“Would we call this an invitation?” I shout after him as he leaves my sight. “I’d be inclined to describe it as conscription.”
“Work starts tomorrow. Bright and early!” he calls back, from somewhere upstairs. I hear Sef shush him through the floorboards, softly saying something with the wordskidsandasleep.Then, a giggle and a squeak, and a cushioned falling sound, like two bodies hitting a mattress.
Thatis when I realize my bedroom is directly underneath theirs and reach into my bag for my headphones.
Leaning back against the wall, I bring my sketchbook to my lap, flip to a blank page, and begin what I’ve been waiting to do all day. I sketch Killer from memory, starting with a rough pencil outline. By the time I get to the coils of her hair, my chest is tight while my mind remains focused—realizing I may not be able to keep yet another promise to my big brother.
Five
Prue
“Mom’s asleep,” Isay, through a yawn, slipping in next to my dad on his piano bench as he plays the final movement of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” It’s a foreboding piece of music. Mom used to say that she never had to ask Dad how he was feeling, she simply had to listen to him play and the song would let her know. So, I guess I know.
Dad stops playing at a natural end point, then slides over, allowing me more space on the piano bench. We both place one hand on the keys unconsciously as we’ve done a thousand times before. And, as we have for the past twenty years, we begin playing “Heart and Soul” together.
I’ve never ventured to learn anything else, despite Dad’s best efforts to teach me. I hate not being good at things from the start. Piano never came naturally enough for me to continue practicing when my frustration took over. It’s not that I need to be the best, necessarily; it’s more of a fear of embarrassment holding me back.
Then, there’s also the fact that watching Dad play made me feel as if I—or, really,anyone—shouldn’t even bother. When someone is that in tune with an instrument that it seems to pour out of their soul, it feels silly to get in their way or try it yourself.
“So, my favorite daughter…” Dad says softly. “It is officially time for us to have that little chat.”
“Do we have to?” I ask, my fingers keeping in rhythm with his. “After today?”
“Especially after today,” he replies while repeating the starting notes and looping us back around once again. “Do you want a cup of tea first? A snack?”
I sit in protest, not answering him, my fingers instinctively knowing which keys to press while my mind wanders elsewhere.
“Yes? No?”
Sighing, I shake my head. “No, just get it over with.”
“Prue—” He pauses, a jagged sigh accompanying my name. “You know I love that woman upstairs with every breath in these aging lungs, that she’s nothing short of a miracle to me, that I would rest at nothing to make sure…” He breathes, steadier this time. “To make sure she’s well taken care of.”
“Yes,” I reply gently. Because Idoknow that. No one has ever loved anyone more fiercely, as far as I’m concerned. No matter how many love stories I read, they’ve never held a candle to my parents’. My father liked to tell the story of how they met whenever he’d had one too many drinks or, pretty much, wheneveranyonewould listen.
They first locked eyes just over thirty-five years ago in a darkened basement at a college party. Dad, along with three of his friends at the time, was in a Beatles cover band. He was the spitting image of Paul McCartney, according to himself though never confirmed by another living soul. My mother’s university had hired Dad’s band, the Beetles,to play at their end-of-year 1960s-themed party for the graduating class, which Mom happened to be a part of.
I almost didn’t go!she’d chime in, every time, usually circling her arm around my father’s waist.My roommates had to force me out the door!
After their set, Dad waltzed off stage and nearly crashed into Mom, who was vixen-eyed and holding out a glass of water.Thought you could use this,she’d said, handing him the drink. Then,Do I have to call you Paul?
He didn’t believe her when she said her name was Julia and that her sister’s name was Lucy—both titles of Beatles songs. From that moment on, Dad believed in fate.
I said no fucking way,he’d say, repeating his words from years prior, laughing.
And the rest is history,Mom would add, usually kissing him on the cheek.
“Prue?” Dad nudges my knee with his after I missed my cueandmy note.
“Sorry, yes, I’m listening.” We begin the song once more.
“We cannot keep this routine going forever. Jules, she…” He swallows, and I notice his finger almost press the wrong note before he swiftly recovers. “Your mom would not want this, my darling.” He plays the last note, then he doesn’t begin it again. Instead, he turns toward me, rubbing at the scruff along his chin with his palm. “I’ve found a home for her,” he says, lifting his gaze to mine as if each eye carries an insurmountable weight.
I instinctively shake my headno,tears springing free.
“It’s thirty-four minutes away, but that’s the closest I could find with a team of people I trusted. This place, Horizon, specializes in memory care. They’re good people, like her. Kind. They have an arts program. They…They know what to do. How to best—”
“Weknow what to do,” I state, my voice far harsher than I’d expected it to be. More cutting. “I’m doing my best, Dad. I—”
