The Sound of Letting Go (17 page)

I nearly throw the phone across the room

when, seconds later, the voice of Yoda

begins insistently repeating,

“Ringing I am; this is your phone calling,”

a ringtone I haven’t changed since my

obsession with
Star Wars

evolved into HBO nights.

I am holding the slim phone like it could burst into flame.

Answer or ignore?

The second option makes me think of a word

I attach so often to Steven—

he is ignoring me . . . I am being ignored
—

even though I know it isn’t right.

I press the “answer” button,

mute with uncertainty.

“Daisy? You there? You okay?”

Dave’s voice is rumbly-warm,

concerned,

a little sexy.

Not ignoring me.

The opposite of that.

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“So, you gonna tell me what happened

back at the parking lot?

Were you running away?”

“Shouldn’t I run”—

I try to make my voice sound teasing—

“from a bad boy like you?”

Now it’s my turn to listen to silence.

Moment follows moment, filled only with the sound

of blood swishing in my pressed-to-phone ear.

“I’m not bad,” Dave says at last. “There’s no such thing.”

“There are only boys

and girls

and good and bad situations.”

My heart reaches out to his words.

Is Steven bad?

Dangerous, certainly.

But will I ever know for certain

what his motives, morals are?

Does he?

Did my parents commit some evil to deserve this?

Did I?

As if I believed in such supernatural things,

as if I hadn’t trodden this ground a thousand times

in counseling sessions, been reassured

by nodding, liberal PhDs

with normal children.

How can they know?

They are not any smarter than my parents, than me.

I shake my mind from this dangerous path.

“Bad situations,” I begin my reply. “Like what to do

after you kiss a not-bad-boy in the dark by the pits.”

“I should’ve called before now, but—” Dave pauses.

I imagine him flicking his lighter,

spinning a beer cap between his finger and thumb.

“Hell, Daisy, even though we haven’t really hung out

in years, we’ve known each other

since before we could tie our own shoes.

It just felt . . .

I kind of don’t know what happened Saturday night.”

“Me either.”

“So now what?” he asks.

His question means that he doesn’t want nothing.

If he’d wanted nothing, he could have just pretended

not to see me speed away from school.

His question has begun an improvisation between us,

a call-and-response.

It’s my turn to pick up the melody, take responsibility

for our direction.

I imagine my trumpet in my hands, long for a sound,

a sentence, beautiful and clear.

Inhale.

What I think I want

is a dozen more nights of chilly lakeside kisses

without reflection or remorse.

What I say is,

“Meet up in the library tomorrow after school?”

“You. Me. The egg chair.” Dave’s voice sounds glad.

“I’ll bring the music.”

“Dinnertime, Daisy!”

Mom’s voice rises up, loud enough for me to hear

but in one of her practiced, modulated,

keep-the-peace tones.

As usual, I start down the stairs without calling back.

Don’t want to start a dialogue that might sound like

yelling,

might turn the night sour for Steven,

for us all.

“Sheila will be here soon,”

Mom says as she passes me a plate of leftovers,

her eyes bright as if she is offering candy.

Steven is already working on his slightly cooled

grilled cheese sandwich.

“Dad can meet us at the movie theater.

Thought maybe we’d catch the new Bond

and then go for ice cream.”

Sheila is what is known as a “respite caregiver,”

a glorified, qualified, brave babysitter who, for a price,

lets family members escape their eternal roles as

therapists, doctors, nurses,

slaves

to the disabled yet powerful rulers of their lives.

When you’ve been on the autism hamster wheel

long enough,

and if you have the cash,

you’ve paid for one sometime along the way.

Once Dad said the worst socioeconomic bracket

to be autistic in

was the middle class.

Yeah, we have granite countertops and a two-car garage.

We could theoretically take spring break trips to

warm places, Disney World.

I own a very nice, way-above-student-grade Bach trumpet.

But there is no budget, no program, no viable plan

to help us navigate through Steven’s world.

Just pamphlets,

“advice” to “make him part of our community”

and “foster understanding,”

admonishments about taking care of ourselves

along with our “special-needs family member”;

community groups laden with others like us,

trying not to complain—to cry;

education plans hard-won from cost-conscious,

understaffed public schools

who have had no more luck teaching Steven

to button and tie than my mother.

“Cool” is my one-word answer,

deep with the worry that Steven will hurt Sheila,

resonant with doubt that Dad will actually show up,

scoffing at the implication that a movie and ice cream

are part of any solution.

Mom raises one finely tweezed eyebrow, says nothing.

I push the food around my plate,

from the corner of my eye watch Steven bite, chew,

swallow.

Mom is quick to the door when the bell rings.

Sheila, fattish, slugs out of her gray wool coat,

tucks her scarf into one sleeve.

“Now, where’s my friend Steven?” she asks.

Mom smiles, leads the way.

“Remember, Steven, tonight we’re going to have fun

with our friend Sheila.

She’s going to play Blokus with you.

Here, Sheila, I have Steven’s game ready.”

“I remember Steven.”

Sheila continues Mom’s simple, steady cadence.

For the uninitiated, this is a technique called

“social stories”—a strategy used with autistic kids

to help model what a routine

or change in routine will be like.

There are even “social stories” books on how

to ride a bus or go to the store.

“I like Blokus, too, Steven. Let’s play Blokus together.”

Sheila lowers her wide ass onto the kitchen chair

beside Steven.

I feel an inexplicable wave of hatred shimmer through me,

wanting to scream “farce, farce” into this tragic display,

then remembering how much I wished

someone would give me lines

to say to Dave,

wondering if “social stories” could be written

to guide geekoid trumpet girls, too.

“And then”—lifting her tone brightly,

Mom catches Sheila’s eye,

points to two plates by the sink—

“you can have cookies.”

Sounds like we’re fattening him, doesn’t it?

Like we ply him with cookies to buy his acquiescence?

Those cookies are laden with wheat germ and flaxseed oil,

all kinds of things to help Steven’s unruly gut.

He is chubby from all his meds,

but it’s not like anyone can force him to exercise

like we used to when he was smaller.

Dad kept trying to take him on weekend runs

even after he started turning off the route,

coursing toward the middle of streets

without regard for the rules and dangers of traffic.

The runs finally ended with Steven’s first pimple,

the first extra shower he had to take

because he stank of sweat.

“And Daisy and Dad and I will be home in no time,”

Mom finishes sweetly.

“See you later, Steven and Sheila.”

I follow Mom to the front hall.

Her eyes sparkle as she hands me my jacket.

“I can’t remember the last time

I saw a first-run movie in a theater.”

Neither one of us follows through to the evil endpoint

of this thought:

that when Steven moves away we can do this anytime.

“I thought, maybe, you had gone to see James Bond,

that maybe that’s where you were last night.”

Her voice is tentative,

as if she didn’t have a right to ask where I was

or to be angry at me.

But I want her to be angry

and toast my waffles

and say things that Shirley says to Justine—

“you’re only seventeen”—and not just tell me

I’m late and then shut her mouth, or rush off to yoga

and not ask if I “approve” of huge decisions.

I want her to tell me something is better—or worse—

not merely “best for the family”;

to tell me how she
feels
about things.

Somehow, somewhere along the way,

all the autism experts’ plans

outlining how to model social interaction,

appropriate behavior, life skills for Steven, flip-flopped,

and instead

my brother has taught the rest of us

to never show what we feel.

Maybe not to feel at all.

But right now I do feel angry.

Right now I want

to dive into Mom’s arms and tell her I’ve been kissed—really kissed—

and that I’ve tasted beer and felt my heart skip

and am worried because I don’t know

if Justine’s boyfriend is right for her,

and I don’t know if Dave is mine . . .

But “I hear it’s a good one,” is how I answer my mother.

Dad meets us at the movie theater entrance,

wallet already open,

and buys us three movie tickets.

As Mom says to Dad,

“Daisy tells me this should be good,”

Dave’s words echo back to me:

There are no bad or good people,

only girls and boys

and good and bad situations.

“I don’t know if there’s time for ice cream,”

Dad says as we walk back to the car.

“And Daisy was out late last night.”

“Ted.” Mom tucks her hand in the bend of his elbow.

“We agreed to trust.”

“I kind of do feel like ice cream,” I say.

I want to be as contrary as my kohl-ringed eyes,

which they refuse to comment on.

And, angry as I am, some part of me also wants

the smile on Mom’s lips,

the interlacing of my parents’ arms

to last as long as possible.

“Okay, takeout,” Dad says,

glancing only once at his watch.

I am rewarded by Mom’s girlish giggle

as vanilla drips over the edge of her cone

onto the sleeve of her faux fur coat.

Dad grins as he dabs at it with a paper napkin.

I sit in the rear of the car on the way home,

watching the backs of my parents’ heads

tilt slightly toward each other in the front seats.

Tell myself to trust,

maybe forgive them

just a little.