She didn’t cry; already she felt too hollowed out for that, numb from the top of her head to the very tips of her toes. Instead, she pressed her face to the wooden floor, her heart loud in her ears. Her mom was everywhere here—in the neatly folded sweaters and the scarves her dad used to get her for Christmas. The closet still smelled of her perfume, and Greta rolled onto her back and breathed in and out, in and out, her eyes roving around until they landed on a high shelf, on the spine of a book she’d never seen before.
When she hauled herself off the floor to reach for it, she realized it was a scrapbook, bristling with photographs and yellowed newspaper clippings. She opened it up randomly to find her very first mention in Rolling Stone, then flipped backward and came face-to-face with a picture from the eighth-grade talent show, her hair wild and her arm a blur.
She sat down again, the book in her lap. It was all there, everything: a paragraph in the Village Voice about her first gig in New York City, a photo of the two of them backstage before a show in Chicago, even her first guitar pick, fastened neatly to the page with two pieces of tape, and a small handwritten label beneath it, like an exhibit at a museum. There were clippings and ticket stubs, photos and articles, all the flotsam and jetsam her mom had collected over the years, a whole career in one book. And there, in the very back—pressed between the pages and all ready for the next show—was the sign.
GRETA’S MOM.
She sat there holding it for a long time, surprised that such a simple piece of laminated paper could shatter her so completely. And then a door opened downstairs, and the house filled with voices, and she tucked it back between the pages of the scrapbook and peeled herself off the floor.
Now the ship groans beneath them, rolling from side to side. Greta stands and walks over to where the door is ajar, the room suddenly too warm again. She inhales deeply, wishing for the first time in a while that she had a cigarette.
“She should be here,” she says, scanning the blue-black water. “She was the one who took care of everybody. I’m not good at this stuff.”
Conrad lifts his head to watch her with feverish eyes. “Neither am I.”
“I know,” she says, amused. “Remember when Asher broke his wrist playing hockey and you didn’t believe him?”
“I wouldn’t exactly put it that way.”
“You told him to walk it off,” she reminds him as she returns to the chair by his bed. “You only took him to the doctor later because Mom made you.”
“It was just a stress fracture.”
“He says it still hurts when it rains.”
“Good thing it wasn’t you.”
“Why?”
He looks at her as if it should be obvious. “Because how could you play the way you do with a bad wrist?”
Greta blinks at him, not used to this version of her dad.
“What?” he asks with a frown.
“Nothing. It’s just…that almost sounded like a compliment.”
He lets out a little grunt. “You know how good you are.”
“I do,” she says with a smile. “I’ve just never heard you say it.”
“That’s not true. Remember your eighth-grade talent show?”
“You’ll be happy to know I’ve improved a bit since then.”
He turns onto his back, eyes on the ceiling. “I’ve never understood how you could move your hands that fast. You certainly didn’t get it from me.”
“Hey, I’ve seen you chop an onion,” she jokes, but he looks thoughtful.
“I used to do card tricks, you know.”
This is such a wildly unexpected thing for him to say that Greta can’t help laughing. But right away, his face darkens, and she presses her lips together again.
“I’m serious,” he says, as if he isn’t always. “I knew a lot of tricks when I was younger. But I never really had the hands for it.” He holds his up, examining the wrinkles and veins. “I could shuffle okay. But sleight of hand was never my strong suit.”
“Maybe you should’ve invested in a rabbit and a hat.”
“I probably would’ve, if I’d had the money. I really loved it.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t believe you never told me this before.”
“I was a kid with a hobby,” he says, giving her a curious look. “But I moved on. Most people do.”
This last part hits just the way it’s meant to, and Greta can’t help marveling how even when he’s sick, his aim is impeccable. Before she can say anything in response, he lurches for the garbage can and retches into it, then wipes his mouth with a towel. When he lies back again, his face is pale and a little sweaty. Greta grabs a water bottle off the desk and hands it to him. It takes him too long to untwist the plastic cap.