The Accidentals(30)

“If she hadn’t gotten sick…” I can’t keep talking about Mom any longer. “I got a scholarship to Claiborne Prep.”

“Your mother’s genes at work,” Alice says quickly. “She never married?”

“She never did.” Neither of my parents did, apparently.

“I wish I’d met her. I wish I’d paid more attention. But I didn’t meet most of Frederick’s college friends. And I thought his music was only a phase.” She laughs, but the sound is bitter. “The last I remember, he was dating the drummer of his band.”

“Definitely not the same person,” I say quickly, and Alice smiles.

But it makes me wonder—if Frederick had a girlfriend, was my mom the other woman? I try that idea on. It doesn’t sound like Mom. But it might account for her bitterness. Maybe she thought he’d leave his drummer for her?

And if she was the other woman, she might not have wanted to tell me that.

At my feet, the stylist begins applying pink nail polish to my toes, with a motion so fine and fast that each nail takes only three strokes.





Frederick, Alice, and I endure a strained dinner at an Italian restaurant. Frederick barely touches his food, sipping instead from a glass of the bottle of red wine he ordered. And after I go to bed, I can hear strains of his acoustic guitar from the couch.

After a time, I hear Alice emerge from Frederick’s room and go back downstairs. Their voices begin low but then escalate.

“But why not?” Alice cries. “She should come immediately. She could finish her summer in a house with two grownups. Two people who haven’t neglected her for eighteen years!”

I sit up in bed, my stomach clenching.

“Because I have custody!” he shouts. “Insult me if you want, it will still be true.”

Whatever Alice says next, I can’t hear it.

“Go ahead and be angry. But she’s not going,” he says. And then, “No! I already said no.”

My heart booms like a bass drum. I can’t lie down again until I hear Alice walk back upstairs and close the door to Frederick’s room.





When Carlos comes to take Grandma Alice away, she hugs me tightly. “I have to fly back now, because I have a job as a librarian, and a husband at home who is almost as helpless as Frederick. But I want you to come to Kansas City for the holidays, if not before,” Alice says. “I’m going to tell Frederick.”

“Okay,” I agree. The holidays seem a hundred years off.

“You are welcome any time. Any time, Rachel.”

“Thank you.” I feel my eyes cloud.

“Oh, honey.” Alice squeezes my hand. “You are not alone. I flew here to tell you that.”

Carlos gives me a wave before he drives off. Frederick doesn’t even come outside.

That night Frederick sits on the sofa with his guitar, which he does not play. Instead he sips from a glass of scotch. I perch tentatively at the other end, my book open in my lap.

“I’m poor company tonight, kid,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t mind,” I tell him. And it’s true. Because he could have sent me away with Alice. He might have chosen to be finished with me. But he didn’t do it.

He’s just being stubborn, my mother whispers in my ear.

I ignore her.





Chapter Eleven





The week before my birthday, I return from the beach to find a powwow in progress. Besides Henry and Ernie, the young keyboardist and drummer are there. But nobody is playing. Instead, Henry paces the room, his sleeves rolled up, and Frederick is drinking a beer, guitar idle in his lap.

“Henry, I know they want the album, like, yesterday,” Frederick says. “But I’m not there yet. If I give them some crap and it doesn’t sell, that helps nobody.”

I tiptoe upstairs, and then listen from the landing.

“This is your last album on this contract. If you become a problem child, they’re going to offer you shitty terms on the next one,” Henry argues.

“You could always go indie,” Ernie puts in. “Maybe you should do that anyway.”

“The simplest option is the Christmas record,” Henry says. “And it will make Ralph happy.”

“Great,” Frederick mutters. “We can spend the rest of the summer caroling.” He strums his guitar. “Silver bells, silver bells. Freddy’s ca-reeeer is in the shitter.”

Ernie snorts, but Henry sighs. “Okay, maybe it’s not your favorite idea.”

That evening, from my hideout upstairs, I hear the front door open and close a number of times. Voices accumulate in the living room, both women’s and men’s. The conversation mingles with laughter, and someone begins spinning tunes from the vinyl record collection Frederick keeps in a milk crate near the piano.

The self-appointed DJ, whoever he is, has eclectic taste. I heard Coltrane and the Beatles and David Bowie.

I sit there on my bed, feeling forgotten, until my phone chimes with a text. No pirates here tonight, it reads. Still clear on your end?

My smile blooms like a hothouse flower. I’ve abandoned my post to hide in my room.

Who are you hiding from?

My dad is having a party downstairs.