red-lettered events that jump out like hazard signs now—
Jazz Night.
Thanksgiving.
Christmas vacation begins here.
Thump! Bump!
My heart lurches at the sounds
outside my door
and I jump up, nearly knocking down Trent,
looking dazed,
rubbing his eyes
and beginning to cry.
“Come here, buddy,” I say,
pulling him onto my lap.
“Having a bad dream?”
“Um…hmmm.”
I hold him,
rock him in my arms like Mom would do
until he falls back asleep,
and I crawl into my own bed
shaking,
cold to the bone.
I pull the covers over my head
wishing with all my might
that it was
just
a
bad
dream.
BIG FAT ‘D’
I slide into my seat in Honors English
to the sound of rustling papers,
murmuring voices,
as the narratives are being returned.
I quickly grab mine
while Mia flashes her
‘A+’ across the aisle,
the one about Mrs. Shepherd,
before she can see the ‘D’
at the top of my paper,
the one about the talking piano
and scribbled teacher notes
in red: Claire, please see me.
The large red ‘D’ reverberates
in my head where images
of Davy flash alternately
with Trent
and ‘d’ words,
disease,
diagnosis,
death,
swirl like a dust storm,
disgusting,
disturbing,
dreadful,
demonic,
and then
deserving.
Maybe I deserve this ‘D’
because I didn’t really try,
didn’t really care,
to do anything but feel sorry for myself
last week.
Maybe I
don’t deserve to live
while my two innocent brothers
die.
LET IT OUT
“Not good, huh Claire?”
Mia catches up with me
on the way out the door.
“Dumb,” I mutter.
“You? Get real.”
“Yeah, well, I just spent
some creative brainstorming
coming up with ‘d’ words
and I forgot ‘dumb.’ I knew
the talking piano was a
dumb idea.”
“And I knew it was an awesome idea,
but give yourself a break. Look at
what’s going on in your life right now.”
It isn’t Mia’s fault that I can no longer hold in
the tears that have been building,
not just this day
but for the past week,
trying to live life as it once was
when everything has turned upside down.
Mia looks apologetic,
somehow responsible for this flood
as she puts her arm over my shoulders
and ushers me into the nearest bathroom.
She grabs my book bag
and we both slide down the cold tile wall
where she holds me like a mother
while my sobs echo
around the empty bathroom.
“It’s not the ‘D’ you know…”
“For sure,” Mia says,
handing me a wad of tissue.
She stays silent in her
motherly role as the tears subside.
“It’s just that I feel
so guilty for living,
for even being alive,
for knowing that I will
live, live, live
to watch them
die, die, die.
What did they do to deserve to die
so young
and what have I done
to deserve to live
at all?”
Mia is slow to answer.
“I’m no psychologist
you know,
but I think I’d probably
be feeling the same way
if I was in your shoes, Claire.
It’s not your fault, but if you’re
feeling this way, maybe
you should, like,
go talk to the counselor or
someone who knows about
this stuff, you know?”
I look into Mia’s clear green eyes
and I realize I feel like smiling.
“Counselor? No way.
She’s an old biddy
and not nearly as effective
as your big shoulder.
I think I just needed to say those
words to someone
and you’re the lucky one.
Thanks, friend.”
“Anytime, Claire.”
We go our separate ways to class
and I replay the conversation.
Something about what just happened feels good,
but I’m not exactly sure why.
TWENTY ‘HELPS’
Juan’s text message plays in my head
as I dash to meet him in the practice room.
U can.
U will.
I’ll help.
help?
help!
help.
helps
may I help you?
please help yourself
help oneself
help out
helping hand
helper
helpmate
helped
helpful
helpfulness
helpfully
helpless
helplessly
helplessness
help is on the way
so help me, God.
We reach the door at the same time
from different directions.
“Tell me what it is, please!”
“What do you mean?” I say,
opening the door
while he stares at me.
“Something about the glazed-over eyes
tells me there’s something really rad
going on inside that pretty head.”
How does he read me like this?
“I think I’m really going nuts,
that’s all.”
“Awesome. I want to hear all about it.”
He sinks down on the floor cross-legged
and motions for me to follow.
“I mean, not awesome about going nuts
but awesome that you are, well,
back. I’ve been worried about you.”
He’s given me the floor—
his total attention,
his friendship,
his ear.
Flustered,
embarrassed,
tongue-tied,
I say, “I just came up with twenty
ways to use the word ‘help.’”
The look on his strong, open face
morphs like a cloud in high wind:
stunned,
amused,
relieved,
accepting,
loving.
He grabs my hands and pulls me up, laughing.
“It’s time for jazz.
Come on, let’s do it!”
PRACTICE
We both warm up with some scales
and without a word,
jump into the first piece.
I feel Juan’s patience as I flub
and flounder
the first few times through,
the first time I have touched a keyboard
in ove
r a week.
I’m sorely aware that under
normal circumstances
I would have mastered my part
long before this first session with Juan.
“Hey, hey. Not bad for a crazy lady.”
“You’re too kind, maestro.”
I search his face for the disappointment
in me
that I feel.
Kindness is what I see.
We stay with it another hour.
I am assured I will be able to deliver,
to accompany my best friend,
back him up while he shines,
thankful that all eyes and ears
will be on him
rather than me.
He swabs his flute out
and I mess with a few strains
of “The Kite.”
“Sounds good.
We should be hearing about
the contest soon, right?”
“Yeah, before or after Christmas.
I’m not sure. I forget. Sometime…”
“Hey, don’t be drifting back into
la-la land,” Juan says, touching my shoulder.
“I like you better
as the crazy lady.”
I smile.
“Careful. I might start
a list of words about
you
and then we’ll see
who’s crazy.”
He steps towards me
like he’s going to hug me
but he doesn’t.
Maybe
like earlier, when I started to talk
but pulled back.
We need more practice.
THE SAME BUT DIFFERENT
Mom bustles around
the kitchen talking to herself
with grocery list in hand.
Dad’s at a day-long music workshop.
Davy and Trent are upstairs
giggling, for once not arguing
over a Nintendo move.
I put the finishing touches
on homework and let my thoughts
drift to Juan,
how we seem
not quite apart
not quite together.
The background noises in our house
remind me that our family is
not quite the same,
but a whole lot different.
And me?
Am I apart or together,
the same or different?
“Claire,” Mom’s voice
saves me from
questions I can’t answer.
“I’m off to the grocery store.
You’re in charge and I’ll be a while.
It’s turkey and trimmings and long lines.”
She’s out the door
and I gravitate to the piano,
another reminder that some things
are still the same
but a little bit different.
Maybe it’s the way the keys feel,
or is it the way I feel about the keys?
I have full twenty-twenty
but I’m a carrier;
the same,
but different.
THE ONLY FEARFUL ONE
“Claire, Claire, come quick.
It’s Davy.”
Trent’s voice breaks through
my reverie.
“Work it out, guys,” I holler,
thinking their peace had
reached its usual limit.
I go on playing.
“NO! NO! Something’s wrong
with Davy. Come now!”
I hear the urgency
and bolt up the stairs,
unprepared for what I see.
Davy is on the floor,
arms flailing,
legs shaking up and down,
body writhing,
while Trent hovers
speechless
in the corner.
Something kicks me out
of fuzziness
and I lean down
to maneuver him
onto his side.
I slide the chair away
from his face,
trying to remember if I should
use my fingers to check for obstructions.
I’m about to call 911
when the tremors begin to subside.
His rigid arms and legs relax
and he opens his eyes,
looking dazed and confused.
I gently lift him up on his bed,
position him on his side,
and watch while his breathing eases
into a deep sleep.
Trent scoots over to sit beside me
on the floor. I concentrate
on slowing my heart rate
and steadying my breathing.
“Do you think we should call Mom?”
Trent’s voice quivers as he
pulls in closer.
I cough to test my shaky voice,
not taking my eyes off of Davy.
“Let’s just sit here for a while with him.
I think he’s okay now.
She’ll be home soon.”
I look at Davy’s peaceful face
and feel Trent’s body relax,
snuggling up next to me
with no clue about what lies ahead.
Clearly, the only fearful one
in this room
is
me.
CAR CHATTER
Mia convinces me to come along
for another visit with Mrs. Shepherd.
While driving us there her mom
asks about the boys.
I give a quick answer
minus the seizure day,
still too full of pain
and fear.
I’m glad for Mia’s chatter.
“This time take random notes
and who knows what wild idea
you will come up with for your
next paper. That’s how it works,
you know.”
She has no humility about her
writing prowess,
but her next comment reminds me
that neither do I
about music.
“So aren’t you just dying to hear
the contest results? Should be soon,
right? You know I love Juan,
but secretly
I hope it’s you.”
What does she mean
she ‘loves’ Juan?
Am I getting paranoid now?
I’m glad she can’t see
the blush spread across my face—
shame for doubting her motives,
shame because I secretly hope I win, too;
fear
that it will screw my friendship with Juan
if I do.
A GOLDMINE
I swear Mrs. Shepherd looks like
some kind of time-warped little girl.
She’s decked out in a bright
blue-flowered dress,
blue eyes sparkling,
the usual bobby sox and
Day-Glo tennis shoes,
and a smile that makes the deep
grooves on her leathery face
seem insignificant.
“Come in, girls,”
she says, patting the couch
on either side of her.
“I’ve got pictures today,
just like I promised.”
I follow Mia’s lead
and whip out my notepad.
Mrs. Shepherd dives into the first album,
flipping from page to page
and stopping to comment.
“That’s Billy afiddlin’
and Mary keepin’ him company,
I always called it.
She was second to none on that keyboard
but in her element makin’ him shine.
They were a twosome, always featured
at the sch
ool talent shows,
always together,
always makin’ some kind
of music.”
I want to stop and ask questions
but her voice, the stream of memories,
is mesmerizing.
I remember what she said
last visit, about not celebrating their lives enough.
It looks to me like
life was one big celebration.
Maybe I’m missing something.
Mia points to a particular picture
that lights Mrs. Shepherd up
like a sparkler on Fourth of July.
“Ah, the hootenanny.
Pete Seeger. Ever heard of him?”
Mia turns to me with a blank stare.
“Of course. Folk music. The sixties.
Your kids must have loved it.”
“I took them to see Seeger in New York.
Every week after that, they held
a hootenanny with their friends,
right here in our basement.”
She suddenly slumps back on the couch,
closes her eyes,
and for a few minutes we fear the worst
like last time.
“Even hootenanny memories are too much for old ladies.”
She opens her eyes and chuckles.
“Next time, maybe we’ll listen to one.”
Mia waits until we’re in her mother’s car
then explodes. “I swear, Claire, if that
wasn’t some kind of awesome…
That woman is a goldmine! This series on her life
is going to knock it out of the ballpark
for me and the school paper.”
Behind These Hands Page 8
