I reread the letter over and over all night. Parts I do not want to believe are true—especially the parts about my committing a crime and Nikki divorcing me, which are ideas that make me feel like smashing my fist against my forehead. What type of crime would put me in such a situation, and who would drop charges when I checked myself into a neural health facility? I can understand Nikki’s divorcing me because I was a bad husband, especially because, well, I was a bad husband. But I have a hard time believing I actually committed a crime that could result in such drastic legal measures. And yet Tiffany’s letter seems to explain so much—my mother’s taking down my wedding pictures, all the awful things Jake and Dad said about Nikki. If I am really divorced, everything my family has done to keep Nikki out of my memory would have been for my protection, especially since they are not optimistic enough to realize that I am not dead and therefore still have at least a shot at getting Nikki back, which I don’t have to tell you is the silver lining to the letter.
Of course, I cannot be sure about anything, since I have no memory of the past few years. Maybe Tiffany made up the story just to get me to perform in her dance competition. This is possible. I certainly would not have volunteered to be her partner, even if I am practicing being kind now. I realize that Tiffany’s letter might be a trick, but the possibility of communicating with Nikki is too good to chance—as it may be my last opportunity. Also, Tiffany’s mentioning God’s will seems to suggest that she understands what apart time is all about. It makes sense that Nikki would want me to take dancing lessons. She always wanted me to dance with her, but I never did. The thought of dancing with Nikki in the future is enough to make me accept that I will be missing the three Eagles games before the bye week, including the home game against Jacksonville. I think about how angry this will make my father, Jake, and maybe even Cliff, but then I think about the possibility of finally living out the happy ending to my movie—getting Nikki back—and the choice is obvious.
When the sun comes up, I open the window in the downstairs bathroom, burn the letter over the toilet, and flush the charred remains. Next, I run across Knight’s Park, jog around the Websters’ house, and knock on Tiffany’s door. She answers in a red silk nightgown, squinting at me. “Well?”
“When do we start training?” I ask.
“Are you ready to commit fully? Ready to give up everything—even Eagles football?”
I nod eagerly. “Only I can’t miss my therapy sessions on Fridays, because some judge will send me back to the bad place if I do, and then we won’t be able to win the competition.”
“I’ll be outside your house tomorrow at two o’clock,” Tiffany says, and then shuts the door.
The first floor of Tiffany’s in-law suite is a dance studio. All four walls are completely covered by full-length mirrors, and three have railings like you see ballerinas using. The floor is hardwood, like a pro-basketball court, only without any painted lines and with a lighter varnish. The ceiling is high, maybe thirty feet tall, and a spiral staircase in the corner leads to Tiffany’s apartment.
“I had this built when Tommy died,” Tiffany says. “I used the insurance money. Do you like my studio?”
I nod.
“Good, because it’s going to be home for the next month. Did you bring your photograph?”
I open the bag that Tiffany instructed me to bring and pull out my framed picture of Nikki; I show it to Tiffany, and then she walks over to the stereo system behind the spiral staircase. From an iron hook on the wall she removes a pair of headphones—the kind that cover your entire ears like earmuffs—and brings them to me. A very long cord is attached.
“Sit,” she says. I drop to the floor and sit with my legs crossed. “I’m going to play our song, the one we are going to dance to. It’s important that you feel a deep connection with this song. It needs to move you if it’s going to flow through your body. I’ve picked this song for a reason. It’s perfect for both of us, which you’ll soon see. When I put the headphones on you, I want you to stare into Nikki’s eyes. I want you to feel the song. Understand?”
“It’s not a song played by a soprano saxophonist, is it?” I ask, because Kenny G is my nemesis, as you know.
“No,” she says, and then places the headphones on my ears. My ears are enveloped in the padding. Wearing the headphones makes me feel as if I am alone in this large room, even though if I look up, Tiffany will be there. With the frame in my hands, I stare into Nikki’s eyes, and soon the song begins to play.
Piano notes—slow and sad.
Two voices taking turns singing.
Pain.
I know the song.
Tiffany was right. It is the perfect song for both of us.
The song builds, the voices become more emotional, and everything inside of my chest starts to hurt.
The words express exactly what I have felt since I was released from the bad place.
And by the chorus, I am sobbing, because the woman singing seems to feel exactly what I am feeling, and her words, and her emotion, and her voice …
The song ends with the same sad piano notes that began the number. I look up and realize that Tiffany has been watching me cry, and I begin to feel embarrassed. I set my photo of Nikki down on the floor and cover my face with my hands. “I’m sorry. Just give me a second.”
“It’s good that the song makes you cry, Pat. Now we just have to transform those tears into motion. You need to cry through your dancing? Understand?”
I do not understand, but I nod anyway.
My Movie’s Montage