Behind These Hands

by Linda Vigen Phillips

she jumps up to hug me.

  The light in her eyes,

  the brightest I’ve seen in months,

  quickly fades as she pulls back

  from my tense body.

  “But what, Claire? Is something wrong

  about the contest, about winning?

  You’re not excited?”

  Dad looks back and forth

  between Mom and me,

  compassion and sadness in his eyes.

  He says it might make more sense

  if we back up.

  He asks me to fill Mom in

  on the parts of BDSRA that meant the most

  to me.

  I do what he asks and then

  the words come out easier.

  “I can’t do music anymore.

  I don’t want to do it anymore.

  I wish I hadn’t entered the contest.

  Is there any way I can

  forfeit the award to the

  one, to whoever came in second?”

  The bomb that just landed in

  our living room threatens to blow up

  in my face.

  The silence is deafening,

  the stunned looks are frozen.

  BAD IDEA AGAIN

  From the look on his face

  my words didn’t make any sense to Dad

  or maybe

  more sense than he can handle.

  Mom sniffles and dabs at her eyes

  for a long, awkward moment.

  She blows her nose and takes

  the schoolteacher role.

  “Of course you feel bad, sweetie.

  There’s been so much with the boys

  and their illness and it’s totally

  understandable that you would

  feel overwhelmed

  or a little depressed about things now,

  but you don’t really mean…”

  Heat and a racing heart

  threaten to choke my words.

  “Mom, I mean every word.

  I can’t play anymore. It’s like

  I’ve lost it. Every time

  I try, I think of Davy and Trent

  and it all seems so useless,

  so pointless to diddle away

  at the keyboard while they

  are dying. I can’t focus.

  I’m wasting my time.

  I’m wasting my life

  while their lives are

  so, so, ruined.

  My fingers don’t even feel

  the same. I need to be doing

  something else, something

  that could help them,

  or help fight the stupid

  dumb disease

  somehow,

  something

  besides just making noise.”

  Dad, also the teacher,

  chooses his words carefully.

  “I see you have strong feelings

  about what’s happening

  with your brothers,

  and I appreciate your telling us.

  While I may not agree with your

  assessment of music in your life

  at the moment,

  you certainly have the right to be thinking

  about alternative life goals for yourself;

  however,

  right now

  you have a commitment, an obligation

  to carry through with the responsibilities

  of the contest, that is

  the recital,

  the scholarship,

  and the summer program.”

  I ask to be excused.

  I retreat to my room

  to try to make sense

  out of the swirling mess

  I’ve made out of my life.

  NO CLUES

  I slog through another day

  of the silent treatment from Juan.

  Thank God it’s Tuesday

  so Tara takes over the car

  conversation and for now, Juan has taken

  to going straight to class

  and eating lunch at a different table.

  Mia and I eat alone.

  She suddenly stops eating and stares

  wide-eyed just past my left ear.

  I turn to follow her gaze

  to the table across the cafeteria

  where Juan and Tara are

  eating lunch

  side-by-side.

  “So I never thought Juan

  could be such an ass,” Mia says.

  I’m not sure if she’s referring

  to his choice of lunch partners

  or his choice of words the other day.

  Just deal with it.

  And if I don’t, does that make me another

  barnyard animal—

  a chicken?

  I’m not surprised at Mia’s candor

  but she winces when she hears

  that Juan and my father

  are on the same page.

  “So don’t get me wrong.

  I’m not in their camp but I guess

  I don’t see what the big deal is

  either. Why don’t you just go

  through with the recital

  and the summer program,

  take the scholarship and then

  do whatever you need to do

  for your brothers?”

  I shake my head.

  “Mia, the truth is,

  I don’t know if I can do it.

  Something has really changed

  deep down inside

  since the conference.

  Something has broken inside me.

  I can’t explain it.

  Maybe it’s guilt,

  maybe it’s fear.

  Maybe it’s just a huge

  hurting hole that needs to be filled

  up with living life for my brothers

  instead of just for myself.”

  “Whoa! You’re serious, right?”

  “I am dead serious…”

  My hand clamps over my mouth

  at the horror of my choice of words.

  Mia waits wide-eyed

  while I recover.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “You mean about the lunch situation

  over there

  or the contest?”

  “Both.”

  “I

  don’t

  have

  a

  clue.”

  SETTING AN EXAMPLE

  Kyle gives me a ride home

  realizing my ride has fallen through

  at the moment. He’s careful

  not to take sides,

  says he’s sorry Juan and I

  are “having issues.”

  I don’t try to explain.

  “So why don’t you talk it out with him?”

  I shake my head.

  “Been there, done that

  and really blew it, by the way.”

  “Aw come on, Claire. You guys

  are too much of a fixture to stay

  broken.”

  “Mia put you up to this?”

  He drops me at my door

  firmly denying it with

  a Cheshire cat grin

  and a hollered “maybe”

  out the window.

  I stand in the driveway and give it a try.

  Juan, can we talk?

  The immediate response makes me wince.

  I have no problem with that.

  BTW, you were the

  one who ditched.

  I have a strong urge to fling my phone

  across the yard,

  sling my backpack into the door

  and scream obscenities

  at the top of my lungs,

  when the boys’ carpool pulls in

  and I suddenly remember

  I’m the big sister,

  the one who sets good examples.

  AVOIDANCE

  I avoid Dad when he comes in the door.

  I avoid him by ret
reating to my room

  like last night

  and like long ago,

  on days when I knew

  I wasn’t ready for the piano lesson

  the next day.

  Even though he wasn’t my teacher,

  Mrs. Cobb was his friend,

  and Dad would find out.

  He never said anything

  but I knew he got a report

  and I knew

  I had let him down.

  Davy and Trent don’t run from Dad.

  It was a day without complications

  full of the wonder two little boys can experience.

  One with limited vision,

  compromised physical abilities and

  diminishing mental capacities.

  One with the same venomous genes

  gathering momentum

  before striking their first blow.

  They jockey for Dad’s attention

  and he pours it on thick

  with exaggerated exuberance

  over Davy’s Mario brothers feat

  and Trent’s football maneuver

  on the playground.

  I sit on the side of my bed

  savoring the sounds

  of uncomplicated,

  well-deserved

  joy.

  …right now

  you have a commitment, an obligation

  to carry through with the responsibilities.

  Deal with it.

  SITCOMS AND SHOULDS

  The script at dinner could have been lifted

  from a 1960’s “Ozzie and Harriet” rerun:

  Hi, Mom.

  Hi, Pop.

  I had a swell time at school today.

  Mom, Dad, and I have perfected

  the new sitcom

  we perform for the boys

  almost daily.

  Everyone,

  everything

  is peachy keen.

  As soon as dinner cleanup is done

  I head to my room

  again,

  close the door

  and try to figure out how to patch it up

  with Juan.

  I’ve changed…

  Things have changed…

  I want to shift the focus…

  Music isn’t the same…

  or maybe

  just maybe

  I should concentrate on hearing

  what he has to say.

  READY TO TALK, READY TO LISTEN

  I pull out my homework

  and try to concentrate on it

  instead of Juan’s last text,

  you were the

  one who ditched

  that sits unanswered.

  I start with the nonfiction

  writing assignment, trying to decide

  between a profile of Mrs. Shepherd

  or a fact piece on Batten disease.

  Making a decision with such scattered thoughts

  may not be the best idea.

  Batten wins.

  After all, knowledge is power, isn’t it?

  My focus quickly evaporates…

  Maybe it would be better

  if he told me he doesn’t want to talk

  ever again.

  Then we could both move on,

  get over it.

  Maybe he’s already over it.

  Maybe we weren’t the good old friends

  I thought we were all along.

  Maybe my suspicions about him and Mia

  aren’t just paranoia after all.

  Maybe this is just how it will end

  in a cloud of misunderstanding.

  I grab my phone and give in to

  pride,

  total distraction,

  loneliness,

  desire.

  Ygtr. I was the ditcher.

  Can we try it one more time

  at Schmoozies after school tomorrow?

  Quick response.

  I’m game. Cya there.

  DEAL WITH IT

  I beat Juan to Schmoozies

  and let my imagination rip:

  he’ll slide into the same side of the booth,

  tighten his arm around my shoulder,

  spread the warmth of his body

  next to mine and

  reassure me that we are still

  who we’ve always been—

  good friends—

  and not two alien beings

  inhabiting the same familiar bodies.

  but you have changed

  things are different

  things are not the same

  as they used to be

  I force a smile when he comes through the door,

  casual but cool,

  and slides in across from me.

  “Hey.”

  I take in as much air as I can to avoid sounding

  tentative, or nervous, or God-forbid

  condescending.

  “Thanks for coming, Juan.”

  His smiling eyes encourage me

  to breathe easier

  and I remember my vow

  to listen to what he has to say.

  “So, I’m sorry

  about the other day” I say.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Silence.

  “You go first.”

  Silence.

  “Look, whatever you do about

  the contest…that’s your call,

  and not something I care to think about,

  but I do still care about music,

  a lot,

  like it will probably be my life—

  useless and pointless,

  no, selfish

  as it is.”

  Juan stares me down,

  strangling me with the straw paper

  he slowly wraps around his finger

  and the echo of words that came out of

  my

  own

  mouth.

  “I never meant…”

  “It’s okay, Claire.

  I get it now.

  And I did mean what I said

  the other day.”

  Now he takes his turn

  and silently ditches

  on me.

  You’re the winner.

  Deal with it.

  MUSIC OR ME?

  I’m too stricken to cry.

  Juan’s words echo in my head

  like a menacing alarm,

  like an alarm I need to pay attention to.

  You’re the winner.

  Deal with it.

  Winner?

  How can there be a winner

  in this game?

  How can I pretend to be a winner

  in the middle

  of so much

  loss?

  Deal with it?

  How do you deal with being a winner

  in a no-win situation?

  Useless.

  Pointless

  Selfish.

  Music or me?

  DEALING WITH DREAMS AND REALITY

  Juan is on a huge stage,

  a single spotlight zooms in on his fingers

  fluttering like hummingbirds

  on glistening flute keys.

  I listen to his music

  from somewhere backstage,

  interrupted by the noise

  of a hammer and saw.

  Someone is building something.

  It looks like a new house

  for Davy and Trent

  and there is a girl standing nearby

  watching, maybe even supervising

  the work in progress.

  It’s a peaceful dream,

  a sense that everything is working

  according to the plan.

  The peace follows me

  when I wake up

  and I know I am ready

  to deal with it

  somehow.

  I know I have less than a month

  to get “The Kite” in shape

  for the recital.<
br />
  I know that the scholarship will

  “help with expenses.”

  I know the summer camp will

  “broaden my horizons.”

  I know that trying to talk with Juan,

  at least right now, is futile.

  I know I’ll find a way to help my brothers.

  I know that wasting my time feeling sorry for myself

  needs to be a feather

  not a rock.

  I know that celebrating life needs to be a rock

  not a feather.

  I know it might not be a bad day after all

  if I keep this up.

  ORBITING BODIES

  Juan and I end up at the lockers

  at the same time

  on this last day

  before Christmas break,

  and we both slam the doors

  maybe a bit too hard

  at the same time,

  resulting in a mutual laugh,

  the first one since what feels like

  forever.

  We’re back to talking

  but like everything else in my life

  it’s not the same as it once was.

  We don’t talk about the contest

  or anything beyond the surface,

  and our bodies

  seem to be orbiting around the same sun

  but safely locked into wide-apart paths

  with no chance of ever