Everything You Are(66)

“Is this Josephine Conroy?”

A brief pause, canned TV laughter in the background. Then: “Sorry, I don’t want any.”

“Wait!” Phee blurts. “Please. I’m a friend of Braden’s and I need to talk to you.”

“Who is this?” The voice is sharp, but Phee hears the sound of a door closing, and the TV noise mercifully fades.

She’d meant to lie, but in response to this woman’s directness, the only real approach is honesty. “My name is Ophelia MacPhee. Your brother isn’t doing so well and—”

“That’s the understatement of the century.”

“I’m trying to help him, but I need to know—”

“How do you know him? Because if you’re some reporter snooping around for what you lowlifes call backstory so you can dredge up the old tragedy and hook it to the new one, you can just go directly to hell.”

Phee reminds herself to breathe. “I’m not a reporter, Josephine. I—”

“See, that’s the thing. Nobody calls me that except telemarketers. So if you’re really a friend of his, then you’d know better.”

“He doesn’t exactly talk about his family a lot,” Phee shoots back, her voice sharpening.

To her great surprise, the woman on the other end laughs. “Point for you, Ophelia.”

“Nobody calls me that. It’s Phee.”

“Jo.”

“All right, Jo. I’m the luthier in charge of the cello. So you’re right, it’s not like Braden and I are close. But I’m worried. He’s not playing. Now Allie’s not playing.”

“Maybe in light of the recent tragedy, that’s expected. For the girl. Braden hasn’t been able to play in years. Ever since . . .” A short silence. A breath. “Ever since what happened. But I’d guess you know about that or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“I only know what was in the papers. He won’t talk about it. I feel like I could help him more if I knew what happened to him.”

“Nobody knows. That’s the thing. Mitch is the only one, and he . . . Look. Maybe you mean well, but after all these years, I don’t see how any of this could be helpful. I really do need to go now.”

“If he could play again, though. He says he’s nothing without the music. It’s what started him drinking, he says.”

A long silence stretches out, and Phee bites her tongue to keep from filling it.

“I always blamed Lilian for that,” Jo finally says. “A real princess, she was. Wanted to be up on a pedestal with him kneeling at her feet. I always thought what broke him was her kicking him to the curb, but maybe you’re right about the music. Are you sure you’re not a reporter? I’ve talked too much already. I’ll need to clear you with my brother before I say any more—”

“Jo, wait! He doesn’t know—”

Phee is talking to herself. Damn it. She should have lied about her name. Now Braden will know she’s digging. She tosses the phone onto her mother’s kitchen table in disgust and looks up to see Bridgette, hands on hips, glaring at her.

“What are you up to, Ophelia MacPhee?”

“Nothing.”

“Try again.”

“Making a phone call.”

Bridgette pulls out a chair and sits, waving the phone at Phee. “Is this about that poor girl’s father?”

Phee gives in. Her mother will win sooner or later; it’s a waste of energy trying to hold out.

“Yes. About him, and about Allie, too.”

“And one of your grandfather’s instruments, is it?” Bridgette’s voice is unexpectedly gentle, and Phee’s resistance melts.

“It’s all such a mess,” she says. “Braden’s supposed to be playing the cello, but he has this injury to his hands and can’t play. So, he drinks. And then Allie . . . well, before I brought Allie over here the other day, she left this on her mother’s grave.” She smooths Allie’s letter out on the table, watches the sadness transfer from the paper to Bridgette’s face as she reads.

“Poor lass. Does he know this? Her father?”

Phee shakes her head. “I doubt it. She’s not talking to him.”

“Will you tell him?”

“She needs to tell him herself. And she needs to play again.”

Bridgette folds the letter up and pushes it away from her before leaning forward and making eye contact with her daughter. “Phee. Listen to me, and listen to me closely. These people’s lives are not your responsibility. I know you learned something about codependency in those AA meetings.”

“This isn’t codependency. Probably.” She laughs at the familiar expression on her mother’s face, but it’s a half-hearted laugh and she’s quickly serious. “I know, I know. But I can’t take the chance that Granddad was right. I have to—”

“You have to do nothing. I’ll never forgive the old man for laying this on you. I know you adored him, Phee, and he was a wonderful person, but he was half crazy.”

“So you keep telling me.”

“Here’s what I didn’t tell you. He came home from the war seriously ill, your grandmother said. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, raving about hearing music when there clearly was none to hear. His family admitted him to a psych unit. He was medicated and sedated. When they let him out, he seemed fine on the surface, but he was obsessed with his instruments.”