by Katie Porter
An inability to keep my head where it needs to be is to blame. We’re an hour and a half into today’s practice. Time has creaked by. No, worse. Each moment has been wrung out of us. We’re combatants, not a band.
Even choosing each song has been a battle. Ian draws out the last notes of “Dislocations,” which hit number one on the UK charts. It wouldn’t collect any kind of acclaim if people heard us play it now. I think Ian’s droning on purpose, the better to keep me and Nicholas from going at each other’s throats.
“You’re off key,” Nicholas finally says, even before Ian’s last chord is finished. “You don’t sound like you even know what a key is.”
I blow a breath out between my gritted teeth. “Don’t rush those last bars so I’m not trying to catch up.”
“If you had any sense of tempo—”
Ian lifts a hand and steps into the space between Nicholas and me. It’s a symbolic act more than anything, as Nick is still ensconced behind his drum kit and I’m still alone on my rug, but it momentarily breaks the tension. “I think we should take a break.”
“Sounds good,” agrees Lee. “I could do with a cuppa.”
Nicholas tosses his drumsticks down. He mutters something about needing a cigarette and leaves the studio. Thank fuck. I slip out into the break area and stand over the electric kettle as if staring at it will make it boil. We’re in early on a Saturday morning, which means no interns today. I’m on my own if I want a cup of tea.
I grind my teeth, and my back is so stiff that I’m thinking about a hot shower. Not that any of this is surprising. I’ve dug my grave deep. There may be no clawing my way out of it.
“Have you learned anything useful about apologizing in the last twelve years?” Ian stands in the doorway of our rented rehearsal space.
“Has he?” I counter.
Ian shrugs. He looks like his father. He wears a comfortable sweater that must have seen better years and makes the most of his rounding shape. His hair is frizzed to the point where it’s difficult to tell if he combed it this morning. Likely not. “Don’t know,” he says. “Why don’t you go first and find out? You could start with saying something meaningful to him about, oh, I don’t know. The end of The Skies?”
That’s what this is supposed to be about, all this. It’s a reunion concert so that the end of our little moment in history can be different. So we can rewrite it. Isn’t that enough? I stare at the blank wall in front of me. “You’re a bastard, Ian.”
“You only hate it when I’m blatantly right.”
I manage to withhold my sigh as I stalk outside. The carpark is not grand. Only a half dozen cars would fit, meaning Nicholas is not difficult to spot. He’s leaning against the boot of a small Renault. It’s a family car, with a child’s seat in the back and the rear passenger window adorned with small pink stickers.
Nicholas is turned away from the building, and he’s poised as if he’d like to run. An errant breeze catches a bit of his hair, and he absentmindedly pushes it back behind his ear. He holds a red-and-chrome thing that catches the dim sunlight.
“That’s not a cigarette,” I say, though that isn’t what I’d meant to lead with.
“Yeah, but I’d sound right stupid if I say I’m going out to vape.” He looks down at the kit in his hand with a slight measure of disgust, as if he can’t believe he’s using it.
Fair enough, because the image of Nicholas with a filtered cigarette is so ingrained in my memory that I’m at a loss too. “Taste good?”
“It tastes like chemical candy.” He takes a draw off it anyway.
“Ah.” I put my hands in my pockets. “That’s... something.”
“I’m quitting. There’s not even any nicotine in here.” He opens the door of his car and tosses the device in. “I had fully quit. I wasn’t even using the dummy until you rang.”
The fleeting urge to apologize for that—instead of the real things that remain between us—raises its ugly head. It would be an easy way out. I used to take the easy way, which is why we’re in this situation at all. If I’d kept my head clear, I don’t think there were any situations The Skies couldn’t have overcome.
We had all the pieces of a brilliant band, including the self-destructive lead singer.
“We need to find a way to work through this,” I tell him. “Everything clicked a few nights ago. It worked. We need to find a way back to that.”
“Or what? You’ll replace us with a studio musician? Have you seen if Jake Tarrington is available again?” He gives such a look of dismay that I’m rocked back on my heels. His brows are knit together. His mouth is a pinch of grief.
“No one ever found out,” I say lamely. “It was kept out of all the trade papers.”
There is no defense for what happened. And it’s obvious that Nicholas has been in mourning a long time.
“You think it mattered who knew and who didn’t?” His voice is raw and he’s not looking at me anymore. He runs a finger over the shape of a pink window sticker. “I knew. The band knew. You let Silas bring in a studio musician on our second bloody album, rather than wait for me.”
The air in my lungs is reedy and thin. I blow out what I can, but even sucking in a new breath doesn’t bring me anything I can use. I rub my fingertips together, trying to find the touch of a world that’s floating away. “There is no excuse, from either him or me.”
“Well, I’m so terribly fucking sorry that I couldn’t leave Rhosyn’s hospital bed. So inconvenient. I’m sorry that accident left her in a bad way.”
Even that is judicious understatement. His wife was struck by a lorry when crossing the street. Her injuries were significant. Nicholas dropped every pretense of living a life beyond her bedside at the hospital. When Rhosyn needed physical therapy to start swallowing food again and interventionist to start speaking again, Nicholas was there. He never faltered.
I did.
I let Silas’s poison tongue creep into my head. His insistence that we couldn’t afford to delay the album sounded a lot like my own doubts. Nicholas did the demos before the accident. The studio musician only followed what Nic had laid out, but it wasn’t the same thing. We recorded part of an album without a member of the band—and just when he was at his lowest. And I let it happen. “It was a shit decision.”
“You have no idea how painful it was. I was sitting next to her gurney and fending off what both of you needed.” He tucks his chin toward his chest. “You were asking advice on what to tell my replacement, as if I were being made redundant.”
“You were never going to be fired. We needed you. Those tracks were lifeless without you.”
“And if they hadn’t been bombs? If they’d been chart toppers? I’m not sure you would have waited for me to tour. I think you would have kicked me out.” He throws the words like bullets. It’s obvious he’s been holding onto this pain for a very long time. I nod, taking it. I wish he’d punch me. I’d take that too.
“We wouldn’t have,” I tell him. “We’d have never replaced you. I’m sorry, Nicholas.” I infuse my words with every iota of the last two decades’ contrition. My regrets. The way I’ve missed him. All the things I’d like to make up for. “I failed you.”
He sighs deeply. His shoulders unlock and he runs a hand through the top of his long hair, flipping it over to the side. When he manages to look me in the eyes and nod, he lifts the weight of a planet off my shoulders. Hopefully that means I can continue to carry the weight of The Skies. If we were different people, we would hug. We’re not, so we don’t. Instead we shake hands.
Nicholas looks tired more than anguished. “Then tell me why is that bastard in your house.”
“He’s no danger anymore.”
“Because he’s dying?” For a moment, he seems to struggle with himself. Then he opens the car and grabs his vape again. He takes a draw and expels a white cloud. “Haven’t you ever heard that trapped and dying animals are the most dangerous?”
“There’s nothing he can do to me.”
That’s true, but I’m not sure it’s the whole truth. I shift on my feet and glance back at the studio door. No rescue in sight. Apologizing for the past was easy compared to the turn this conversation is taking.
“Well, Silas is your bloody problem.” Nicholas pulls deeply from his vape, but at least he’s looking at me again. He kicks a pebble on the asphalt. “Don’t forget, you’ve spent your whole life trying to be the center of the universe. That leaves the rest of us in your orbit. If you implode, you’ll take us with you. Again.”
“No. I know absolutely what responsibilities I carry. That means no implosions.”
Nicholas is right though. Silas can’t hurt me directly. I’ve passed the place in my life where I was so desperate for attention and affection that I coveted anything from anyone. But every step I take in this dance with Harlow draws me deeper into new tangles. I’ve armed Silas with weapons he won’t point at me. They’re the weapons he can use to gut his own daughter.
Chapter Twenty-One
Harlow
I BRACE MYSELF. I’M meeting Dad for breakfast, and I’m determined to present a course for our day that will have actual purpose. It doesn’t have to be much. Just one small task that will leave me with a sense that our hours are being used wisely instead of wasted during his waning days. We haven’t been more than ten minutes away from the townhouse since Cheltenham. I’ve found the perfect outlet for Dad, the one thing that might get him excited to go out. Something he doesn’t even know he’s been waiting for.
I’m purposely chipper as I take the seat next to him. “Good morning, Dad.”
He already has his usual porridge. I have a plate of fruit that’s decidedly out of season considering this dismal London winter morning. It’s all still sweet though. I guess it pays to be moderately rich. Strawberries in December can still be blood red and taste of summer.
“Yes, it’s morning all right,” Dad says. He stirs a spoon through the sludge in his bowl. “I think the best thing that can be said about it is that I made it through the night.”
I keep the smile on my face. He doesn’t mean that. His checkups have been going well, actually. Less need for oxygen. Fewer coughing fits.
He’s doing fine.
“What would you like to do today?”
He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”
“I have a surprise for you. We can go to the Fenton house. I’ve emailed with the curator, and they’re willing to let you play their collection of early keyboards.”
“Christ, no.” He throws down his spoon. Wet grain spatters across the white tablecloth. He lifts his hands to show me gnarled knuckles. “Why would you think I’d want to do that? My hands are ruined. Are you being intentionally dim?”
The way I balk comes from somewhere so deep inside me that I don’t have a chance of holding it back. I bite my lip and look down at my plate. “When we were coming to England—when you talked me into this trip—you said you wanted to play a Burkat Shudi harpsichord. Even if you don’t play it well, at least it’s a chance—”
“Exactly what I need to begin my day. A reminder my skills are fading.”
“That’s not what I meant.” My patience is what’s fading. I set my fork down. “I arranged it for you, Dad. It’s a trip out of the house.”
“There’s no point.” His mouth is set in a stubborn line. Blue thumbprints are pressed beneath his eyes.
“This isn’t even our house.” I’d rather explode than be gut-punched again, but I’m still trying to do what’s best for him—and me. My hands spread wide. “If all we’re going to do is sit inside every day and, like, do nothing, we should just go home!”
He shakes his head. “I don’t want to go back to San Francisco.”
“We don’t have to go there. We could go... I don’t know, to somewhere warm. Maybe the Bahamas? St. Tropez? You would breathe better.” I cover his hand with mine. His bones are made of straw.
“London is perfect.”
“London is fucking trash.” I stand up abruptly, my chair tilting and then crashing back into place. There’s a sharp pain behind my eyebrows that wasn’t there a moment ago. “I didn’t mean that. London’s fine. I’m a little pent up.”
“You should go...” He waves his spoon. Another dollop of porridge drips precariously off the edge. “Go somewhere.”
I stare at him. My mouth is probably gaping. That’s easy for him to say, isn’t it? He’s not the one who’s terrified of leaving for more than five minutes, for fear of being called back by Dad’s nurses. I barely squeeze out a quiet, “Yeah, right.”
“Have you been painting? You should paint.”
Yes, because I can do that just anywhere. I have no studio. No materials. No control of the lighting. And because staring at the same walls day in, day out gives me wonderful inspiration. My mental health is going nowhere good. I can feel the fear crawling around inside my head, trying to get out, trying to deny my father’s mortality. Great. This is all just great.
I collect my barely touched plate and ignore the tremble in my fingers. I need a way out. Any way out.
“That reminds me, Dad. Something came up, and I’m going to meet a friend in a couple weeks. I’ll be gone two days.”
“A friend?”
I make an “uh-huh” sort of noise, then add, “Gonna see a show.”
I hope he doesn’t press about what kind of show, or whether me and my “friend” will both be seeing it. Or if by some strange coincidence one of us will be performing in it.
“There you go, honey.” He beams a wide smile at me and I think the only thing worse than Dad being upset with me lately is Dad seeming relieved I’m going away. “That’s what I mean. You need to get out. See more of Europe.”
Or do I want him to ask? Ask about me and Alec and The Skies?
A rabid beast scrabbles around inside me. Is that what it wants? I try to control my breathing. Keep my pulse calm. Keep the smile on my face. He doesn’t notice though. He never does. Sometimes I wonder why I try so hard.
“Europe. Yeah.” Maybe I can’t stand to be around him anymore, not when I’ve tried so hard and he doesn’t want any of it. I make my way around the table, edging toward the kitchen. “You’re right too. I think I’ll go... out. Today. I’ll let your nurse know I’m going.”
“I’m glad you’re seeing it my way, honey.”
“Father knows best,” I say, a little cheeky, a little serious.
That’s how I end up leaving by the front door, with Dad ensconced in the living room. He gives me a surprisingly jaunty wave. Only I go around the building and use my key to slip in the back door, then head up the rear stairs. It feels as illicit and embarrassing as trying to ditch high school, but with radically different consequences. I can’t go to my room because Dad might have cause to... I don’t know. Put a book away? Return a nail clipper or something? Then he’d catch me.
I go all the way upstairs, to Alec’s floor. The one place he hasn’t invited me.
I mean, he hasn’t un-invited me either. He hasn’t forbidden me from entering his sacred personal space or anything weird like that. I’m honest with myself: if he had specifically put it off limits, I’d have been upstairs looking for dead bodies the moment the door first hit him in the ass. I’m firmly on Team Belle nosing through the Beast’s forbidden wing.
That doesn’t mean I want to think too much about how I full-on sneak up the stairs and hold my breath when a tread squeals. That’s about Dad and the way I just can’t deal with him anymore today. There are no more layers left to my disguises. No more lies I can tell myself.
At the top of the stairs, I get the first hint I’m in for something I didn’t expect. I’m in a narrow hallway. The ceiling is low. Worn carpet runs the length of it. Off each side are a couple doors. This must have been servants’ quarters at one time. That it hasn’t been gutted and remodeled is what leaves me standing in the middle of the hall, turning in a slow circle.
I hardly know where to start.
/> Randomly, I choose a room. An upright piano is nestled against one wall. In contrast to the racks and racks of guitars Dad kept, here only three guitars are propped under a window—two acoustic and one electric. The top of the piano is covered with sheaves of paper like snowdrifts. A brass trashcan in the corner overflows with more crumpled sheets.
I kneel and snag the creased paper nearest to me, as if I’m being less intrusive by stealing a discarded one. My hands shake as I smooth it out over my knees. It’s manuscript paper, the musician’s kind with printed staffs. Alec half filled it with notes. I wonder what they would sound like if played. If sung. I never learned an instrument, and I could never tell if Dad cared or not. There are lyrics as well, but Alec’s handwriting is impossible to decipher. I can’t read what they say.
Out of instinct, I re-crumple the paper and start to put it back in the trash. But he’ll never miss it. I smooth it out again. The back and forth is making the paper soft like cloth. I fold it into a small square and shove it into my pocket. It’s one thing to be up here—I think Alec’s ego is healthy enough to withstand me poking around the work he’s proud of—but it’s a different can of worms to be caught with his discards. Or maybe that’s my potential humiliation talking.
The next room over is a study. A surprisingly small desk is fitted into one corner, with a much-used leather wingchair opposite. A round table beside the chair is piled with stacks of books. One wall is covered with bookshelves, which in turn are filled with everything from music history to lit fic to big, fat books with leather covers.
I pull down a heavy Victorian volume on ornithology and open it. A musty smell wafts up. The pages are soft, and the spine falls open in my hands to a color plate of a bird. It has a long, feathered tail that narrows strangely before poofing out at the end. The name at the bottom of the print is in Latin and doesn’t help me in the least. I run a finger over the bird as if I can feel its feathers. Has Alec spent time on this page? Or maybe it was the previous owner.
