Lucy removed her reading glasses and watched Ellieโs thin,
thirteen-year-old fingers splay against the girlโs
too-flat stomach. โTry it,โ Lucy said.
โI donโt have much breath.โ
โI know.โ The confession drilled so much deeper than it
would have coming from any of Lucyโs other students. โPlease
try.โ
She watched as Ellie struggled to fill her scarred lungs
from the bottom without moving her upper chest or shoulders.
The girlโs hand moved an inch.
โNow, inhale and exhale without letting your hand move at all.โ
โI canโt.โ
Lucy tilted her head, eyebrows raised, wordlessly urging a
response from Ellie.
Ellie smiled. โTime to be brave? Braver than I feel?โ
โRight.โ Lucy traced the girlโs line of sight to one of the
dozens of motivational posters on the wall.
Be Brave.
Braver than you feel. Next to it,
Right or wrong,
blow it strong. Beside that one,
Practice doesnโt
make perfect. It makes possible. Lucyโs favorite,
Just so you know, dogs donโt eat music homework.
โDeep breath from the bottom of your lungs. Push your
abdomen out to allow air in. Hold it. Now two small breaths
in and out without moving your hand. There! You did it!โ
Ellie pressed her lips together but couldnโt stop the smile
that overrode her efforts. โI didnโt think I could.โ
โNow, letโs try that technique for these four measures.โ
Lucy pointed to the sheet on the music stand. โKeep that
expansion in your tummy, even though youโll have to breathe.
See if it doesnโt help you maintain that beautiful tone
youโve been working on.โ
The girl raised the silver flute to her pursed lips, a mix
of eagerness and skepticism on her face. She exaggerated the
movement of her abdomen, her striped shirt proving her
obedience, and played the specified measures. Ellieโs eyes
flashed her reaction before she lowered her flute. โThat,โ
she said, โwas awesome!โ
Tears tickled Lucyโs sinuses. โYes, it was.โ
โDoes that work with singing, too? Could I join choir next
year? Is there room for me?โ
Laughter poured out of Lucyโs mouth, but it originated in
her heart. โFour brilliant measures and youโre ready to
tackle singing, too?โ
As quickly as the laughter erupted, it died.
Her
choir? Next year?
โMy doctor says he owes you.โ Ellieโs flute lay in her lap,
the thin fingers cradling it. She stifled most of a cough.
โHe says he never would have thought of music as cystic
fibrosis therapy.โ
I never thought my first chair flutist would muscle
through CF to keep playing. โIโm glad itโs helping.โ
โGDBD,โ she said, running her fingers over the instrument.
โGood days, bad days?โ
Ellie looked up. โDo you
text?โ Incredulity.
Lucy took no offense. Even at a few months shy of fifty-six,
she must have seemed ancient to a thirteen-year-old. Despite
her sassy haircut. And artsy earrings, thanks to Aniaโs
jewelry-making skills.
โIs today a good day, Ellie?โ
The girl lifted her flute then pointed to the line of notes
on the page, as a pool player might point to the pocket
where she intended the eight ball to land. โMrs. Tuttle, any
day Iโm breathing is a considered a good day.โ She inhaled
without moving her shoulders and played the measures as if
running a victory lap. Which she would likely never do. Run.
Lucy was three hours away from another school-board
budget-cut meeting. Could she keep breathing? The discussion
had crept too close to destroying scenes like this one with
Ellie. Only Lucyโs dogged sense of propriety had kept her
from storming the school boardโs line of tables and chairs
last time. If it crept much closer...
Lucy turned her attention back to her admiration for a
thirteen-year-oldโs breathless ability to muscle through.
###
When Ellieโs smile left the room, Lucy retreated to her
cramped office at the end of the line of three small
practice rooms. She stared at the screen of her laptop, open
to her calendar. The school day was over, but her list of
duties hadnโt shrunk. Spring concert next week. She needed
to sneak in another announcement for the Woodbridge radio
station and create another mass text message for the parents
and grandparents who paid more attention to texts than they
did the schoolโs weekly newsletter.
Charlie said heโd eat at Bernieโs tonight. She could work
straight through until the budget-cut meeting if she wanted.
Heโd meet her there. Why couldnโt he be the one to speak up
in a public forum? Why did he slip into itโll-all-work-out
mode when her life stood in the crosshairs? So much for
knight on a white horse. But he would be there. She didnโt
have to wonder if heโd show up.
She needed a new office chair. One that didnโt groan when
she moved. Or was that sound coming from her soul?
Two hours later she pushed away from her desk and closed the
lid of her laptop. She shouldnโt head into the meeting with
an empty stomach. But it might be
emptied by the
outcome of the gathering, barring divine intervention. So
she had no clear choice.
Divine intervention. Nothing short would move a woman like
Evelyn Schindler, who approached budget cuts with the
ruthlessness of a self-guided chain saw.
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