“It’s the story that people like. Airhead girl exceeds expectations.” She grimaces and carries everyone’s bowls to the sink.
“It’s more than that. You—”
Priscilla grabs my arm and shakes her head at me. “Just leave it.”
I’m not sure why I should leave it, but I figure she knows Anna better than I do. Switching topics, I ask, “Do you want me to get your violin for you? You usually practice every day, right?”
She turns the water on and washes the dishes by hand, keeping her head bent over the sink. “That’s really nice of you, but no, thanks. I can’t practice here.”
Priscilla aims an impatient look at her sister. “Oh, come on, that’s an excuse if I ever heard one.”
“The piece isn’t coming along well. I don’t want anyone to hear me,” Anna says.
Priscilla makes a scoffing sound. “I’ve heard you play a million times.”
“I know. I just . . .” Anna doesn’t finish. She focuses on stacking the dishes on the dishrack and wiping down the stove and counter.
“You should play for Dad. He’d love that,” Priscilla says. “Actually, his birthday is coming soon. We should throw him a party, and you should play his favorite song. I’m going to tell him and see what he thinks. I know Mom will be excited. We can put him in his wheelchair and take him outside, too.”
Priscilla hops down from her barstool and disappears only to reappear on the baby monitor’s screen.
“What do you think about having a birthday party, Ba?” she asks, her words gentle, like she’s speaking to a baby. She sits next to him on the bed, picks up his hand, which is curled up in an uncomfortable-looking way, and massages it. “We’ll invite everyone over and cook—okay, probably cater—and Anna will play the violin for you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Their dad doesn’t respond.
“Wouldn’t you, Ba?” she presses him. “You’d like that, right? Ba? A birthday party? We’ll put you in your chair, and you can get around?”
Without opening his eyes, he makes the barest moan, and she beams.
“We’ll do it!” she says. “Did you guys hear that? Dad wants a party.”
Anna turns the baby monitor off and looks out at the nighttime darkness beyond the window, a deep frown on her face.
“You okay?” I ask, walking to her side.
“I don’t think I can play if there’s a party,” she says.
“You don’t want to?”
She flattens her hands against the granite counter and then fists them. “It’s not that. I do want to. It would be a good thing to do. I just don’t think I can.”
“Why not?”
“It’s complicated,” she says with a tight sigh.
“Complicated how?”
She glances at me for an instant before she looks down at her hands. “Over the past six months, I haven’t been able to make it all the way through a single piece. I play in circles, starting, making mistakes, returning to the beginning, making new mistakes, over and over. I can’t finish anything I start. Something in my brain isn’t right.”
“You can’t mess up . . . and just keep going?” I ask, reminded of that first night when she couldn’t finish the date with me because it started off wrong.
She sha
kes her head slowly. “I can’t.”
“Why, though?”
“People have expectations now. Because of that video. They think I’m a big deal,” she says.