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Show 14-8 such a way. And Andrew? Did he forget his own face when he spoke of pretty women? I glanced at him where he sat on the ground beside my chair. He leaned his forehead on his hand, the one still in bandages, and he looked out at the dark sky as Mother played. We were wrapped in the music and the heavy warmth of the night air, nuns, patients, Andrew, Father and I. The silence around the edges of the music deepened and darkened. I was lulled by the music as I was so often at home when Mother played me to sleep. I was no longer conscious of the music, just of the sound that held me. I almost slept. Then I heard the clapping and felt some of the men, Andrew among them, stand. I stood too and saw Mother standing by the piano and bowing, turning, smiling, bowing again. A few men whistled. One man who only had one arm, pounded his fist on the arm of his wheelchair. The concert was over. Mother stood by the piano to speak to the men and nurses crowded around her. Andrew patted me on the shoulder. "What'd I tell you? They loved her." He looked at her standing in the light, in her purple dress and braided hair curling around her head. "She sure can play. Can you play like that?" "No, I can't play at all." He suddenly hugged me to him. "I like you anyway." Suddenly I noticed one man standing at the back of the group around Mother. He made no move to speak to her until all the others had gone. Then as Mother turned to close the piano, he spoke her name. She looked up and then stopped, her hand still holding up the piano lid. He spoke again and then moved to help her. The man seemed whole, with no bandages or burns on his body. He moved easily without the stiffness that I had learned often came with pain. I wondered if he was a doctor although he was dressed like a patient. |