OFF WITH HER HEAD

BRIELLE

I put the spoon back in the bowl and wipe the drool from my father’s chin. The doctor’s said his motor function should improve, but it’s been months since his stroke. The doctors can kiss my arse, because clearly they know nothing. The corner of his once proud mouth tips up in what the world might see as a grimace, but what I know is a smile. I smile back, and hope that none of the sadness in my heart is reflected in my eyes. Touma Kagawa was once a revered business man. Nothing held him back or got in the way of what he wanted, not boarders or foreign languages, or the word no. Now his mind and body both hold him back. And all because of a tiny blood clot in his brain.

My father purses his lips, as if he wants to tell me something but doesn’t know how to form the words. “What is it, Père?”

He pats the side of my face, and his eyes light up. Then he points to my mother who stands on tiptoes scrubbing the kitchen as she hums one of my original pieces. His mouth twists with his unusual smile when he looks at her.

“Maman?”

He nods resolutely, and I glance between my parents in confusion as he points to her and then to my face again. “I look like Maman?”

He smiles and rests his head back on the pillow, exhausted from his efforts to communicate.

“Merci, Père. Maman is very beautiful. If I shared only half her grace, I would consider myself a very lucky woman.”

He nods again, and I take the cloth and wipe away the drool on his chin, something that needs to be done constantly, or else his bedclothes will be soaked through.

“Get some rest now.” I lean forward and kiss his temple. “I’ll be back tomorrow to see you.”

Another resolute nod and he closes his eyes, but as I get up to leave, his hand brushes mine and I turn to look at him. He gives me a weak squeeze of my fingers and I squeeze his gently back, trying to hide how my heart plummets when I feel his frail, hollow-boned hand in mine.

I grab the half-eaten bowl of soup and join my mother in the kitchen.

“Sit down and eat, mon petit chou.”

“Non. I am not hungry, Maman.”

“At least take some home with you. I know you have no food in that tiny apartment.”

“I’m okay.”

“Brielle.”

“Fine. I will eat.” I don’t want to sit and eat my mother and father’s food, not because it isn’t good—Maman makes the best Tourin in all of France—but money is tighter here than it is for me. I give them as much as I can after my rent is taken out, but since Bastien had me fired from the orchestra, I no longer have a steady pay cheque. I have my students whom I teach, but those lessons are hardly enough to live on. Nowhere in this city will hire me, not without a lot of grovelling. And I refuse to get on my knees for a man who broke my heart.

I take the spoon Maman offers and dip it into the soup. The strong flavour of garlic rolls over my tongue and I smile because it’s just as I remembered from my grand-mère. “It’s good.”

“Of course it’s good. It’s mine.” She shrugs and chuckles at herself. I laugh too. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I set my spoon down and glance at it.

“Brielle, what is our rule at the table?”

“I know, Maman. It’ll just be a moment. I’m waiting to hear from Piaf.”

My mother grimaces and nods as if giving her approval.

“Please tell me you have good news,” I say in French, because even though my father insisted we speak English in his home, I still consider French my first language.

“I have the best news, but first, I want to know when you’re next buying me dinner?”

“That depends on when you’re getting me my next big break?”

“How about next month?”

“For dinner, or a job?”

“A job. Not just any job, the job.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, because I often find myself confused when talking to Piaf. She may be my closest friend and my booking agent, but most of our exchanges leave me with a headache. “Did Bastien get fired? Oh my God, am I back in the orchestra?”

“Okay, not the job, but a job.”

My heart sinks, but I play along because I know my friend, and she would not be this excited if it weren’t at least paying well. “I cannot stand the suspense anymore. Where am I playing, and what time?”

“Hotel Le Cap Estel.”

“I don’t know this hotel.”

“No, you wouldn’t, because it’s in Èze-Bord-de-Mer, and only the rich and famous go there to get married.”

I pull the phone from my ear and glare at it as if she could see me. “What are you saying?”

“Are you sitting down?”

“Yes,” I hiss impatiently. “Now tell me.”

“No you’re not. Go sit down.”

“Mon Dieu! Piaf, I am going to reach through this phone and strangle you. Just tell me already.”

“The lead singer of Taint saw your cover of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ on YouTube. He wants you to play his wedding, but Brielle, you have to sign a non-disclosure agreement that you will not tell anyone about the wedding, or the date, or where it will be.”

“Okay,” I say with a sigh. “Well, it was fun playing this little game, but April Fools’ isn’t for another three months.”

“Do not hang up on me. This is not a joke. I’m emailing the details of your flight now.” I frown, because I know Piaf likes to joke about these sorts of things—apparently my verging on poverty status is hysterical—but even she does not usually take it this far.

“You’re really serious?”

“Of course.”

“I can’t afford a flight right now, and I have students on weekends.”

“I already rescheduled your students. Everything is taken care of—the extra seat for your cello, your room, everything. His assistant booked you in first class, and you’ll be staying at the hotel the previous night, and the night of the wedding because get this ... you are the only musical entertainment they will have.” Piaf squeals so loud my ears start ringing. My stomach does cartwheels, and I take a deep breath so I won’t faint. “They even included five hundred euros for additional travel expenses and food.”

Piaf was right. I really should have sat down.

I lean against the wall and let it take my weight as I slide to the floor with my hand across my face. “How much are they paying me to play?”

“Five. Thousand. Euro.”

“What? Why?” Was he crazy? I frown. Surely there must be something wrong with these rockers. Perhaps they lost all of their brain cells while headbanging to their heavy metal music. “They could get any cellist in Europe for five hundred.”

“They could, but they want the best.”

“Well, I am that, but are you sure it was five thousand? Perhaps it was a misprint.” I can’t fathom why a complete stranger who has never heard me play live—and a rock star with no doubt hundreds of connections—would pay me five thousand euro to play at his wedding.

“They already paid in full. I’ve just transferred the money to your account.”

All the breath leaves my lungs in a rush. “I think I’m going to pass out.”

“Told you so,” she sing-songs. “Now, it’s black tie, obviously. So I’ll meet you at Printemps in thirty minutes and we can find you a dress, non?”

“I have a dress.”

“Yes, you have many dresses. That have all been worn, but Brie, you are playing a rock star’s wedding, George Clooney will likely be there.”

“George Clooney is married, and I hardly think he will notice what the cellist is wearing.”

“My point is, you are not married, and there will be many single and very rich men at this event.”

“My parents need this money more than I need a new dress.” I shake my head and get to my feet, pacing my parents’ living room, “Or a rich single man.”

“Oh, ma petite cacahuète, every woman needs a very rich man. Single or not.”

If I wasn’t still in shock about the five thousand euro, I might have agreed with her. I could use a rich man, preferably one who would die soon of old age and leave me all of his millions. And ugly. That point is imperative, because I am a sucker. Especially when it comes to the beautiful ones. I do not want to fall in love again, not ever. Love makes fools of us all. Love turns smart men into idiots, and strong women into doormats. I will be neither. I hope I never fall in love, for I cannot afford to lose my head. I like it exactly where it is, and no man will make me think otherwise.