The Accidentals(93)

“Problem?” Henry asks.

“Well… Rooming got trickier.” Does it really make sense to put Jake and Jessica in a room together? What is the point of that?

Henry snorts. “This is one of those times, Rachel, when you just have to ask yourself, ‘What would Freddy do?’ Solve the problem that way. I do it all the time.” He walks away, whistling to himself.

It’s perfectly good advice. So I solve the problem by giving one room to Aurora and Jessica, and taking a bubble bath with Jake in the other one. And the decision is very popular with everyone concerned.

Before the show, everyone eats dinner together in the dimly lit hotel bar, passing around plates of seafood and pasta. While Jake holds my hand under the table, Jessica quizzes the drummer about percussion instruments, and Ernie and his girlfriend tell a long story about locking their keys in her car at the airport.

“You should have driven the convertible,” I point out.

Only Frederick is missing, because he never eats before shows. When Ernie’s girlfriend gets up to go get ready for the concert, I move around the table to sit next to Ernie.

He pulls out a chair for me. “How are you doing, kid? Did you do any skiing since I saw you last?”

“Nope,” I say. “But I’m going to get the chance next year.” Skiing with Jake is only one of the things I’m looking forward to.

“So I heard.” Ernie is sipping Diet Coke too, because none of them drink before a show. “I also heard you sang “Stop Motion” again. Freddy says you brought down the house.”

“He’s biased.” But it’s nice to think of my father bragging about it to Ernie, just like any parent. I lean forward in my chair. “There’s a pack of pictures you took. I found them last month. There aren’t many pictures of her, so…thanks, I guess.”

Ernie’s expression clouds over. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Didn’t know those were still around.”

I study his face and find something there that I’d never noticed before. Regret. Something slides into place for me then, and in that moment I understand a little more about what had happened all those years ago.

Ernie loved her too.

He leans his chin on his hand, his expression sad. Unless I’m wrong, he’d had a hand in my parents’ breakup all those years ago.

That stops my heart for a second. But I know Ernie is a good guy. And Frederick is a good guy. And my mother was a good person too. Even so, there was so much broken glass between them, a mess that had never been swept away.

What a waste.

“She was so unlucky,” I say, echoing Aurora.

Ernie nods. “She was, and that meant you were too.” His gaze is fixed on the tabletop.

I take in the flickering candlelight, and my friends gathered on the other side of the table. “You know what, Ernie? I don’t feel unlucky right now.” Wait—I’ve used a double negative. “I feel lucky, actually.”

Ernie puts an arm around me. “Kid, that makes me happier than you know.” Gently he clinks his Coke glass against mine and takes another sip.





Watching my father’s performance from the audience is an entirely different experience.

From the minute he steps onto that stage, I feel the crowd surge around me, like a kind-hearted creature. As if five thousand people have made a pact of mutual affection.

He gives us his all, his fingers working the fret board at blur speed, and they give back to him all the love they’d paid a hundred dollars a head to express. Every time he plays the introduction to another song, there’s a roar of approval.

The live-version experience is so different from the studio tracks I carried in my pocket my whole life. The concert acoustics are booming and ragged without the carefully edited balance mixed by a fleet of recording engineers. I can hear fret noise from Ernie’s bass, and the occasional sound of my father drawing breath past his microphone. I can see all the sweat and effort and dropped guitar picks which are part of real life.

And it’s perfect anyway. Perfect, loud, messy, and real. The crowd stands, swaying around me. Jake threads his arms around my waist and kisses me on the ear. The pulse from the subwoofers mingles with the warm thud of his heart.

Above me, my father beats out the rhythm guitar licks on “Much of Me” with a furrowed brow. He’s literally up on a pedestal, several feet above eye level. How wild it must be to stand up there and hear people yelling your name. It must be a feeling that you can carry away with you afterwards. A guy can make a lot of stupid decisions in life, and still people will yell his name and throw flowers at his feet.

Weird.

After the final song in the set, people stamp their feet for more. The house lights stay off, and I picture my father backstage, toweling off his head, deciding what to play for an encore. Maybe he’s taking a moment to give Norah a kiss. It only took him forty-one years to trust a woman enough to stick with her, so I suppose that would be a moment well spent.

When he comes back out on the stage, he comes alone, in front of the curtain. A techie scurries out with a chair and a microphone. Frederick sits down very close to the lip of the stage, and a spotlight makes a circle against the curtain behind him.

He strums his guitar while he speaks, looking out over the crowd. They’re quiet, listening. “I don’t know if you know this about me,” he says. “But I have a beautiful daughter. Her name is Rachel, and she’s the bravest person I know.”