by Katie Porter
Dad and I take time staring at the menu. The silence isn’t easy between us. Eventually he points me to the bar and tells me to order him a basket of fish and chips. I get a cider for myself. The tender pours my drink, then says the food will be brought to the table.
I manage to hold my smile as I sit across from Dad. This is all so terribly normal. We’ve been out to lunches and dinners by the thousands. And this is all so terribly abnormal. We’ve never been anywhere that once meant something to him.
“Do you know this place?”
“Pop used to gamble here.” He rubs a hand over the edge of the glossy table. “New tables though. They used to be wood. Maple, I think they were. Old but they’d been kept really well polished over the years.”
I could strangle him. I could wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze. Or perhaps I’ll simply pinch his oxygen tube. He’d deserve it. Five words about his family. Two dozen about goddamn tables.
“Did you come with him here?”
“Not allowed.” He looks off across the room, as if looking into the past. I wish he’d open the window and let me see too. “Didn’t want me with him. Called me bad luck.”
I act as if this isn’t the most monumental thing he’s ever said about his father. “Did something in particular happen?”
Is there a story behind it, I want to ask. Please tell me. Please let me know something.
“He hugged me before he left for a card night.” Dad shifts in his chair, pulling the blanket up higher to his ribs. “Lost six hundred pounds that game.”
“And then what?” I can’t help myself.
“Then he came home and smacked the hell out of me. Woke me up out of bed in the middle of the night.” Dad laughs as he talks, as if it’s the most hilarious story. He squints. “I think I was five.”
“Dad,” I breathe.
He shakes his head and wags a finger. “No, but your grandmother Mavis wasn’t letting him do none of that. Took him upside the head with this big crystal ashtray.” He holds his hands twelve inches apart and hefts as if holding something heavy. “She’s lucky she didn’t kill him that night. Your grandmother Mavis, she was a hell of a bird.”
If I say anything, say too much, say the wrong thing—he’ll stop. I worry the inside of my lip with my teeth, catching hold of a tiny flake of skin and tugging it away. The spot will be raw tomorrow. I run my tongue over it.
“She kept our house on an even keel,” Dad says. “Never let us get kicked out and always kept food on the table. Even if it was kidney beans. Sometimes I don’t know how she managed to hide dosh from him, but she did. Whatever it took for us to live good.”
It doesn’t sound like that. It sounds like the bare minimum.
“Ah, here’s my food,” Dad says, rubbing his hands together.
I look over my shoulder and a waitress approaches with a basket in hand. Oh, here we go. She stands beside the table and smiles. “Is this for you, sir?”
“It is, it is. Is it too late to order a side, though?” Dad gives her what he likely thinks is a charming smile.
“Always time,” she assures him, unaware that she’s walking into his trap. She’s exactly Dad’s type, a slender blonde with apple cheeks. She wears all black, a simple button-down shirt and pants combo. A small red apron is tied around her waist. Fully professional. “What can I get you?”
“How about a serving of you?”
“Oh you,” she says on a laugh, as if she hasn’t just been sexually propositioned by a middle-aged creeper. She pats his skinny shoulder. “There’s malt vinegar on the table if you’d like.”
“I’ll bet you’re sweeter than vinegar.”
“You’d be right at that.” She gives a wink as she starts to slide away, stepping back out of reach. She’s realized who she’s dealing with. “Have a nice meal. Bertrand is at the bar if you need anything else.”
“We’re fine,” I assure her. Go, I think hard at her.
Dad watches her. “Huge tracts of land. I wouldn’t mind getting my hand on an ass like that.”
“Dad.” I add as much admonishment as possible to my sigh. My stomach pitches uncomfortably, the way it does every time.
“What?” He unrolls a pack of silverware and puts the napkin in his lap. “Can’t an old, sick man find some enjoyment in life?”
I put my elbow on the table and then my chin in my hand. My pinkie nail fits itself to the line of my teeth, begging to be nibbled on. I resist. “She’s doing her job. Don’t make it shitty on her.”
“And a fine job she does,” he agrees in a voice that makes it perfectly clear that he’s not talking about her ability to carry food to a table.
We’ve had this argument many times. Many, many times. It’s not different now that he’s sick. I don’t know if I would feel different if he hadn’t been like this before. I never had the chance to find out.
“Was your father a womanizer?” I ask, half out of my driving curiosity and half out of pure, malevolent spite. The question tastes like copper on my tongue.
“Your pardon?”
“You never talk about him. I thought you might because we’re here.” I lean in, making sure he hears every word. “Did he hit on women who were trying to make a living? Imply that they’re available for sale?”
“You watch your mouth, missy,” he snaps, pointing at me with his fork.
“Is that so bad?” I put on an innocent face. I nod toward where the waitress retreated. “You just asked her...”
“If Arnold stepped out on my mother, she’d have kicked him to the street. She didn’t put up with anything from those grasping whores at the off-course.”
As if it was their fault. As if they wanted to deal with a constant stream of shit from men like my father. “Maybe he should have. Maybe if Arnold had cheated on Mavis, he wouldn’t have beaten the shit out of you and maybe you’d be fucking normal.”
“That’s enough.” He drops his silverware. His cheeks go white but the hollows around his eyes flush deep.
I keep going. Maybe if he was normal, I’d be normal.
“What’s enough? Should I not say his name? Should I not say hers?” I lean against the table, my hands flat on the wood. “Can’t you tell me something? What it was like for you growing up?”
“It was bloody awful,” he says with a snarl. He shoves the basket of food to the side. It totters on the edge. “It was nasty and ugly. Me and your grandparents in a one bedroom flat and life never got better until I left. Why do you need to hear about any of that?”
“I want to know where I come from.”
“You come from me.” He slaps his chest and coughs twice. “You’re mine and I’ve done my best. I haven’t once lifted my hand to you.”
“I know you’ve done your best,” I tell him, holding back my rage. “But I want to know why that’s your best. I want to know how I can do better when I have kids. If I have them.”
He looks stricken, like it’s my turn to have smacked him. I’ve hurt him. He coughs again, a long, spiraling cycle. He can’t get air, so he coughs more. White spittle gathers at the corners of his mouth. His hands go ashen, the nail beds blue.
“Dad!” Panic makes my voice high and reedy.
I rush around the table. My hands run through a litany of things I’ve been trained for over the last two years. Oxygen and medicine. Emergency treatment. My brain though... My head... I’m on a high plane, watching all this from far away. He’s terrified. His eyes spin like a wild horse and he’d buck if he could. He claws the plastic mask I’ve placed over his face, but his spasming fingers are doing as much damage as good.
I curl his hand in mine and pull it down. He clutches at me. His hands are so cold. “Hush. It’s okay. You’re fine. This will pass.”
We’ve gathered a crowd. The waitress is back, and the little boy at the next table has started to cry. The woman at his side takes him out of the highchair. She holds him close even as she watches me try to administer aid to Dad.
The ba
rtender appears. “How can I help?”
Dad’s oxygen stats are terrible and they’re going down. I watch the display on the small box as if staring will change the situation. My heartbeat is racing, but it’s still nothing compared to Dad’s. My hands aren’t shaking and I don’t know how. I don’t know how I’m doing all this.
I swallow, hoping someday I’ll come down from this astral space. “Call an ambulance, please.”
Chapter Fifteen
Alec
THE REHEARSAL SPACE we rented isn’t one we used to practice in, and I’m mostly grateful for that. It’s bigger, for one thing. The enormous room has to be over a couple thousand square feet. The walls have been painted a deep maroon to close the distance, which helps when combined with the acoustic panels. It’s still huge. My mic is on a blue rug that seems like a lifeboat in the middle of an ocean of wood flooring. Maybe we’ll need this much space for our first rehearsal in years.
Nicholas’s drum kit is set up miles away from the mic, hopefully by someone who doesn’t remember the last time The Skies tried to make music in the same room. Nicholas had launched his drumsticks at my head. I can’t remember what I said, but I probably deserved it. I was a prat. At least I managed to duck that time.
Nothing outrageous happens in the first two hours of practice. I hit the last note of one of our UK chart-toppers and draw it out. My voice holds. Lee pulls the note through his guitar riff. Everything is coming together. I close my eyes and drop my head, though I can’t seem to loosen my grip on the mic. My muscles are cramping all the way up from my palm to my forearm.
I’m afraid to breathe, much less say anything resembling praise. Did they like it as much as I did? I don’t want to turn around. If it was anything less meaningful for them, I’ll be furious. At myself, really. I learned the hard way that precious things can fall to pieces on the floor.
“Brilliant,” Ian says, almost reverentially. It’s no surprise that our Scottish gnome speaks first. He’s always been the most hopeful of us all. It’s probably why he never gave up on me. “That was brilliant.”
“Yeah,” Lee agrees. He swings his guitar strap off his shoulders and sets it on a rack. “This is going to be great.”
“I don’t know.” Nicholas is wearing a faint frown. He used to wear his hair right short, but now it’s down past his shoulders, stick straight. Its dark brown is shot through with a bit of silver. “We need work.”
We’re all older now, I suppose, but even after a couple hours of belting it out, I don’t feel fatigued. My lungs are pumping, but in a way that makes me feel as if I’ve swum a lake and then pulled a sword from a stone. Like all this is destined somehow. “It’s only natural we do. I’m up for it if you are.”
“It’s been twelve years,” Ian says. “If we don’t think we need practice, it’s because we’ve all gone deaf.”
Lee throws himself onto a leather couch, tossing one leg up over the arm in a way that reminds me of his first days in the band. He was only a teenager then. Today he turned up in torn jeans and a faded, worn-out T-shirt with a different band on the front. Pretty much exactly how he’d turned up for his audition to replace Silas twenty years ago. “I can hear just fine. Must be an age thing.”
Ian laughs and runs a hand through his already-messy hair. “You’re getting as old as the rest of us.”
“But never as old.” Lee grins, but there’s an old darkness in his tone. “And you never let me forget it on our first tour.”
“I still say we need practice.” Nicholas is tapping his heel to an inner beat.
An intern from the studio comes around with drinks. Nicholas takes a green tea with an infusion of something or other. Water for Ian, regular tea for Lee and me. I thank the kid, who ducks his head. A blush hits the top of his cheeks.
“No one’s saying we don’t need practice,” I say once the intern isn’t between us. “We’re booked here for a lot of hours and I’ll have more added if you want.”
“By your Lordship’s leave,” Nicholas mutters.
I let it go. My gaze catches Ian’s, who’s looking at me with a mix of sympathy and vindication that’s viscerally unpleasant. He looks like he wants to rescue me and see me twist a little longer.
I lean forward and take a biscuit from the tray of treats waiting on the table. I’m not hungry. Our first studios were so unkempt that I didn’t eat in them. The rats would have stolen my salad kebabs. I dip the biscuit in my tea and let it soak for a moment. It makes it easier to chew, then swallow, considering my tight stomach.
Lee blows on his tea to cool it. “Can we not do the old shit again?”
He glances at the others but surprises me by looking me square in the eyes. I don’t remember him ever being that bold.
“Seconded,” I say quietly. “Shall we take a vote or keep playing?”
Nicholas pick up his sticks and gives them a flourishing twirl. “We play. You’ll get it right eventually.”
I almost smile because it’s nearly a real start.
“Excuse me, Mr. Davies?” The intern is back. He holds a wireless handset. “Someone’s rung for you.”
“Please call me Alec,” I tell him automatically. I put my hand out for it, assuming I’ll hear my agent or some other business connection. No one else would bother me here. “Yes?”
“It’s me.”
Harlow.
“What’s wrong?” I move across the room, away from the rest of the band. Two words. Only two. I should have needed more from her to know something is wrong. I shouldn’t be so tied to this woman. Not yet.
“Dad’s in the ER.” She laughs a little helplessly, a lot hysterically. “You people don’t even call it the ER. I forget.”
“Accident and emergency.” I run a hand over my brow. The sweat I worked up during rehearsals is cooling. I rub it away. “Where are you?”
“Cheltenham.” The line goes quiet enough to crackle. “Will you... Will you come?”
Chapter Sixteen
Harlow
“STUPID-ASS PIECE-OF-shit phone!” I poke the phone hard enough to bend my index finger. Then I shake it, as if that’s going to do me any good.
A little old woman sits on a plastic chair a few feet down the hallway. She clutches a stuffed-full shopping bag more closely and glares at me through her overly large glasses. I turn toward the empty end of the corridor where there is only a fluorescent glare over bare tiles.
Serves me right for not wanting to drop too much cash on a pre-paid phone. I didn’t know how long I’ll be in this country, but this gets really crappy signal. I hit the redial button again. It rings once, then gives a little beep-boop as it drops signal. It’s not even the normal beep that I’m used to. Instead, it fully reminds me I’m in a foreign land, on a foreign phone system, in a foreign hospital. As if it’s not enough to be surrounded by people who speak just differently enough to make me feel off center.
But it’s not about England or a stupid phone. It’s Dad. I’m worried for my Dad.
At the end of the corridor is a skinny window. I walk toward it and try calling one more time. Finally it manages a few full rings, but Alec’s voicemail picks up. He doesn’t say his name, only recites his phone number. Very him.
“Ass,” I spit. I hang up, then immediately hope that it hadn’t started recording yet. Had it beeped? I can’t remember. “Ugh.”
I drop my head against the window, feeling stupid. The glass is cold, but it’s not cold enough to seep into my weirdly fevered brain.
“Harlow.”
His perfect, cultured voice says my name in this terrible place. He’s here. I see him in the reflection of the glass without lifting my forehead. He wears a black winter coat with the pointed collar pulled up to his chin. His hair is as close to tousled as it gets, falling over his ears and brow. He strides down the hallway toward me. Concern is drawn across his face.
I stand straight, hold up a hand. “He’s fine, he’s fine. As good as can be expected. You didn’t have to come after a
ll.”
“What happened?”
Oh, god. What a weirdly loaded question, and he has no idea. I keep my hand up because he’s drawing even closer, then closer still. He wraps a hand around my shoulder and pulls me close. I try to hold him at a distance. He’s not letting me.
He enfolds me. The wool coat is cold with winter but he smells like salvation. His chin rests against my temple.
“You didn’t have to come,” I say. It’s safer this way. I need to stand clear of this man, stand on my own. If this afternoon showed anything, it’s that I can yell my own father into the hospital. “They’re only keeping him overnight for observation.”
“Where is he?”
I point to Dad’s room. Alec turns us, his arm around my shoulders, and walks us to the door. I put more energy into my steps so I can slide out from under his arm.
It doesn’t matter because Dad’s eyes are closed. He looks like hell. He’s a rail under a thin hospital blanket. A slim clear tube runs under his nose. He’s hooked up to monitoring machines that beep in a way I’ve come to think of as comforting.
Alec stands at the foot of the bed. The contrast of his elegant hands against the ugly beige plastic makes the moment worse. I cross my arms over my chest. I want him to go away and leave me here to serve my penance. I need to sleep overnight in an uncomfortable hospital chair. At least.
Dad’s eyes flutter open. Dark purple shadows are printed over his cheekbones like bruises. “Alec, you knob.”
“Silas.” His voice is solemn.
I don’t say anything but I step closer. I don’t want either of them to forget about me. That’s pretty sick of me, in this moment between old friends, old enemies—between a healthy man and a dying man. But I can’t do without either of them. Dad’s gaze flicks to me but he doesn’t speak.
He skewers Alec with a nasty glare. “If you’ve come to see me dead, sorry to disappoint you.”
“I don’t want you to die.”
“Certain of that?” He wheezes into the silence. “What headlines you’d get, and all before the reunion.”