Behind These Hands
Page 14
falling into sync
or colliding.
But I’ve promised myself to be thankful for
what is
without bemoaning
what is not.
We head for Carlos’s car
as I hammer Juan with questions,
genuine questions
about his family’s upcoming Colorado ski trip
since I’ve never been there.
When I start to get out of the back seat
he turns around
and flashes the smile
that still melts me inside
and the eyes
that still seem to search
to the bottom of my soul.
I’m glad I have the vacation away from him.
Maybe I can discover what’s shifted
in our galaxy.
GOLDILOCKS
I use the time before the boys show up
to run through “The Kite,”
and this time,
something new and different—
like Goldilocks,
not too hot,
not too cold,
but just right.
I surprise myself and let loose.
Is this how Juan does it?
Arpeggios fly
not too big,
not too small,
but just right,
into an improvisation that lands
on the keyboard
not too hard,
not too soft,
but just right.
I work myself and my “piece”
into a frenzied crescendo.
I’m astounded,
like Goldilocks,
that I hung in threatening territory
(the keyboard)
and survived
without being eaten alive
by the bears
in my thoughts.
I wonder:
did Goldilocks have courage
to venture
into the forest again?
WE LOVE YOU, MRS SHEPHERD
I remember how I tagged along
with Mia on her first interview with
Mrs. Shepherd, sort of ho-hum,
feeling like a third wheel,
and now I can’t wait to see her again.
“That lady grows on you, doesn’t she?”
“Isn’t she just the most darling person
you’ve ever met?” Mia asks while
clicking away on her iPad in the car.
“I’d like to meet this lady myself,”
Mia’s mom says, “and I’d like to
be in such good shape at that age.”
“Oh Mom, and you should have her
sense of style too, right, Claire?”
We both break into giggles.
Mrs. Shepherd doesn’t let us down
this time, with fuchsia sweats
and a vintage, faded Pete Seeger T-shirt
that says
“the right song
at the right moment
can change history.”
I jot that down in my notes
and then Mia signals me
to pull out the Christmas present
we got her, an LP called
“American Folk Songs for Children”
by Pete Seeger.
Her eyes sparkle and tears seem to well-up
as she turns the record over
and around and around
in her gnarled, shaky hands.
“Now what’d you go and do this for, Missies?”
“We just wanted to, ‘cuz we appreciate all the time
you’ve given us,” Mia says.
We both say “we love you, Mrs. Shepherd.”
She sets the record down next to her chair
and aims her glazed eyes at us.
“I suppose you want to hear
how they both went,
my Billy and Mary.”
We nod, and I tighten the hold
on my pen.
Yes, I’ve been wanting
and dreading
to hear this.
BILLY AND MARY
“He was comin’ home late
from his first good job,
a reporter for the Hillsdale Tribune.
It’s defunct now after all these years,
but he loved it. Wanted to be a writer
like you, Mia. Apart from music,
words were his thing
and he worked ‘em around real good
so the news he reported grabbed you
right here.”
She raises a shaky hand to her heart.
“It was right out there, just two miles
down that road. Drunk driver came
‘round the corner and it didn’t take
but a second. They both died instantly.
He was 27 years old…so many stories
he had yet to put into that paper,
so many
untold stories…”
Mia and I stay silent
watching for signs of exhaustion.
She sighs heavily and continues.
“Mary, my sweet, sweet little girl,
already had the sickness in her
when Billy left.
Doctors found the tumor in her brain
six months before
and she lived exactly six more months.
Died on her 25th birthday
and that after a terrible lot of sufferin’.”
Mrs. Shepherd stays dry-eyed
but we both blow noses and wipe eyes,
trying not to make too much noise.
The fatigue finally catches up with her
and we know it’s time to go.
Mia thanks her again
and musters all her cheeriness
to lift the mood.
In the car we both kick ourselves
for not having saved the present until last
to end on a lighter note.
I do the math in my head.
I can’t get over
how little time she had
with her children.
How
very
little
time.
GETTING THE BALL ROLLING
I can never sleep late
during vacations
and neither can Mom.
We both end up in the kitchen
early this first Saturday morning
while the house is still quiet.
I savor the time to catch up.
I want to tell Mom
about my Goldilocks moment
and my resolve to “deal with it.”
I want to tell her Mrs. Shepherd’s story
about Billy and Mary,
and how it makes me realize time
is ticking away in our family.
I want to tell her that I think
we need to do
SOMETHING…
but one look at the exhaustion
spread over her face
tells me it’s not the right time.
Her thoughts are more immediate.
“I don’t know what to do about
Christmas this year,
presents, I mean, for the boys…”
I see tears welling in her eyes.
Her heaviness threatens to weigh us
both down.
feathers and rocks
“Let me grab my computer, Mom.
I think this is a workable problem.”
I dash to my room as quietly as possible,
experiencing an unexpected surge of
energy,
optimism, hopefulness,
resolve.
I Google “toys and games for those with special needs.”
Mom pours herself another cup of coffee
and pulls her chair next to mine.
I feel her body relax, as she sighs
and blows her nose.
“Voil
à,” I say, as I hit on a list
by category
of everything imaginable
for visually and physically handicapped
children.
“Oh, go back. Look,
look at that one, Claire.”
Mom can’t hide her excitement,
pointing to a soccer ball
with bells. “See if you can find
a football.”
She scribbles on a notepad
and within five minutes
we have a list going:
MP3 players.
A talking interactive game called ‘Bop It.’
Tactile Tic Tac Toe.
Wooden puzzles in all shapes and sizes.
Talking watches.
Mom grabs my hand
and speaks deep into my eyes.
“Claire, do you think it’s too early
for Trent? I mean, with no symptoms,
sometimes it’s hard
to realize that, you know, that…”
The Memorial Room flashes in my brain
like a neon sign.
My brothers’ laughter
when they play together rings in my ears.
The DNA test results fly before my face
like the handwriting on the wall.
“I think this is the right thing, Mom.
I think we are doing
just exactly
the right thing.”
“Thanks, honey. I know you
are struggling, too, and I confess
I’m not always tuned in to your needs.
I’ve been thinking
you and Dad and I
should have more—
what should we call them—
therapy sessions?”
“I’m all for it, Mom. How about
tonight?”
I catch her off guard,
then she smiles big.
“Well then,
tonight it is.”
MY NEW WORLD
Working on a Christmas gift list
for my two brothers with
visual and physical handicaps;
planning for a “therapy session”
with my parents;
hoping for a renewed friendship
with my oldest friend;
playing the piano without
worrying about competing;
dealing with a contest I would
rather avoid;
wondering how I can kick Batten
in the butt—
is how you define
my new world.
SNOW DAZE
Snow doesn’t stick around long
in our climate,
so we wake the boys up
and all five of us
head for the backyard
dressed in makeshift winter gear.
Free from obstacles of movement,
Davy and Tent roll in it,
eat it,
throw it,
build with it,
run and laugh and shout in it,
and practically use it all up
before it can accumulate
and then
without any warning,
Dad rushes to Davy
who has fallen over
and is in the throes of another
grand mal seizure.
Mom grabs Trent and steers him inside
motioning me to help Dad with Davy.
We move him on his side.
Dad takes off his glove,
wipes saliva and mucous away from Davy’s mouth
and as we have learned to do,
we let the seizure run its
short but interminable course.
When he comes around
we help him into the house,
out of his wet clothes
and onto his bed.
Mom has Trent in the kitchen
with a cup of hot chocolate
when I join them.
“Are seizures just part of growing
up, Mom, like growing pains? ‘Cause
that would mean I’m probly going to get
them too, huh?”
Trent takes a big slurp
as if he had just asked
why the sky is blue.
Mom shoots a glance at Dad
and me
and for a frozen instant
we are all speechless.
Dad clears his throat.
“Not exactly, Trent.
Sounds like you have some
questions we need to talk about.
When Davy is feeling better
we’ll all have that talk, okay buddy?”
It’s time to tell them the truth.
They deserve to know
the
truth.
I lock Dad in a burning gaze
that might as well have been a battle cry
lost in the wind.
A DATE WITH GOOGLE
The house is quiet
the rest of the afternoon
and in spite of—
maybe because of—
the morning crisis,
I wander around idly
on Google.
What am I looking for?
A soul salve.
A simple solution.
A cure
or at the very least,
something to make the
sadness less sad.
One stop tells me I could fill out the forms
in fifteen minutes,
form 1023
to become a 501 (c) (3).
That’s what you call a charitable organization,
or a foundation.
Way too big and besides
there are already big public charities
raising money.
Off the top of my head
I click in “how to raise money for a good cause”
and land on a site with corny pictures
that at least looks more user-friendly.
I scroll down:
Grant Applications.
Handling Funds.
Tax Limitations.
Setting up Bank Accounts.
Mission Statements.
Mrs. Shepherds’ husband, Finley, always had a cause
but I’ll bet it wasn’t this complicated…
I’m about to click off
when I get to the last section,
Fundraising Ideas:
bake or craft sale,
host a party,
set up a booth at an event,
hold a raffle,
have a car wash,
put on a benefit concert.
It’s as if the computer just called my name.
These things,
all of them,
are doable.
I want to tell someone—
Mia, and especially Juan.
It would make it more real
to share the excitement I feel
all the way down to my toes
but I resist the temptation
to grab my phone.
Instead, I open a Word document
and begin making notes.
CRYING OUT FOR ANSWERS
The uplift in my spirits
isn’t reflected around the dinner table.
Davy’s increased seizures have hit Mom hard,
along with the only real change in Trent,
his wakefulness at night.
She’s simply sleep-deprived.
I heard just enough of her conversation with Dad
to know that the afternoon wasn’t pleasant
after Davy woke up from his post-seizure nap.
I worry about the nose dive
she’s taken
since the diagnoses.
I try to send Dad a mental message
that we could use a dose of his silly jokes
about now, but his sense of humor
seems to be on hold, too.
I think abo
ut bagging the plans
for our evening meeting
when my thoughts are interrupted
by the only dinner conversation so far.
Now it’s Davy asking a question.
“Dad, did you have seizures when you
were my age?”
For a split second, Dad looks like
he’s going to burst into tears.
It takes him a long time
for his one word answer. “No.”
I want to shout my father down,
scream at him,
ask him if he can’t see or hear
my brothers
crying out for answers.
I bite my tongue
and put this subject
at the top of our evening’s agenda.
UNFAVORABLE CLIMATE
Mom looks apologetic
plopping onto the couch
after the boys are in bed,
announcing how exhausted she is.
Dad looks pained,
maybe at both of us,
and musters a glimmer of his humor
as he looks directly at me
with “this meeting is called to order.”
Mom perks up to give Dad a positive report
on our Christmas shopping decisions.
She gives me an “I love and appreciate you”
smile, and I take a deep breath before
plunging into what’s hot on my brain,
not what’s spelled out in my notes
from this afternoon.
“Dad, Mom, I know I can’t tell you
how to raise my brothers, but
well, I just think they need—