"

"On my birthday," I told her. "You got back in your cast just in time for cake."

"I can't believe I forgot that," she said. She shook her head again, looking down at the paper before picking up her pen and clicking it open. Then she began to write, her script filling the top line. I started to mention Kirsten's movie, and how it had reminded me of this, but then I stopped myself. She'd already filled three lines and was still going; I didn't want to interrupt. So I backed out of the room and left her to it. When I passed by again an hour later, she was still going, and this time she didn't look up. She just kept writing.

Now as I turned away from the sink, I looked over at my mother, wondering if I asked her about what had happened on that day, my ninth birthday, just a month or two before her own mother died, what she would remember. The green, green grass, like Kirsten. That it happened just before my party, like me. Or, like Whitney, nothing at all, at least at first. So many versions of just one memory, and yet none of them were right or wrong. Instead, they were all pieces. Only when fitted together, edge to edge, could they even begin to tell the whole story.

"Get in."

I looked at Owen, raising one eyebrow. A minute earlier, I'd been walking across the Kopf's parking lot to my car, leaving yet another fashion-show rehearsal, when someone screeched into the space beside me. I'd looked over, startled, expecting to see a white kidnapper van. Instead, it was Owen in the Land Cruiser, already reaching over to push the passenger door open.

"Is this an abduction?" I asked.

He shook his head, gesturing impatiently with one hand for me to get in the car, while adjusting the stereo with the other. "Seriously," he said, as I slowly climbed into the seat. "You have got to hear this."

"Owen," I said, watching him continue to push buttons on the console, "how did you know I was here?"

"I didn't," he replied. "I was just up at that light, heading home, when I looked over and saw you. Check this out."

He reached for the volume knob, turning it up. A second later, a whooshing sound filled my ears, followed by what sounded like a violin, but at rapid speed, and electrified. The result was a noise that would have been unsettling at a normal volume. Cranked as it was, though, I felt the hairs on my neck stand on end.

"Great, right?" Owen said, gri

I could feel myself wincing even as I said—or yelled— "What is this?"

"They're called Melisma," he yelled back as there was a boom of bass, loud enough to shake my seat. Over at the next car, a woman loading her squirming toddler into a car seat glanced over at us. "It's a music project. These awesome string players, synthesized and blended with various world beats, influenced by—"

Then he said something else, which was drowned out by a sudden burst of rapid drumbeats. I watched his lips move until it subsided, picking back up as he said, "—really a collaborative thing, this whole new music initiative. Incredible, right?"

Before I could answer, there was a bang of cymbals, followed by a fizzing noise. Call it reflex, or self-preservation, or just common sense, but I just couldn't help myself: I pressed my palms over my ears.

Owen's eyes widened, and I realized what I'd done. As I dropped my hands, though, the song suddenly ended, so the sound of them hitting the seat on either side of me was incredibly loud. Especially compared to the awkward silence that followed.

"You did not," Owen said finally, his voice low, "just cover your ears. Did you?"

"It was an accident," I said. "I just—"

"That's serious." He reached forward, shaking his head, and turned down the CD. "I mean, it's one thing to listen and respectfully disagree. But to shut it out entirely, and not even give it a chance—"

"I gave it a chance!" I said.

"You call that a chance?" he asked. "That was five seconds."

"It was long enough to form an opinion," I said.

"Which was?"

"I covered my ears," I told him. "What do you think?"

He started to say something, then stopped, shaking his head. Beside us, the woman in the minivan was now backing out. I watched her slide past his window. "Melisma," Owen said after a moment, "is i

"If by textured you mean unlistenable," I said quietly, "then I agree."

"I-Lang!" he said, pointing at me. I shrugged. "I can't believe you're saying that! This is the perfect marriage of instrument and technology! It's unlike anything anyone's ever done before! It sounds incredible!"

"Maybe in the car wash," I muttered.

He'd drawn in another breath, to continue this rant, but now he let it out, one big whoosh, then turned his head to look at me. "What did you just say?"

Like covering my ears, this had happened without my really realizing it. There had been a time when I was painfully aware of everything I said or did around Owen. The fact that this was no longer the case was either good or very bad. Judging by the look on his face—a mix of horrified and offended—I had a feeling it was probably the latter. At least right at this moment.

"I said…" I cleared my throat. "I said, maybe it sounds incredible in the car wash."

I could feel him staring at me, so I busied myself picking at the edge of my seat. Then he said, "Which means what?"

"You know what it means," I said.

"I truly do not. Enlighten me."

Of course he'd make me explain it. "Well," I said slowly, "you know, everything sounds better when you're driving through the car wash. It's just, like, a fact. Right?"

He didn't say anything, just stared at me.

"My point is," I said, clarifying, "it's not my thing. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have covered my ears; that was rude. But I just—"

"Which car wash?"

"What?"

"Which is this magical listening station, whereupon all musical worth is decided?"

I just looked at him. "Owen."

"Seriously, I want to know."