Free Making a Comeback by Julie Blair

at Monterey. All my love, Teri.

    She put the card back in the envelope. Of course Teri would do this. She was the driving force—marketing, promoting, setting gigs, managing the million things so Liz could do one—compose. She had to make Teri’s final wish come true. “I’ll make you proud, sweetie.”
    She put on Teri’s T-shirt, washed too many times to have her scent. She took another pain pill and tried to sleep, but her mind wouldn’t stop cycling through everything she needed to get done. Midterms this week. A recital for her private students on Thursday. No time to work on the CD. Spring break next week. Could she get the songs chosen? Maybe start mixing them? She’d have to contact her sound engineer about his availability. The million things Teri did were now her responsibility. She finally wore herself out and sleep captured her.
    She woke snuggled up against—
    “Don’t get up yet.”
    Her heart flailed wildly at the injustice of it. Not Teri’s voice. Of course not.
    She needed a pain pill but instead closed her eyes and pulled Hannah’s arm tighter around her. Hannah had slept with her every night for weeks after Teri’s death. She’d forgotten how good it felt to be held. Her mind picked up where it had left off, listing all the things she needed to do this week.

Chapter Seven

    Liz checked her watch again. It looked wrong on her right wrist. So did the ring she’d had to force over the knuckle on her right ring finger. No way was she not wearing it. Their appointment was an hour ago. “Dad, the recital’s in an hour.”
    “You have no idea what I had to do to get us in to see him.” He crossed his arms.
    She covered her mouth as she yawned. A nap would have been heaven. She’d been barraged during her office hours with students needing help, which meant she couldn’t get midterms graded at school, which meant she’d been up late every night grading them. She’d lost track of how many phone calls she’d returned from parents nervous about the recital. And always the worry about her wrist. And the CD. And finding a drummer. The million things.
    “Mr. Randall?” A young woman with cats on her scrub top held a door open across the reception area.
    They followed her down a white-walled hallway. This wasn’t a hospital and they were just here for information. She knew logically that a broken wrist and leukemia were different, but her churning stomach didn’t. Specialists couldn’t always make things better.
    “Sit.” Dr. Russell, tall, with salt-and-pepper hair, stood from behind a large desk and gestured to two chairs. No smile. No handshake. A bookcase behind him was filled with books. Diplomas and certificates hung on the wall. Proof he was an expert.
    She sat in the chair, cast resting on her lap, flexing her puffy fingers. Did he know anything about being a musician?
    “I reviewed your medical records.” Dr. Russell typed and then angled the computer monitor toward them. “X-ray is useless beyond confirming the fracture. It can’t predict healing. Your break is close to the joint, which increases the risk it won’t heal properly. Surgery is your best option. It’s predictable.”
    Predictable. The word clattered around in her head. He was wrong. Nothing was predictable. She studied the X-ray, vaguely listening to the conversation between the doctor and her dad: open reduction internal fixation, volar plate; yes, there’s always the risk of infection but it’s slight; yes, compressive neuropathy is a rare complication. Her father knew the right questions to ask. That thin line of black across the end of the white bone. Such a tiny flaw. Surely the ends of the bone would knit together. She tried to imagine screws sticking out of it. Her stomach rolled and she pulled the cast against it. Treatment options. Risks. Odds. Her mother’s battle with a benign brain tumor. Teri’s with leukemia. Both lost in spite of the experts’ odds.
    “How soon can you do the surgery?”