Behind These Hands
Page 11
“Exhausted, I guess.”
pause
“I know I am, but I can’t wait to tell
your mother about all the good stuff
we’ve just experienced.”
I weigh the words I want to speak.
Good stuff.
Good stuff?
Maybe I don’t know what is
or is not
good stuff anymore.
Why does winning the contest feel
so weird,
so heavy,
so opposite good stuff
right now?
I feel Dad puzzling over my silence
while I long for time and space
to sort out the swirling confusion
that has invaded my head,
my heart.
“I won,” I say in a small, flat voice,
like the girl in Geometry
who speaks so softly
the exasperated teacher
has to ask her to repeat it
and half the time
it’s the wrong answer.
I look across the front seat
as the passing car headlights cast shadows
across my dad’s face.
The car swerves slightly
as Dad jerks his head my way.
“You what?…You won?…The contest?
Why didn’t you tell me?
When did you hear?”
My mouth won’t move.
“This doesn’t sound like the reaction
of a winner, Claire.
What’s going on?”
I burst into tears.
I’m not
and
I don’t know.
AN ISSUE TO BE DEALT WITH
Dad pulls off the highway
going too fast,
comes to an abrupt stop
at a convenience store parking lot
and kills the motor.
I search for a tissue in my pockets
and try to stop blubbering.
He stretches his arm across the gears
and pulls me as close as he can
for an awkward side hug
and then releases me
while I blow my nose.
He waits silently.
I can feel his impatience
and an inward sigh.
Anger?
Disgust?
Disappointment?
Disbelief?
Our faces take on a greenish glow
under the streetlight.
I think I might throw up.
I know my tired, efficient father
doesn’t want to be dealing with
an issue,
my issue,
in a cold, dark car
a few blocks from home
after a long, emotional journey.
Neither do I.
…be the good child?…achieve double,
triple?…talk to someone?…feel guilty?
I try to push swirling, jumbled thoughts
out of my head
and focus on a steady voice.
“I can’t explain it, Dad. Not now.
You know about overload. That’s where
I am right now. Overload.
Can we sort of keep the contest news to ourselves,
not mention it to Mom and the boys,
until I can…
until I can sort things out
in my own head? Maybe a day
or two?”
The look I get is perplexed.
The answer I get
after another long silence
is relieved.
“Sure, Claire.
Totally understandable.
Let’s go home.”
He let’s out a long breath
and starts the engine.
WITHOUT A MUSICAL ACCOMPANIMENT
I just have time to take in
a few deep breaths,
thinking how good
a hot shower and my own bed will feel,
before we round the corner
and see the flashing lights at the
end of the block
in front of our house.
Dad bumps up against the curb
and practically slams into the
fire engine.
We both jump out and race
for the front door, wide open
with two firemen standing on
the porch.
A medic comes out and spots Dad.
“You must be Mr. Fairchild?”
“Yes, of course, what’s going on?
Where’s my wife, the kids? Is it fire?
Someone hurt?”
The medic reaches for Dad’s arm.
“Your wife is upstairs. I’m afraid
you’ve had a double header here tonight.
The oldest boy had a seizure
and apparently fell toward his brother,
knocking a tooth out. A few stitches
on his upper lip, and we’re confident
your oldest son is stable.
Your wife is okay now.
She was a little beside herself
when we got here.”
He pauses to give Dad a minute to absorb
it all, then he leans down to close his bag
and softens his voice.
“Your wife told me what you are up against, Sir.
Tough break. Don’t hesitate to call us.
Good night now.”
They leave,
probably as quickly as they had arrived.
Mom falls into Dad’s arms, sobbing,
just inside the door.
They grab me
and we repeat the crying circle
that we had that first night.
We move as one into the family room
where Mom goes first,
filling in the details of a nightmare evening
that happened so fast
like a perfect storm,
she said,
just minutes after Dad’s call
from the baggage claim
saying we were on our way home.
“Jan, we’ll never do this again,” he says.
We’ll go as a family, like we should have
in the first place.”
We talk into the night,
mostly Dad unloading his notes
and brochures
and positive outlook,
telling Mom
not about a cure
but about hopeful things:
research,
networking with other families,
Make-a-Wish Foundation,
fund-raising.
I don’t say much
but it occurs to me
before I say goodnight and head for bed
that Dad’s voice sounds strong
and Mom’s face looks peaceful
and the evening went,
in spite of the perfect storm,
exactly as it should have gone
without a musical accompaniment.
FRAGMENTS
Davy and Trent show no signs
of their nightmare night, hugging
and hanging all over me at breakfast
and pestering me.
“Where did you and Dad go?
Why didn’t we get to come, too?”
I catch pained looks on both parents’ faces
as I ply them with questioning eyes.
we need to talk
Mom turns an exhausted face and forced smile
away from the lunches she’s making.
“My calendar says we should be hearing
about the contest soon, Claire. Maybe today, huh?”
we need to talk
I hear Carlos honk out front.
I say hasty “good-byes,”
relieved to escape the frying pan
but dreading the leap into the fire.
It’s “Tara Tuesday”
but she drops h
er usual banter
to shine the spotlight on me, leading
a bad rendition of
“For she’s a jolly good fellow”
as I jump into the back seat.
Juan, his smile so genuine,
his words so real,
“No one deserves it more
than you, Claire.”
we need to talk
Mia meets us near the lockers
“Well, Miss Snippet,
do I dare congratulate you
or give you my condolences?”
She’s smiling but…
we need to talk
TALKING SOON
Wendy, my new friend,
texts me right before shutting down
my phone for first period.
Howzit going? Gr8 news. Brenda
accepted for clinical trial. Mtf.
A week ago I wouldn’t have had a clue
about clinical trials. Now my heart skips a beat.
Plz tell me more. Cya.
Mia intercepts me in the hall on the way
to English, hands up like a cop halting traffic.
“Don’t worry, I’m not bringing up the
contest. Just reminding you we have a date
with Mrs. Shepherd after school, um,
unless you’re too busy.”
“Mia, of course I want to come, and trust me,
I want to talk about the contest, but I need to
talk with Juan first.”
The hint of romance perks her right up.
“Ah, of course you do, dearie. Why didn’t I see
that? Seriously, he’s okay with it, you know.”
I do know, but I let her think it’s his feelings
I have in mind.
And how does she know
he’s okay with it, anyway? Paranoia strikes again.
I try unsuccessfully all day
to catch Juan alone.
While he gives me wide berth
I try sending mental messages:
…we need to talk soon
I promise,
talk soon…
THE WORDS I NEED
Mia is occupied in the car
adjusting her recorder
while I occupy my brain
with various Juan thoughts.
What I want to say.
What I need to say.
What I can’t say.
What I should say.
What I will say.
What?
Somewhere around a month ago,
a brother or two ago,
a keyboard ago,
a kite ago,
a seizure ago,
a night ago,
somewhere in there
are the words
I need for Juan.
THE CAUSE
I swear, Mrs. Shepherd looks more
and more like a little girl every time
we visit. Today it’s pink bobby socks,
navy blue polyester slacks,
and a light blue cardigan over a
round-collared white blouse
and of course, the Day-Glo tennies.
Her eyes glisten like sparklers.
She ushers us to a back bedroom
where several chairs are arranged
around an old record player.
She motions for us to sit.
Her hands caress the worn cover
of the record on her lap as
her faraway voice transports us all into the past.
“Pete Seeger, Newport Folk Festival,1963.
Surprised the kids.
Didn’t tell ‘em ‘til before dawn
when I hauled ‘em out of bed,
even let ‘em miss a couple days of school.
Honey, here. You put this on for us.
These ol’ hands are too trembly.”
She motions to me, I guess
because I’m closest to the player.
I suddenly feel trapped.
Are we in for the whole record,
the whole afternoon?
I glance at Mia, but she’s whacking away
on her computer.
“This Land is Your Land”
fills the room, soon followed by
“Where Have All the Flowers Gone”
and then
some sea chanteys neither of us knows.
Mia and I are both into it,
not ready to quit
when Mrs. Shepherd breaks the spell
and eases out of her chair
to take a chance on lifting the needle arm
herself.
“I reckon you girls don’t want to stay
for the whole concert. As I recollect,”
her voice breathy as she falls back into her chair,
“we got onto this subject because of
hootenannies now, didn’t we?”
We both smile and nod.
“Well, to finish the story…
Billy and Mary,
they wanted to know all about
Pete Seeger all the way home
and, well,
I told them everything I knew
second hand from Finley,
God rest his soul.
He was the one who brought
the music—more than that—
the energy behind all those causes
Seeger had,
into our house,
into our lives.”
She closes her eyes.
Mia and I exchange glances
thinking once again, she’s breathing her last.
Her eyes open wide and she pierces us
one at a time
with deep, probing gazes.
“Finley always had a cause, you see.
Got the idea from this man, Seeger.
He always had a cause
and Billy and Mary,
well, they caught on to it
and seems like we had causes
coming in and out of this little old house
until, well,
until God himself
brought it all to rest.
Yes, He did.
Those were some good years,
yes sir,
some mighty fine, good years.”
Mia finds my eyes now,
and we both know it’s time to go.
I want to hear the details about the causes
and how the hootenannies figured in
and how much money they raised,
if that’s even where Mrs. Shepherd is going,
and how long they had before,
before God brought it all to rest.
My mind swirls
while Mia yammers on in the car about
her own excitement:
“Do you realize what a super-awesome
story this is going to turn into
for the school paper,
maybe even the city paper,
like shades of the NY Times
and Pulitzer material…?”
Mia’s words fade
while something inside me quickens
like a piano string
being tuned.
REHEARSING
It’s after five,
my usual time to watch the boys
and then I remember, Mom stayed home
with them today.
Maybe I should be there, too,
just in case,
after yesterday.
But instead, I text Juan.
Schmoozies possible in 15?
Know it’s late, but REALLY need to talk.
I ask Mia’s mom if she can drop me off
at Schmoozies, figuring I’ll take my chances
on both Juan and Mom’s reactions.
If not, I need think time.
Mom, I need to stay for catch-up work.
Be home by 6. Sorry.
Claire, Carlos can drop me in ten. J.
Claire, ok, but no later. Mom.
&nbs
p; I slide into our back booth
and realize I am no closer
to knowing what it is I want to say
to Juan. I stare at my hands
splayed on the table in front of me.
You won the contest, you geeky girl.
You won
geeky girl.
The contest.
You won.
So what’s the big deal, anyway?
BAD IDEA
Juan and his gorgeous smile
slide into the booth.
I blush
then blush even deeper
when he just locks into a stare
that won’t quit.
“What?” I say, taking a deep slurp
of my smoothie.
“You know I’m proud of you, don’t you?
I mean, sincerely glad you won;
no personal garbage,
no bad vibes,
just really happy for you.
You do know that, right?
I mean
it would bum me out
if I thought this came between us.
Man,
I’ve thought
about this
over and over
and…”
Now I return his lock-on stare.
“Juan, I do know
and I am relieved, too.
I spent as many hours as you did
wondering,
just wondering how it would feel
one way or the other.
But…”
“Oh no. Now the reservations, right?”