Harford motioned to a nurse to come fetch the girl, but I held up my hand. “No wait, please. Just one more song.”

32

Inside every quiet person is something very big, and whoever has the patience to gently coax it out will be rewarded with its splendid display of beauty.

~Vivienne Mourdant

I was on the cusp of something. The door had cracked open, and I needed to ease it wider. “Wheel her closer. I’d like her near so she can feel the rhythm.”

Harford complied, bringing the girl to a stop directly next to me, facing the instrument. Fingers poised above the ivories, I took a moment to decide what I should play while the girl continued to stare at me, her pert little face intense as if compelling me to do or say something specific.

It flustered me. I couldn’t think.

Then she grunted out a noise to go with her stare, imploring me. Directing. She gripped the arms of her chair and rocked forward and back, harder and harder with building frustration that had nowhere to go. Violet’s groans increased with the force of her rocking, echoing about the empty space, and her distress infected the atmosphere, unsettling the others. Patients shifted on their chairs, whimpering and crying.

As aids flurried, I latched on to the beat of her rocking—even in distress, there was an internal rhythm, a tempo. I splayed my fingers over those keys and pounded out a quick-tempoed minuet, matching Violet’s movements, honoring her natural rhythm. The song overtook the room, drowning out the rising chaos.

Even Violet latched on to the song and its beat. Her cries faded to pants, and soon her rocking grew controlled, almost productive, driven by the song rather than frustration. Her eyes were wide, but her jaw more relaxed. I stole little glances as I played, letting my hands find their way, and the tension began to crumble from her rocking body. Layers peeled away before my eyes, and I glimpsed the inner workings of God’s creation—a heartbeat and pattern that tied everything together. An expression of his sense of order and creativity placed within humans—even the ones who were deemed lost in all other ways.

Even these, God. Even these people have at their core a rhythm, a natural pull toward order and beauty. Music beat an instinctual tempo in every human, trapped or free, broken or whole, lost or found.

Dr. Turner rushed in behind two aids who’d summoned him, but hovered near the doorway, gaze locked on his patient in a way that was protective. Alert. He glanced at me, then at her. She had stopped rocking and now only her hands fidgeted, endlessly moving here and there. I wasn’t sure if that was an improvement or a backsliding.