An unfortunate accident has sent Grace Reeves spiraling out of control. Having lost her voice, as well as her closest friends. , she returns home to recuperate. But as time passes, Grace's family grows concerned with the severity of her depression...
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I'm stepping into a pair of joggers when my phone starts ringing in the master suite. The cotton-blended fabric sticks to my damp skin. The showerhead is dripping behind me, and I make a mental note to fix that. I flick my fingers through my wet hair, then leave the bathroom, swiping my phone off the dresser.
It's April in New Orleans, so every window in the house is open to allow green-tinted sunlight indoors. The air is different here in the South. The molecules are more potent—denser, livelier, cleaner. This is the first day it hasn't rained in a while, and I'm taking full advantage of it, bringing the outdoors in. Grace hasn't left the house in nearly a month, so I'm hoping this will suffice.
Pops is certainly enjoying himself. I stand by the window, watching my father tend to the little herb garden he started on the porch of his guest home. He wipes his brow with the back of his hand, then sinks his fingers into the dirt, aerating it.
My phone buzzes in my hand. It's a Pennsylvania area code, but the number isn't one I recognize. Regardless, I swipe my thumb across the screen, holding it to my ear. "This is Payton."
"Hi, Payton," a female voice greets. "I'm Doctor Hillary Avalon, your wife's therapist."
Transferring Grace's doctors from Philadelphia to New Orleans was a simple task made arduous by the fact that Pops needed the same transition. For weeks, I've been submitting applications, vetting physicians, and requesting records. Given it's the offseason, I have more free time than I'm used to, and I'm happy to fill it by doing things for my loved ones. I've cancelled all my post-Super Bowl appearances. If someone wants to interview me, they either have to fly here, or settle for a Zoom meeting.
"Uh... Yeah, hi," I stammer, wiping the moisture from my chest. "Grace is downstairs. Would you like me to get her?"
"No, I called to speak with you," Hillary states. "Grace updated her patient card months ago, and listed you as her emergency contact."
I cross the room, standing by the threshold to listen. A dark melody floats up the stairs, blooming from the piano in the music room. Grace is still playing—it's all she ever does. "Is this an emergency?" I ask.
"No, no," Hillary assures me. "I wanted to speak with you regarding Grace. I'm concerned about her."
No, shit.
Grace doesn't eat, she doesn't sleep, she hardly moves. She just sits on the bench, her fingers flying over the keys. Sometimes, she falls asleep at the piano. In the beginning, I tried carrying her to bed, but any slight movement would wake her, and she'd demand to be put down. Now, I sleep on the settee beside the traitorous instrument, fading in and out as Grace performs for the ghosts in her mind.
