The Sound of Letting Go (25 page)

Dave can’t keep hold of my hand for the drive home.

He grips the wheel against roads that have turned slick.

The grass on the yards we pass is laced in white.

The snow is beginning to stick.

“Want me to walk you in?” he asks

as I open the passenger-side door.

I put one Ked gingerly on the driveway to test for ice.

“No. I’m okay.”

“Is it . . . safe?”

“Safe enough. We’ve been living this way

for a long time.”

Another honest note blows into the air.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I watch the Fiesta ease back down the driveway,

steel myself for what’s behind my front door.

Mom is tucked beneath a blanket on the couch,

her busted arm elevated on pillows.

After he hurts her, she’s afraid to sleep upstairs,

close to Steven.

Dad looks up from his recliner.

He makes no comment about my being out past ten

on a school night;

just says grimly,

“It’s all set. There’s an open respite bed at Holland House.

They can take Steven on Wednesday.

I’m taking a couple of days off.

Not a big deal since it’s Thanksgiving on Thursday.

It’s a quiet week at the office.

I’ll handle things here.”

I think back to a few mornings ago,

Steven shrinking from my touch, ignoring my question

of whether he understands.

I wonder what pain he must have felt,

to make him lash out at Mom.

But that does not make his actions any less dangerous.

And one word describes the rush of feeling

that courses through my arms and legs,

fingers and toes,

heart and brain.

It is
relief
.

In the morning, it is Dad bustling at the sink

while Mom sits at the island

holding a cup of tea in her uncast hand.

Like the past times when Steven’s violence exploded

out of control,

this next morning feels extraordinarily . . . ordinary.

He is tired from the meds,

his hands twist more slowly than usual,

evenly cut waffle bites sit untouched

on the plate before him.

It is hard to bear the glimmer of hope in Mom’s eyes

as she watches Steven be still,

as if she has already begun the process of pretending

yesterday never was.

Maybe that’s the most painful thing of all.

“Mind if I stay over at Justine’s tonight?” I ask.

Dad’s “Are you afraid?”

and Mom’s “Don’t you want to spend time with Steven?”

tumble over each other, both easily answered

with a single syllable: “No.”

Stomach growling, sleepover gear in hand, I skip cereal

and go straight out the front door to the Subaru.

The “eventually” of Steven’s departure

is now twenty-four hours away.

The gas indicator is down to two bars,

but I still run the engine in the Evergreen High

parking lot, blast the heat until I can’t bear it

any more than I can bear waiting at home with my parents for tomorrow to arrive.

Ten minutes before the bell, I turn off the ignition,

creep through the school halls

like the spy I sometimes pretend to be.

I miss the Christmas tunes, the joy,

the sound of the program getting better as we get closer

and closer to concert dates,

the full, round tones of the Evergreen High Jazz Band, complete with baritone sax.

Dave comes up behind me.

“Why aren’t you in there playing?”

“I just haven’t felt like it.”

“If I were as good at something

as you are at trumpet,

I don’t think that excuse would be enough.”

“You sound like Ned Hoffman. Parental,” I sneer.

“Suit yourself.” He shrugs.

“With all the shit going on at your house,

I’d think you’d love to just go make some music.”

I’ve gone a long time trying to love

a brother whose only way of touching me is pain.

A long time escaping into music.

Practice, lessons, rehearsals that protect me

from the hurting parts of life.

I’ve been winning awards, applause,

acclaim for my trumpet skills since I was in grade school.

But
love
?

The word catches in my throat.

Do I love anything?

Have I forgotten how?

“Daisy!” Justine calls.

She tugs Ned along by the hand,

gives Dave and me an appraising glance.

“I’m so psyched you’re sleeping over tonight!”

Her voice is party-light, her words innocent,

but I see the sharp compassion in her eyes,

searching for what I need, what hurts.

“What’ll it be, Scrabble tournament

or reality TV marathon?” she asks.

“I’ve had my fill of reality,” I say

in what I hope is both witty

and a nothing-ever-really-troubles-me-or-if-it-does-

I’m-not-telling-boys tone.

“Let’s make up words.”

I do not go home

to say good-bye to Steven on Wednesday morning.

There was a plan,

a story to tell Steven

about the fun of going back to that nice place,

to piney-smelling, soft-edged Holland House,

and how we would come “soon” to see him.

I am afraid he’ll read the confusion in my face.

I know none of us will try to hug him good-bye.

I can imagine the ordeal of tying his shoes,

getting him into Dad’s car.

I do not need to bear witness.

I do not go to jazz band either.

Justine and I sit at her kitchen table

eating bowls of banned-at-my-house Cap’n Crunch

while Shirley chatters about feeling bad

that Mom plans to go to all the trouble

of cooking Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow,

what with her broken arm and . . . everything.

To me, it is a perfect irony.

Thanksgiving is loaded with falsehoods,

from the candy-apple way they teach kindergartners

that the pilgrims met the Native Americans

to the stage-play that is barely speaking families

gathering to pretend

they are thankful for the gift of their genetic connections,

even if they hate the hell out of each other.

At school, Dave tells me

he has to spend Thanksgiving weekend

at Andy Bouchard’s farm outside of town

with his mom.

He doesn’t say he hates her. I don’t think he does.

But there’s no contesting she was the catalyst

for the destruction of the Miller family—

the old one,

before his father’s new wife,

the twin baby girls Dave never wants to care for.

I imagine his dad, nearing fifty,

staring at the two diapered toddlers

like my own father watches Steven, his eternal child,

the thief of his retirement fund,

his chances at ever claiming a reward

for the years of hard work;

dashed by a mind that cannot love back,

that will never grow to own similar hopes,

or fulfill his father’s.

What is a family anyway?

Do we all have to live in one house?

I think of Justine and her mom,

who have bravely come to our house for Thanksgiving

every year since Shirley’s divorce,

the same year my grandparents begged off joining us

for the holiday,

claiming they caused Steven too much distress,

even if the only pain I ever saw was in their eyes

when they looked at me and Dad and Mom.

So, are Justine and Shirley my family?

The people who gather round our table,

who actually dare to love us despite everything?

The house is empty when I get home after school.

I pour myself a bowl of cereal

and head to the family room.

HBO is offering a steamy blend

of high crime and hookers

that would normally be my ideal type of evening fare,

though with accents is preferable.

But tonight, I flip to a cartoon,

study the bright colors, stylized animation,

realize I can turn the volume up if I want to.

But I don’t.

It has happened and the only stand I took

was not to stop them

but to stop the music in myself.

I hate them for not noticing,

until I hear the front door open,

the shuddering sobs of my mother,

the falsely reassuring, “It’s going to be okay, Alice.

We’re going to be okay,” from my father.

I run to the basement like a programmed robot,

and it’s not until my second time through “Hallelujah”

that I realize I could have played the song upstairs.

The song about the imperfection of love,

the way it can hurt you, break you, terrify you;

the way it can fall apart; and yet,

the title is a hymn, a word of praise.

I wonder if my mother has retreated to the shower,

if my father is in the guest room bed,

or if, maybe, he’ll stay in the master tonight.

I wonder . . .

Did we try hard enough?

Did I?