The Accidentals

by Sarina Bowen

  When the car slides into reverse, I close my eyes. Part of me wants to yell, Stop the car! It’s wrong to walk away from Haze in the middle of a fight. But if I go back to him, we’ll just have the same argument over again.

  “Remind me why you’re nice to that guy?” Frederick asks. “Every time I see him, he’s yelling.”

  That’s when I finally snap, because neither of them has it right. “But he sat beside me for ten days straight while I watched her die! In that effing hospital!” And where the hell were you?

  In the silence that follows my outburst, there is only the purr of the engine.

  I’ve earned the startled look on Frederick’s face. But even so, it gives me a pang of fear. I turn the other way, looking out the window.

  After a minute of quiet, I hear him take out his phone and put it to his ear. “Yes Madeline, I believe you can help me. I’m currently staying in room 408, and I need an upgrade. Can you shake loose a two bedroom suite? My daughter is joining me.”

  Daughter. It’s the first time I’ve heard him use that word.

  “I’m glad business is so good. But please take a look at my account. Who’s your best customer this month? Right. See what you can do.”

  On our way out of the parking lot, we passed Haze’s old blue car. I wonder if I’ll ever ride in it again.

  Chapter Eight

  Less than forty-eight hours later, I get into the backseat of the car again. This time to leave Florida.

  “The airport, if you would,” Frederick says to the driver. “Thanks.”

  The car pulls away from the curb, and a Ritz-Carlton concierge bellhop waves goodbye with a gloved hand.

  Once Frederick won his custody suit, everything happened really fast. He contacted the guidance counselor at my high school, who rushed my final grades through. Even my half-finished take-home exam in government was awarded a quick A.

  Yesterday, my father’s new hired car pulled up outside my old house on Pomelo Court, where a sullen Haze had been waiting to help me pack up my room.

  I’d asked my father to wait in the car. “It’s a small space,” I’d told him.

  But the truth was I didn’t want him in my mother’s house, because it felt like a betrayal. She’d worked so hard to pay for our tiny place so that I could be in the very best school district, and I didn’t think she’d want Frederick to step inside.

  So he’d read a newspaper in the air-conditioned backseat while I went inside.

  Meanwhile, Haze helped me put everything in boxes. I’d thought it would take a long time, but it went depressingly quickly. One box for clothes I wanted at Claiborne. One box for books, etc.

  Mary will pack up the rest of the house and put some things into storage for me. I labeled one box for storage, containing what my mother had called “the altar.” It was a double stack of all Frederick’s CDs.

  I’d bought every one of them with my babysitting money. While downloading was fine for other music, for his I’d wanted to read the liner notes.

  When I was younger, I’d assumed that every song Frederick wrote was the literal truth. I would listen to a new album from start to finish, and believe that in the past eighteen months he’d broken down by the side of a desert road while reflecting on his life, missed an airplane that would have brought him to his true love, caught his lover leaving him before dawn, and wondered a lot about why young men had to die in Afghanistan.

  If he sang, “I meant for you to stay awhile,” I assumed that he’d written down the exact words he’d said to someone in real life.

  The lyrics were my only way to hear his thoughts, and I took them at face value. It never occurred to me that he might embellish or invent. I even tried to figure out if “Wild City” was a real place.

  Shocker, it wasn’t.

  When I got older, I learned not to take everything so literally. Even so, I’d spent many hours lying on my bed, scrutinizing the printed lyrics to his songs, always listening for allusions to a girlfriend named Jenny or a long-lost daughter.

  I never found one.

  When my room was packed, Haze taped up the boxes while I tiptoed into my mother’s room. It had always been a spartan place, with few decorations. Last year’s school picture was framed on the dresser. I didn’t like how it had turned out. My smile looked plastic. Beside it, I found my mother’s Timex, so I picked that up.

  “Make sure you take a few things of sentimental value,” Hannah had advised me. “If your mother had a favorite pair of earrings, save them. It might not seem like much, but one day you’ll want them. I have my grandmother’s gaudy Christmas brooches, and they are some of my favorite things.”

  The Timex had clocked nursing shifts on my mother’s arm for years. Now I’m wearing it on my own wrist. There are two buckle holes with indentations next to them—my mother got thinner as the year progressed.

  There was a jewelry box, too, which I hadn’t raided since I was a little girl. I flicked open the top. The tray inside held a few pairs of very plain earrings. Underneath, there were pictures. The top one was of me on Santa’s knee. Looking at it, I could hear my mother’s voice. “Say fuzzy pickles!”

  It hurt me just to remember her, and I didn’t have time to break down. So I’d put the earring tray back on top of the photos, clicked the box shut, and tucked it into my tote bag, making a mental note to thank Hannah for her advice.

  The worst part of yesterday’s packing was the look on Haze’s face when we were done. I braced myself for another argument, but it never came. Before we went outside, he gave me the fiercest hug I’d ever gotten. And when I kissed him on the cheek, his eyes reddened. But he didn’t say a word, except for “goodbye.”

  Now, on the way to the airport I watch the gaudy Orlando billboards fly by us. This is the landscape of my life, and I don’t know when I’ll see it again.

  Frederick pulls out his phone and taps a number. “Hannah Reeves, please,” he says a beat later. “Hello to you, too! Rachel and I are on our way to L.A.,” he tells her. “I just wanted to say thank you for all that you do. I guess you’re not in it for the money.” Whatever she says to him makes him laugh. “I will. Goodbye.”

  “You laid it on a little thick there,” I say when he hangs up.

  “Nah. Hannah is good people. Who would want that job? Digging ditches might be easier.” He pushes aside the plastic barrier that divides the front seat from the back. “Can you slow down just a little, pal? Thank you.” He slides it closed again. “I miss Carlos.”

  “Carlos is good people too,” I agree.

  * * *

  My boarding pass reads Seat 2A. I’ve never flown first class before. As my father approaches the gate with his guitar case in hand, I wait for someone to tell him he can’t carry it onboard. But that doesn’t happen. Instead, a smiling flight attendant offers to find “a safe home” for it.

  My phone chimes repeatedly as we board the plane. I sit down on the slippery leather seat and pull it out. Every text is from Haze.

  You can still change your mind, he’s written. If you don’t like California, I’ll buy you a plane ticket home, okay? Just know that I’m still here for you.

  My stomach tightens just reading it.

  Call me before you get on the plane.

  I don’t, though.

  The flight attendant stands over my father, offering him a beer. “Don’t mind if I do,” he says.

  “Would you like some lemonade?” she asks me, extending a glass.

  “Yes. Thank you.” In first class, the glasses are real, and they arrive the moment you sit down.

  I push myself back into the seat. The smell of the filtered airline oxygen is disconcerting. My life in Florida is coming abruptly to an end, like a familiar song shut off right in the middle of the chorus.

  My phone chimes again. As my father watches me, I power it down without reading the message.

  “You’re sneaking out of town, aren’t you?” he asks.

  “Sort of,” I grumble. “You don’
t like him anyway.”

  “Rachel, I’m not judging you,” he says, his voice low. “I’m famous for sneaking out of town.”

  DUET

  DUET: 1. A piece for any combination of two performers. 2. On piano, two performers on one instrument.

  Chapter Nine

  As I descend the escalator at LAX that night, someone calls my name. And there stands Carlos, waiting beside the baggage claim, wearing one of his trademark smiles. “Bienvenida a California!”

  “Gracias, Carlos! Como esta?”

  “Bien, bien!” Carlos and I walk over to examine the luggage sliding past on the belt. Frederick hangs back, his phone pressed to his ear. Nearby, two women stand together, whispering, their eyes on Frederick.

  I’m getting used to the stares he receives out in public. I make a game of predicting whether people will approach him or not.

  These two will, I decide.

  Our bags came into view, and I point. At the appropriate moment, Carlos and I lunge for them. We get all four off the belt in one go, although one of them lands on my toe.

  “So, I guess I can fit that in on Thursday,” Frederick says into his phone, oblivious. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Henry.” He puts the phone away, and that’s when the two women rush him, all smiles and apologies. While Carlos and I stack the bags into two rolling towers, Frederick signs their boarding passes with the Sharpie he keeps in his pocket.

  “We saw your show together in Las Vegas!” one of them gushes.

  “Last year!” the other one adds.

  I turn to Frederick. He wears the telltale forehead wrinkle that crops up when people mob him. “Sir, we have to hurry if you’re going to make it to Justin Bieber’s party.”

  Frederick raises an eyebrow at me.

  “Oh! Don’t let us keep you!” Both the women skitter away.

  “Justin Bieber?” His voice is dry. “Aren’t you funny.”

  “I am, actually.” More than that, I’m giddy over arriving in California. Frederick is stuck with me now. I’ll get a real glimpse into his life, whether or not he ever meant for that to happen.

  When Carlos pulls the car around, I slide into the cool interior next to my father. “It’s just a ten-minute ride,” he says, scrolling through messages on his phone.

  “Really?” I’ve heard stories about L.A.’s legendary traffic.

  “Really. It’s one of the great things about Manhattan Beach,” he says.

  As a little kid, I’d always wondered where my father lived, imagining somewhere magical. My childhood definition of magical had run along the lines of a McMansion with a swimming pool. But the neighborhood Carlos drives into is a different kind of fancy. The homes are stacked close together, and many have stucco walls right up against the sidewalk. But each one has at least one elegant detail—decorative iron gates, or a little jewel of a stained glass window. The houses don’t reveal their secrets to the street, they only hint at luxury within.

  Just as dusk turns to night, the car slides to a stop in front of a narrow house with a striking zebra-wood door. Carlos pulls our bags out of the trunk while Frederick types a code into the keypad over the doorknob.

  “The code is 8-6-7-5-3-0-9,” he says. “I’ll write it down for you.”

  “Like the Tommy Tutone song? Who could forget?”

  Frederick’s eyes widen. “Christ. You weren’t even alive when that song was a hit.”

  “Oldies station, Frederick,” I say, following him inside. Of course, “Jenny” was my mother’s name. So is that a coincidence?

  It must be.

  The interior of Frederick’s home is not what I expect. “How long have you lived here?”

  “Three or four years. I know it’s a little barren.”

  I try to put my finger on why the house feels so lifeless. The lower level is mostly one big room, with a separate kitchen. There’s a giant L-shaped sofa in the living room made of pricey leather. There’s a sleek coffee table and nickel lamps. In the rear, by a set of sliding glass doors, stands a very elegant grand piano.

  But apart from a collection of vinyl records in the corner, the room is as impersonal as the hotel suite we’d just left behind. The only pictures on the walls are landscape photography.

  I follow my father upstairs, where there are four doors off a straight hallway. “That will be your bathroom,” he points at one door. Then he sets my bag down in the room opposite the bathroom.

  Down the hall, I spy the master bedroom, which looks somewhat lived-in, with a stack of books on the bedside table. A third room has black foam on the walls, even over the windows. It’s soundproofing. A dozen guitars rest on racks against the walls. The only real furniture is a single stool beside an amplifier.

  In my room there’s a brand new bed, the tags still hanging off the mattress. A mattress pad, sheets and pillows are stacked, still in their wrappers, on top of it.

  I call after my father, who has gone down the hall. “What was in this room before?”

  “Nothing,” he says over his shoulder. “I never went in there.”

  * * *

  The next morning I’m wide awake at six a.m. The house is silent as I pull on shorts and a T-shirt. Feeling like a trespasser, I tiptoe down the stairs. But Frederick is already sitting on the sofa.

  “Jet lag, right?” he asks, his hair a mess. “Let’s go walk on the beach.”

  I follow him out the door. At the corner, Frederick makes a left turn. Then I can see the ocean—a blue notch between the buildings that taper down the hill. We have to trot down a set of concrete stairs and across a cute little commercial street to reach the beach.

  I can see why he lives here. It’s kind of glam, and you can walk to everything.

  “Ah,” he says when we reach the sand. “Now we’re talking.”

  I take off my shoes and let the sand squish through my toes. The breeze off the ocean is cool, making the hair on my arms stand up. There are people walking dogs on the sidewalk behind us. And there are runners and bikers on a path that runs parallel to the ocean.

  But the sand stretches out for miles, with barely anyone on it.

  Under the lavender sky, I feel transported to someone else’s life. As if I’ve stumbled here in a dream.

  * * *

  We buy coffee and then walk into a little neighborhood grocery store. Frederick puts a few things into a miniature cart. “Orange juice, bagels, cream cheese, beer,” he says. “That ought to do it.” He swings the cart toward the checkout.

  “Where do you buy food?” I ask.

  He points at the bagels. “I just did. You mean—for later?”

  I nod.

  “That’s what restaurants are for.”

  “Seriously?”

  “What would you add?”

  “Bread, something to put on a sandwich. Something to put in a salad.”

  He turns the cart around. “Go to it.”

  I put grapes and strawberries into the cart. I choose lettuce and tomatoes, feta cheese and a box of cereal. The prices are horrible, but it has to be cheaper than ordering in. Frederick follows me around with a bemused expression, drinking his coffee.

  “Musicians never have to grow up,” my mother once said, when I’d been begging for a reason for his absence. It was one of the few little crumbs my mother had ever offered on the subject of Frederick.

  I put a half gallon of milk into the cart, and wonder what the hell had happened between them. And if I’ll ever trust Frederick enough to ask him.

  * * *

  Later that day, the house fills up with musicians. I listen from the landing as Frederick greets them.

  “Party’s over, Ernie! Now we go back to work. Jesus, Art. I don’t know about that mustache.”

  “It’s growing on me,” comes the answer.

  The front door makes another beep, and then the guys downstairs greet someone named Henry. The infamous Henry—my father’s punching bag. I can’t help but eavesdrop as they catch up with each other.

  “L
et’s get a picture,” Henry says. “I haven’t put Freddy’s face on Instagram in weeks.”

  “Jesus,” my father grumbles. “The fucking world will stop turning if you don’t update Instagram.”

  “Shut up and put your arm around Ernie. Your other arm. I don’t want to be able to see the hand that’s supposed to be injured.”

  “You could just injure him for real to make it credible,” someone says, and I hear my father’s laugh.

  I take my time drying my hair and straightening out my belongings. When I run out of things to do upstairs, I put my wallet in my back pocket and descend as quietly as possible. But when I come into view at the bottom of the stairs, all conversation stops.

  My father clears his throat. “Guys, this is Rachel. Be nice to her. She’s not used to dealing with hooligans such as yourselves.” But the joke falls flat, because four guys are staring at me with undisguised curiosity.

  “You should see your faces,” I whisper.

  The guy with the shaved head recovers first, dropping his eyes. “Sorry. It’s just that I’ve been staring at Freddy’s mug for a couple decades. I never knew he’d look better as a girl.”

  “What did I say about being nice?” my father complains.

  “You said be nice to her,” he points out. “Didn’t say a thing about being nice to you.”

  “The smartass is Ernie. He plays the bass,” my father says. But I already know that. Ernie appears in the liner notes of every album since the very beginning. In interviews, Frederick refers to Ernie as “my best friend.” They both grew up in Kansas City, then they went to Claiborne College together. And Ernie’s shiny head is visible in most of the music videos.

  “Nice to meet you, Ernie,” I say. He has soulful brown eyes and wide shoulders.

  “And this is Henry,” Frederick says, indicating the only preppy guy in the group. “Don’t let him boss you around.”