The Sound of Letting Go (26 page)

PTSD is in the news a lot these days:

post-traumatic stress disorder,

a diagnosis often given

to soldiers returning home from Iraq, Afghanistan, war.

Probably should’ve been given to Civil War veterans, too.

Now I understand

how it feels to be thrust out of your familiar world

of danger and chaos

into sudden quiet.

Into a home absent of dangers,

sheltered beneath a blanket of falling snow.

“Want me to move the music stand up to your bedroom?”

Dad asks on Thursday night,

after the turkey leftovers are stashed in the fridge

without a bowl of mac and cheese beside them,

after the unbroken dishes are washed

and Justine and Shirley head out to the Hoffmans’ house

for pumpkin pie.

“No thanks.”

Zombielike, I get my backpack from the hall closet,

stack my A-PUSH textbook and binder

neatly on the kitchen table. Pretend to be reading

instead of trying to imagine the sound of a trumpet

filling up this house.

What would I play?

Would Mom peel carrots,

scrub pans to the Hummel concerto?

Would Dad stop his early morning runs and, instead,

read the paper, drink his coffee

as I wind around improvisations to suit my mood

and no one else’s?

What would the sounds of liberty be?

I click open a pen and scribble down some notes

for Cal’s and my project

about the stunned, uncertain way a slave might feel, suddenly free,

realizing the story I am trying to tell isn’t about Steven.

It’s about me.

“I missed the Black Friday sales,” Mom says at breakfast.

“But I’m going to see what’s left on the shelves today.”

“Maybe I’ll go to the gym. Or just watch some TV,”

Dad says from behind his paper.

We are all hiding

from the ugliness of our relief,

from the countless uncircumscribed hours

that now lay before us.

Dad sits still long enough for me to notice

the tufts of gray at his temples.

Mom isn’t running from the table to the sink,

away from danger, from Steven.

I think of movies I have seen about tsunamis, hurricanes,

where, after the storm has passed,

there’s this brilliant blue sky, clear horizon,

scored by the music of memory, of grief,

of what was lost,

and it all seems to happen so fast.

I think I have aged ten years since Wednesday.

Without benefit of HBO makeup,

I’ve gone from third parent to old woman,

wondering at the absurdity of my ink-addled shoes,

exhausted by the notion of burying my thoughts

in sweaty scenes of tousled hair and breathless kisses.

Very, very tired.

“What’s your plan, Daisy?”

Mom maintains her falsely bright, steady tone

as if Steven were still here,

in need of hearing the day’s narrative repeated.

“I’m going to do some homework, then practice.

Maybe meet up with Justine later.”

Dad looks up from his paper and smiles his approval.

“I don’t know if we can afford it,

but I applied to the Overton summer music program

in Philadelphia.”

It feels like a confession.

“I thought I wrote a check for a Boston camp,”

Mom says, confused.

“I applied to lots of programs. I wanted to . . .”

There must be a word to capture all the reasons—

the musical inspirations, the dreams of escape,

from routines, from fighting parents, from fear—

but I can’t find it.

And I realize that, whatever that word might be,

my parents have surely felt it, known it, too.

So I finish simply.

“. . . to go.”

“What programs?”

Dad actually sets his paper down on the table.

“Well, Overton, of course.

Then there’s one in upstate New York, and . . .”

“How much do they cost?” he asks.

“They’re all, well, thousands, and I know

you’ve got a lot of expenses now.

If I get in, I can try for scholarships.”

“I’m sure you’ll get in.”

I see Mom smile over my head at Dad,

her eyes full of pride.

“We’ll do the best we can, Daisy,” Dad says.

“Let’s see how things go with Steven.”

Can you be miserable and relieved

to hear someone say your brother’s name,

to keep him somehow in the house

even though you’ve sent him away?

Dad leaves for the gym,

Mom heads to the sales.

The emptiness in the house is so loud, I can’t stay.

I grab my keys and jump into the Subaru.

The tank is nearly empty.

I pull into a gas station off the highway,

slide my credit card in the slot, type in my zip code, remove the gas cap.

Pumping gas usually makes me feel confident, capable.

Now, as I hear the gentle swish of fluid through the nozzle,

turn my face from the breeze carrying gasoline-scented air,

I am stranded in the eternal measure

that followed the wrong note I played

at the state orchestra concert.

The absence of Steven is a conductor’s dropped baton,

a Christmas score burned by the high school bleachers.

Changes too fast to survive.

Car replenished, I drive straight to Justine’s.

I don’t need permission from Mom or Dad,

don’t need to feel guilt—

only now I do.

“How are you doing, honey?”

Shirley wraps me in a hug before I can unzip my fleece.

“Okay,” I say.

Justine meets us in the doorway. “Honestly, Mom.

Do you think she needs the third degree right now?”

I do adore Justine’s flashing defenses.

“Wanna go up to your room?” I ask.

“Yeah.” She gives her mother

one final reprimanding look

and we head upstairs.

The pink bedspread is buried, as usual, under a sea

of clothes and shoes.

I shove aside a pair of shiny pumps and sit on the edge.

“It’s really quiet at home,” I say.

She sits down beside me,

on a cute lavender top,

not even bothering to push it out of the way.

After a long time, she stands up.

“Well, let’s not make it quiet here.

Maybe you should, you know,

do a little more socializing,

try to enjoy some of the traditions of junior year.”

“Like the Black-and-White Dance?” I tease weakly.

“Well, yeah. Why don’t you ask someone?

Maybe Dave?” She studies my face, retreats a little.

“Though you guys have a weird history.”

“What history?” Ned knocks on Justine’s door

and comes in at the same time.

“Ned! You scared me. We’re thinking

of someone Daisy could ask to the dance.”

“No, we weren’t.”

I’m squirming now, a little angry,

definitely not ready for this,

for Ned brainstorming potential dates for me.

“How about Cal O’Casey?” Ned suggests.

“You and he are both music people.”

His hands are on Justine’s shoulders, rubbing her back.

I leap off the bed.

“You have no right to butt into my social life, Ned;

to try to manipulate me

like you manipulate the ladies of the PTA.

Do you even remember that time in second grade

when you laughed at me

but didn’t tell me my dress was in my tights;

just let me walk all the way back to my desk?”

“Daisy!” Justine pulls away from Ned, glaring at me.

“You remember, Justine.

You slept over at my house that night

and listened to me cry about it.”

“That was second grade!” she actually screams.

“People change!

Look at Dave.”

Ned, frozen amidst the clothes and pink and screaming,

looks like he’s grown suddenly thinner,

more shadowlike than before.

“I remember.” His whisper fights its way

through the chaos.

“Ned?” Justine turns to him.

“I was . . . embarrassed.

I didn’t know how to talk to girls.

I’m . . . sorry.”

He lifts his hand as if to reach out to me,

drops it back to his side, his head lowered.

That word again,

sorry
.

That word I want to say to my brother,

even if he doesn’t understand.

That word I believe Ned Hoffman really means right now.

And I realize that we are the same,

that sometimes we don’t have the strength

to rescue other people;

sometimes we have to learn things for ourselves, first.

Someday, down the road, I will be the adult,

will make the decisions for Steven.

Even if I don’t have much faith

that my brother will change,

even if Steven isn’t able to forgive me for my choices,

the way I decide, now, to forgive Ned.

Time feels like it needs to be counted

in days-since-Steven-was-sent-away.

And none of them feels any better than the last.

Ignoring Mr. Orson’s lecture

about coming back to jazz band,

on Monday I play all day

in my basement practice room,

a prisoner of myself,

ignoring texts from Justine, from Dave.

Mom doesn’t make me go to school.

Tuesday, I wince as the sun attacks my eyes.

Mom stands by my bedroom window,

straightening the freshly drawn shade.

“Enough,” she says. “We have to find a way to go on.”

She has put a cereal bowl, a spoon, a glass of orange juice

at my usual spot on the kitchen island.

Dad comes down the stairs, smiles at us,

says three amazing words:

“Good morning, Alice.”

“Good morning, Ted.” Mom smiles back,

kind of hopeful.

“You’d better hurry, Daisy. You’ll be late for jazz band.”

I park the Subaru near the school

but leave my horn in the car.

Walk empty-handed down the halls, still quiet

except for zero-period students:

the Young Entrepreneurs group, choir, jazz band.

Cal is leaning against his locker.

“What’s the holdup, O’Casey?

You’re gonna be late for jazz.”

He shrugs. “Dunno if it matters. I’m gonna just listen

when you run the Ellington piece, anyway,

since I won’t be here for Battle of the Bands.”

“Why not?”

He looks down,

Cal-for-short’s-first-day-at-Evergreen style.

“Mrs. Ackerman is pregnant, home on bed rest,

and they can’t handle a student boarder

after the holidays.

My folks were so set against me comin’ here already;

now I don’t have a place and . . .”

Cal’s voice catches in his throat. He turns away.

“I shouldn’t stay.

Dad’s gettin’ old and Jeremy, my brother, is only seven.

Without me to take over,

Dad’ll probably have to sell the pub.

So it isn’t like he can pay for me to rent someplace

even if I dared ask him to stay.

Hell, I came to America with only one pair of shoes!”

I know everything about this feeling:

trapped by family, a sea of obligations.

“Oh, Cal.”

“Daisy, is that what I have to do?

Go home and live my whole life in that place

so Dad doesn’t have to take the name O’Casey’s off

from over the door?”

“Couldn’t you go to music school someplace in Ireland?

I’m sure if—”

“Y’ don’t understand.

The minute I walk back into that pub,

he’ll slap an apron on me

and I’ll be washin’ pint glasses in the kitchen again,

my dreams pissin’ down the drain with the rinse water.”

“This isn’t the end yet, Cal. Not today.”

I don’t know how to help him, but I know how it feels

to have your hopelessness come from home.

A twinge of Justine’s angry fire rises in my stomach

along with a little bit of hope

that a way can be found for Cal.

“Today, we play ‘Almost Cried’

by the great Duke Ellington, but we . . .

we do not cry.”

That’s when I go back to my car,

take out my trumpet case,

return, Cal in tow, just a little bit late

to jazz band.