Chapter 39
When I get home, my father is at the piano, and Dominic is on the bench beside him, alert and watching my father’s fingers skitter across the keys.
For all of Dad’s forgetfulness, he can still play a dozen or so songs by heart.
This afternoon, it’s “Maple Leaf Rag” by Scott Joplin—not an easy song by any measure.
I pause in the doorway and watch as he plays it in its entirety, his left hand deftly leaping between octaves, the muscle memory still there.
It’s not uncommon for those with Alzheimer’s to retain musical abilities, despite losing ground elsewhere.
Perhaps the songs live in a sacred part of the brain that is the last to be breached.
Or perhaps the music has its own life force, and my father is merely the channel through which it runs.
He plays the final notes with buoyancy and then looks down at Dominic.
“Well, my girl, I think that does it for today.”
Without noticing my presence, he gets up and shuffles out to the porch, where he settles into a chair. I consider following him out, but he looks so peaceful, I decide not to interrupt him. Maybe he is awaiting something, someone. Maybe Seth is on his way.
I hear a ding come from the dock, where I left my phone. As I swim back and pull myself up the ladder, I find myself hoping it’s Max. I quickly talk myself down, take a deep breath, and then calmly look at the screen.
I’m disappointed at who it isn’t and surprised by who it is: Gemma.
Her text reads:
Hey C! Super exciting opportunity for you. New investor in the mix, so I’m expanding our product offerings at Actualize. Here’s a crazy thought … a whole line of products from the oracle? Or maybe something even bigger … Can you meet next week? I’ll be in Locust.
She’ll be in Locust? Why on earth would she be in Locust? The vagueness of her text is both intriguing and unnerving, but I don’t respond just yet. I need to call in my advisors.
“I don’t like the sound of it,” says Carl, scrutinizing Gemma’s text. “It’s not in the spirit of the project.”
“But what’s the harm in meeting with her?” goads Paula.
I glance from Carl to Paula, then over to my father, who asks, “Who is it we’re discussing?”
“My old boss, Gemma,” I say. “You met her this winter. The flibbertigibbet with the very long hair?”
Not remembering, my father nods anyway and says, “Yes, of course.”
“A line of products from the oracle?” says Carl. “I don’t see the need. This isn’t a product; it’s not even a service. It’s an offering. That’s what makes it so rare: there’s no quid pro quo.”
“Yes, yes. But see where she says ‘maybe something even bigger’?” quotes Paula. “I mean, we’ve got to know what that means.”
Carl looks askance, but Paula’s curiosity is contagious.
“Carl, you’re right to be wary,” I say, giving credit where it’s due. “Gemma is an operator, and I’ve been trying to disentangle myself from her for over a year now.”
They wait for me to continue.
“I don’t plan to take the deal,” I say. “But what’s the harm in taking the meeting?”