The Sound of Letting Go (29 page)

I peek through the closed curtain

of the Evergreen High stage.

My parents sit in the dead-center seats of the third row.

Mom in her faux fur coat;

Dad’s leather jacket is on her lap.

They are turned toward each other, talking.

I wish I could see them smile, touch,

but content myself with the closeness of their faces;

try to get used to the fact that they are here

at my school concert.

Justine and Ned are in the audience, too,

fingers entangled, giggling and whispering.

I don’t see Dave, but being with me

hasn’t magically turned him

into an on-time kind of guy.

“Let’s get seated, everybody,” Mr. Orson says.

He is wearing a red tie and Santa Claus hat.

The rest of us are in our concert black—skirts, slacks, ties.

I have succumbed to the rules and am wearing black pumps.

I take my seat on one of the folding chairs,

arranged on risers for the occasion.

The curtain opens.

We begin with “Adeste Fideles”

(“O Come, All Ye Faithful”).

The steady, rich tones of the baritone sax

embrace me with the sound of comfort,

carry me through my fight against memories

of baby Steven, of toddler Steven,

still not dangerous, still just odd.

The audience applauds.

As I shuffle my sheet music for the next number,

I catch a glimpse of Mom’s beaming face.

Then we play the swing medley,

the Ellington piece.

Dave must have slipped in the back with Aggie

sometime during “Good King Wenceslas,”

because I see them

when we all stand up to acknowledge applause.

And it’s my turn.

I lay my fingers over the valves,

raise my horn to my lips,

test the mouthpiece,

then nod to Mr. Orson,

who signals the accompanist to begin

“Hallelujah.”

And I reach the music out, out into the audience

to Aggie,

who loves to hear me play;

to my parents,

who are trying to learn how to treat me like a child again;

to Justine,

who never quit on me;

to Ned,

because he belongs to Justine;

to Dave,

who has decided to try to become

the kind of man we imagined him being

those years ago making sandcastles and flying on swings.

And I will help him.

The standing ovation brings tears to my eyes,

and I don’t care if Jasper notices my smudged mascara

as I wipe them away.

In the lobby afterward,

cookies and bottled water are proffered,

“Band Geeks Rock” fund-raiser T-shirts sold.

“You sounded great, Cal,” I say.

“You too. A fun first American band concert,” he says.

“But not my last, thanks to your family.”

Saturday, I wake up to falling snow.

I wonder what Steven is doing

as I drive slowly into town,

whether the people at Holland House know

how to prepare his waffles;

imagine him being gentled into his coat for a walk;

chuckle at my knowledge that he’ll refuse to wear a hat;

feel tears spring to my eyes.

My life feels like a book with a chunk taken out of the middle, moving from one bizarre planet

to another with no journey in between:

all change, no transition,

what Mr. Orson would surely deem a bad composition.

I don’t know what else to do

but go on:

back down the stairs to the kitchen,

back to school and jazz band,

back to the parking lot of the Arts Center,

where I park in a covered spot, grab my trumpet case,

head for the Youth Orchestra practice room.

Sometimes my trumpet roars like a lion

with a splinter removed from its paw.

Sometimes it whispers the covert celebration

of a nameless slave set free.

And sometimes it wails like a grief-stricken sister

who has lost her brother.

When the rehearsal is over,

I pack up my trumpet quickly,

try to look casual as I wander to the woodwind section.

Shelby is still methodically wiping down her flute.

“Hi, Shelby. I was wondering, since we both live in Jasper,

if you’d ever like to ride over here with me.

I, uh, have a car.”

“I do, too.” Her voice is the slightest bit taut, mechanical.

“My dad gave me one for my sixteenth birthday.

It is very large, safe. Hard to park.”

She gives a tentative grin.

I smile back. “Dads are very protective.

Anyway, if your car is ever in the shop or anything,

I can drive.”

“Me too. I mean, same thing for you.

If your car breaks down.”

She looks a little breathless, uncertain,

waiting, perhaps, for a dialogue she’s practiced,

even dreamed about.

I cannot walk away.

“That sounds great.

We musicians need to stick together.

Like family.”

And now I do have to go;

my lesson is in ten minutes.

But one day, maybe,

I’ll invite Shelby out for Thai food after practice,

ask her how she started playing the flute,

tell her my story.

The gossip’s spread round Jasper, of course:

that the Irish boy is moving in with the Meehan family

now that they’ve given up on that disabled child.

And I hate it when Andy Bouchard gives me a free coffee

and a hang-in-there nudge; hate it less

when Shirley presses me against her ample bosom

and says, “It’s okay to cry, my little Daisy,”

or when Mrs. Ackerman calls to thank my mom for the pie

and for giving Cal, “that charming boy,”

a way to stay in America.

“I’m all packed up and ready for tonight’s move-in!”

Cal announces as he sits on the cafeteria bench

across from me and Dave.

And I don’t hate it at all when Ashleigh Anderson pauses

not too far from our table, takes in me beside Dave,

across from my new housemate, Cal,

and maybe looks a little bit jealous.

I pick up my fork,

dig into the slightly disgusting bliss of turkey and gravy.

“Seriously, Daisy,

you shouldn’t look like you enjoy that so much,”

Justine says, as she and Ned join us.

He’s carrying trays for both of them: two salads.

“She’s got a right to like whatever she likes.”

Ned, of all people, comes to my defense.

There’s pain in my mother’s face

as she watches Cal carry his few boxes of clothes,

books, instruments, up our stairs;

stands silently in Steven’s bedroom doorway

while Cal puts his underwear, his shirts,

in my brother’s emptied dresser drawers.

“Take your time settling in.”

Her voice is barely above a whisper.

“We’ll have dinner in an hour.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Meehan. I’m so very grateful to you.”

I see the tiniest charmed-by-the-Irish twinkle

in my mom’s wistful eyes.

I follow her downstairs to the living room.

We both drop onto the couch.

“Dave’s coming for dinner, too,” I tell her.

“To keep watch on me. Or maybe he just likes your pie.”

I pull out my phone, smile

at the custom Fake Happy Families screen saver

Dave has made, with his and my faces superimposed

on a “prom night” photo booth cartoon.

Beneath my real kohl-lined eyes, I am adorned

in flowing pink satin, toes peeping from beneath the frills

in black-and-blue Keds.

Dave’s messy brown hair, easy smile, hover

over the most ordinary jeans and tee.

But wrapped around the neck of his hoodie

is a huge purple bow tie.

“My goodness, this house is always overflowing these days.”

Her tone is bright,

but there’s an odd hesitation in the way she speaks.

She’s thinking, perhaps,

of this morning’s call from Holland House,

asking to approve a new medication regimen

to try to moderate the violence

that comes with Steven’s anxiety.

I think maybe the house is too loud for my mother.

“I miss him, Mom,” is all I can think to say.

“Me, too.” She wraps her bony arms around me.

She says nothing more. Doesn’t move.

Doesn’t let me go.

We’re still there on the couch

when Dad gets home right after work

without stopping at the gym.

“Gonna go to yoga tonight, hon?”

he asks, kicking off his shoes, tugging at his tie.

He looks older somehow,

even though there are fewer tight lines around his mouth.

“I dunno.” Mom’s arms slide away from me now.

She stands up, goes to his side.

“Maybe we could have wine with dinner? Light candles?

Put on some music?”

They stand together in the living room doorway.

I sit alone on the couch. Free from Steven

but no longer joined to my mom and dad

as a third parent.

I have lost my place in this house,

but maybe that’s how it needs to be.

I bury my hurt in this idea:

that, maybe, it’s just time.

“Or I could play something,” I say.