Free One Night by Marsha Qualey Page B

dope. I quit playing classical for other reasons. I quit all that before I was using. It was a decision to quit. My decision.”
    “And why did you make that decision?”
    I laid a hand over my teacup, letting the moist warmth push against my palm. There were a hundred and one answers, of course, and I’d heard them all in countless chem-dep counseling sessions. It was exhaustion. Fear of failing. Fear of success. Giving in to the desire to take charge of my life after years of never once being in charge.
    “Kelly?” he prompted, his voice soft as fleece.
    I met his gaze. “I fell in love with different music.”
    “What sort of different music?”
    “We didn’t know, that’s just it; we felt like we were making it up. Jazz was a big part of it, and rock, certainly. Like I said, it felt like we were making it up. I didn’t know what it was, the music I was discovering, but it was wonderful, and enticing enough to make me walk away from all the contests and competitions and the guest spots with orchestras.” I saw his eyes dart away, and I reached for my water. “This is way more than you meant to hear. I’m sorry to go on so.”
    “No, keep going. I still don’t see why playing violin is so dangerous for you.”
    I narrowed my eyes and sharpened my stare. “It’s not like I can draw you a map, Tom. A life is not that simple.”
    “Neither are maps,” he said “So keep going, if you will.”
    “By the time I was fourteen, I was in a whole new world, meeting all sorts of musicians and artists and moving in their different circles. It was a huge change, because as much as I loved what I was doing and the music I was learning, and making, I was no longer Kelly Ray, rising classical star. I’m not sure I knew who I was.”
    “So you tried to be like the people around you.”
    “Some of the people. Yes, you might say that having lost my own identity, I borrowed theirs.”
    “Hip heroin-using jazz musician.”
    Maybe it was simple after all. Like a straight line from one place to the next. I nodded. “By the time I was sixteen, I was using pretty heavily.”
    He leaned forward. “But surely something you love, something you do so well, surely that should be part of…getting healthy.”
    “Successful recovery depends on breaking old patterns.”
    He rolled his eyes and sat back. “Sounds like a therapist’s line.”
    I leaned forward. The teacup tipped, and liquid sloshed and leeched through the paper tablecloth. “Ever been addicted to something, Prince Tom? Ever tried to quit and stay sober? It’s hard. It’s very hard.”
    “But to give up music? Can’t you even play by yourself?”
    “Playing with others, inventing something with other musicians, that was the thrill, Tom. And no audience, ever? What’s the point of that?” I lifted my left hand, curved the fingers around a phantom violin neck. “I can still feel the strings, feel them vibrating. I hear the music, feel what it’s like playing, making those sounds.” I curled the fingers into a tight fist; my nails dug into the skin. “And when I do, I also feel the dope. I miss the music, Tom, but it was part of a life I can’t live, maybe not ever again. So now I’m a delivery girl.”
    Someone’s heart—his or mine—was pounding loud and fast. Boom, boom, boom. He folded his hands on the table and studied them for a while. His eyes glanced up, looking past me, then they returned. “You said all of that as if you were saying it for the very first time.”
    Bingo, Tom, bingo. “I don’t talk about it much.”
    His eyes again scanned the background. I definitely must have been boring him if outside was so much more interesting. He pulled his gaze back. “I’m sorry to ask this, but could you tell me what—”
    Maybe it was his polite interest, or the weight of talking, but for some reason, I snapped. “No. I’m not going to tell you what it’s like to use heroin. People always want to know, people always want the sordid