The Sound of Letting Go (21 page)

“Wanna get Thai after orchestra tomorrow?”

Justine asks me at lunch.

“I can’t go to orchestra. Family plans.”

“You never have family plans.

Now you’ve
got
to tell me what’s up!”

“It’s a secret. Promise not to tell Ned?” I whisper.

Justine almost puts on her

you-can’t-believe-how-scary-these-freckles-can-be expression, the one she uses

when a freshman hogs the bathroom mirror

or Ashleigh Anderson calls us “you girls.”

“Please, Jussie?”

I haven’t called her that since we were in third grade,

when she decided she wanted to have a nickname

like mine

even though I’d pointed out that

Justine was a cool name and, really,

there was no time for me to write out Margaret-Mary

on every spelling test.

Still, we were Daisy and Jussie for most of the year,

even though she is
so
a Justine:

clever, sharp-witted,

and compassionate in her oh-so-feisty way.

Her scary-freckle-face subsides.

“Okay, Margaret-Mary.”

“My parents are going to put Steven in an institution.”

And the words are out,

like school cafeteria mashed potatoes

slopped onto a lunch tray,

congealing under gray-white gravy,

ugly and cold.

“Oh my God.” Her voice is hushed.

And I know she won’t tell Ned,

despite being chronically glued to his side.

Honestly, I am happy for her, even a little jealous,

and so, so lonely.

“Hey, babe.”

It’s Ned, of course.

Justine slides over

to make room for him on the bench beside her.

“We were just talking about you,” she says.

“How I love that you’re so tall, so I can wear high heels.”

Her comment is adorable,

her lie seamless.

“They look amazing.”

Ned wraps his thin arm around her shoulders.

“I could never stand in shoes like that,”

I say, finding my tongue.

“Sneakers totally suit you,” Justine says.

I look down at today’s Keds.

Despite my recent attempts at Gothdom, somehow,

today, an old pair sporting kelly-green shamrock stamps

and rainbow laces

has found its way onto my feet.

“Erin go bragh!” Ned laughs.

It’s a Gaelic phrase, meaning “Ireland forever.”

Quite senseless in this context,

but I am used to nonsense words

and, unburdened from my Steven secret,

feeling strangely light.

“You know that makes no sense, Ned,” I say.

“I don’t even know what it means,” Ned says.

“Just, your shoes make me think of Saint Patrick’s Day.”

“You’re way too tall to be a leprechaun.” Justine giggles.

In the corner of my eye,

I see true Irish Cal O’Casey

sitting on the fringes

of the bookworm crowd at a table nearby,

his long legs stretching into the lunchroom’s center aisle.

I think he’s even taller than Ned.

No yoga for Mom tonight.

No working late for Dad.

We’re a foursome around the kitchen table,

eating mac and cheese

as if it’s our last meal before execution

instead of dinner

the night before a two-hour morning drive.

With the exception of her reluctant stoop to Eggo waffles,

Mom makes almost all our food from scratch.

Tonight, each bite tastes of her carefully chosen

whole-grain elbow macaroni,

hand-shredded blend of cheddar and mozzarella.

There’s a bright green salad punctuated

by cheery cherry tomatoes.

Water fills the sturdy yet stylish acrylic glasses.

“This is delicious,” Dad says.

“Yeah.” I nod.

“I worry the food won’t be as healthy at . . .”

Mom tries to smile.

We all look to Steven, who says nothing,

just keeps working his spoon through the noodles.

He gets agitated more easily at night,

so Mom avoids giving him a knife or fork.

Dad wipes his mouth on a napkin.

“Don’t go to bed too late, Daisy.

We’re going to head out around seven in the morning.”

“It should be a nice drive,” Mom says.

She stands up to clear;

I notice her plate is still nearly full.

Dad gets up, too,

walks over to the sink,

puts his hands on Mom’s taut shoulders,

tries to rub her neck,

but she shrugs him off.

I can’t watch him try again.

I turn to Steven, still gulping spoonfuls

of his guiltily generous serving of mac and cheese.

“Steven?” I say softly.

He doesn’t look up.

“Steven,” I say again,

checking quickly to see that my parents aren’t watching.

His focus remains on his food,

but I have to try.

“Steven. Do you want to go to a new school?

Do you understand?”

I slide my hand across the table.

He starts at the touch of my fingers to his wrist

and I wonder if I am about to have to recite

another litany of “sorrys” to my parents.

But it’s okay; he settles again,

back to dinner.

“We’ve been through this a thousand times, Alice.”

Dad sounds exasperated as he stalks back to the table,

picks up the salad bowl to clear it.

“How much macaroni did you give him?

He’s still eating.”

The noise upstairs rises as Dad showers Steven;

Mom wants the people at Holland House

to see how clean, how nicely dressed we keep him.

In the basement, I play through all the jazz carols

I’ve missed practicing,

plus Ellington’s “Almost Cried
.
”

I don’t answer Justine’s “good luck tomorrow” text

or read the assigned pages for A-PUSH.

I don’t want to go upstairs,

to hear the horrible sounds—

sounds I admit in my heart I’ll be relieved not

to have to hear much longer.

I don’t want the night to pass, the morning to come.

I want time to stand still,

like the first time Dave kissed me,

in the chill by the lake.

I don’t want Christmas to come,

don’t want to hear applause for playing some happy

holiday tune.

That’s when I realize what solo to play:

Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.”

Chords blending beauty with grief,

words of loss and praise.

I pull the sheet music from a drawer,

raise my trumpet, knowing the sound will be stopped

at my practice room door,

wishing my parents were listening,

hearing the lyrics in my head

as the notes flow through my horn.

I play it twice through;

my lips burning, I improv on the melody,

reaching, soaring into high notes.

Then I can’t do it anymore. I drop into a perfect,

quarter-note-covered listening chair

and pepper it with my tears.

The touch of Mom’s cool hand on my forearm awakens me.

“Hey, Daisy, time to go up to bed.

We’ve got to make an early start tomorrow.”

“But I haven’t finished practicing.”

I rub my eyes, muster a shard of consciousness,

remember where I am,

grab my trumpet again.

Mom sits down in the other chair.

“Play something for me, then.” She smiles.

It’s been so long since I’ve seen her sitting there.

I don’t hold it against my parents.

It’s like that story I once heard of a poor family

who, in despair, called the police

on their knife-wielding autistic teen son.

Instead of taking him away, Social Services

whisked the two younger boys from their beds

and put them in foster care,

leaving the bereft parents to manage their eldest,

their volatile home life.

A quicker, cheaper solution

than finding another place for a dangerous, nonverbal

man-child.

You hear stories like that.

There is a point you reach

where there’s no real help, only indentured servitude.

Parents dominated by a child-master who hits, shrieks, smashes,

while they quiver beneath

the umbrella of family-preserving silence,

absent themselves from the concerts,

awards ceremonies, listening chairs

of their other children.

I clear the spit valve, take a few breaths, start to play

the Christmas medley I’d been practicing for jazz band.

Get to the riff on “The Little Drummer Boy,”

who bangs, beats on his drum; don’t let the irony

distract me from tonguing the tune correctly.