Finding Home Page 14

  “I can’t believe you’re fluent in three languages,” I say.

  “Neither can I.” Cole practically snatches my bags and carries them to the garage.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  Cole loads my bags into the back of his Range Rover. “I’m dyslexic, as I mentioned, and Mom hired tutor after tutor, but learning Dutch was hard enough.”

  “Dutch was your second language?”

  He pulls the car out of the garage, but once we’re on the driveway, he looks at me sideways. “Dutch was my first language, and even that was hard. Do you know what dyslexia is?”

  “Of course I do,” I say. “It’s a learning disability where letters get jumbled in your head.”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that,” he says.

  “Tell me.”

  “Do you really care?” Cole raises both eyebrows and glances at me.

  “Absolutely, I do.”

  “A lot of people think that we can’t see words or letters right. They think our words are ‘jumbled’, like you said. But actually, our eyes are just fine. I see the exact same thing as you. A group of researchers not long ago took a bunch of Hebrew letters none of the students had ever seen and asked them to reproduce them after seeing them and the children with dyslexia did just as well as those without.”

  “So if it’s not jumbling words or letters, what is it?” How could I never have known this?

  “Teachers used to say that if you reversed your letters, that was a sign for young children, but letters written backward is actually really common. Tons of early readers and writers transcribe things backward.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you know the words phonic and phonemic?” he asks in English.

  “I’ve heard of phonics, but I don’t know what it means.” I scrunch up my nose. ”Sorry.”

  “I’m not sure anyone other than my mom has really ever cared what I dealt with. When I was a kid, I could speak Dutch alright, for the most part, but when I tried to learn to write it, we realized that—well I got ahead of myself.” He laughs. “Phonic is the relationship between a sound and a letter or a letter combination. So an ‘a,’ by itself, makes a hard ‘a’ sound. ‘Eh,’ or something like that. But phonemic awareness is when you can identify the different parts of a word and the sounds that comprise them.”

  “Um.”

  “I lost you.”

  I nod.

  “That’s fine. It’s not really something that most people have to worry about.”

  “I want to know. Is there a way you can explain it, like you’re talking to someone who’s not very bright?” I ask. “Like someone who didn’t go to college and learned to do hair instead?”

  “First of all—”

  I wave my hand through the air. “I was totally kidding.”

  “Okay, how about this. One of the first things I had to learn was my vowel sounds. When you think about apple, not writing the word, just saying it aloud, the ‘a’ makes an ahhhh sound, like apple, or snap. But if you put ‘a’ in another word, like pray, or say, then it’s a different sound. The apple or snap ‘a’ is what they call a short vowel sound. That whole concept confused me. I struggled to process the relationship between sounds and the words they formed. That meant that when I started to try and learn phonics, I was already doomed.”

  “So people figure this out when kids start learning to write?”

  “There are signs to watch for earlier, but yes, usually. See, phonics is learning the sound a letter or combination of letters makes when they’re joined. Early readers don’t know words yet, they are sounding them out. A child reading new words will sound out each letter of short combinations. They may know that ‘p’ makes a puh sound and ‘i’ makes an ih sound. ‘G’ makes a guh sound, and so on. They string them together and get pig, but it’s slow and laborious. That is phonics, but you have to possess the underlying phonemic awareness or the phonic training won’t work.”

  I shake my head. “That’s making my head spin. I can’t even imagine how hard it was for you as a child.”

  Cole laughs. “It took four years before we started making any progress. See, the first few tutors were trying to make me memorize every word in the language by spending hours reading every day.”

  My mouth drops open. “Seriously?”

  “A lot of people with dyslexia are still shoved into the same position. They never become strong readers, or even capable readers, because it’s all straight up memorization for them. When Mom hired Fräulein Hagner, my world brightened considerably.”

  “The Mary Poppins of learning disabilities?”

  “The who?”

  “Never mind,” I say. “What did she do?”

  “At first I was angry. She took me back to the very beginning, not reading, not writing, just speaking. We sat at a table and she taught me hand signs that corresponded with short vowel sounds, and then with long. I hated it. I felt like she was treating me like a baby, like I was stupid, but she pushed me along anyway. She made me work on saying things in the right way, for the right reasons, and consistently identifying the sounds. It took me about four years with her to master Dutch; Mom threw me a huge party.”

  “I bet that was exciting.”

  He frowns. “I was happy that Mom was relieved, but it was a little embarrassing. I was a thirteen-year-old who could finally read with something close to ease. Not extremely well, mind you, but without everyone around me cringing. And then, the next week, instead of sending Fräulein Hagner packing, Mom announced that we’d be moving along to German.”

  “Oh.”

  “We had been in Liechtenstein for almost ten years, and I had barely reached the point that I could read and speak my native tongue. But everything here was in German.”

  “How long did that take?” I ask.

  “Probably because I could already speak it fairly well, and I had the sounds in place, only a year and a half or so.”

  I groan. “Don’t tell me. A big party and then a new language?”

  Cole shakes his head. “Nope. Mom told me she knew what a hard time I had, and even if Holly could speak English as well as she and my father, and even though we valued our relationship with the United States, I didn’t have to learn.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I felt like she said that because I wasn’t really important.” Cole’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel, his shoulders tense. “So I learned it myself.”

  “And?”

  “It took me a long time. A lot of connections in English are counterintuitive.”

  “But you’re so fluent I can barely tell you even have an accent.”

  He shrugs. “I did a one-year study abroad.”

  “When?” I ask. “Where?”

  He smiles. “Hawaii.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I didn’t say that I didn’t enjoy it.”

  “And I almost felt sorry for you,” I say.

  “Don’t ever do that,” he says. “More than five percent of the population deals with this, and most of them never had a Fräulein Hagner. In fact, I’ve been working with Mom and Dad to set up the very first program specifically for kids identified with dyslexia here. If they work on the underlying problems early, the rest of their lives will be much smoother, and they won’t be limited by anything.”

  “So you have no trouble, say, reading aloud?”

  He chuckles. “I still avoid it, in any language.”

  “Probably fine,” I say.

  “Except that means I have to memorize any speeches I give, or just use an outline.”

  He asks me about hair school next, and before I know it, we’ve nearly reached the concert hall Uwe sent to me. “They’re supposed to be setting up for tomorrow night’s show.”

  “What’s the venue called?” Cole taps on some buttons on his GPS.

  “The Alcatraz, which is the name of a huge prison in the United States.”

  Cole frowns. “A prison?”

/>   “It was a high security prison that was on an island. Actually, I bet Mom will get a kick out of the name, when I tell her I’m being escorted to Alcatraz.”

  “I think in Spanish, that word means a big brown bird.”

  “A big brown bird?” I ask. “Like, just any brown bird?”

  Cole bites his lip. “It’s a specific one, that’s brown and scoops up water in its beak, but I don’t remember the name.”

  “Pelican?”

  “Yes.” He nods his head. “I think it means pelican.”

  “Well, that’s good. I’m glad the venue is named for birds, not the rock island prison off the coast of California.”

  “And today you will practice?” he asks.

  “I certainly hope so. I’ve never played with Henrietta’s people and I’m worried—”

  “Don’t,” he says. “I have one hundred percent faith that you will be perfect.”

  “I would settle for seventy-five percent,” I say, “but thanks.”

  “Are you excited?”

  Mostly, I’m nervous. “Sure, a little.”

  When we reach the front, Cole tries to park and walk me in, but the guard keeps yelling at him in Italian.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “I can get my bags from here.”

  “Are you sure?” Cole asks. “Because I think I can take him.”

  I shake my head and roll my eyes. “Stop.” I open the trunk and grab my bags. I wish he could at least hug me bye, but the guard is glaring at him even now. I wave. “Thanks for the ride, both times, and good luck.”

  “It was truly my pleasure,” Cole says.

  And then his car is driving away, and my heart is sinking far more than it should. The rest of the day is chaotic, but Uwe takes things in hand steadily. He handles sending my bags to the local hotel, and he shows me to the room where lunch is waiting for the band members and staff.

  I’ve been here for two hours, but I still haven’t seen Henrietta. I swallow the last bite of my sandwich just as Uwe pokes his head around the doorway.

  “Henrietta is coming. Be ready in fifteen.”

  A man with a shocking amount of white hair pivots to stand directly in front of me. “Elizabeth, yes?”

  I nod.

  “I’m Peter Hamm, the production manager. It’s nice to have another American around.”

  “Oh.” My eyes widen and I worry that I look like a deer about to be splattered by a semi.

  “It’s a lot to take in—but if you know the music, you’ll be fine. Everyone here is very professional. In fact, other than you, Henrietta’s had the same band playing with her for more than four years.”

  “That’s impressive,” I say. “She must not be hard to work with.”

  Peter stifles a laugh. “She pays well. Very well.”

  Not quite as promising. I hadn’t even thought to ask what I’d be paid. “I’m excited to be here,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “We still can’t believe she hired someone to fill in for Ginger just because she liked your playing in some dive joint.”

  Parker’s is hardly a dive joint, but I don’t argue. Clearly she didn’t mention that I’m her daughter. “I feel very lucky to be here.”

  “Had you heard of her before?” he asks. “Because my family in Cleveland has no idea who I’m working for.”

  I glance around, worried that someone else overheard and will take offense.

  “No stress there, angel. We’re the only fluent English speakers, other than Her Royal Highness. I mean, they know a few words, but they won’t be able to key in on random conversation without really focusing. And even then, it’s hard. Do you speak German, I hope?”

  I gulp. “Some, yeah.”

  “It’s about to get a lot of use.”

  “No one seems super friendly,” I say.

  “They’re being stupid. They don’t want you to take over Ginger’s spot.”

  I realize that if they find out I’m Henrietta’s daughter, they’ll really hate me. Maybe that’s why she didn’t tell anyone. “They don’t need to worry,” I say. “I know this spot is temporary, and I have no intention of stealing it from anyone.”

  “Says the naive, fresh-faced ingénue.” He chortles. “But keep that up. I almost believed you, so they might buy it too.”

  Peter takes it upon himself to introduce me to the crew. I try to memorize all the names. There’s another Uwe—this one handles lights. And two women named Anna. But the rest of the names begin to blur together in spite of repeating them in my head several times the moment I heard them. I had no idea that a concert required this many people. And that’s before the dancers show up. Apparently they get ready on the other side of the stage.

  All told, between the musicians: guitar, bass, drums, and bizarrely, a harmonica, the managers, the light techs, the sound crew, and the dancers, there are at least forty people milling around, chatting, making jokes, and scowling at one another. I sit down at the Steinway and play the first few measures of the first song in the new album. The grand piano has a decent sound, but the hammers are on their last legs. I bet they’re at least four years old. “Hey Peter,” I say. “This is running pretty bright, for me at least. Is there someone who handles the venue who I might be able to talk to about adjusting the voicing?”

  Peter snorts. “Trust me, Bach, no one else will notice.”

  “Uh, okay.”

  Uwe said fifteen minutes, but after twenty, I start running through entire songs. No reason to waste time. The guitarist and the bass player are looking at me and snickering, but I try not to care. After the fourth or fifth song, the noise around me has become almost familiar. Until it completely dies. I finish the song and look around to see what happened.

  Henrietta’s standing on stage, tapping her shoe. “I hope everyone here will welcome Beth,” she says in German. “Cleary she has no problem with musical ability, but this is her first tour. I’m sure she’ll quickly figure things out, but if she has questions, please be helpful.”

  I’m such an idiot.

  Henrietta continues, “I know we had a bit of a rough non-start, but since we spent over a month preparing before our brief interlude, I hope a simple run-through will get us back on track.”

  Peter hands me a set list and whispers, “We changed the order some.”

  I glance down, scanning the songs. “Uh, there are two songs on here I don’t know.”

  He shrugs. “Good luck.”

  When Henrietta approaches the microphone, I realize that no one introduced me to a director.

  “Psst,” I say to the guitarist whose name I cannot for the life of me recall. “Who am I supposed to follow? Where’s the director?”

  He flips me off.

  Tears threaten, but I will not start sobbing before we’ve even played a song. I square my shoulders and channel my inner Brekka. She wouldn’t give up. She would double down. I fumble the first four measures looking around for someone to follow, but I quickly realize there’s no director. The drums start, and then the guitarist plays the opening chord and we play—taking our ultimate cues from Henrietta. By the third song, I’m feeling the rhythm much better, and Henrietta even smiles in my direction.

  But the fourth song is one I don’t know.

  And apparently the piano is kind of important, because when I don’t start playing in the first fifteen seconds, Henrietta lowers her mic and shakes her head. “What’s going on?”

  “Uh, well, I don’t know this song,” I say. “It wasn’t on the list Uwe sent me.”

  She closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose.

  “I sent her everything,” Uwe says.

  I will burn him to the ground. “I must have missed it.” I barely grind the words out.

  Henrietta says a few words I don’t know, and I file them for later investigation. They didn’t exactly teach me swear words in school, so the unknown words aren’t promising. “You better know this song cold by tomorrow.”

  I nod. “Absolutely, I wil
l.” She lifts the mic again, and I can’t bring myself to tell her that I don’t have the fourteenth song, either.

  She doesn’t smile at me again, but I survive the next nine songs with sweat on my brow and trembly fingers. Even so, I could handle that. But when the drums start for the fourteenth song, I can barely hold my fingers steady.

  Henrietta is going to lose it on me, and it’s not even my fault. I learned every single song Uwe sent. When I hear the solid bass drum and the opening notes of the guitar, I decide that if I’m going down, I may as well really do it. I lock in with the drummer’s slow and easy rhythm, steering clear of the bass clef so the bassist doesn’t hate me, and move up one register to highlight the rude guitarist. I focus on chunky chords, punctuated by staccato notes to emphasize Henrietta’s melody.

  She doesn’t stop the song in the middle, but when it ends, she glares at me. “What was that?”

  I open my mouth to say that I didn’t get the music, but I can’t bring myself to say it again. It didn’t help the first time, anyway. “I thought I’d try something different.”

  “I liked it better,” the bass player says. “The old piano part was boring.”

  Henrietta shrugs, and we move right into the next song.

  By the time we finish, my hands are shaking, and it feels like I’ve run a hundred miles at a sprint.

  “Not horrible,” Henrietta says on her way past me. “But I expect better tomorrow night.”

  And then she’s gone. No dinner invite, no questions about what I did for the last twelve days. Nothing.

  Even Peter steers clear of me after my blistering set down earlier, but the shuttle takes us all to the hotel. I struggle, but I manage to lug my bags to the lobby and then to my room. By then, I’m too exhausted to go back downstairs and try and act like I don’t want to bawl during dinner. Luckily, Paisley sent me with a whole bag full of snacks.

  Trail mix and potato crisps for dinner? Why not. I eat three bags of chips to console myself while listening to the two songs I didn’t know on repeat over and over to try and get the piano part down. The bassist was right—my line was better on Eternity, the second song.

  I shower and collapse into bed, ready for this day to end. I’m nearly asleep when my phone chimes.