The old man no longer recognized anyone. His breathing was labored. A machine at his feet bumped and jolted his legs to keep the circulation going. Nola sat by the bed and held her great-great-uncle’s convulsing hand, singing softly. The room smelled of his sour flesh and acrid medicines. A cat that had replaced the one who had long since died purred at his other side.

Nola’s finger traced the blue veins running down the old man’s temples. Broken capillaries crisscrossed his cheeks and liver spots covered the top of his bald head. In all the years she had known him, he always wore fresh, clean clothes as he sat downstairs by the window overlooking the Sound. He had retained his dignity in his solitary existence while his personality—of which she knew only the kindness and now understood the determination—had been trapped in a body that had long ago said its good-bye. And all along he must have loved her, the little girl who came by for food, who sang through her days, who later filled his home with music and chatter.

Maybe even now he could hear her.

“I’m working on a new album,” she began to speak, as she had during their dinners at his long table. “Wade wants me to stay ahead of the curve, but he says I can straddle the sentimental and the personal growth I’m experiencing. The new album will be all love songs. No, actually, it’s about my breaking up with Troy. You’ve never met him, but he was special.”

The old man’s breathing was unchanged. The tremor in his left hand had nothing to do with anything.

She went on. “Troy’s a good musician who needs to find his own groove.” The memory of Troy’s tanned, muscular body and intense, dark eyes hovered nearby. She missed his musical humor, his touches. “Maybe ‘Letting Go’ should be the title for the album. It’s the story of so many women who can’t let go of a guy who’s wrong for them. They’ll understand.”

Nola squeezed the old man’s hand lightly. “Or, ‘Bad For Me.’ I can see thousands of women dancing in front of the stage to the beat. Bad for me. You are bad for me. Yeah, Yeah. Bad for me, bad for me. You are bad for me.” Nola giggled. “Or maybe, ‘Not Intimacy, But Fusion.’ Fusion is a good word. Not yet used anywhere, but it rhymes well. Fusion, confusion, illusion.”

The only response was the rhythmic croaking of the foot-stimulating machine. Jenna’s footsteps bounding up the stairs announced her arrival before she burst into the room. “You coming or not?”

The cat vaulted off the bed with a screech.