Behind These Hands
Page 3
AMBIVALENCE
It doesn’t help,
the self-satisfied look
on Juan’s face
at the lockers.
“Great practice session this morning, huh?”
Blank stare
diving for my books,
pushing down tears
he’ll never understand.
“Oh, oh. Looks like you hit a snag?”
He knows our family
like his own
and we’ve always been close,
so why don’t I tell him?
“We need to talk?”
He’ll think I’m bummed out
because of him—
our competing against each other,
so when I tell him the truth
he’ll never believe me.
“Lunch, the table near the door?”
I nod
and head for the cafeteria.
THE TRUTH
Juan slides onto the bench
two minutes after me.
Half a minute later
Tara’s radar picks it up
from across the cafeteria
and reflects it back
with a sugar-coated, way-too-smiley wave
that only I catch.
Morning classes cleared my thoughts.
I need to air them out.
I’m just about ready to start talking
when Mia plops down.
I can’t hide my disappointment,
and she starts to leave.
“Oops, I see I’ve interrupted something big.”
I almost let her leave and then signal her to sit down.
What am I thinking? The three of us
have been like the musketeers
since third grade.
“It’s Davy.
The house is on red alert
waiting for the doctor’s report.”
Juan interrupts. “What doctor’s report?
What’s going on?”
“The school has noticed significant changes recently.
You know, a school for kids with learning disabilities
is tuned into that stuff.”
“Seems like he’s had every test imaginable this past year.”
“Exactly.
Opthalmologists.
Neurologists.
Brain scans.
Everything but a definite diagnosis.
My parents act like it can only be bad.
It ticks me off the way they are carrying on.
I mean, it could just be a glitch in his system
that meds can take care of, right?
It doesn’t have to be the end of the world
or Davy’s world,
does it?
I know he has a bum rap already,
losing vision at age seven,
learning difficulties.
He doesn’t need one more thing,
but until we know anything for sure
I just wish everyone could chill.
I can’t concentrate.
I mean, the timing…
That’s it.
It sucks.”
Juan says, “Davy’s situation or the contest?”
Davy, of course.
I chew extra long and hard
on my cardboard sandwich
and look away from my longtime friend’s
see-through stare.
At least he didn’t flat out ask me
if competing against him is the problem.
At least I didn’t have to answer
to something I can’t possibly sort out
right now.
“I’m so sorry, Claire,” Mia says.
“I’m with you. Let’s hope for a cool-down in your family
until you find out. In the meantime, poor Davy.”
Her words sear.
Where do I get off
feeling sorry for me?
TEST RESULTS
The suspense is over.
Our house feels like
those pictures you see
after a tornado levels
everything
but the victims are alive,
shuffling around the debris
in a daze.
It’s called Batten disease.
Mom and Dad sat me down
between them
on the couch last night
after Davy and Trent were in bed
and told me what they know
or maybe
just what they want me to know.
The failing vision
and learning problems
are part of it,
and
it’s going to get worse:
seizures,
total blindness,
physical and mental deterioration.
There is no cure.
He may not live to see twenty.
Before the end
everything,
everything
shuts
down.
WHY
We all cry.
I’ve never seen my dad cry before,
but this is gut-wrenching sobbing,
sobs that shake the couch cushions
like a kid jumping on them
while mom weeps quietly and gropes
for a box of tissues.
I make them tell me again
and again
what it all means
as if my brain can’t absorb it all
in one terrible dose.
“Claire,” Mom puts her arm around me
and finds my eyes. “The boys
are not to know any of this, do you
understand?”
I nod, unable to stop crying.
“It would serve no useful purpose,” Dad says,
blowing his nose.
“But why?” I stammer.
“You mean why not tell them?” Mom says.
I try to pull myself together,
unable to define
what I mean
by
why.
Why Davy?
Why our family?
Why is this happening?
Why now?
Why do I have to carry this burden of silence?
Why can’t the problem be fixed?
NEW NORMAL
I see immediately
how things have changed.
Mom gives me something to help me sleep.
She tells me
we won’t make this a habit.
“I know we put a lot on you tonight.
You have a deadline that is important
to you
and us,
and life needs to go on
in this house,
in this family,
and Dad and I love you so much.”
She shakes two pills into her own hands
and we all turn our backs on
this horrible day.
THE NEXT DAY
The alarm triggers my thoughts
abruptly
like electricity coming on
after an outage.
My brother is going to die
young,
sick,
wasted
before our eyes.
Last night didn’t really happen,
did it?
This can’t be a school day.
My body feels like crap
four days to deadline,
and I’m not ready to record.
How can I face Davy
or Trent
and act normal
ever again?
BUSINESS AS USUAL
Dad’s in the shower.
Mom’s fixing the boys’ lunches.
Davy’s making a mess with his cereal,
milk half in, half out of the bowl.
Trent slams his dish into the sink
and races upstairs to get dressed
without responding to Mom’s
“Hey
, slow it down.”
I’m gathering my book bag
when Carlos honks twice.
I give Mom a quick hug
without eye contact
and head for the door.
The only thing
out of the ordinary
on this new morning
is the inability to say Davy’s name
without choking up.
They said I couldn’t say anything
but they didn’t say I couldn’t
do something different.
I give my brother a silent hug
and dash out the door.
A GOOD DOSE OF TARA
First thing inside the car
my heart sinks.
I forgot it was Tuesday;
Tara always rides with us
on Tuesday.
Not only does my heart sink
but my stomach turns
at whatever she has slathered
somewhere on her body
to give off
such a sickening
fragrance.
And then there is the chatter
already in high gear
and not missing a beat
as I slide into the seat next to her.
It is, of course,
a cheerleading story.
Instead of listening
I stare, mesmerized by her
long, thick, bottle-blond hair
that sways like a heavy curtain
powered by her body language;
glossy lips totally color-coordinated with
well-manicured nails;
long, thick, black eyelashes
that flutter and accentuate
the orthodontic-perfect smile.
It’s a total package of goodies
so foreign to me
(I forgot to mention the huge boobs)
that sitting next to her this morning
feels like being on the set
of a soap opera.
Mom sometimes says this about quirky things:
It was just what the doctor ordered.
Tara, good for my health.
A SECOND GOOD DOSE
Tara jumps out of the car first
and runs toward a cluster of pompom girls
with a hasty “See ya.”
Juan and I head to the lockers.
He’s laughing and scratching his head.
If there is a good joke, I want to hear it.
“Claire, want to hear something funny?
I think my big bro has the hots for Tara.”
“Ya think?” I break into a
genuine fit of giggles.
“I take it you noticed
how he practically
rolled the car
while his eyes stayed glued
to the rear view mirror
during her cheerleading
monologue.”
“Man, I about cracked up.” Juan is laughing
deep belly laughs. “I was afraid if I looked
across the seat I’d decompose.”
Juan laughs at his musical pun.
We both laugh and snicker
all the way to the lockers
and I realize
how good it feels
until I remember,
and then I feel crazy
as I fight tears
so close behind
a good laugh.
A BAD FIT
On an ordinary day—
the days before last night—
I could sail through classes
with music themes posing
the only significant distraction.
Today is different.
It feels like uncomfortable new shoes,
shoes someone else picked out for me,
shoes that pinch,
rub,
squeeze,
burn.
Shoes that are ugly,
cost too much money,
and shoes I have to wear
someplace I don’t want to go.
Shoes that hurt
make me think of Davy
and how he already has trouble
walking without bumping into something
because of his eyesight,
and now
I wonder how long he will
walk
at
all.
Today
there is no music
running through my head.
PRACTICE
Juan follows me to the practice rooms
and hollers for me to wait up.
We haven’t talked since the morning laugh session,
but now
I really wish he would go to his cubicle
and leave me to my cubicle,
and we could both get on
with music contest preparation,
life as it was
before yesterday.
I slam the door
practically in his face
without a word,
while he stands
bewildered
at the window.
I slide onto the bench
and begin playing
something,
anything
to let him know
I desperately need music right now.
Two minutes into
Rachmaninoff Concerto #2
I slam both hands down
hard,
discordant,
loud,
slip off the bench
onto the floor
crying,
wailing uncontrollably,
beating my fists to the floor.
Why, why, why?
CONFESSION
Juan pushes the door open
in a rush
as if he might find
blood and guts,
broken appendages,
or damaged piano parts.
He eases down on the floor
next to me and waits long minutes
for the crying to end,
for me to talk.
“It’s the worst you can imagine,”
I say, and start crying again.
We both have a music deadline
and so much to do.
It’s been a long day,
but Juan’s earnest, kind eyes
tell me
he has all the time in the world
to listen.
“Davy,” he says so firmly
it catches me off guard.
It’s a statement, not a question.
I tell him all I know in a cascade
of jumbled words,
and end with something approaching confession:
how crappy I feel
for thinking Davy’s death sentence
will mess up
my preparation
for the contest.
FEELING DIRTY
“Not my man,” he says.
It’s what he’s always called Davy
since he was a toddler.
Juan cradles his head in his hands,
elbows digging into his crossed legs,
as if this position might help make sense
out of the words he just heard.
“Not my man.”
I pull myself together.
Shock spreads across Juan’s face
like a time-lapsed solar eclipse,
and tears pool in his dark eyes
as he struggles
with his own reaction.
He has the same questions I had
but mostly,
it’s the big one that I can’t answer:
How long?
How long does he have?
I shrug, take in a shaky breath,
rivet my eyes on the piano,
addressing the elephant in the room
with a burning glare.
Juan picks up on it.
“It’s okay, Claire. Don’t beat up on yourself.
Who wouldn’t feel the same way right now?
I mean, jeez,
you’ve got this humongous deadline,
you’ve given it everything you have so far,
you’re under a lot of pressure
and it’s hard,
hard as hell
to concentrate.”
I return his intense gaze
with a look of gratitude
and for a second,
I believe he has a valid point,
but the truth sits like deadweight
at the bottom of my soul.
“Thanks, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling
dirty inside.”
AFTER-SCHOOL MAYHEM
I check my eyes for puffiness
as Carlos lets me out in the driveway,
then I feel a wave of nausea
when I realize puffy eyes
won’t be noticed by Davy anyway.
It doesn’t get past Mom’s radar.
She gives me a concerned look
that gets lost in the after-school mayhem
of two screaming boys chasing each other
around the house over a Nintendo issue.
Dad from the family room: Stop the noise I’m on the phone.