The Accidentals

by Sarina Bowen

  “Here’s one for you,” my grandmother says.

  I open up a box to find a cashmere scarf and gloves. “Pretty!” I say. “I think I’ll be wearing these until April.”

  “I figured.” Alice smiles.

  And so it goes, with my grandparents and I exchanging gifts that we’ve labored to choose, since we don’t know each other well enough to make it easy. I feel the strain of all our mutual effort.

  When my gift for Frederick is the last one unopened, and Grandpa Frank has already collected the discarded wrapping paper, the front door finally opens. I sneak a look at my watch. It’s after eleven.

  The three of us wait for him to appear in the living room. But as I watch, Frederick stumbles past, heading toward the stairs without a look in our direction. I hear a small thud and a curse, and then the sound of him ascending the stairs.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Dr. Richards says.

  I can’t even look at Alice. Instead, I get up slowly, pick up the gift I’ve brought for Frederick, and go to the bottom of the stairs. When I hear the shower running in the bathroom on the second floor, I climb the stairs slowly. I put the gift beside his empty bed and then go into my room to curl up on mine.

  The only ray of sunshine is a voicemail message from Jake. “Hi Rachel. I’ve been trying to leave you alone, I know you’re busy with family stuff. But I wanted to say Merry Christmas, and that I miss you. A whole lot. Pretty much all the time. Yeah. Okay. Bye.”

  I listen to it twice more before calling him back. “Hi,” I say when he answers. “I liked your message.”

  “How are you doing?” he asks, sounding winded. “Sorry, I was splitting wood when the phone rang.”

  I would give anything to watch Jake split wood rather than sit in the tensest house in Kansas City. “I’m okay. My father has been an asshat.”

  “That sucks. To you?”

  “To his mother. But I’m caught in the middle.”

  “So fly back, and I’ll pick you up in Boston. Have you ever been to Vermont?”

  My heart leaps at this offer, even though I can’t accept. “That is super tempting, but I don’t think I could do that to Grandma Alice.”

  “My own selfish desires aside,” he pants, “I hope it gets better.”

  “Me too.” Then I smile so wide that I’m glad he can’t see me. “Jake, I loved your gift.” On the morning he left Claiborne, I’d found it on my desk. From a nest of tissue paper I’d pulled his Christmas dinner plate, all shined up with a note. Rachel—you should keep this. There’s enough Claiborne paraphernalia in my family already. But put it somewhere I can see it, because it will remind me of the best night of the year.

  “Oh, good,” he says. And then there’s an awkward pause, because neither one of us is any good at taking a compliment. “I’m going to split another dozen logs now,” he says. “It beats listening to Asshat brag about his conquests. But call me tomorrow and let me know how you’re doing.”

  “I will. Bye, Jake.”

  After a while, I dare to peek into Frederick’s room. I find him passed out in his underwear, his hair wet on the pillow.

  I tiptoe back into the guest room and lay down again.

  * * *

  When I wake up, it’s to the sound of shouting.

  “All I wanted was a Christmas morning with my son and my grandchild!” Alice wails. “Is that really too much to ask?”

  “That’s all you want? That and a quart of my blood.”

  “What a role model you make.”

  “Rachel is a big girl, Alice. She knows my flaws, okay? But she’s nicer about them.”

  “Does she have a choice?”

  My chest quivers with unhappiness, and I feel positively ill. It’s too hot in my room, and there isn’t enough air. I walk out of the bedroom and speed down the stairs. Stepping into my shoes in the front hall, I go out into the cold, shutting the door behind me.

  The stoop feels icy through the fabric of my jeans, but breathing cold air feels good. Still, my heart races like the drum line of a speed-metal track. When the door opens behind me, I whirl around.

  It’s Grandpa Frank. He sits down next to me. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I gasp.

  “You don’t look so good.”

  “Don’t feel so good.”

  “What’s the matter, exactly?”

  “Can’t breathe,” I say.

  “You’re about thirty years too young for heart trouble.” He takes my hand and puts two fingers on my wrist. “Rachel, are you having a panic attack?”

  I turn to look at him. “How do I tell?”

  He pats my hand. “Feelings of doom, shortness of breath. Maybe nausea.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “It’s the most common thing in the world. It will pass. Some people have too many—it gets in the way of their lives. And they need to get help. But if you’re just having one or two, say, on the most stressful Christmas ever, I predict you’ll make a full recovery.”

  “Good to know.” I try not to gasp.

  “I prescribe…a walk around the block. But we’ll need coats.” He goes inside for them.

  The walk helps. I follow my grandfather through the deserted neighborhood park, past chilly-looking playground equipment. “Frederick played Little League on these fields,” he says, pointing.

  “That’s hard to picture.”

  My grandfather chuckles. “He was no good at it. He got cut from the team his second year.”

  “I’ll bet he didn’t mind.”

  “Not a bit,” his father agrees.

  “We do this too,” I say. “Frederick and I go for walks.”

  “He’s always liked walking,” Dr. Richards says. “He told me once that he finishes a lot of song lyrics that way. Walking around, rearranging the words in his head.”

  “Why doesn’t Frederick drive?” I ask suddenly.

  “He didn’t tell you the story?”

  I get prickles on my neck. “There’s a story?”

  Grandpa Frank stops under a silver birch tree, where flaps of papery bark wave in the wind. “He used to drive. But when he was nineteen, he crashed his car into a tree. Scared him so badly he never drove again.”

  I don’t know what to make of this story. It’s hard to imagine Frederick afraid of anything. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “He was alone, and most likely drunk. He cracked a couple of ribs against the steering column, that’s all. But that was enough, I guess.”

  We walk on.

  * * *

  “He changed his ticket,” Alice spits when we reenter the house. “He’s leaving tonight.”

  My heart clenches. He wouldn’t just leave me here. I run upstairs. His room is empty, the gift I’d left him is gone. There’s no guitar. I throw myself on his bed and press my face into the crook of my arm.

  Someone comes in and sits on the bed next to me. From the sound of the footsteps, it’s Alice. “Rachel,” she says.

  I don’t bother raising my wet face. Kind words from Alice won’t cut it right now.

  “Rachel, I’m so sorry he let you down like this. He doesn’t know how to be anyone’s father.”

  Seriously? He does a fair-to-middling job most of the time. I sit up quickly, anger coiling in my stomach. “Why do you push him away?”

  Alice reels at the question. Her lips tremble. “He pushes himself away.”

  “My aunt Lisa…” I swallow. “We’re not calling her.”

  “Okay,” Alice whispers.

  I can hardly spit out the reason. “She left me in the home. In Orlando. She left me there, and Frederick didn’t.”

  “Oh.” Alice’s eyes begin to fill.

  She reaches for my hand, but I jerk it away. “If you can’t f-forgive him,” I stutter, “then we can’t come here.” I consider Jake’s offer to pick me up in Boston. If Frederick can leave, so could I. “If you can’t forgive him, I can’t stay here. Because…” I choke on my tears. “Because I love him too. And you’re making it so ha
rd on me.”

  Alice pales. Then she gets up off the bed and leaves the room.

  I wait until her footsteps retreat down the staircase before I put my face back down in my arms and cry. Because Frederick has finally done the thing I’ve been afraid he’d do.

  He bailed on me.

  * * *

  My father doesn’t even call me until the next morning at nine. I’m lying in bed, trying to decide whether it’s worth getting up when my phone rings.

  “Rachel,” he says, his voice gruff in my ear. “I owe you an apology.”

  Or ten. Or a million. I’m not ready to accept even one. “Where are you?”

  “Standing on the beach. It’s still dark.”

  Why didn’t you take me too?

  “Rachel, what did you say to Alice?”

  “Why?”

  He chuckles. “Whatever you said, it was very effective. Either that, or zombies got her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Last night she came over to Ernie’s, and then drove me to the airport. She said she was sorry.”

  “Really?”

  “I owe you big.”

  Then why don’t you come back?

  “I like the hat,” he adds.

  “Oh. Good.” I’d noticed that he never wore one, even on the coldest days in New Hampshire. I’d found him a sort of wool Stetson, it’s cool-looking, but also warm. I’d been so eager to give it to him, and now it’s hard to remember why.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Okay,” I whisper, and hang up.

  * * *

  I’m reading an old biography of Eric Clapton that I found in Frederick’s room, when my phone rings again. I don’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

  “Hi Rachel. It’s Ernie.”

  “Hi.” I hope he won’t apologize too. I’ve had enough awkward conversations to last years.

  “You busy?”

  I smile. “No. Why?”

  “Are you up for a little adventure?”

  “Um, sure? What kind?”

  “Frederick left you a present in his closet. Open it and bring it outside with you. I’m on my way over.”

  “That’s very mysterious, Ernie.”

  “You’ll see,” he says. “I’ll be there in ten.”

  I go into Frederick’s room and open the closet door. Sure enough, there’s a big box, wrapped in Christmas paper and tied with a fancy ribbon, but no card. I kneel down in the closet doorway and pull the ribbon off, then tear the paper.

  Inside the box I find a pair of waterproof gloves, a fleece neck gaiter and a pair of surprisingly bulky goggles. Also, I find a pair of North Face snow pants just like Aurora’s. At the bottom of the box there’s a note in Frederick’s handwriting.

  Come with me to Snow Creek this week. Even girls from Orlando can handle a Missouri “mountain.” We’ll have you skiing the wilds of New Hampshire in no time. — Dad

  Stung, I flick the card aside. Then I pick up the box and run downstairs, shoving my feet into my boots. When I open the front door, I see a Buick pull up in front of the house, exhaust wisping from its tailpipe.

  I run down the walk, fling open the passenger door and jump inside. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Ernie’s hand pauses on the way to the gearshift. “Why?” He’s wearing black snow pants, a bright orange parka, and the same look of gentle surprise I often see on his face.

  “He sent you to take me skiing. And you said, ‘Sure, dude, I’ve got it.’”

  Ernie hesitates. “I like skiing.”

  “That’s not the point!” The pitch of my voice approaches hysteria. “He sent you to babysit me, to clean up his mess. Why do you put up with his shit?”

  And why do I?

  Ernie doesn’t say anything. He just waits.

  “Damn him,” I swear. “I can just hear him now. ‘Too bad I put that note in the box. But I’ll just get Ernie to cover for me. I’ll tell Henry to pay him rehearsal scale for the afternoon.’”

  The low burble of Ernie’s chuckle fills the car. “You’re funny when you’re pissed.”

  “Then I’m having a really funny week.” I smack my hands on the dashboard. My eyes have begun to burn.

  “It’s complicated, Rachel,” Ernie says, turning the key to shut off the engine. “Frederick and I have been covering for each other for a long time.”

  “Really?” I press. “How come you wrote so many songs with him, but it’s his name on the front of the albums? You’re his enabler.” I can hear myself going too far, taking it out on Ernie. But yesterday I’d defended Frederick. Now I feel like pounding my own head against the dashboard.

  “Can we go skiing now?” he asks quietly. “Just go get your coat. This will be really fun.”

  * * *

  “Turn, turn, turn!” Ernie calls as I accelerate toward the tree line.

  Just before it’s too late, I force my weight onto my right leg and roll my feet. Miraculously, I turn.

  But then my skis cross. And I fall. Again.

  Two little kids, probably about five years old, zip past the spot where I lay in the snow.

  Ernie arrives with a spray of powder. “That was pretty good. You turned three times before you fell.”

  “Score.” I sigh.

  “Let’s do a couple more runs,” he says. “Then we’ll go into the lodge and order one of everything.”

  “It’s a deal,” I agree. “But Frederick is buying.”

  Ernie tips his chin toward the impossibly blue sky and laughs.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell Ernie thirty minutes later as we dip our fries in barbecue sauce.

  “For what?”

  I give him a miserable look. “For losing my shit in the car. The song-writing stuff is none of my business.”

  He dips another fry. “You know, not everybody wants to be the frontman.”

  “I guess.”

  “I mean it. Have you ever wondered why he’s so lonely?”

  “What?” My eyes cut to his big brown ones.

  “He hasn’t made a good friend in a decade,” Ernie says, sipping his Coke. “If you’re Frederick, you have to always wonder what people want from you. Women want their picture in US Weekly, or they want his money. Fans want a picture, so they can post the best Facebook status ever. There’s almost nobody he can trust.”

  I play with the straw in my drink. “Then how come he isn’t here with us right now? You and I are very trustworthy.”

  “Rachel,” Ernie says with a chuckle, rubbing his bald head. “Are you considering law school? I think you have a future in the courtroom.”

  * * *

  A few days later, Alice returns to her job at the university library. That leaves me with the quiet companionship of Grandpa Frank. He teaches at the med school, so he’s still on break.

  “I’ve been given a list of things to buy at the grocery store,” he says the first morning we’re alone.

  “I’ll help,” I offer.

  “We might need to wander around the bookstore first.” He nods. “They make a nice hot chocolate there too.”

  I already love this man. “I’ll get my coat.”

  At the store, I buy a book that’s on the syllabus for the music theory course I’m taking next semester, and we install ourselves at a cafe table. Across from me, my grandfather turns pages in The Economist, and breaks off pieces from a cookie he bought to share. It’s the size of a dinner plate.

  Sipping my latte, I open my book to the introduction. A fresh page, a fresh beginning, a new class. A cup of coffee and my grandfather’s silence. These things make it possible to set aside the heartaches of the past week. For a while, I lose myself in an explanation of how the human ear converts sound waves into music.

  Then I read about an experiment so wonderfully nerdy in its execution that I need to remember to tell Jake about it later. A 1950s composer made several recordings of a song, each on a different musical instrument. Then, splicing like crazy, he shaved
off the beginning of each note—the attack of the hammer hitting the piano string, the first breath of a flute’s sound, the buzzing start of a guitar’s pluck—and something odd happened. Listeners, robbed of the violent front portion of each note, could no longer distinguish which instrument was playing. Even professional musicians who listened to his tapes could not guess correctly.

  I put down the book, straining to believe that the familiar twang of a guitar note, with its beginning nipped off, could be rendered unrecognizable. I’m willing to bet cash money that my years of listening to Frederick’s guitar meant that I could identify his sound no matter what.

  Frederick calls me every morning now, but I don’t answer. I don’t feel like fighting with him, but I’m not ready to forgive and forget.

  Still, each morning he leaves me a voice mail. His messages don’t mention Christmas or Alice’s wrath. Instead, he tells me little pieces of news—that he’d tried my favorite pizza topping combination—onions and olives, and that Henry has a new girlfriend.

  He talks to me more in these messages than he usually does. I listen carefully to each one. But my bitter heart doesn’t let me call back.

  “And make sure Grandpa Frank takes you to Woodyard Bar-B-Que for the burnt ends,” he’d said at the end of his latest message, making no mention of why he wouldn’t be taking me there himself. “See you in a couple weeks,” he always says before hanging up.

  Our relationship is like an experiment gone awry. Maybe my father and I will never be able to hear each other properly, because so much of our beginning was spliced off and thrown away.

  CONTRARY MOTION

  CONTRARY MOTION: Melody and harmony lines moving in opposite directions—one climbing the pitch scale, one descending.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Just before New Year’s, I finish filling out five college applications. I charge the application fees to Frederick’s credit card. Since we’re still not speaking, it’s his only way of learning which colleges I’m applying to.