she jumps up to hug me.
The light in her eyes,
the brightest I’ve seen in months,
quickly fades as she pulls back
from my tense body.
“But what, Claire? Is something wrong
about the contest, about winning?
You’re not excited?”
Dad looks back and forth
between Mom and me,
compassion and sadness in his eyes.
He says it might make more sense
if we back up.
He asks me to fill Mom in
on the parts of BDSRA that meant the most
to me.
I do what he asks and then
the words come out easier.
“I can’t do music anymore.
I don’t want to do it anymore.
I wish I hadn’t entered the contest.
Is there any way I can
forfeit the award to the
one, to whoever came in second?”
The bomb that just landed in
our living room threatens to blow up
in my face.
The silence is deafening,
the stunned looks are frozen.
BAD IDEA AGAIN
From the look on his face
my words didn’t make any sense to Dad
or maybe
more sense than he can handle.
Mom sniffles and dabs at her eyes
for a long, awkward moment.
She blows her nose and takes
the schoolteacher role.
“Of course you feel bad, sweetie.
There’s been so much with the boys
and their illness and it’s totally
understandable that you would
feel overwhelmed
or a little depressed about things now,
but you don’t really mean…”
Heat and a racing heart
threaten to choke my words.
“Mom, I mean every word.
I can’t play anymore. It’s like
I’ve lost it. Every time
I try, I think of Davy and Trent
and it all seems so useless,
so pointless to diddle away
at the keyboard while they
are dying. I can’t focus.
I’m wasting my time.
I’m wasting my life
while their lives are
so, so, ruined.
My fingers don’t even feel
the same. I need to be doing
something else, something
that could help them,
or help fight the stupid
dumb disease
somehow,
something
besides just making noise.”
Dad, also the teacher,
chooses his words carefully.
“I see you have strong feelings
about what’s happening
with your brothers,
and I appreciate your telling us.
While I may not agree with your
assessment of music in your life
at the moment,
you certainly have the right to be thinking
about alternative life goals for yourself;
however,
right now
you have a commitment, an obligation
to carry through with the responsibilities
of the contest, that is
the recital,
the scholarship,
and the summer program.”
I ask to be excused.
I retreat to my room
to try to make sense
out of the swirling mess
I’ve made out of my life.
NO CLUES
I slog through another day
of the silent treatment from Juan.
Thank God it’s Tuesday
so Tara takes over the car
conversation and for now, Juan has taken
to going straight to class
and eating lunch at a different table.
Mia and I eat alone.
She suddenly stops eating and stares
wide-eyed just past my left ear.
I turn to follow her gaze
to the table across the cafeteria
where Juan and Tara are
eating lunch
side-by-side.
“So I never thought Juan
could be such an ass,” Mia says.
I’m not sure if she’s referring
to his choice of lunch partners
or his choice of words the other day.
Just deal with it.
And if I don’t, does that make me another
barnyard animal—
a chicken?
I’m not surprised at Mia’s candor
but she winces when she hears
that Juan and my father
are on the same page.
“So don’t get me wrong.
I’m not in their camp but I guess
I don’t see what the big deal is
either. Why don’t you just go
through with the recital
and the summer program,
take the scholarship and then
do whatever you need to do
for your brothers?”
I shake my head.
“Mia, the truth is,
I don’t know if I can do it.
Something has really changed
deep down inside
since the conference.
Something has broken inside me.
I can’t explain it.
Maybe it’s guilt,
maybe it’s fear.
Maybe it’s just a huge
hurting hole that needs to be filled
up with living life for my brothers
instead of just for myself.”
“Whoa! You’re serious, right?”
“I am dead serious…”
My hand clamps over my mouth
at the horror of my choice of words.
Mia waits wide-eyed
while I recover.
“So what are you going to do?”
“You mean about the lunch situation
over there
or the contest?”
“Both.”
“I
don’t
have
a
clue.”
SETTING AN EXAMPLE
Kyle gives me a ride home
realizing my ride has fallen through
at the moment. He’s careful
not to take sides,
says he’s sorry Juan and I
are “having issues.”
I don’t try to explain.
“So why don’t you talk it out with him?”
I shake my head.
“Been there, done that
and really blew it, by the way.”
“Aw come on, Claire. You guys
are too much of a fixture to stay
broken.”
“Mia put you up to this?”
He drops me at my door
firmly denying it with
a Cheshire cat grin
and a hollered “maybe”
out the window.
I stand in the driveway and give it a try.
Juan, can we talk?
The immediate response makes me wince.
I have no problem with that.
BTW, you were the
one who ditched.
I have a strong urge to fling my phone
across the yard,
sling my backpack into the door
and scream obscenities
at the top of my lungs,
when the boys’ carpool pulls in
and I suddenly remember
I’m the big sister,
the one who sets good examples.
AVOIDANCE
I avoid Dad when he comes in the door.
I avoid him by ret
reating to my room
like last night
and like long ago,
on days when I knew
I wasn’t ready for the piano lesson
the next day.
Even though he wasn’t my teacher,
Mrs. Cobb was his friend,
and Dad would find out.
He never said anything
but I knew he got a report
and I knew
I had let him down.
Davy and Trent don’t run from Dad.
It was a day without complications
full of the wonder two little boys can experience.
One with limited vision,
compromised physical abilities and
diminishing mental capacities.
One with the same venomous genes
gathering momentum
before striking their first blow.
They jockey for Dad’s attention
and he pours it on thick
with exaggerated exuberance
over Davy’s Mario brothers feat
and Trent’s football maneuver
on the playground.
I sit on the side of my bed
savoring the sounds
of uncomplicated,
well-deserved
joy.
…right now
you have a commitment, an obligation
to carry through with the responsibilities.
Deal with it.
SITCOMS AND SHOULDS
The script at dinner could have been lifted
from a 1960’s “Ozzie and Harriet” rerun:
Hi, Mom.
Hi, Pop.
I had a swell time at school today.
Mom, Dad, and I have perfected
the new sitcom
we perform for the boys
almost daily.
Everyone,
everything
is peachy keen.
As soon as dinner cleanup is done
I head to my room
again,
close the door
and try to figure out how to patch it up
with Juan.
I’ve changed…
Things have changed…
I want to shift the focus…
Music isn’t the same…
or maybe
just maybe
I should concentrate on hearing
what he has to say.
READY TO TALK, READY TO LISTEN
I pull out my homework
and try to concentrate on it
instead of Juan’s last text,
you were the
one who ditched
that sits unanswered.
I start with the nonfiction
writing assignment, trying to decide
between a profile of Mrs. Shepherd
or a fact piece on Batten disease.
Making a decision with such scattered thoughts
may not be the best idea.
Batten wins.
After all, knowledge is power, isn’t it?
My focus quickly evaporates…
Maybe it would be better
if he told me he doesn’t want to talk
ever again.
Then we could both move on,
get over it.
Maybe he’s already over it.
Maybe we weren’t the good old friends
I thought we were all along.
Maybe my suspicions about him and Mia
aren’t just paranoia after all.
Maybe this is just how it will end
in a cloud of misunderstanding.
I grab my phone and give in to
pride,
total distraction,
loneliness,
desire.
Ygtr. I was the ditcher.
Can we try it one more time
at Schmoozies after school tomorrow?
Quick response.
I’m game. Cya there.
DEAL WITH IT
I beat Juan to Schmoozies
and let my imagination rip:
he’ll slide into the same side of the booth,
tighten his arm around my shoulder,
spread the warmth of his body
next to mine and
reassure me that we are still
who we’ve always been—
good friends—
and not two alien beings
inhabiting the same familiar bodies.
but you have changed
things are different
things are not the same
as they used to be
I force a smile when he comes through the door,
casual but cool,
and slides in across from me.
“Hey.”
I take in as much air as I can to avoid sounding
tentative, or nervous, or God-forbid
condescending.
“Thanks for coming, Juan.”
His smiling eyes encourage me
to breathe easier
and I remember my vow
to listen to what he has to say.
“So, I’m sorry
about the other day” I say.
“Yeah, me too.”
Silence.
“You go first.”
Silence.
“Look, whatever you do about
the contest…that’s your call,
and not something I care to think about,
but I do still care about music,
a lot,
like it will probably be my life—
useless and pointless,
no, selfish
as it is.”
Juan stares me down,
strangling me with the straw paper
he slowly wraps around his finger
and the echo of words that came out of
my
own
mouth.
“I never meant…”
“It’s okay, Claire.
I get it now.
And I did mean what I said
the other day.”
Now he takes his turn
and silently ditches
on me.
You’re the winner.
Deal with it.
MUSIC OR ME?
I’m too stricken to cry.
Juan’s words echo in my head
like a menacing alarm,
like an alarm I need to pay attention to.
You’re the winner.
Deal with it.
Winner?
How can there be a winner
in this game?
How can I pretend to be a winner
in the middle
of so much
loss?
Deal with it?
How do you deal with being a winner
in a no-win situation?
Useless.
Pointless
Selfish.
Music or me?
DEALING WITH DREAMS AND REALITY
Juan is on a huge stage,
a single spotlight zooms in on his fingers
fluttering like hummingbirds
on glistening flute keys.
I listen to his music
from somewhere backstage,
interrupted by the noise
of a hammer and saw.
Someone is building something.
It looks like a new house
for Davy and Trent
and there is a girl standing nearby
watching, maybe even supervising
the work in progress.
It’s a peaceful dream,
a sense that everything is working
according to the plan.
The peace follows me
when I wake up
and I know I am ready
to deal with it
somehow.
I know I have less than a month
to get “The Kite” in shape
for the recital.<
br />
I know that the scholarship will
“help with expenses.”
I know the summer camp will
“broaden my horizons.”
I know that trying to talk with Juan,
at least right now, is futile.
I know I’ll find a way to help my brothers.
I know that wasting my time feeling sorry for myself
needs to be a feather
not a rock.
I know that celebrating life needs to be a rock
not a feather.
I know it might not be a bad day after all
if I keep this up.
ORBITING BODIES
Juan and I end up at the lockers
at the same time
on this last day
before Christmas break,
and we both slam the doors
maybe a bit too hard
at the same time,
resulting in a mutual laugh,
the first one since what feels like
forever.
We’re back to talking
but like everything else in my life
it’s not the same as it once was.
We don’t talk about the contest
or anything beyond the surface,
and our bodies
seem to be orbiting around the same sun
but safely locked into wide-apart paths
with no chance of ever
Behind These Hands Page 13
