“Yeah,” Greta says. “It’s better. Why are you the only one who can’t see that?”
“Because no matter how hard I squint at it, this whole thing seems like it’s built on guesswork and fairy dust. Like it could all fall apart at any moment. Maybe it’s even falling apart right now. And I can’t lie and say it doesn’t scare me that my daughter has a job”—here, he uses air quotes—“where there’s no backup plan and so much uncertainty and absolutely no guarantees.”
“Dad,” Greta says, and to her surprise, her throat goes tight. This conversation feels like being stuck in the mud, all spinning wheels and no forward movement. They’ve had it so many times it’s like they’re in a play, each simply repeating their lines. But somehow, they can’t bring themselves to stop. “There aren’t supposed to be any guarantees. It’s supposed to be a one-in-a-million kind of thing. It’s like I won the fucking lottery and you’d rather I give the ticket back and sit in some drab office crunching numbers just because the work is steady.” She shakes her head. “It’s impossible to talk to you about this. We’re on completely different planets.”
“We are,” he says with a grunt. “On my planet, there was no fancy summer camp. Or guitar lessons. You know how many jobs I had by the time I was your age? I delivered newspapers and mowed lawns and stocked groceries. After the navy, I bartended and worked construction and—”
“Dad,” she says. “I know all this.”
“When I finally got to the Yellow Pages, I might’ve only been making copies and running errands, but I was the first one in my family to work in an office. The first one to wear a tie every day. Maybe it wasn’t glamorous, but I always knew where my next paycheck was coming from, and that’s a big deal. I fought my way to solid ground, and I thought I taught you the same.”
“You did,” she says, startled. “That’s why I work so hard at what I do. Every day. I want for this to work out. Badly. I want to keep playing music, and keep making better and better records, and putting on better and better shows.”
“Yeah, but what if it all falls apart? You have absolutely no Plan B.”
“Dad,” she says with some amount of amusement. “Of course I do. I grew up under your roof, didn’t I? There’s also a Plan C and D and E.”
He allows himself a flicker of a smile—a brief moment of pride—before his mouth goes straight again.
“Do you know how often I’m asked to write for other musicians?” Greta continues. “Or how many people have wanted me to produce for them? I have a standing invitation to teach a class at NYU, for godsakes. I know this business can be fickle. And that nothing is certain. And I also realize I’m not exactly having my finest hour right now. But the odds of getting to where I am—they’re astronomical. And I did it. I made it.”
“For now,” he says morosely.
Greta stares at him, trying not to feel so deflated. “Why is it so hard for you to believe in me?” she asks. “Didn’t you ever have a dream?”
“Yes,” he says simply. “Your mom was my dream.”
His answer is so unexpected, and so heartbreakingly obvious, that it knocks her back a step. She inhales sharply, trying to regain herself. “Well, this is my dream. And at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter what you think. Because I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m going to be fine.”
She says it three times. Like a magic spell. Like she’s trying to conjure something.
Like she’s trying to conjure someone.
But all she’s got is her dad, staring at her with stony eyes, the straps of his life jacket flapping madly in the wind. It’s never worked before, looking to him for reassurance. She hates herself for needing it, for caring what he thinks even though she’s told herself a thousand times that she doesn’t. But here they are yet again.
“Haven’t you ever taken a chance on anything?” she says, her voice cracking. “What ever happened to the kid who loved magic?”
“Life,” he says, looking at her incredulously. “Life happened. I grew up. Had a family. Got a job, one where I could put food on the table.” He shrugs. “I always had my priorities straight. Which is obviously something that’s hard for you to understand.”
Greta blinks at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He walks a few paces along the face of the glacier, stepping over the stream that’s formed from the runoff. Then he whirls around and comes back, his jaw set and his eyes hard. “You chose your music,” he says, and for a second, Greta is confused. But then he practically growls the next part, and her stomach drops. “When it really counted, you put that first.”