I agreed reluctantly and hung up on Harlow. I scrolled through my contacts and selected Mom. She had a paintbrush emoji next to her name. I assigned all my contacts corresponding emojis. For a moment, I let myself wonder about whether I would ever have Julian’s number and what emoji I would select for him.
I pressed Call and brought the phone to my ear. I listened to it ring and hoped beyond hope that Mom was asleep and she’d turned her ringer on silent. When I heard the sound of her automated voice informing me that I’d reached Lena Abdallat’s voicemail, I breathed a sigh of relief.
At the beep, I left my message: “Mom, it’s Tal. So don’t freak out, everything’s okay. I’m safe and healthy and everything, but there’s something I need to tell you. And it seems wrong to be telling you this over voicemail but …” I trailed off, my nerves getting the best of me.
I swallowed, gathering my courage, and continued, “You’ll never guess who showed up on our doorstep. Julian Oliver. Yeah. So the thing is … well … a while ago … You know what. Never mind. I’ll explain the details later. But I just wanted to let you know that I’m in Oak Falls with Julian. Tom had a stroke and he’s really sick and they think he might die, so Julian wanted to come back home. Tom is Julian’s dad. Wait. You know that already. Okay … well, this is getting really weird and—”
The automated voicemail robot was back. I elected to save my rambling message, and then hung up the phone.
DAY THREE
(In Which I Learn That a Pause Is Sometimes a Way of Holding On)
I.
In the morning I was waiting for Julian to come downstairs when Debra caught me eyeing the piano.
“That’s right,” she said. “You know how to play.” I’d woken up before anyone else. The twins were presumably still asleep and Aunt Sarah was in the shower. When Julian had woken up, he’d knocked on my door to make a plan for the day, and I guess Debra had heard us talking because she materialized in the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee.
“Will you play something for me?”
I hesitated. I glanced down at the piano. It was exactly the style of piano I would’ve guessed Debra would own. It was simple and made of solid dark wood that showed its age and had a couple of scratches. It was nothing fancy, but the keys were in perfect condition.
“Did Julian ever play?”
Debra laughed lightly. “Julian was never that into the piano. He told me it was a church instrument. He was always much more interested in the guitar.”
I smiled. “Sounds like him, I guess.”
“So, will you?” Debra prompted. “Play me something?” She sat down on the love seat that was adjacent to the piano.
I swallowed. “What would you like me to play?”
“Anything,” she said cheerfully, tossing her hands in the air. “I’m not picky.” But then she added, “Do you write your own songs? If so, I’d like to hear one of those.”
I squirmed on the piano bench. “I don’t know.” My fingers hovered over the keys. “I’ve never written anything that special. And everything is really rough.”
“Taliah?” Debra said, and I looked up at her.
“Yeah?”
“I’m your grandma. Not a music critic. Please just let me hear one of your songs.”
I laughed a little. “That might be true, but you’re Julian Oliver’s mom, so that’s sort of intimidating.”
She waved me off. “Hogwash.” And then she dipped her chin to her chest and leaned toward me in a conspiratorial way. “To be honest,” she whispered, “I’ve never understood Julian’s music. I love it because he made it and I love him with my whole heart, but I don’t have the ear to understand what makes it so special.” She paused, and then smiled broadly. “Tom did, though. Tom would listen to all of Julian’s songs and analyze them piece by piece.”
My eyes widened. “Really? I thought Tom hated Julian’s music.”
Debra shook her head. “No, no. That was one of the huge misunderstandings between them. I think Tom may have resented Julian’s music when he was younger, but he loved all of Staring Into the Abyss’s records. Actually …” She trailed off, a look of sadness washing over her face. “Right before his stroke, he’d asked me if I knew when the band planned to release a new record.”
“Really?” I repeated.
“Truly,” she said. “It’s been a while since they’ve released a new album now, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah. There’s a lot of pressure on them.”
Her face had a quintessential worried mom expression. “Hopefully not too much pressure.”
“I’m sure Julian can handle it,” I assured her.
“So, your songs,” she insisted. “Please play me one of them.”
I don’t know if it was because Debra had just revealed that Tom was a secret fan of S.I.T.A. or what, but I felt something open up in me. I volunteered, “Okay, so the only original songs I have are ones I wrote with Harlow.”
Debra nodded.
“I wrote the music,” I explained. “And we would write the lyrics together and then Harlow would sing while I played the piano.”
Debra nodded again. “Sounds lovely. I’ve always been partial to girl bands.” She gave me another conspiratorial tilt of her head. “Don’t tell Julian.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” I said, smiling. “But the thing is, Harlow … well … she …” I paused for a moment because I wasn’t sure how open my long-lost grandma was to lesbian relationships. I decided to try Debra. “You see, Harlow recently started dating this girl Quinn.”
“Oh,” Debra said. Her eyes registered surprise, but she said, “Go on.”
“And Quinn,” I explained, “is much cooler than me. And I think Harlow started to feel that our little music project was nerdy because Quinn is in, like, a real band. A very scene band if you know what that means.”
Debra gave me a thoughtful smile. “Not sure I do exactly, but I think I follow.”
I felt my cheeks warm. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this.”
“Baby girl,” Debra said, stretching her arm out so she could gently squeeze my shoulder, “I want to hear anything you’re willing to tell me.”
I bit my lip. “I guess what I was trying to explain is the song I’m about to play might sound a little weird. Like it’s missing something since Harlow isn’t here to sing the lyrics.” I glanced up at the ceiling and sighed. “I guess that’s been the whole problem. I’m going to have to figure out how to write songs without Harlow that don’t feel like they’re missing something.”
“Well,” Debra said encouragingly, “let’s hear one of these songs.”
I readjusted my seat on the bench, placing my feet squarely on the floor. I took a deep breath and placed my fingers on the keys. I decided to play a song Harlow and I called “Snow Drifts.” It had partially been inspired by Arcade Fire’s song “Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels).” We wanted to capture the same type of romantic whimsicality. But the song was also a little bit jazzier, a nod to the punk cabaret that we were aiming for.
We’d written the song on a snow day. It had been a long, lazy day, full of bottomless mugs of hot chocolate and lounging around in pajama pants. I smiled as I got into the meat of the song, remembering how comfortable and easy that day had been.
I played the last few notes and looked up to see Debra watching me intently. Tears were glistening in her eyes.