“Maybe,” she says, looking thoughtful. “Will you ever play it again?”
“I’ve been explicitly instructed not to,” she says, then shrugs. “It’s not finished anyway. It’s something I started writing on the plane. Before I knew…” Her voice breaks. “Anyway, even if it hadn’t ruined my entire career, it’s not really a fit for my shows.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just not my brand, a song like that.”
Mary rolls her eyes. “What ever happened to just writing what you’re feeling?”
“You saw what happened,” Greta says ruefully. “I think it’s better if I leave that particular chapter behind for now.”
“That chapter,” Mary says gently, “will be with you for a while. Whether you want it to be or not. Sometimes the only way out is through.”
“That sounds like something my mom would say.”
Mary smiles. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
For a few seconds, they both gaze out as the first glacier comes into view, a brilliant white against the blue-green water.
“She would’ve loved this,” Mary says, then shakes her head. “I still can’t believe she’s gone.”
“I know.”
“Sometimes I find myself looking out the window for her when I’m doing the dishes. Or reaching for my phone to call her when something funny happens. It’s like my brain knows but my body doesn’t.”
“My body knows,” Greta says, and it’s a struggle to keep her voice even. “I feel it everywhere. In my heart. My lungs. My bones.”
Mary slips an arm around her shoulders and gives her a squeeze.
“I know she wasn’t perfect,” Greta says. “She could be so frustrating and stubborn, and she was such a sore loser when we played board games. And she never stepped in enough when my dad was being a jerk. She could have, and she didn’t, because she loved him too and I think she felt like it was her job to be neutral. But that’s not how it’s supposed to work, especially not when one person is clearly so wrong. And it always hurt, that she was more silent than I wanted her to be, even though I never said it. Even though I never told her.” She pauses for a second, rocking back on the rail, then shakes her head. “Also, she made the worst coffee. Like, seriously bad. And she had no street smarts. She’d come to New York and act like she was in a musical, like the whole world was singing along with her. And…she left me. She left all of us, but it feels like she left me most of all, and I know that’s completely self-centered, but it’s how I feel. I hate that she’s gone. I just really, really hate it.”
The ship is moving slowly now, barely disturbing the water. Everything around them is still, as if they’ve drifted into a painting.
“And this isn’t helping anything,” Greta says, blinking back tears, “being here. I should be in New York right now, doing press for the festival, trying to salvage my career.”
Mary leans on the rail beside her. “You’re here for your dad.”
“He doesn’t even care.”
“He does. He’s just not great at showing it.”
Greta gives her a skeptical look.
“I know the pair of you have had your issues,” Mary says, eyebrows raised, “but you know what your mom used to always say, right? That you were two peas in a pod.”
“She did not.”
“She did. Whenever you were at each other’s throats, she’d complain about how stubborn you both could be, how neither of you would ever give an inch. How totally alike you were.”
“No,” Greta says, “it’s Asher that—”
“Asher’s made similar choices, and his life might look like your dad’s,” Mary points out with a smile. “But deep down, at the core of who you both are, I think your mom was right. Two peas in a pod.”
“Some pod,” Greta says, frowning out at the ripples of water.
She thinks of their conversation last night, tries to picture her dad as that hopeful young guy behind a bar, tries to picture him as anything other than what he is now—an obstinate ad salesman, conventional down to his toes—but her imagination fails her.
“I’m not saying he can’t be difficult sometimes,” Mary says. “But underneath all that, he wants what’s best for you.”
“He wants what he thinks is best for me. There’s a difference.”
“Fair enough,” she says with a nod. “But that’s also part of the deal. You think I haven’t been praying for Jason to get married for years now?”
Greta knows she’s meant to laugh at this, but she can’t manage it.
“I honestly wasn’t sure it would ever happen,” Mary says. “I used to complain about it to your mom all the time. We spent so many of our morning walks coming up with schemes to get the two of you together.”
“You did?” Greta says, looking over again, incredulous.
“Our two globe-trotting, work-obsessed, commitment-phobic New Yorkers,” Mary says with a grin. “We figured if we couldn’t pawn you off on anyone else, maybe we could at least get the pair of you together.” She laughs at Greta’s expression. “Sorry. It was out of love.”
“I didn’t know she cared so much about that.”
“She just wanted you to be happy. She also understood that that was only one version of it.” Mary reaches out and puts a hand over Greta’s. “She was ridiculously proud of you. You know that, right?”
Greta manages to nod, but honestly, she’s not so sure anymore. Her mom taught her that no matter what she did with her life, she should do it wholeheartedly. That she should try hard and work harder, dream big and care deeply. But for the first time in her life, she feels like she’s in full retreat.
Mary tugs her hat down over her ears and nods toward the doors of the ship. “I should go. I promised the others I’d meet them. But you should come with us to the musical tonight. It’s supposed to be great. Almost as good as Broadway.”
Greta raises her eyebrows.
“Well, maybe off Broadway,” Mary says, and they both glance out at the snow and ice. “Way off Broadway. But you should come. We’re going to the early show.”
“Yeah, okay,” Greta says, thinking she has nothing else to do tonight but sit alone in her windowless room not playing the guitar. “As long as there’s no chorus line.”
Mary laughs. “No promises.”