Page 92 of After Care

He led me past the staircase to a drop-down living room that might have housed my entire townhome. The space was massive, with the largest leather couch I’d ever seen facing an entertainment unit above a fireplace. The brick façade was white, as was the couch, and my brows pinched as I scanned the room. The room looked clean but untouched. There weren’t many personal effects, and for a moment I felt as if I’d stepped back in time. The place reminded me of a 1970s ranch: sprawling, angular, and not very welcoming.

“I have something to tell you, Edie.” The seriousness of his voice and the use of my name immediately put me on alert. I gazed up at him as he stepped before me. He swiped a nervous hand through his hair.

“I have so much to say; I don’t even know where to start.” He paused. “Would you like a drink?” He took two quick steps in the direction of a large credenza that opened to display a fully-stocked bar, complete with glasses and a backlight illuminating the variety of alcohol.

“No, thank you,” I murmured, and he paused, turning back to me.

“Mind if I do?” I waved dismissively, knowing whatever he was about to tell me must be serious if he needed a drink at nine in the morning. The thought made me realize it was eleven at home, and I’d been awake more than twenty-four hours other than the cat nap in the car.

He walked back to me, offering a seat on the pristine couch. Sitting next to me, he held the cut-crystal tumbler in his hand, not taking a sip, but staring at the amber liquid.

“This was my sister’s home. I inherited it upon her death.” The words struck me, and I took another look around the room. It explained the barren whiteness. He sighed. “I didn’t have the heart to sell it.”

Silence spilled between us and it took great patience to wait out further explanation.

“Shit, this is harder than I thought,” he muttered, raising the glass to his lips and taking a hearty gulp.

“You must miss her,” I said, by way of something to say, trying to understand what I didn’t.

“You have no idea,” he mumbled, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He swirled the glass in his hands, allowing the liquid to dance along its edges. He peered over at me. “She was my best friend,” he offered as way of explanation. Then added, “But it’s more than my sister’s home. It’s where Lawson lives.”

His eyes bored into me, willing me to comprehend, but I had no idea what he wanted to say. The first thought escaped, setting bile churning in my stomach.

“You have a child?” The question choked me, and his head shook.

“No. Kit had a son.” If Tommy asked me to play guitar I couldn’t have been more surprised. There hadn’t been one mention of an additional child, a sibling to Ivy.

“He has cerebral palsy and lives in a wing off this main room.” His eyes scanned the space. “I don’t have the heart to remove him from the only home he’s ever known. He has round-the-clock care, and he’s well provided for.”

“Tommy—” I questioned, still not fully comprehending.

“Kit did everything she could to protect him—his identity, his condition. She didn’t want any unwarranted sympathy for herself or for him. She didn’t need his birth to be a media circus, propagandizing his condition and Kit’s sexual history. She was a God-loving woman, and she believed Lawson came to her because it was His will. She had the strength to handle it, and thankfully, the resources.”

“What about Ivy? Does she know?”

Tommy rolled his head to look at me. “Of course. Lawson came after Ivy. Kit had been through so much: the rejection of our father, the death of Bruce, raising Ivy as a single mother. Then she got pregnant from some roadie. It was a short-lived relationship, over before Kit recognized she was pregnant.”

He paused, allowing that information to soak in.

“So, he lives here, and he’s well-cared for. Does Ivy visit him?”

“On top of raising her family, and now this therapy school, she comes to see him at least once a week. Making time grew more difficult with the younger children and the demands of following the band.”

“Gage kept her from her brother?” I shrieked, but Tommy shook his head.

“No, nothing like that. Ivy followed us those first years, and it separated her from Lawson. With her own children becoming a priority, Ivy’s attention grew divided, but she’s always been a loving and understanding sister. She couldn’t share him with the world. Kit didn’t want any attention on Lawson, knowing life was difficult enough for him.” He sighed, his lips curling into a weak smile. “When Ivy was little, she would go into his room and jingle on a tambourine. She’d give him music sticks—you know those ribbed kind—and he’d bang them together. I think that’s where the music therapy comes from.” Tommy swiped a hand through his longer hair. “Lawson has this bark-ish kind of laugh. Ivy’d giggle in response, and he’d grow louder. It’s like her laughter was music to his ears, and Ivy glowed, knowing she made him happy. Kit melted every time she saw it. That strength in Ivy is just…” Tommy blew out a breath, unable to properly credit his niece.

“Is he ambulatory?” I asked, considering the ramp near the front door which I recognized as wheelchair accessibility.

“He isn’t. He’s an adult, and over time, he couldn’t fully support his own size. He’s wheelchair-bound. He communicates, but through a sound machine, computerized with images, as he can’t read or speak.”

Tommy was silent a moment, his head hanging down as he took a final pull from the glass in his grasp.

“Tommy, is this why you didn’t bring me here?”

“God forgive me,” he mumbled, “I just couldn’t. This just seemed like too much to share.” He sighed. “I had my own place. Something much more modest, before Kit’s diagnosis. It was my room-to-breathe space. But when Kit got sick, I moved in. I inherited the place, and I keep it for Lawson.”

“Ivy says you have an apartment in LA?”