The Sound of Home

by Krista Sandor

  She glanced at the playlist, and a scintillating tingle ran through her body. Despite the anxiety churning in her belly, she was excited to play the piano again. She thought back to last night, and how she had helped calm Noland by playing “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.”

  She opened the door to the main building and nearly crashed into Tom’s wife, Mindy Lancaster.

  The startled look on Mindy’s face highlighted her sharp features. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to show up.”

  Em pasted a smile to her lips. She had never cared for Mindy Lancaster. While Tom was gentle and encouraging, his wife was stiff and serious. When she was just a girl, Mrs. Lancaster used to remind her of a rigid headmistress—and nothing had changed in the last twelve years to alter that perception.

  Em held up her phone and displayed Tom’s email. “Tom said arriving by a quarter to five should give me plenty of time before the residents show up for dinner.”

  “And the playlist?” Mindy continued. “Do you think you’ll be able to play all the songs? I brought the sheet music just in case. I wasn’t sure how long it’s been since you’ve played.” She let the last few words dangle in the air like rotting pieces of fruit.

  Em scanned the email. Beethoven’s Fur Elise, Mozart’s Greensleeves, and Debussy’s Clair de Lune topped the list. It was like being reunited with old friends. Tom must have remembered that these were some of her favorite pieces.

  “Do you need the music?” Mindy asked again, holding the sheets with her good hand while she waved her other, encased in a bright pink cast.

  A thread of hesitation wove its way through her chest. What if she couldn’t do it? What if her fingers had forgotten what was once second nature? She met Mindy’s gaze and saw a glimmer of triumph flash in the woman’s eyes. Mindy was an accomplished pianist, but she had never risen to even a fraction of what Em had achieved as a musician.

  A confidence Em hadn’t known in years surged through her veins. She thought back to her earliest piano competitions. The competitors, twice, sometimes three times her age, sneered or even laughed as she took the stage, all pigtails and plaid skirt. But the jeering ended the moment her fingers pressed upon the ivory keys.

  Em lifted her chin. “I’ll do fine without the sheet music, Mrs. Lancaster. I guess you don’t remember, but I mastered these pieces by my fourth birthday—maybe it was my fifth, but who’s counting?”

  Mindy tightened her grip on the sheet music. The paper collapsed inward like the tightening of a noose. “Have it your way. You can leave after dinner. A deejay will come and play music for the dancing portion that follows the meal. Any questions?”

  “I’ve performed for the Queen of England. I think I can handle this,” Em shot back.

  She wasn’t going to take any more crap from Mindy Lancaster. She may have let her father down. She may have let this whole damn town down. But the anger that kept her away from music, away from the memories that threatened to tear her apart with guilt and grief, was transforming. This new anger needed to learn the truth. This new anger had a fire behind it fueled by a dogged determination.

  The door opened, bringing with it a gust of cold air, and Bill MacCaslin entered the building.

  “Hi, kiddo,” Bill said. He planted a kiss on his daughter’s cheek. “Mindy, it’s so good to see you.”

  Mindy’s sourpuss expression vanished and was replaced with a saccharine smile. “Always good to see you, Dr. MacCaslin. How are you feeling?”

  “I won’t be running a marathon anytime soon,” he said, gesturing to his portable oxygen, “but, all things considered, I’m doing much better.”

  Mindy toyed self-consciously with the plaster on her cast. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “And, I get to hear my little girl play the piano tonight so I’d say I’m a pretty lucky man.”

  Em clasped her hands together and traced the length of her scar with her index finger. Mindy’s pointed gaze followed her finger’s movements.

  She dropped her hands to her sides. “I better go warm up, Dad,” she said, then turned to Mindy. “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Lancaster. I can take it from here.”

  * * *

  Michael entered the lobby of the campus’s main building. The usually bustling space was eerily quiet. The only inhabitants were two nurses sitting at the information desk, and even they seemed oblivious to his presence. One of them had been knitting. She had the needles in her hands but stopped mid-stitch. The other nurse sat with her eyes closed.

  What the hell was going on here?

  Michael was about to ask that very question when the slow, dreamy first notes of Chopin’s Nocturne No. 20 in C-Sharp Minor floated through the air.

  Now he understood the nurses’ behavior. It was Em. She was playing the piano. He would know the sound of her fingers on the keys anywhere.

  He walked past the nurses and toward the ballroom like a moth powerless to resist the flame. The ballroom was packed with people. He had been deejaying at the campus for a few years now. Mindy Lancaster usually played the piano while the residents enjoyed dinner, and then he would come and throw a few songs on for the dancing portion of the evening. Many residents attended, but he had never seen the ballroom packed with nurses, doctors, and the housekeeping and facility management staff.

  It was as if every living soul who heard Em play was lured into the ballroom. Even the waitstaff stood motionless holding trays, frozen in place.

  He leaned against the wall. Em’s body swayed and dipped as her fingers glided across the keys with the ease of a bird in flight. Her eyes were glassy, and she blinked slowly. He knew this look. She was caught somewhere between this world and the next, hovering in a place where only harmony and melody existed. The thought of her cutting herself off from music for over a decade nearly made him weep. But here she was, playing as if the accident had never happened.

  A shiver traveled the length of his spine. Maybe her gift hadn’t been taken away that fateful night at the hollow?

  The piece came to a close and Em’s hands hovered above the keys. Every person in the ballroom seemed to hold their breath, watching her hands rise and then fall to her lap. She wasn’t back from that in-between place yet. Her eyes remained vacant until the burst of applause snapped her back into this world.

  He glanced toward the doors as Mindy Lancaster slipped out of the ballroom. In all her years of playing for the residents, she had never received this kind of response. The ballroom echoed with cheers and clapping, and all thoughts of Mindy Lancaster were forgotten when he looked across the ballroom and met Em’s gaze.

  It wasn’t like Halloween when she had seen him after she’d played violin on stage. That night, her eyes were filled with hate and resentment. But tonight, they were full of wonder as if she could barely believe what she had done.

  Michael walked toward her as the spell that had taken over the ballroom faded away into the noisy clamor of waiters removing plates and residents picking up their conversations. Em’s father was the first to reach her with a spring in his step that Michael hadn’t seen in years.

  Bill MacCaslin beamed with pride. “Kiddo, that was…”

  “Incredible,” Michael offered, nodding to Dr. MacCaslin before turning to Em.

  She was wearing makeup, but it wasn’t the heavy, dark eyeliner that made her look so foreboding and dangerous. No, tonight she was luminous. Rosy lips and the hint of a shimmering eyeshadow made her blue eyes sparkle. The loose waves of her auburn hair were tucked behind her ear, and as a lock came free, he reached out, grazing his fingertips against the soft skin of her neck and smoothed it back into place.

  Em’s hand went to her hair, and a blush crept up her neck. “I didn’t know you were the deejay,” she said, eyeing the headphones hanging out of the equipment bag slung over his shoulder. “You didn’t mention anything about it today.”

  “Today?” Bill asked.

  Em tensed. “Michael and I took a drive.”

  “I took Em to some
of our old stomping grounds,” Michael added.

  Em’s expression relaxed.

  “That’s wonderful! I’m glad you kids are getting some time together. There was a time when we could barely pull you two apart. Better together, that’s what your father and I used to say, Michael,” Bill said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  Michael forced a smile. He didn’t know what hurt more, thinking about the time when his father remembered him, or now, when he didn’t.

  “Dad, would you mind asking if there’s anything left for dinner? I haven’t eaten since lunch, and I’m pretty famished.”

  “I’m sure one of the waitstaff could help us out. I’ll be right back,” Bill said and disappeared into the crowd.

  The same lock of Em’s hair fell forward again and brushed past her cheek. A beat of silence passed between them. Did she want him to tuck it back into place again?

  A rosy blush bloomed on her cheeks as she secured the smooth strands behind her ear. But her hand lingered on the spot where he had touched her when he’d tucked back the errant lock. She dropped her hands.

  “I was hoping I’d get to see your dad tonight.”

  Michael shifted his stance. “The residents from the memory care center don’t usually attend these events. We were trying something new the night you…” He stopped. Thoughts of his father’s outburst caused his body to stiffen, the physical manifestation of his heart hardening as his father slipped further and further away.

  Em ran her finger down the strap of his bag and let it linger on his headphones. “You do get to be a deejay.”

  She was giving him an out, and he was grateful to end any talk of his father.

  “Yeah, the good people of Langley Park don’t seem to mind their attorney mixing music if it’s for a bunch of old people.”

  Em’s eyes held a mischievous spark. “Well, Mr. Deejay, what do you have for us tonight?”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t think you’re going to be too impressed. Over the years, I’ve learned that a steady stream of Lionel Ritchie interspersed with some Bee Gees is what gets this crowd going.”

  She laughed, and the sound washed over him like a warm summer breeze.

  “Oh, yes,” he continued. “Once you hit your seventies, expect to enjoy a good slow jam.”

  “Maybe I’ll stick around,” she said with a hint of a smile. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard ‘Three Times a Lady.’ ”

  “A classic,” he added, holding her gaze.

  * * *

  Em’s face glowed. She had only taken a few bites of the pasta her father managed to wrangle from the kitchen before every male inhabitant of the Langley Park Senior Living Center requested a dance. Michael watched her gift each man a genuine smile, but she declined every invitation.

  He cued up the next song, took off his headphones, and walked over to Em’s table.

  “The last song is up next,” he said, offering her his hand.

  “I don’t dance,” Em replied.

  “Oh, come on, kiddo! It’s Michael! We used to bathe you two together. Surely, you could give him one dance.”

  Em shook her head as a sweet pink blush inched up her creamy neck. “Dad, we’re not toddlers anymore!”

  “One dance, Em,” Michael said.

  “If it stops my father from discussing our days of joint bathing, then yes, I’ll dance with you.”

  “You sure know how to make a guy feel special,” he said, taking her hand and leading her onto the dance floor.

  The Bee Gee’s classic, “How Deep is Your Love,” ended and Lionel Ritchie’s iconic voice filled the ballroom.

  Em’s eyes widened. “Is this…”

  “Yep,” he answered, placing his hand on the small of her back and taking her hand in his. “If you want to be technical, it’s the Commodores. But, yes, that’s good ole Lionel on vocals.”

  He started to move to the music, but Em tensed.

  “Michael, wait. I can’t…”

  “Can’t what?”

  She bit her lip. “It’s not like I ever went to prom or anything.”

  “What are you talking about, Em?”

  “I’ve never danced with anyone… sober.”

  His memory flooded with images of her grinding against that tool in the bar on Halloween. His jaw clenched but quickly relaxed. A flush crept up her neck, and he could tell she was genuinely nervous.

  He softened his expression. “Lucky for you, I’m an excellent dancer,” he said, guiding her into an exaggerated dip. He lifted her up slowly and gathered her into his arms.

  The ballroom sported a disco ball. He hated disco balls. How fucking cheesy could you get? But as he looked down at Em’s face, his opinion on disco balls completely reversed. The light caught the auburn in her hair and glowed red-gold like the comforting flame of a campfire on a cold night.

  He swayed to the beat, and Em relaxed in his arms. She shifted her fingers and laced them with his, and instantly he imagined her in his bed—her hair fanned out across the sheets. Her hands raised above her head, laced with his, as his cock drove into her, over and over again.

  “Hey,” Em said, catching him mid-imaginary thrust. “I wanted to ask you about Tina Fowler.”

  This put an immediate end to his fantasy.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were a little weird at the diner when the waitress was talking to us about her. Did you know her?”

  Michael shook his head. “No, but I thought I remembered something about her. Probably just something I saw on the news or in the paper.”

  Her brow creased.

  “What is it, Em?”

  “I wondered…” But she stopped speaking as an odd expression crossed her face.

  16

  Who was that woman?

  Em’s expression changed from confused to curious. Michael stopped dancing and craned his neck to see.

  “Oh, Christ,” he chuckled. “It’s Eunice Teller. She must have slipped past the nurses. She’s like Houdini. Get ready for a walk down memory lane.”

  “Mary Michelle MacCaslin!” the woman exclaimed.

  Em searched the woman’s face then turned to Michael. He was doing his best not to laugh. Irritation flooded her system. Why was he getting such a kick out of this?

  Mrs. Teller gave her such a look of adoration, Em couldn’t help but return the woman’s smile with one of her own.

  “Six pounds and seven ounces,” the woman said, eyes shining with emotion.

  “Do I…” Em began, but Michael broke in.

  “Mrs. Teller was our labor and delivery nurse,” he said, still holding back a laugh.

  “Our what?”

  “I helped deliver you both and bring you into this glorious world,” Mrs. Teller answered, then turned to Michael. “And you, young man, were…”

  “I know. I know, Mrs. Teller. Nine pounds and three ounces.”

  “Oh, your poor mother!” The older woman smiled. “My two, beautiful little redheaded babies born only minutes apart.”

  Now it made sense. It had been years since she had seen Mrs. Teller, and the woman seemed ancient even back then.

  “Oh, what a night that was. We were short-staffed, and I kept running back-and-forth between rooms. Thank goodness Michael was such a polite baby. Had he not waited five minutes, you’d both not only have the same birthday but would have been born at the exact same time.”

  “Mrs. Teller,” Michael said gently, “would you like me to walk you back to your room?”

  “My room?” she echoed and turned her head from side to side like a lost child.

  The music stopped, and the chandeliers bathed the room in bright light.

  A flush-faced Anita Benson headed toward them.

  “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Mrs. Teller.”

  “But I heard the music and saw all the people dancing,” the older woman replied.

  Michael released her hand but kept his palm pressed to the small of her back. A move t
hat didn’t go unnoticed by Anita Benson as the nurse glanced their way.

  Em’s heart twisted. Only moments ago, Mrs. Teller was bubbling with life and enthusiasm. Now, her eyes were filled with confusion.

  Michael stepped forward. “It’s all right, Mrs. Benson. I can escort Mrs. Teller back to the Memory Care Center.”

  “See,” Mrs. Teller said, “always such a polite young man. You remind me of my Rodney. We met back in high school at Garrett Senior High. He was the star quarterback, and I was the head cheerleader. The perfect small town love story.”

  “Yes, yes, Mrs. Teller,” Anita said with a tight smile.

  “That’s where you met your Bobby, right Anita?” the woman continued. “Such a shame what happened in LaRoe.” Mrs. Teller’s face brightened. “I’ve seen his younger sister here. She was always so good at—”

  “Mrs. Teller,” Anita said, placing her hand on the woman’s arm. “I think you’re confused, dear. Let’s get you back to your room.”

  “No, I’m not confused. I remember. I can still remember,” Mrs. Teller said as streaks of panic laced her words.

  “Mrs. Teller,” Michael said, offering the woman his arm, “I’d be honored to walk you back.”

  The older woman stared at him blankly, but the chivalrous gesture seemed to ease her confusion. She linked her frail arm with his. “Anita is right. I do get a bit confused these days.”

  Michael walked a few steps with Mrs. Teller, then turned back. “I’ll catch up with you later, Em.”

  “Of course,” she replied, catching Anita Benson watching their exchange with a pointed gaze.

  * * *

  Em wound her damp hair into a messy bun. She stared at her reflection in the bedroom mirror. She had cleaned the room and made it inhabitable. The ribbons, trophies, and photographs once littering the floor, now sat in neat piles on her dresser. She pulled a tank top over her head and reached for Michael’s hoodie. Inhaling deeply, she took in the spearmint lemongrass scent.

  After Michael left to take Mrs. Teller back to the Memory Care Center, she said goodnight to her father and walked the short distance home to Foxglove Lane.