Perfect Rhythm Page 3

  But Holly stayed behind as Leo walked toward the kitchen.

  Her mother stood with her back to Leo, wiping down the same gray-and-white-speckled Formica countertop they’d had fourteen years ago.

  Leo paused and stared across the bar separating the kitchen from the dining room area. When had her mother gotten so old? Her hair, formerly the same honey shade as Leo’s own, was now streaked with gray, and she seemed thinner than Leo remembered. Her mother had always prided herself on her youthful appearance, but now she looked much older than her sixty-five years.

  As if sensing Leo’s gaze on her, she turned around. Her mother gasped and dropped the rag she’d been holding as if surprised to see her, which was strange because she must have heard the doorbell. Had she doubted that Leo would actually come and assumed it was a neighbor?

  Leo stood frozen, not sure how to greet her. The bar between them wasn’t the only thing separating them.

  Finally, her mother took the initiative. She rushed over and engulfed her in a tight embrace.

  After a moment, Leo’s arms came up to hug her back. Had her mother felt as fragile in the past? She didn’t think so.

  Her mother stepped back but kept her hands on Leo’s shoulders, holding her at arms’ length to look her over. “Your hair… It looks so different.”

  Leo tucked a strand of her tousled, shoulder-length mane behind one ear. “The label thought it was a good idea to add a few golden highlights for the cover of my last album, and then we decided to stick with it.” It occurred to her that even now, as an adult, she wasn’t the one who got to make the decisions about how to wear her hair.

  “It looks good,” her mother said.

  “Thanks.”

  Silence fell like a suffocating blanket between them.

  “How was the flight?”

  “Fine.”

  “And the drive up?” her mother added.

  “That was fine too.” Leo heaved a sigh. She was too tense to muddle through the usual small talk.

  Her mother finally let go of her shoulders and bustled back into the kitchen. “Did you eat? I’ve got a pie in the oven, but it still needs twenty minutes before I can take it out. I could make you—”

  “No, Mom. I’m not hungry.” She wiped away a bit of flour her mother’s hug had left on her tank top and wished the awkwardness would be as easy to shake off.

  She let her gaze roam the kitchen. Everything looked the same here too: the glass-fronted oak cabinets with their brass handles, the four-burner stove, and her mother’s spices neatly lined up on a shelf. Then her gaze fell on the back door, and she spotted something new through the screen. A wooden ramp had been laid over the three steps leading to the patio.

  A lump lodged in her throat. Was her father so bad off that he was bound to a wheelchair or had to use a walker? She hadn’t asked a lot of questions on the phone, not sure if she was ready to deal with the answers.

  Her mother followed her gaze and walked back around the bar. “Why don’t you go wash up before you see your father?” she asked quietly, the forced cheerfulness gone from her tone. “He’s taking a nap in the downstairs bedroom.”

  “Downstairs bedroom?” Leo croaked out through the lump.

  “We converted the music room into a bedroom for your father since he can’t manage stairs anymore,” her mother said.

  “Oh.”

  “Holly will help you get your baggage upstairs.”

  Leo waved away the offer. “I can manage, Mom.”

  “Nonsense. Holly doesn’t mind, do you, dear?”

  When Leo glanced over her shoulder to where her mother was looking, Holly stood in the dining room, her arms crossed over her chest. She watched Leo with the wariness other people reserved for a growling Doberman.

  Please don’t tell me she’s one of the locals who think lesbians should be burned at the stake. Leo already had enough to deal with; she didn’t need this too.

  “No, of course I don’t mind, Sharon.” Holly’s cheeks dimpled as she smiled at Leo’s mother.

  Sharon? Not Mrs. Blake? Why the hell were these two suddenly acting as if Holly were part of the family?

  “Come on.” Holly turned and walked toward the staircase without waiting to see if Leo would follow.

  Sighing, Leo marched after her. She hadn’t even been back for ten minutes, but she already couldn’t wait to get the hell out of Dodge.

  Before Holly could reach out to pick up the guitar case, Leontyne shouldered past her. “Let me take that.”

  Holly gritted her teeth. If only Leontyne had been as worried about her parents as she was about her precious guitar. Don’t say anything. If you chase her away, it’ll break Sharon’s heart. So she bent and picked up the lone suitcase instead—just one, which sent a clear message. Leontyne didn’t intend to stay for long.

  She never had. Holly’s brother Zack, who’d gone to school with Leontyne, had often joked that she’d been born with two things in her hands: a guitar pick and a map out of town.

  They started up the stairs at the same time, nearly bumping into each other.

  Holly waved at her to go first. Neither of them spoke a word as they climbed the stairs and headed down the hall.

  When they got to the second of the upstairs bedrooms, Leontyne opened the door. But instead of entering, she leaned a trim hip against the doorframe and took in her old room. Was she reliving her youth or comparing her childhood home to her luxury condo on Park Avenue?

  Holly couldn’t tell. She put down the suitcase and watched her.

  It was strange to see the face that was plastered on billboards all over the country. In a gray tank top, well-worn cowboy boots, and a pair of jean shorts that clung to a slim waist and left her long legs bare, she looked more like a country singer than a pop star—minus the big hair. She wasn’t wearing makeup, so the dark smudges beneath her olive-green eyes were easy to spot.

  Had she spent her last night in New York partying, or had she lain awake, worrying about her father?

  If the fresh citrus smell was any indication, Sharon must have cleaned the room to make her daughter feel welcome. With its posters of pop stars, the room looked like a shrine to Leontyne’s youth, but she still eyed it as if it were the anteroom of hell. It reminded Holly of the way animals looked entering the waiting room of her mother’s practice.

  Finally, Leontyne set one of her booted feet into the room, followed by the other. She put the guitar down, turned toward Holly, and took the suitcase from her. Belatedly, she muttered a “thanks.”

  Clearly, Ms. Pop Princess was used to being treated like royalty and having her baggage carried for her.

  The door clicked closed between them, leaving Holly to stare at the wood.

  Slowly, Leo let the suitcase sink to the floor. She’d been so sure that her parents would turn her old room into an office or a guest room the moment she’d left town, eager to erase the existence of the daughter they didn’t approve of.

  Instead, they had kept her room exactly as she remembered it—except a lot tidier. It felt as if she’d stepped into a time capsule. Her old desk was perched in the niche beneath the dormer window, next to the rocking chair in which she’d spent countless hours learning to play chords. The bookshelf still held her novels and CDs. She flopped down onto her single bed and stared up at the posters of Pink and Destiny’s Child pinned to the sloped ceiling.

  The pillow beneath her smelled of clean cotton and fabric softener. Not a hint of dust in the entire room. Maybe it should have made her feel good to have her mother clean the room so thoroughly, but instead, it made her feel trapped. It was just one more indication of how much her mother wanted her to stay.

  Suddenly, the room felt even smaller and more stifling than it actually was. She jumped off the bed and nearly ripped the door off its hinges as she tore it open.

  Holly, who
had reached the bottom of the stairs, turned and stared.

  Heat rushed into Leo’s cheeks. Was she actually blushing? It had been a long time since that had happened. She shrugged it off. It was probably being back in her childhood home that made her more emotional.

  She put on her impenetrable pop-star mask and followed Holly down the stairs. Her muscle memory made her avoid the steps that creaked, and she realized that Holly must have done the same since she hadn’t heard the stairs creak. What the…? How much time had Holly spent in the house to become so familiar with it?

  It didn’t matter now. She focused her attention on the door to the former music room.

  Before she could work up the courage to open it, Holly took hold of her arm and held her back. “Wait!”

  Leo glanced down at the hand on her arm.

  Quickly, Holly let go. “Did your mother tell you what to expect?”

  She shook her head. Her mother hadn’t told her much beyond recounting that scary moment when she’d found him on the floor, unable to move or speak. Or maybe she had, and it just hadn’t penetrated through the fog that had filled her head after hearing the word stroke.

  “After the stroke, his right side was completely paralyzed,” Holly said. “He’s getting some function back in his leg, but it’s a very slow process. The physiotherapist thinks he can eventually get him to where he can get around using a walker.”

  Her proud father shuffling around with a walker… She didn’t want to believe it. “What about…?” She had to clear her throat before she could finish the sentence. “What about his arm?”

  “It might get a little better too, but right now, he can’t use it at all, so he needs help with everyday tasks like getting dressed.”

  Which meant he wouldn’t be able to play his beloved violin. Leo curled her hands into fists as she imagined how it would feel. As much as she wanted to get away from music for a while, the thought of never touching an instrument again was as foreign to her as never breathing again.

  “If he’s that bad off, why isn’t he in a hospital or in a rehab center?”

  “He was,” Holly said. “That’s where he spent the last two months.”

  Last two months? Leo’s head spun. Her father’s stroke had happened two months ago, and no one had thought to call her until now?

  “Recovery will be a slow process, and there’s not much a rehab center could do for him that we can’t do at home,” Holly cut into her thoughts.

  “We?” Leo repeated. Why was Holly talking as if she were part of the family?

  “I know I don’t look like it…” Holly glanced down at her jeans and the faded T-shirt. “But I’m a home-health-care nurse. Since I’m here on a full-time basis, your mother told me not to wear scrubs. She wants your father to feel like he’s at home, not in a hospital.”

  “You’re a nurse? I didn’t know that.”

  Holly shrugged. “How could you? You haven’t been home in fourteen years.”

  Leo ground her teeth at the blatant reproach in Holly’s tone. “I was here five years ago, when my grandmother died.”

  Holly pressed her lips together and said nothing.

  “Okay.” With a stern nod, Leo reached for the door handle that had replaced the old brass knob, but once again, Holly held her back with a touch to her arm.

  “There’s more.”

  Oh hell. With jerky movements, she turned and waited for what else Holly had to say.

  “He’s got aphasia.”

  “Aphasia?” Leo repeated. “Does that mean…he can’t talk?”

  “Not much. He can understand most of what you say to him, especially if you keep your sentences simple, but he struggles to get even a single word out. He knows what he wants to say, but he can’t access the words. Most of the time, he refuses to talk to anyone and doesn’t like being around people. I think he’s embarrassed.”

  Leo could imagine that. Her father had always hated for anyone to think he was less than perfect. “But he wants to talk to me?”

  Her mother joined them in front of the bedroom, and Leo turned toward her. “He knows I’m here, right?” If he unexpectedly came face-to-face with his lesbian pop-star daughter, he might have another stroke.

  “He knows,” her mother said.

  That didn’t answer her other question, but flying back to New York without seeing him was not an option. She gripped the door handle with sweaty fingers and opened the door inch by inch. The doorway had been widened, probably to accommodate the wheelchair that stood by the hospital bed in the middle of the room.

  Even Holly’s explanation couldn’t have prepared her for the sight of her father in that wheelchair, his body slumped to one side and his right arm resting limply in his lap. He absentmindedly kneaded his fingers with the other hand. His face, which had always looked as if chiseled from a rock, was now drooping on the right. His mustache, formed like an albatross in flight, was gone. With his bare upper lip, he looked strangely vulnerable. Instead of the pressed trousers and the starched shirt she was used to, he wore sweatpants and a creased short-sleeved button-down.

  Her stern, unyielding father appeared human—mortal—for the very first time.

  Leo paused in the doorway. What was she supposed to say to him? She’d never known how to talk to him in the past, and now it certainly hadn’t gotten any easier.

  She felt her mother step up behind her. Her hand on Leo’s shoulder cemented her in place, as if her mother was afraid she would turn and flee otherwise.

  That actually sounded like a pretty good idea. She swallowed, and it sounded much too loud in the silent room. “Um, hi, Dad,” she finally said.

  He stared at her but didn’t answer or nod to acknowledge her presence. Did he even recognize her?

  “Come on, Gil,” Holly said. “I know you want to talk to Leontyne.”

  Gil? To her knowledge, no one had ever called her father anything but Dr. Blake or Gilbert.

  He looked from Leo to Holly and then back. The muscles in his jaw worked. He opened his mouth, and after two seconds, a simple “hello” came out. It sounded more like “a-no,” so Leo hoped it was a greeting, not his way of saying no way do I want to see you, much less talk to you.

  She took a hesitant step into the room. “How are you doing?”

  Again, he looked as if he needed to search his mind for the right word. “Fine,” he finally said. The corners of his mouth, even the side that wasn’t drooping, didn’t lift into a smile.

  At least that one thing hadn’t changed. His expression had always been naturally disapproving when he’d looked at her.

  He jerked his chin at her.

  Was he trying to return the question and ask how she was doing? “I’m fine too,” she said.

  He nodded once.

  They stared at each other from opposite ends of the room.

  What else could she tell him? She shifted her weight. Great. Now she was struggling just as much as he was for something to say.

  To her surprise, it was her father who broke the awkward silence. “Music…” He paused and seemed to search for the right word. The kneading of his fingers became faster, more agitated. “Um…music no.”

  She had no idea what he was trying to say, so she took a guess. Maybe he was asking about how her career was going. “Yeah, no more music for a while. I just wrapped up a world tour. Mom caught me right after the last concert in Madison Square Garden.”

  Her father didn’t look impressed.

  What did you expect? He had a stroke, not a personality implant. Nothing short of a concert in Carnegie Hall could ever impress him.

  He shook his head. “No, no. Music bedroom. No listen.” He waved his good hand at something Leo couldn’t see.

  God, this was like charades, and Leo had never been good at guessing games. She realized that she didn’t know her father well eno
ugh to guess what he was trying to say.

  “Music. Put.” He tapped his fingers on the wheelchair’s armrest in a demanding rhythm.

  “Oh.” Holly stepped next to her. “You want us to turn the music back on. Is that it?”

  Her mother had turned off the classical music that had been playing in the background.

  The tapping stopped, and he nodded.

  “But it’s hard to talk with the music on,” her mother said softly. “You know you can’t focus if there’s too much background noise.”

  He tapped the armrest again, harder this time.

  Leo pressed her lips together. Message received. Clearly, the conversation was over. She was dismissed.

  Her mother hooked her hand into the bend of Leo’s elbow. “Come on. You can talk more tomorrow. I’m sure you want to get unpacked before dinner.” She led her to the door, turning the stereo back on in passing.

  Not that Leo needed to be dragged. She was more than happy to get out of there. At the door, she glanced back at her father, who sat with his eyes closed as if wanting to block out the world and focus on the music.

  Holly followed them out and closed the door behind herself.

  “Is he getting speech therapy?” Leo asked.

  “Yes,” Holly said. “An hour of speech therapy, occupational therapy, and physical therapy five times a week.”

  “If his insurance doesn’t cover it all, I’ll foot the bill. Or if he needs a motorized wheelchair or something. Whatever he needs. Money is not an issue.”

  Holly’s brow contracted. “You know, not every problem can be solved by throwing money at it.” She clamped her mouth shut.

  What the fuck? Leo turned toward her with her shoulders squared. “That’s not what I’m doing, but my mother called me for a reason, so I’m trying to figure out what needs to be done.”

  “There are other ways to—”

  “Now, let’s not fight, girls.” Her mother patted Leo’s arm. “We all want what’s best for your father.”