Perfect Rhythm

by Jae

Thankfully, her mother didn’t push.

  “Is Holly on baby-monitor duty tonight?” Leo asked.

  “No. Didn’t she mention it during the picnic? It’s my turn to keep an eye on him.”

  At least that meant she didn’t have to see Holly tonight. She walked past her mother to the stairs but then did a double take. Boy, her mother looked like shit. Constant worry had engraved lines on her face, and she moved as if she was bone-tired. Had she lost more weight recently, or had she looked like this for the past four weeks and Leo just hadn’t noticed?

  Damn. It hurt to admit it, but Holly had been right. Not about her spending time with Holly just so she could avoid dealing with her father. She honestly liked Holly and enjoyed every minute they spent together. But there was a kernel of truth in what she’d said. Leo had avoided dealing with her father—with both of her parents, really.

  Just one more week in Fair Oaks, then she’d be gone for good. At least for the next few years, if her track record held up.

  Just seven more days to prove Holly wrong.

  But it was hard. She opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again.

  “Yes?” her mother said. “What is it?”

  “I…” She licked her lips. Her gaze flicked to the stairs leading to her room. No. She squared her shoulders. “I can take over the night shift tonight, if you want.”

  Her mother stared at her as if she had said she were pregnant with triplets. “You…you want to…keep an eye on your father?”

  Leo shrugged as casually as possible, pretending it was no big deal, but she sensed that she wasn’t pulling it off. “Yeah. Why not?”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Yes,” Leo said, her voice wavering a little. “I think I do.”

  Her mother crossed the distance between them faster than Leo had thought her capable of. She threw her arms around Leo and squeezed tightly. “Thank you,” she whispered against her shoulder. “Thank you for trying.”

  Leo laughed shakily and held her for a moment. “Don’t thank me yet. Dad and I might end up killing each other, leaving you to deal with the bodies.”

  Her mother giggled, sounding giddy and nervous at the same time. “That’s a risk I’ll gladly take if only…”

  She didn’t finish her sentence, but the weight of her expectations settled heavily on Leo’s shoulders nonetheless.

  After another moment, they both let go and stepped back.

  Leo cleared her throat. “So, what do I do? On night shift, I mean.”

  “Thanks to his occupational therapist, your dad has gotten pretty good at handling most things himself. You’ll need to help him to the bathroom and back, but he can wash up by himself if you push him up to the sink.”

  Phew. At least that would spare them both some embarrassment. “That’s it?”

  “Make sure he brushes his teeth. That’s a little hard for him with his left hand.”

  “Okay.” I can do that. I think.

  “Oh, and take his blood sugar before he goes to sleep. Do you remember how?”

  Her father had suffered from diabetes all of his life, so Leo had watched him prick his finger and measure his blood sugar level a thousand times. She nodded. “What about the insulin?”

  “He’s got a pump now, so no more injections. Are you sure you want to do this? I could easily—”

  “No, it’s okay. You go get some rest. I’ll handle things down here.”

  “Are you sure?” her mother asked again.

  Leo forced a smile. “You know what I said about you having to deal with our bodies was a joke, right?”

  A faint smile ghosted across her mother’s tense face. “All right. I know you’ll take good care of him. Give me a minute to say good night, then he’s all yours.”

  It didn’t take long until she returned. She raised up on her tiptoes, kissed Leo’s cheek, and then climbed the stairs.

  Leo watched her take each step slowly, as if she either didn’t have enough energy to walk any faster or was still hesitant to leave her alone with him.

  When the bedroom door clicked closed behind her mother, Leo straightened and rubbed her damp palms against each other. All right. Now she had to put her money where her mouth was.

  Her legs felt like rubber as she walked toward her father’s room. God, she hadn’t been this nervous before her concert at Madison Square Garden. Calm down. It’s just your father. But that thought didn’t calm her nerves any more than the thought of a lion waiting behind that door would. She gave herself a mental kick and knocked.

  A grunt came from inside the room.

  She took it to mean “please come in” and opened the door. As she entered, she realized how little time she had spent in this room during the past four weeks—another indication that Holly had been right.

  Her father was in his wheelchair, in front of his stereo, flipping through a stack of CDs. He didn’t stop or look up when she came in.

  “Time for bed,” she said. Wow. That was weird. He had said the same to her a thousand times when she’d been a child. This role reversal would take some getting used to.

  He put the CDs down, turned, and craned his neck. “Um…Mom?”

  For a moment, she thought he was confusing her with his long-dead mother, but Holly had assured her that his memory wasn’t affected. He was asking for her mom, not his own.

  She walked over and swiveled his wheelchair so he was facing her. “Didn’t she tell you? I’ll be helping you tonight.”

  He glowered at her. “No.”

  Why did he have to make this so hard on her? She folded her arms across her chest. “It’s me or handling everything yourself. Mom needs some rest.”

  They faced each other in a silent stare-down.

  Knowing her father, they would still be here without either of them giving in when the sun rose, so Leo grabbed the handles of his wheelchair and pushed him toward the bathroom.

  He let out a growl. “Drunk.”

  She stopped. Her hands slid off the wheelchair handles. “What?”

  “Drunk,” he repeated more clearly and put his good hand on the wheel so she couldn’t keep pushing.

  Damn. That man was like a human alcohol detector. He’d been the same on prom night, when she had come home tipsy and babbling about kissing Ash. But that had been fourteen years ago. She was no longer that smitten girl, and she wasn’t drunk.

  She circled the wheelchair to glare at him. “Can you stop with the holier-than-thou attitude for once? I’m an adult, and all I had was one beer and a shot. Not all pop stars are alcoholics and drug addicts, you know?”

  He said nothing, but at least he took his hand off the wheel.

  She pushed him through the sliding door and into the bathroom. Her parents had used some of the money she had sent them to turn the half bath into a full bathroom with a walk-in shower, and she’d had a new sink installed shortly after returning home. It was lower than the old one, providing easy access from the wheelchair. The toilet seat was elevated, and safety handles covered the walls next to it, so he could get in and out of his wheelchair on his own.

  She parked his chair close to the toilet. “Um, do you want some help?”

  He firmly shook his head.

  “All right. I’ll be right outside. Call me when you’re done, and I’ll help you wash up.”

  “Stop,” he said before she could reach the door.

  She turned. “Yes?”

  “Stop,” he said again.

  “I did stop. I’m not doing a thing.”

  “Stop.” He gestured at the wheelchair in sweeping, impatient motions. “Put stop.”

  What the hell was he trying to tell her? Once again, they were staring at each other, unable to communicate. Story of my life.

  “Stop,” he repeated, nearly shouting now, as if speaking louder
would help her understand. He drummed his good hand against the armrest.

  Sweat started to pool along her spine. Was this how parents felt when their toddler threw a tantrum? She just hoped her mother didn’t hear this ruckus and hurry downstairs to make sure they weren’t really killing each other. “I don’t understand what…oh!”

  Shit. She had forgotten to set the brake on the wheelchair. With burning cheeks, she bent and did it. “Sorry,” she mumbled and ducked out of the bathroom as fast as possible.

  Outside, she buried her face in her hands. God. How did Holly do this every day? She, herself, sure as hell wasn’t cut out to be a nurse.

  No wonder her mother looked exhausted. Taking care of him three or four nights a week wasn’t any less stressful than a world tour with a concert every other day. She leaned against the wall and listened to the sounds drifting through the door, which she’d left ajar.

  The toilet flushed, then he groaned and she heard him shuffle across the tiles on one leg, probably dragging himself back into the wheelchair.

  “Do you need some help?” she called.

  “No,” he grunted out.

  A frustrated growl echoed through the tiled room.

  “Dad?” She peeked into the bathroom.

  He had somehow managed to get back into the wheelchair and to take off his shirt, but now he was struggling to unlock the brakes.

  She squeezed past him and unlocked them. Ignoring his scowl, she pushed him over to the sink and squeezed out a bit of toothpaste for him.

  He sent her a glare in the mirror before starting to brush his teeth. It looked like a chore with his left hand, and he took the toothbrush out of his mouth after less than a minute.

  “Three minutes,” she said. Again that feeling of role reversal swept over her. “Remember how you used to play a three-minute song for me when I was learning to brush my teeth on my own?” She hadn’t thought about it in many years.

  He stopped glaring. For a second, his expression softened; then he frowned and put the toothbrush back into his mouth.

  Finally, he was done.

  She waited while he washed his face and hands, and then she returned him to his room. This time, she even remembered to set the brake when she parked the wheelchair next to the bed.

  With a little help from her, he struggled out of his shorts, slid into bed, and exhaled, looking as relieved as Leo felt.

  Now she just had to take his blood sugar, and they’d be done. She got the blood sugar kit from his bedside table and unzipped it. The device was a new one, not the one she was familiar with from her teenage years, but she figured it would work the same.

  She inserted a test strip into the glucometer and watched its screen light up before setting it aside. Gently, she pressed the lancing device against the side of her father’s finger, where it was less sensitive. A leathery pad covered its tip, not quite like her thicker guitar calluses, but still very familiar. She had watched these hands play the violin and the piano more often than she could count. Now, he would likely never play again. Without warning, a wave of grief and compassion swept over her. She sat there, clutching his finger and biting her lip.

  “Press,” her father said.

  “Yeah, I know.” She pressed the button.

  The needle shot out and pricked his finger. He didn’t flinch.

  For a second, she stared at the drop of dark red blood on his fingertip before holding it against the test strip jutting out of the blood sugar device.

  They stared down at the small display.

  It seemed to take forever until the result popped up.

  “One hundred and seven.” She blew out a breath. That meant his blood sugar level was just fine, and she didn’t need to call her mother—or, worse, Holly—to ask for help.

  She wrapped the used test strip in a tissue, zipped the blood sugar kit up, and put it back on the bedside table. Everything was done now, but something inside her urged her not to go. Not without trying to talk to him.

  But when she turned back toward him, he had closed his eyes, either because he was exhausted or as a signal that he didn’t want to talk.

  Okay. She had tried her best. It obviously wasn’t meant to be.

  Really? a voice in her head piped up, sounding very much like Holly’s. You’re giving up this easily?

  She hovered at his bedside. “Dad?” she said quietly. “Can we talk?”

  He opened his eyes and waved at his head with a grimace.

  “Yeah, I know you can’t talk very well. But can you listen?”

  He sighed, pulled himself up a little with the use of the triangle dangling down from above his hospital bed, and gestured toward his wheelchair. “Seat.”

  Her heart pounded wildly, as if she were facing a firing squad, not merely her father. She plopped down into the wheelchair and sat there for quite some time, searching for the right words. After all these years, where should she start? Finally, she decided to keep it short because she didn’t have the nerve to draw this out. “I know you had my entire life mapped out before I could even talk—Juilliard, getting a bachelor of music, playing in a symphony, maybe marrying a fellow musician and raising the next generation of little Mozarts.”

  He gave her a look that clearly said “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with that,” she answered. “It’s a fine goal—but not for me. I’m not you, Dad. I’m not straight, and I’m not into classical music. I want different things. But just because they’re different doesn’t mean they’re worse than what you want for me. Can you accept that?”

  His eyebrows lowered. He reached out his good hand from beneath the thin sheet, gripped Leo’s left hand, and rasped his thumb over her fingertips. “Gentle,” he said with a dismissive shake of his head. “Uh, no.” He stared off to the side as he obviously searched for the right word. “Soft.”

  Leo looked down at their hands. Slowly, she zeroed in on her fingertips. The calluses on her fretting hand had gotten soft because she hadn’t played the guitar in the past four weeks. “Um, yeah, I’m taking a break from playing right now. What does that have to do with what I just said?”

  “Not…um, know…the…um, want.”

  Leo ran the words backward and forward to figure out what he meant. Finally, it clicked. “You mean I don’t know what I want?”

  He nodded firmly. “You, uh, know…you play.”

  “If I knew, I would play?”

  Another nod. He held her gaze, his chin raised in a silent challenge.

  Her first instinct was to argue with him or storm out. But that would be just more of the same—avoiding a serious conversation. As much as she hated to admit it, she knew, deep down, that he was right. She wasn’t playing her guitar anymore, because it was a symbol of her career, which she wasn’t sure she wanted anymore.

  Damn. That insight wasn’t what she had wanted to get from this conversation. She tried to roll the wheelchair closer to the bed, but the brakes were set, so it didn’t move. With a grunt, she shoved it over to the spot she wanted.

  “Okay. I might not know what exactly I want, but I know what I don’t want. I don’t want to play the violin. I don’t want to join a symphony. I don’t want to marry some guy.” I don’t want to be here had been part of the list up until a few weeks ago, but now she wasn’t so sure any longer.

  “Fine.” He waved his hand dismissively and turned his head away.

  “No, Dad.” She jumped up and moved around the bed and into his line of sight so he was forced to look at her. “It’s not fine with you at all, is it? Come on. At least admit it. You never had a problem stuffing your opinion down my throat in the past.”

  Again, he turned his head to the other side—but this time, not before Leo had glimpsed the look in his eyes. It wasn’t anger or resentment, as she had expected. Frustration was a big part of it, sure, but what
she had seen was mostly something else.

  She knew that look. She had recently seen it on Holly’s face when they had argued. Hurt. Dejection. Resignation. Fear of being hurt again.

  Was it possible…? Had he thought she was rejecting him—as a father, a musician, a teacher, and a man—when she had declared that she didn’t want the things he valued most in life, his music and his family?

  She crossed back to the other side of the bed.

  He closed his eyes. “Sleep.”

  “In a second. Please, Dad, look at me.”

  He huffed out a breath but opened his eyes.

  She perched on the side of his bed. “You know that this…me being a lesbian and not wanting to become a violinist…has nothing to do with you, don’t you?”

  He stared at her with a stony expression, but something in his eyes flickered.

  “Being gay isn’t a choice, Dad. It has nothing to do with rebelling against you or rejecting you or not wanting to be like you. It’s the way I am, and there’s nothing I—or you—can do to change it.”

  “Music?” he said, his tone challenging.

  “Yeah, okay, that was a choice. But pop is still music.”

  Her father lifted one brow.

  Leo had to think of the way Holly had explained asexuality to her, using her chocolate metaphor, and both of them agreeing that white chocolate wasn’t chocolate at all. Apparently, her father felt the same way about pop music.

  “It is,” she said firmly. “I’m a musician, just like you are. Think about it this way: I could have become a porn star.”

  His brow arched even higher.

  “All right. Maybe not a porn star. I could have become a waitress, a hairdresser, or a mechanic. But I didn’t. I chose to be a pop singer. Is that really so bad? It still gives us something in common. We both love music. Can’t that be a start?”

  He lifted the shoulder on his good side in a semi-shrug.

  That was all she was going to get after pouring her heart out? She gave him an incredulous stare.

  Just when she was about to get up and walk out, he cleared his throat and labored to get out a word. “Women.” He waved back and forth between them, and a ghost of a smile darted across his usually stoic face, lending it a much softer appearance. “Two…two, uh, things.”