before I invite everyone
to his house.
THIRD TIME, YES!
I try to temper my excitement
before composing the text.
Are we truly at this point again—
easy access,
breezy conversations
but no music yet, please—
or have I missed something,
jumped to conclusions,
assumed there is an open door
where there’s still just a crack?
I go for it.
What about a pizza planner
with Mia and others
your house Sat nite?
Immediate response:
U r on, pending Mom’s ok.
BTW, you were right.
Third time the charm!
Third time…
Yes!
EGOS AND POSSIBILITIES
Mia and I meet at the mall
for some serious Christmas exchanges.
“Big, Claire, this is big—
‘never wanting
to stop being part of your life.’
If this keeps up I’ll be forced to forgive
his ego trip.”
“My ego, too, Mia. I’m afraid
we are two of a kind.”
But that can’t be all bad, can it?
“Hmmm, temperamental musicians
I’d say.” She gives me a friendly jab.
Somehow her eyes and her body language
tell me I can stop the silly paranoia
about her and Juan.
“Yes, but there is something besides music
going on right now. Way better,
and safer to discuss.”
We walk and window shop.
I try to compete for Mia’s attention
to lay out my ideas about
making some meaningful contributions
and celebrating life.
She stops and faces me.
“I know you mentioned this before,
but you’re really serious about it,
aren’t you? And Juan is, too, it seems.”
Now that I have her full attention
I pour on the excitement
about getting together Saturday night
to make some plans.
“I keep thinking of Mrs. Shepherd, Mia,
her comment early on, remember?
About mourning
instead of celebrating
the lives of her kids.
The celebration
for Davy and Trent
needs to begin
now,
and maybe,
well maybe
in some small way
we can make a little contribution
towards the possibility
of a cure
someday.”
THE GANG’S ALL HERE
I realize as I ring the bell
that I haven’t been to Juan’s house
since the last time we practiced
for Jazz Night
and like a kid playing doorbell pranks,
I’m tempted to turn around and flee.
So much has changed
between us, around us, within us—
but I try to focus on the recent turnaround
and force down the panic that
threatens to break out like a rash.
Juan’s mom gathers me into a hug
before I step inside, and I can’t help wondering
how much of the musical rift
between her son and me
has been aired in this house.
“It’s wonderful to see you, Claire.
Don’t be such a stranger.”
She puts me at ease with her greeting,
genuine or not, and invites me to join
the noise downstairs.
I practically crash into Juan
standing near the bottom of the stairs.
Was he waiting for me to come down?
The way his Cuban complexion
has absorbed his Colorado-ski tan
nearly takes my breath away,
but I’m really caught off guard
when he hugs me.
Mia, Kyle, Carlos and Tara
break out in applause,
hoots and hollers,
as if this is being staged
but the genuine glimmer
in Juan’s eyes tells me
it’s for real.
My cheeks must be as hot
as I feel inside
and Tara, with her built-in romance radar,
hands me a soda.
“Okay, girlfriend,” she says,
using her hands to fan me, “cool yourself down
and come tell us what this is all about.”
TO CLAIRE AND THE CAUSE
I feel keyed,
almost pre-concert keyed.
The hug, the fact that my friends
care enough about Davy and Trent
to hear what I have to say,
the fact that what I have to say
is coming from somewhere
so deep inside of me—
I fight back tears that
threaten to let loose.
“Thanks for coming, guys.
It means the world to me.”
I clear my throat
and pull out the feather and rock
and begin the story there,
gaining momentum by just holding them.
For the sake of Tara, Carlos, and Kyle,
I recap what BDSRA meant to me.
I mention the research foundations
that are already set up
and the possibilities of donating some money
and raising awareness through some school
fundraisers.
“Wow, Claire,” Carlos says,
“maybe the researchers could find a cure
or at least some medicine
before… I mean, that would help
Davy and Trent.”
I remember the presentations
on clinical trials at the conference,
and the reality of time that is required
for research.
“I can’t count on that,
on seeing results in time,
you know,
in time to help my brothers.”
That thought claws at my throat
and I feel like I’m going to lose it.
But I see Mia, fingers flying
across her laptop
like she does when something
grabs her
and Juan, his open,
kind gaze confirming our friendship,
and the other three smiling and nodding
their approval.
I can do this.
I take a deep breath and continue.
“Okay, Mia, unglue your fingers
from your laptop for a sec
and help me tell them
about our ‘old’ new friend.”
Mia describes Mrs. Shepherd—
her colorful outfits, the way she talks,
her husband and children
and the family causes,
using all her narrative flair.
“So I have two things in mind that I hope to do
with your help,” I say after Mia finishes.
“One,
to raise as much money and awareness
as we can to help fight this beast
and two,
to celebrate my brothers’ lives
now, before it’s too late.
Oh, and of course, to include dear Mrs. Shepherd
who gave us the idea.”
I take a big slurp of soda and sit down.
“Here, here,”
Juan raises his can of soda
and leads a toast
“to Claire and the cause.”
THE BEAUTIFUL CHILD FUND
Mia jumps in.
“Okay
, y’all, let’s start right there.
We need something a little sexier
than ‘the cause.’
If we’re going to grab some attention
and raise some awareness
about a rare childhood disease
we need a kicker.
The floor is now open.”
Tara leads the way to the refreshments
and ideas start flying around the room
while everyone refuels.
Mia shrieks from across the room,
mouth half full of pizza,
nose in her laptop.
“Awesome! Claire, do you realize
what your last name means?”
“Well, duh, I suppose it’s something like
a child who is fair.”
“Better than that. Beautiful child.”
Voices escalate,
brainstorming ratchets up.
After the frenzied calling-out finally subsides,
everyone flops down somewhere
and Mia reads the list off her computer.
The vote ends in a tie between
“The Fairchild Fund”
and
“Fighting for the Fairchilds.”
Mia gives an eloquent argument, pointing out
how the meaning of the name “Fairchild”
could be used in the publicity in all sorts of
kick-ass ways…
The “Beautiful Child Fund” is born.
SOMETHING
Before the evening ends
we get as organized as a bunch
of loosey-goosey friends can get.
Everybody agrees Mia should
be the official records keeper.
“Already on it,” she says.
Nobody disputes Tara’s expertise
in getting the word out.
“Promotion’s my thing,” she says.
Juan agrees to check out
the school rules for fundraisers
“and deal with the cash,” he says,
giving me a wary grin when he leans on deal.
Carlos and Kyle agree to fill in wherever.
“We’ve got your back,” they say
flexing some muscle.
Mia and I will work on
the celebration.
The evening ends with hugs all around.
Juan’s last, and most lasting,
seals the deal of our new
relationship,
hard to define but for the tingles
it sends down my spine.
Carlos and Tara carry the conversation in the car
better in the dark than on Tuesday mornings.
I totally tune out in the back seat,
thinking only about the
the possibilities
of
finally
doing
SOMETHING.
SAD NEWS
Sleep doesn’t come easily after the meeting.
The warm vibes get crowded out by a taunting voice
I haven’t heard in a while—
You don’t have a clue, do you?
No matter what you do,
it won’t help the boys.
There is no cure, you know.
Aren’t you really just doing the SOMETHINGS
to relieve your own guilt?
I leap out of bed and decide not to fight it.
I grab my computer and the book I’m reading
and prop up in bed. I scan my new messages
and quickly click on one from Wendy.
I gasp in horror.
Hi Claire,
I’m sorry I haven’t gotten back to you.
It’s too hard to share such sad news.
Brenda is gone.
She didn’t make it.
She got a bad infection
not related to the trial
and they couldn’t pull her out of it.
Mom said we did our part,
we tried to help Brenda.
She said to tell you if your brothers get the chance,
trials are still a good thing
but damn, Claire,
it’s so hard,
so, so hard.
Spend every minute you can
with your brothers.
I wish I knew how to help Jackson now.
He has stopped talking and eating,
wondering how soon his turn will come.
FORGING AHEAD
I wake up early on the Saturday
before Christmas vacation ends,
eyes puffy, throbbing headache.
The last thing I remember
is crying myself to sleep.
I creep downstairs for some juice
and find Mom on her second cup of coffee
looking almost as bad as I must look.
“What’s wrong?”
“I was just about to ask the same of you, Claire.
Trent was up most of the night
and so was I, since your father’s out of town.
I’m surprised you didn’t hear.
I’ve got a call in to the doctor.
We’ve got to find some better meds
to help him sleep.”
“I’m sorry, Mom.
You should have called me to help.
Do I really mean this?
I, uh, had a hard time sleeping, too.
Thinking about school, I guess.”
I give her a hug,
opt for a huge mug of coffee,
and head out of the kitchen fast,
before I launch into a tirade
about the boys’ needs for the facts
and before I unleash my own grief
on her already-burdened spirit.
Wild, angry, determined energy
pulses through my caffeinated veins
as I vow to forge ahead
with the plans to do something.
The beast be damned.
HOW IT IS NOW
I scribble a to-do list:
practice for recital
Mia re: celebration ideas
Juan re: plan of attack for school fundraising
spend time playing with boys
go for a run/relax
Satisfied with the agenda,
pumped by the caffeine,
I head for the shower
when I hear Mom’s urgent shrieks.
“Claire I need your help, now.
Come quickly!”
I throw on a robe and race downstairs.
Mom is trying to get Davy on his side
in the throes of a major seizure
while Trent sits on the floor across the room
crying hysterically.
Mom signals toward Trent
and I rush to him, gather him
in my arms, trying to make sense
out of his choppy, sobbing words.
Mom gets Davy on his bed,
the usual after-seizure procedure
and I take Trent to the kitchen
for hot chocolate,
what has become the go-to,
post-seizure routine.
“Davy wouldn’t give me the controls
so I threw a pillow at him.”
“Is that why you were crying so hard?”
“Yeah, because then he had the seizure
and it’s all my fault, isn’t it?”
I look at him for a long time,
biting my tongue, remembering my promise
not to tell the boys
what I think they should know.
“You didn’t cause it, buddy. I promise you,
the seizures aren’t caused by anything
either of you do.
Are you clear on that?”
He nods, smiles, and takes a deep, satisfied slurp.
“Um huh. Can we tell Davy that
when he wakes up so he won’t be mad at me?”
“We sure will. Now how about
you and
I go play
some ‘Bop-it’?
When Davy wakes up
he joins us
as if nothing has happened.
The day is gone.
I’ve gotten nothing accomplished
except for the most important stuff
of all.
It’s how it is now.
WALK IN THE PARK
Mia agrees to walk with the boys and me
to the park Sunday afternoon.
If we can slip in
some plans for the celebration
while the boys play,
I can knock off a few things
from yesterday’s untouched
to-do list.
It’s the first time Mia has been over
since the diagnoses.
She tries to hide her alarm
when Trent stutters a greeting
and stands too close to her
to make better use of his
dwindling eyesight.
Davy, on the other hand,
grabs his cane like an old pro
and says “let’s go!”
Mia, always up for a challenge,
drives the conversation
with cryptic hilarity.
“What do you think about inviting
the flock to the shepherd’s pad
for the “sheer” fun of it,
Behind These Hands Page 16