Credit: Emrah Elmasli

His keys dropped, rattling on the parquet floor. Julius stared at them, unwilling to look at the bandaged stump where two weeks ago his left hand had been. He should be used to it by now. He should not still be trying to pass things from his right hand to his left. But it still felt as if his hand were there.

The shaking began again, a tremelo building in his hand and knees. Julius pressed his right hand — his only hand — against his mouth so he did not vomit on the floor. Reaching for calm, he imagined playing through Belparda’s Étude no. 1. It focussed on bowing, on the right hand. Forget the left. When he was eight, Julius had learned it on a cello as big as he had been. The remembered bounce of the bow against the strings pulsed in his right hand. Don’t think about the fingering.

“Jules, are you all right?”

Cheri’s voice startled him. He hadn’t heard the door open.

Lowering his hand, Julius opened his eyes. His wife stood silhouetted in the light from their apartment. Her hair hung in loose tendrils around her face, bleached almost colourless by the backlight.

He snatched his keys off the floor. “I’m fine.” Julius leaned forward to kiss her before she could notice his shaking, but Cheri turned her head and put a hand to her mouth.

“No. Sorry. I — I was just sick.” A sheen of sweat coated her upper lip. Julius slid his good arm around her and pulled her to him.

“I’m sorry. The baby?” This close, her lilac perfume mixed with the sour scent of vomit.

His phantom hand twitched.

She half-laughed and pressed her head into his shoulder. “Every time I throw up, I think that at least it means I’m still pregnant.”

“You’ll keep this one.”

She sighed as if he had given her a gift.

“Maybe. Two months, tomorrow.”

“See.” He brushed her hair with his lips.

“Oh...” Some of the tension came back to her shoulders.

“Your agent called.”

Julius stiffened. His agent. How long would a one-handed cellist be of interest? “What did Leonard say?”

“He wants to talk to you. Didn’t say why.”

Cheri drifted away and began obsessively straightening the magazines on the bureau in the foyer.

Julius let her. He had given up telling her that the accident had not been her fault. They both knew he would not have taken the tour if Cheri had not insisted. He would have stayed in the hotel, practicing for a concert he never gave.

He tossed his keys on the bureau. “Well. Maybe he’s booked
a talk show for me.”