Page 138 of Playing By Ear

“The newel.” Martin looked at him like he was an idiot. “The post at the bottom of the stairs.”

“Okay.” Was this some form of aphasia, Martin making up words? “Then what happened?”

“My right hand grabbed hold and I slid down onto my arse on the floor. Couldn’t get back up.” Martin stabbed his fork into the rest of the sausage and brandished it. “Happy now? Got the whole humiliating picture?”

“Thank you for telling me.” Jamie hoped his father hadn’t left anything out. If he was telling the truth—a big if—then the fall wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. “I’ll fetch some ice for your bruises.”

Alone in the kitchen, he texted Belinda what he hoped was a calm and dispassionate update on their dad’s condition.

She phoned immediately. He swept the call away on his screen and texted her again:

Can’t talk about it in front of him so just come over

Supergrrrl

On my way

He took two cold packs from the freezer and brought them in to his dad. Something still wasn’t adding up.

The cane. If he’d left it at the bottom of the stairs where it had fallen…

“How did you get into the living room if you couldn’t walk on your own? How did you make it to the toilet overnight?”

Martin looked at him, all affection hardened into a death-cold gaze. “How do you think?” he said with a snarl.

Jamie closed his eyes hard against the image of his father crawling over the floor, maybe leaning on his faithful dog.

Jamie had dreaded this day for weeks. He’d papered over that dread with denial born of his own wishful thinking and Belinda’s half-truths about in-home nursing care. How all Jamie had to do was keep Dad sane and calm.

Now Martin needed more than sanity and serenity. He needed food and water and help with a thousand daily tasks. Most of all, he needed protection from himself.

“Do you think you could walk up the stairs if I helped you?”

“Oh, aye,” Martin said brightly, chewing on a piece of toast.

“Good. Maybe after breakfast. Then you can⁠—”

“But I’d never get back down.” He pointed the toast at the hall. “Next time I walk up those stairs, it’ll be the last.”

Jamie fought to hide a shiver. “What? No. We’ll install one of those chair lifts or whatever they’re called. Then you’d hop on the seat and ride down. Like a god descending Mount Olympus.”

Martin gave a pained smile, then performed what might have been meant as a reassuring leg-pat but came off as a swat with the back of his left hand. “Sure, Jimmy. Gonnae look into that.”

Were chair lifts hard to find? Hard to install? Or…would he soon be unable to perch atop the seat? How fast was he declining?

Jamie cleared the lump out of his throat. “Bel’s on her way.”

“Good. She’ll know what to do, and if not, she’ll fake it better than you.”

“Right.” He caught himself wrapping his arms around his own waist—guarding his underbelly—and straightened up. “I’ll take Layla outside.”

“Mind she doesn’t run about after eating and end up with bloat.”

“I know. Just a quick wee.” Jamie beckoned the dog, who followed him outside to the fenced back garden. He closed the door behind him and pulled out his phone.

Perry answered before the second ring. “All right?”

“Well…” the rest of Jamie’s breath came out in an incoherent blob of noise.