Behind These Hands
Page 5
Excuses.
Tell me I’m whining.
Why?
Gives me incentive.
Why?
Always worked before.
STOP WHINING!!
Smh. One more try tomorrow.
INTERRUPTED CONVERSATION WITH MY FINGERS
Was Dad right about you,
that playing the piano
is your destiny,
our destiny,
and if so
would that translate into
times like these
when no amount of concentration
seems to cut it?
And what kind of future would that be,
so rattled by the distractions
that you can’t
think,
perform,
function?
tap—tap—tap
Tara swings the door open
and steps right in
as if invited.
“HE’S NOT HERE,”
I yell in her face.
She jerks away
as if I had just hurled
a flaming torch at her.
“I didn’t think he was, C l a i r e,”
she says, purring like a hurt kitten,
“but I was just wondering,
um,
who you were talking to?”
“M Y S E L F, Tara,
NOW SHUT THE DOOR,
please?”
And with that I hit ‘record,’
soar through “The Kite”
like I’ve never done before,
listen back
and know I’ve nailed it.
CREDIT WHERE CREDIT IS DUE
“It is finished,” I announce to the world,
my world, Juan and Mia, at lunch
with the first big grin I’ve felt like sharing
in several weeks.
“Sounds religious,” Mia says
with her impish smile,
“but I think it’s more like
musical. See! Getting on your
case about whining did the trick.”
She hi-fives me.
Juan puts his sandwich down
to join in.
“Seriously, is it finished and on its way?”
His grin is big, too
and gorgeous.
I grab my cell and scroll through my photos
to find the one Mom took of me
yesterday after school,
one day ahead of deadline
at the computer, ready to press “send”
on the digital copy
and the scanned, handwritten score.
“I’m proud of you for hanging in there
Claire, in spite of all the stuff
going on in your family. Besides,
like I said,
this was your idea. I’m just playing
follow the leader.”
“While we’re on the subject,”
Mia says, mouth half-full,
“I hope you both know
it’s like
may the best man win here.
I’m impartially partial
to both of you.”
Juan flashes the smile
directly across the table
at me
and though I return it,
I know we have that hurdle
yet to cross.
I choose not to let it spoil
the warmth that floats across
right now.
Juan deadpans news-reporter seriousness.
“Yes, and Claire, tell us in your own words,
what finally helped you dig in
and block out the distractions?”
“Oh, that’s an easy one, you guys.
No offense to either of you
for your wonderful cheering-on
but
hands down
I owe it all to Tara,
queen of the cheerers-on.”
Now they exchange quizzical glances
then uproarious laughter
when I describe her visit
to the practice room.
THE LAUGHTER DIES
Juan and I agree at the lockers
that Mia needs to come
to our world premiere popcorn party.
He offers his house,
I offer the popcorn and drinks
and we settle on tomorrow night.
I text Mia from the backseat
while Carlos takes the curves
too fast.
Tara’s not in the car to show off for
so I wonder what’s up.
I figure Carlos must have a hot date
for the football game.
I open the window and close my eyes,
letting in a delicious whiff
of October air
tinged with decaying leaves
and a hint of smoke.
The deadline behind me,
the “premiere party” ahead of me,
for an instant
I forget the present,
blotched with blood samples
and a devastating diagnosis.
“Wake up Claire, I think this is where you live.”
Carlos chortles.
“Not asleep, just enjoying the ride,
well, except for being thrown
dangerously about
in the back seat
by the driver’s swerves.”
“He’s in a hurry, Claire. He’s gotta get home
and primp up for his date with Tahrah Tahrah.”
Carlos reaches across the seat
to hook his brother’s neck
in his huge hand.
Juan ducks.
“It all makes perfect sense, now,”
I say, laughing as I climb out
the back seat. I wave goodbye,
and chuckle all the way
to the front door
where
inside,
the laughter quickly dies.
IT’S ALL RELATIVE
Mom perches on her favorite stool
stirring a cup of tea.
She jumps up when she hears me.
She looks older than she was
at breakfast this morning.
I brace myself.
The lab report?
How much worse can it be?
I don’t want to hear this.
“A terrible seizure at school.
Bit his lip going down.
Had to have stitches.
Scared the teacher’s assistant to death.
She’s the one who saw it.
Scared himself.
Thank God he didn’t crack his head open.
I just don’t know…”
I feel relieved
because this is bad enough
but not the bad
that I thought I was going to hear.
Then guilt
because it’s all bad.
Mom looks like death itself
and this is just the beginning.
How will any of us
make it through this terrible nightmare?
I just don’t know…
THE PREMIERE
When Dad drops me off at Juan’s
for our premiere party
he tells me he’s proud of me,
forging ahead with the contest
in the middle of all the mayhem
at home.
It takes me by surprise.
I tell him so
and then he looks
surprised.
“Honey, I’m sorry
if I sent the wrong message.
Sometimes dads let their own
issues get in the way. Forgive me?”
I do,
and if my head wasn’t already
so full of issues
I would ask what his are.
Instead,
I shrug it off and head for a fun evening.
&nbs
p; Juan’s mom gives me a hug,
takes the goodies out of my hands,
and says Juan and Mia are waiting
downstairs in what they call
the entertainment area of their modest
split-level.
It’s where everything musical happens,
complete with a piano, Carlos’s drums,
Juan’s flute, recording equipment,
and piles of sheet music and books.
I feel the same nervous tension
that precedes a performance
even though I know it is just the three of us.
I’m glad we decided to include Mia
but for a split second my mangled brain
flashes craziness.
Why did she get here before me?
What went on before I arrived?
I shake it off as absurdity.
Somehow
the thought of being alone with Juan
lately
sets off a whole new bag of feelings
that I’m not sure I can deal with
right now.
Mia sits on the couch
with a bowl full of popcorn
and the wide-eyed wonderment of a kid
who is bursting at the seams
to see the sequel to a favorite movie.
“Okay, who goes first?
I haven’t been to too many
world premieres before
but I gotta tell ya,
I am psyched for this one.
Bring it on.”
She takes a big slurp of her soda
and dives back into the popcorn.
Juan looks at me,
sweeps the air with his outstretched arm
and says, “ladies first.”
I’m secretly glad to go first
because I am
ridiculously,
unbelievably,
uncharacteristically,
nervous.
I go through the usual routine
of settling onto the bench:
breathing,
finger flexes,
focus,
and then
fly “The Kite”
almost flawlessly
for my friends.
They don’t catch the few flubs I make
and both jump up with genuine applause
and admiration.
I sigh in relief,
thank them,
and head for the popcorn bowl.
Juan blows some warm air into his flute
as I settle on the couch next to Mia.
Now I am the excited kid
waiting in anticipation.
Juan calls his piece “Present Tense.”
I close my eyes,
glad that this gifted friend,
before he even starts playing,
has given us the opening
to stay totally
in the moment.
It’s a jazz piece,
something I expected based on Juan’s taste,
and I’m sure it is the most awesome
few minutes I’ve spent
in months.
I push back tears
again, they’d both think I’ve flipped,
because of beautiful music
and friends
and mostly because of
the present tense.
LIFE AFTER DEADLINE
Monday morning I wake up with a jolt
to see light where it’s usually dark.
Bacon,
Nintendo sounds,
arguing brothers,
whistling Dad,
humming Mom,
now I remember. It’s a teacher workday
that always falls on Columbus Day,
that always means a vacation day.
I lie back down, remembering.
“The Kite” is on its way;
out of my control.
Blood test results not back yet;
out of my control.
The regular routine in our family is
out of my control.
This
day
is
usually
a
family
day
but I have other plans.
Hunger
and relief from the contest deadline
move my feet down the stairs
in a light-footed
but cautious patter.
FAMILY DYNAMICS
“There you are, sleepy head.”
The airiness in Mom’s voice sounds genuine
as she pours more batter on the waffle iron.
Dad checks his watch and deadpans,
“Aren’t you late for the practice room, Missy?”
I smile at his wink.
“Sleepy head, sleepy head, sleepy head,”
Davy and Trent chant, parading into the kitchen
and circling me, ready to play tag around me
before I grab Davy in a gentle neck lock,
causing Trent to bump into us and collapse on the floor
in a heap of giggles.
“Hurry up and eat so we can get going.”
Davy takes my arm and ushers me to the table.
The reversal of roles sends shivers down my spine.
Mom serves a plate of steaming waffles and bacon
and I dig in,
wondering what the plan is,
buying time to think how I
should,
could,
might
react today
compared to
before.
“What’s the plan, Mom?”
I ask, trying to sound casual
after a huge gulp of milk.
I feel less casual when I see the glance
pass between my parents.
“Nature Museum, Nature Museum.”
Davy and Trent take up the chanting again
until Mom lures them out of the kitchen
with ten more minutes of Nintendo.
Dad says he’s sure they told me,
but he’s not surprised it got lost in
the pressure of the past week.
I say Mia has asked me to go with her
to interview Mrs. Shepherd for the school paper
and then hang out
at the mall for a while.
Mom says at the sink with her back to us,
“Family time is more important now
than ever.”
The waffles threaten to come back up
in the dead silence of a room
where a stealthy beast lurks to steal
all the oxygen.
Dad says I deserve the day off.
Mom says nothing.
I leave the room feeling ugly
and sure of only one thing.
Batten has rearranged our family
like pieces of familiar furniture
placed awkwardly in a new setting.
DAY-MARE
Mom doesn’t hold grudges.
She hollers up the stairs,
“Enjoy the day.
Be home by dinner.”
She ushers the boys out the door
in a rush of carefree banter
followed by a “See you, hon” from Dad.
I try to figure out what just happened.
Everyone seems fine
but me.
I sit on the side of my bed.
Sad,
confused,
unsure what to do
with this new feeling:
guilt.
I hurry to get dressed
so I’ll be ready when Mia’s mom honks.
Maybe
I can shake off the heaviness
that has come over me
like a day-mare,
where Davy’s life
depends on my carrying him piggy-back
over a dank, murky swamp.
REGRETS
&nbs
p; When I jump into the back seat
Mia, in the middle of practicing the interview
with her mom,
briefly interrupts to say “hey”
then resumes her professional Katie Couric voice:
“So Mrs. Shepherd, to what do you attribute
your longevity, as you approach your hundredth birthday?”
and
“What do you think is the most amazing invention
during your lifetime?”
and
“Do you have any regrets? Would you have done anything differently
if you had it to do over?”
Mia’s mom shoots back answers
as Mrs. Shepherd
but pauses at the last one.
“Don’t you think, Mia dear,
that this one might be a little too
personal? Maybe Mrs. Shepherd does
have regrets that, well,
might be too hard to talk about.”
“I don’t know,” Mia says,
“what does the quiet one
in the back seat think?”
Mia looks over her shoulder
and I realize she’s talking to me,
but all I hear is
regrets
and all I know is