The Sound of Letting Go (14 page)

“Miller? Miller! Where the . . . ?”

Josh Belden is hollering from the shore.

“You’re my ride, man!”

“Keep your shit together.

I’ll be right there.” Dave sits up, shaking his head.

In the dark, I feel myself blush,

scramble to fix my fleece, reach for my shoes.

“Where is my other . . . ?”

Dave pulls his lighter from his pocket.

The small flame guides us to my left Ked,

fallen beneath the table.

“Let’s go.”

He takes my hand

and guides me back through the dark with such ease

I wonder how many girls have made this walk with him.

Right now, I don’t care.

My body is alive with feeling,

not thought, not plans, not worries.

I cannot make out Belden’s expression in the dark,

don’t know

if it’s surprise or maybe a quick congrats to Dave

for getting some from the trumpet girl.

“My car’s just up there.”

I turn away, the good girl in me afraid

that any more time with Dave

would certainly turn up the movie rating.

Blushing as I realize I don’t think I would mind.

“Hey, wait.” Dave pulls me back,

brushes his lips over mine.

“Uh, thanks,” I say,

now certain that being kissed that way has not made me

less stupid.

“See ya, Daisy.” Belden waves.

He and Dave get into the Fiesta.

In the Subaru, I clip my hair back into a ponytail,

don’t bother to check the time before I start the ignition.

Into silence so pure I can hear well-oiled hinges sigh

as the front door swings open, I creep

down the empty hall.

Is anyone in this house?

Have Mom and Dad already spirited Steven away?

No, they are sitting side by side on the living room couch, eyes furious.

“Do you know what time it is?”

Dad’s icy voice splinters the stillness.

“We called Justine. She said you left hours ago.

She’s on a date, but she said for you to call as soon . . .”

Mom clutches wads of tissues in each hand;

her skin is splotched from scrubbing at tears.

“Margaret-Mary Meehan. We were so worried!”

“Don’t you think we have enough on our hands

without you pulling something like this?”

Dad smacks his palms against his knees, stands up,

stalks to the stairs.

“Where were you?” Mom whispers.

They shouldn’t want my answer.

Anywhere but here.

Making out with a boy.

Somewhere I could make time stand still.

Beneath my fleece and jeans,

my skin is hot with the memory of Dave’s touch.

More intoxicated by my fleeting taste of freedom

than if I’d drunk a gallon of that disgusting beer.

I am flying above responsibility, above guilt.

My chilled fingers wad to fists.

“Oh, sorry, Mom.

Were you and Dad wanting to go out tonight?

Did I leave you without a babysitter?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

Her thin hands tremble as she wipes her eyes again.

“What do you mean, then?” I ask,

but don’t stay to hear the answer.

In the hallway, I pull my phone from my bag,

text Justine: “Home safe.

Sorry if my mom freaked u out.

More in the morning.”

My purple feet squish in my ruined shoes

as I follow my father’s path up the stairs.

My parents haven’t tried to bring Steven to church

in months of Sundays, long ago abandoning any notion

that faith could guide them to cure, or acceptance,

or even the ability to forgive themselves

for the life we live.

Now, from my bedroom window, I watch them,

Dad guiding Steven by the arm, ignoring

his repeated attempts to shrug out of blazer and tie;

Mom smiling, trying to keep her movements calm.

Even after the car has been out of sight a long time

I still stand before the glass,

my hair wet from a long shower

that didn’t quite manage to rinse away

the inky evidence of last night—

a memory that makes me shiver, makes me want.

“Justine’s coming for dinner,” Mom says

the second my family comes through the door.

“I invited her at church.”

“Seriously, Mom?”

I press my pale, purple feet

against the metal rungs of the kitchen barstool.

“What if Steven . . . ?”

“Dad will be here.

It might be nice for you to have some company.”

She opens her mouth

as if to say something more,

but her lips just close.

She goes to the fridge,

starts pulling out salad greens, lemons,

while I imagine the bitter taste of her unspoken words,

some promise about how, soon, invitations to friends

won’t have to be planned

around the availability of protection.

Another ironic magnet on Mom’s refrigerator is the old saw,

“If life gives you lemons . . .”

But what if you cannot divide your life

between the sour and the sweet?

What if you kiss a boy you loved as a child

but can no longer name the emotions you feel

as you press into his lips,

let his hot fingers roam, drink in only the desire

to lose yourself in anyone else?

What if the elation that fills your heart when you think

of not having to care for your brother

also stops it beating entirely—

from grief? From guilt?

From some other emotion you don’t know how to name?

“I don’t need company.”

I stalk past the family room

where Dad has planted Steven, now watching cartoons;

tiptoe up the stairs to my room,

where the history book open on my desk confronts me.

Are all people “created equal”?

Do they have equal rights to freedom?

Thanks, A-PUSH Civil War unit,

you blasted annoying class,

for shining a light on these questions that,

whether framed by race, religion, or ability

to communicate, seem reflected in Lincoln’s words.

I’ve learned about men whose sons and brothers died fighting for the Union.

Yet while they mourned, they were still opposed

to freeing the slaves,

could believe nothing more than that their loved ones

died in vain.

Who should sacrifice freedom so others can be free?

I doubt those early Americans ever imagined a scenario

of a family enslaved by a boy

who is himself a prisoner of his own mind.

What might freedom be for Steven?

Before my parents send him away, I want my brother

to tell me what he wants.

Like I want things I see on television movies,

where actors find resolutions that real people never see.

My phone buzzes.

“Ned asked me to the Black-and-White Dance!”

Justine texts.

“With pink flowers?” I text back.

“Hee-hee. Tell u more at dinner.”

I hesitate before typing my reply.

“You don’t have to come tonight. I’ll understand.”

There is no beat before her words fly back. “I’m coming!”

I dare anyone to try to tell me Justine isn’t brave.

I close the history book,

imagine choosing the blue or the gray uniform

of a Northern or Southern Civil War soldier—

simple, subdued colors that spoke volumes,

pitted brother against brother.

My heart weeps for those long dead,

those broken families,

as the ghostly Mason-Dixon Line

that divides my family’s house

from the rest of Jasper,

from school, from melody,

rises with sudden clarity in my mind.

I wonder if my parents see it?

If Justine feels her feet stepping over it

when she dares cross our threshold?

Whether Steven’s tripping gait as he makes his way

down our front walkway

is a struggle with this border?

There’s a track on Miles Davis’s iconic album

called “Blue in Green.”

I blast it through my earbuds, straining to find

in the trumpet’s probing, rising-and-fading,

dissolving-and-emerging trail

over the piano’s soft chords, bass’s warm thrum,

a path to join black and white—

to envision a world that doesn’t have two sides.

Is there a way to tear down the fence, mend the divide between

daughter and parents,

autistic and “normal,”

silence and music,

home and life?