The Violinist

by Purple Violet aka Heather

I ran my hand along the column of Avonlea videos, trying to decide which one to watch. Desparingly, I sighed. I had watched them all before. Watching was no longer good enough. My brother came up the stairs and laughed wickedly. "You. Are. Obsessed," he hissed. I shut the drawer with a bang and headed back to my bedroom to flip through my Road to Avonlea books. A better idea came to my mind as I caught sight of the bed. Dropping to my knees, I lifted the dust ruffle to reveal a long cardboard box decorated with roses.

I slid the box out from its hiding place and lifted the lid carefully. Inside was my "collection": tattered clipings from T.V. Guide and the Disney Channel Magazine, a turn of the century cap, the dress I had specially made as a copy of Felicity's gown in Heirs and Graces. She had copied it. Why couldn't I? I grinned and lifted it out, holding the silky garment to my body and admiring the crimson sheen. I opened the bottom drawer of my dresser and took out my old-fashioned petticoats, pantalets, and stockings, including my treasured chemise which was decorated with pale pink ribbons.

Within minutes, I was dancing around the room in the elegant frock, my hair pinned up beautifully after years of studying antique magazines. I put my Avonlea tape in the player--the one I had made by holding a microphone up to the speaker on the television set as my videos played and recording the lovely music. Suddenly, my parents and a strange woman burst into the room.

"Gracious Providence!" I exclaimed. "Mother, would you kindly knock before entering?" My father nodded sadly to the woman who came toward me, a needle poised in her hand. "Good Lord! What on Earth are you doing? Have you taken leave of your senses?" I was dimly aware of a coldness coming over me and the faint sight of my mother wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. When I awakened, I was tied to a bed in a gray room. It was gray. That's the only way to describe it. An odd smell of urine, such as one would detect in a convalescent hospital, wafted over and I wanted to throw up.

A young man appeared in the doorway with a fiddle under his arm and I sat up as well as I could, blinking rapidly. "Gus?" I whispered. The room was dark. It was difficult to make out the features of his face, but I could clearly see a shock of shiny black hair falling across his forehead and the shape of a violin case under his arm. He regarded me nervously.

"My name's Dean," he said.

"Gus," I repeated. "You've come for me at last."

"Nooo," he replied slowly. "I'm Dean. Would you like me to play for you?"

"Yes, yes, play." I nodded eagerly and sank back onto the bed. "Make that ruby ring of yours catch fire."

"I haven't got a--" he began, but instead he shook his head and lifted the violin to just under his chin, raised the bow, and began to coax sweet music from the strings. I hummed along until I couldn't stand it any more.

"She's like the swallow that flies so high," I sang with the fiddle. "She's like the river that never runs dry. She's like the sun shining on the lee shore--"

He stopped playing and stared at me, wide-eyed. "You know this song?" he asked.

"Of course I do. You've sung it to me dozens of times."

He started to stand up and back toward the door with the violin under his arm and the bow crossed awkwardly in his hand. "I have to leave now," he said softly.

"Gus!" I exclaimed, feeling a lump in my throat and tears welling in my eyes. "Please don't leave me here. You have to help me. Please don't go away." I searched his eyes, pleading with everything I had. He stopped and for a moment I believed he would stay.

"I have to go," he responded after a pause. "But I'll come back tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," I repeated. "No! I have to get out now!"

"I'll come tomorrow," he said, his voice growing fainter than before.

"Promise me!" I demanded, struggling from where I was bound. "Promise!"

"I promise."

"Oh, Gus. I know you'll keep your promise, but I have just one thing to ask you. Before you leave, could you please untie me? I can't bear being kept like this. Please?" He hesitated, standing stock-still, as if he were frightened. "Please?" I whispered.

"I--I can't do that."

"Don't be silly, Gus, of course you can. Just undo these buckles here. Please?" He set his violin down on a hard plastic chair near the door and approached me. Gingerly, he unfastened the straps and I sighed contentedly. He got up and walked toward the door again. "Don't forget your case," I called. I picked it up and held it out to him. He took it in his hand.

"Thank-you."

"You're welcome. I'll see you tomorrow."

He came back the next day, just as he'd said he would, but I had no reason to doubt it would happen. He was there every day that week to play his fiddle for me, and then he was there every day for two weeks after that. Mostly I talked and he listened, but sometimes he tried to tell me his name was Dean and not Gus. I told him all about Avonlea. He still wouldn't help me escape, though. Slowly, I became used to this and it wasn't so difficult to let him go each time. I hated the doctors. I didn't recognize any of them and they spoke so condescendingly, but the nurses were twice as bad. At night, I cried into my pillow, wondering if I would ever see my mother and father again. I even wanted to see my brother, despite his cruel comments about Avonlea.

One afternoon, three o'clock came and Gus wasn't there. I watched the second hand ticking around the clock next to my bed, allowing it to mesmerize me. He had never been this late before. Shoes squeaked in the hallway, beating a ceaseless rhythm, up and down the well-waxed floors, from room to room. They squeaked for hours until I finally fell asleep with salty rivulets on my cheeks. He hadn't come. When I woke up the next morning, there was a sweet scent near my head that nearly drowned the disgusting smell of the hospital. I opened my eyes slowly to see a vase of dark red roses with a card attached. I got up on my knees and took the envelope in my hand, quickly turning it over and ripping it open. Inside, these words were written:

"For you--Ruby red roses, roses red as blood."

I smiled. I knew they were from Gus. When he arrived that afternoon, he grinned shyly at the sight of the flowers on the table. "Thank-you for the roses, Gus," I said. "Where were you yesterday?"

"I'm sorry I couldn't come. I was playing in the orchestra."

"I missed you. Why didn't you tell me before?"

He looked ashamed and scuffed his foot into the floor. "I didn't want to upset you."

"Oh, Gus."

"My name is Dean," he insisted, sitting down beside me. "Will you please call me Dean? It would make me feel a lot better."

"But you're Gus. You're a sailor who plays the fiddle and lives in a lighthouse."

"No, I'm not. I'm a student who plays the violin and lives in an apartment. Please don't call me Gus." He took one of my hands in his and stared into my eyes. I almost stopped breathing. He had never done this before. Quickly, he dropped my hand as if it were a burning iron.

"How could you not know who you are?" I asked. "I've told you dozens of times. Have you completely lost your memory? Remember? You come from Natagassett Sound and you work at the lighthouse now."

Gus stared down the blanket, his eyes motionless. "No. I'm--I'm married to Felicity now."

"No...you--you never married Felicity!" I buried my face in my pillow so he couldn't see me cry.

"Oh, no, no," he began quickly. "I'm not married to Felicity. But Gus is."

"Why do you do this to me?" I asked. My words were muffled, coming from the pillow. "Why do you tease me like this every time I see you? I look forward to seeing you so much and then all you can do is pretend to be someone else."

Gus sighed, holding his head in one hand. "Look, why don't I just play for you now. What would you like to hear?"

"The song you played for the Lieutenant Governor's reception. You remember." He thought for a moment and began to play. When he finished, we sat silently for a few seconds before I said softly, "If you're not Gus, how did you know what I meant?"

"I've been watching the show."

"The show?"

"Yes. Avonlea."

"Avonlea. The dearest spot on God's green Earth," I recited, smiling. Gus laughed. "Yeah, I guess you could call it that."

Gus kept coming. He came and he came and he came, but I always stayed. Outside my window there was sunlight and there were green leaves There was a dogwood tree with white blossoms that softly touched the windowpane. In my room there were gray walls and white sheets and hard plastic chairs and blood-red roses that wilted and had to be taken away. But I kept one of them, dried and brittle, underneath my pillow. I had to hide it when the nurse changed the linen.

On a Saturday in late April, Gus stayed longer than usual and a nurse came and told him to leave. I flashed her a dirty look, but she insisted. "Don't be angry," Gus said gently, touching my hand. A shivery, thrilling spark ran up my arm from where he touched me and I nodded.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

In the morning, I opened my eyes to see him sitting beside me. He noticed that I was awake and joked, "Hi, it's Gus." I looked into his eyes sleepily, noticing for the first time that they were warm and brown, not sparkling and blue. Warm and brown.

"No," I whispered. "Your name is Dean."

Back to The Stories Page