The trumpeter took center stage again. His knifelike sound pierced into Darby’s armor, the one she’d worn since Mr. Saunders had moved in. Darby breathed deeply, her whole body vibrating with the music. Her stomach turned, the bitter taste of alcohol still on her lips, and she stood and stumbled her way out the back door. She knelt down, squatting on her haunches in the most unladylike way.
“You okay?” Sam stood in the doorway, looking down at her. A halo of light shone behind him, so she couldn’t read his expression.
“I don’t feel well.” Darby took a couple of deep breaths. “Must be all the smoke.”
He disappeared inside. She’d made a fool of herself. Not that it mattered, of course.
He reappeared holding a cup. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”
She’d expected the harshness of black coffee, but instead her tongue came alive with a sweet, spicy flavor. Milk and sugar and something else.
“What is this?”
“Cardamom tea.”
“It’s delicious.” She took another sip.
“The cardamom spice comes from the forests of India and is good for lots of things, including digestion, hiccups, even bad breath.”
She placed a hand over her mouth. “Do I have bad breath?”
He laughed. “I have no idea what your breath is like. I just figured you might be ill.”
“The music, the trumpet.” Her explanation sounded so silly, even to her.
“Like you’re being chopped up into pieces, right?”
She looked up at him in amazement. “Yes. I couldn’t control my thoughts. Is it always like this?”
“Only with the best musicians.”
“I liked it, I loved it, when they all played together and it made sense. But most of the time it didn’t.”
“You’ll understand after you’ve listened to enough bebop. It’s like learning another language. It’s all a muddle at first, but then it rings clear.”
Darby wasn’t so sure.
“What the hell?” Esme poked her head out the doorway.
Darby passed the cup back to Sam and smiled. “I didn’t feel well.”
“Did Sam give you one of his mojo potions?”
For some reason, the question hurt. Darby wished she’d been the sole recipient of his special tea. Even though that was silly.
Esme helped her to her feet. “Come on, let’s scram.”
Darby was suddenly reluctant to go, but it was late.
Back at the Barbizon, Esme brought her in through the employees’ entrance at the side of the building, and they hugged quickly before Darby began the long climb up to her floor. She trod lightly, staring down at the steps, which is why she didn’t see the couple kissing on the third-floor landing until she was almost on top of them. They were pressed up against a tile mosaic, all blues and greens, some kind of lush underwater scene. Stella’s mermaid-red hair stood out against the background.
“Sorry.” Darby glanced away and attempted to maneuver past them.
Stella yelped in surprise and craned her neck around her date’s head.
“Oh, Darby, you gave me a fright! My friend Paul and I were just saying good-bye. But I’m glad to see you. I’ve been meaning to catch you and apologize. About the other night.”
“Okay.” She slid by them. The last thing she wanted to do was discuss the evening with Walter. But Stella untangled herself from her date and stepped out onto the landing, closer to where Darby stood.
“I’m impressed, you breaking curfew,” said Stella, flashing a conspiratorial smile. “You have a bad streak, too, don’t you?”
Darby considered the idea. She was sneaking in late after visiting a jazz club in a seedy part of town with one of the maids from the Barbizon. This was not what Mother had envisioned for her.
But she didn’t smile back.
“Yes, I guess I do.” She turned the corner and kept on moving.
CHAPTER SEVEN
New York City, 2016
Rose jumped into a cab and gave the driver an address on the West Side, shaking off the effects of another sleepless night. She was running late, but the morning traffic had eased and the taxi sliced through the park at a high speed. Her father’s nursing home was way over by the Hudson River, an old brick building surrounded by sleek glass high-rises.
His room was empty.
“Where’s my father, Regina?”
The Jamaican nurse laughed and shook her head. “He’s trouble, that man.”
“No, he’s a doll. And you know it.”
“I’m afraid not.” The smile stayed on her face, but Rose couldn’t tell whether she was kidding. “You best go to the breakfast room. Maybe you can get him up and out of there. If not, we’re gonna have to call in the big guys.”
Her father sat at a table near the window and stared out across the water. She recognized the bushy eyebrows and handsome profile at once, but the rest of his body seemed to belong to a stranger. She had a sudden memory of him pushing himself away from the dinner table after a big meal, balancing on the back two legs of his chair and patting his round belly. All the extra padding had disappeared over the past five years, as his mental state had become less agile. The high school math and science teacher who scribbled out calculations on napkins during dinner had slowly faded away. He didn’t even remember how to hold a pencil.
She put a hand on his bony shoulder. “Dad?”
He dropped his head to his chest and puffed out his cheeks.
“I came by to say hello. Do you want to take a walk?”
“I want breakfast.”
She looked up. The staff was clearing tables. “Did Mr. Lewin get breakfast this morning?”
One of the aides nodded. “Ate it all. He want more?”
“Dad, do you want more?”
“No.”
His doctors had said he was depressed, a common side effect of the medication that kept him calm.
She waited, hoping he’d show some animation. He turned his face up to her and she caught her breath. A bruise covered his right temple, purple and blue hues vivid beneath the thin skin. “Stay here. I’m going to talk to Dr. Mehra, all right?”
The nurses paged the doctor, who trotted briskly down the hall. Rose had liked Dr. Mehra, as he had a gentle manner but didn’t dance around the truth.
“What happened to his head? He’s hurt.”
Dr. Mehra blinked. “Didn’t they call you?”
“No.”
“He became belligerent last night, wanted to go outside. He slipped as they were getting him back to bed and hit his head on the safety rail. Not hard, he didn’t lose consciousness.”
“But hard enough that it’s badly bruised.”
“I examined him last night and again this morning. We see no signs of concussion.”
“How could you tell? He’s not responding to anything I say.”
“Actually, we should sit and talk; do you have time?”
The pit in Rose’s stomach grew bigger. She didn’t have time. Tyler would be asking where she was by now, but he’d have to wait.
The doctor led her into his office. “We need to talk about the possibility of placing your father in the dementia unit.”
“Why? He needs to be looked after, but he’s not that bad. He can walk and feed himself still.”
“He knocked down another patient last night as he was trying to get out.”
Rose sat back and gripped her hands together. “Was the other patient hurt?”
“Fine, nothing broken. But he’s a danger to others.”
Rose mulled over the possibilities. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to someone else because of him. I’m just wondering if this is a one-time thing. He’s been so docile.”
“You may need to reframe your thinking. He’s in a decline, and it’s only going to get worse. We ought to move him sooner rather than later, for everyone’s sake.”