Her eyes still flash the bewildered expression
she wore home from Holland House,
guilty to feel happiness, relief,
yet happy, relieved nonetheless.
Gratified by Dave’s compliment,
yet wishing, somehow,
to also be serving mac and cheese,
to be collecting pictures of a household of four
for her scrapbooks.
“Don’t expect me to cook like that, Dave.
I make music, not soup.”
I struggle to amuse her, mock a menacing fist,
then stop, let my fingers unfurl.
The memory of real violence in this kitchen is too close,
too clear.
Justine reaches across the table, squeezes my hand.
Changes topics in her imperious yet magical way.
“I’ve found two pink dresses
for the Black-and-White Dance.
I couldn’t decide which I liked best, so I bought both.
I’ll return whichever one I don’t wear.
Maybe you could come over this week and help me choose.
It’s less than two weeks away.”
“It’s good you never asked Cal O’Casey,” Ned comments
in his size-enormous-foot-in-mouth, Jasper-nosy way
that I only tolerate because I adore Justine.
“I hear he’s gotta go back to Ireland.”
“Why?” Dave asks.
“Mrs. Ackerman is pregnant, on bed rest,
and she and Mr. Ackerman can’t handle a houseguest
much longer.”
“Oh, the poor Ackermans,” Mom says.
“I’ll whip up a nice pie to bring over to them tomorrow.”
“It’s a shame,” I say,
despite Dave’s look of
I-know-she-said-they-were-music-friends-but-
I’m-seething-with-jealousy,
which doesn’t exactly make me sad.
“He’s an amazing saxophone player. Even Aggie says so.
You should hear him on the bari.”
“He must be good,” Mom says. “We all know
Daisy isn’t one to throw compliments around.”
“He’s that talented?” Dad asks.
“Enough to help us win Battle of the Bands in the spring,
if he could find a new place to stay,” I tell him.
In the long beat that follows,
Justine glares at Ned,
Dave stares curiously at me,
Mom looks confused,
and Dad clears his throat.
Then my nearly-silent-since-he-sent-Steven-away father speaks.
His voice sounds a little soft but decisive, matter-of-fact.
“Maybe this—Cal’s his name, right?—
maybe this Cal fellow could stay here next semester.
We’ve got an empty room.”
“But the Holland House people said that soon,
Steven might be able to come home for visits,”
Mom jumps in.
“Cal could sleep on the family room couch then.
Doubt he’d mind.
And Daisy and Evergreen High can win that band battle.
We can talk to Mr. Orson about it tomorrow.”
What words follow that?
Under the table, I pull Dave’s hand onto my knee,
lean my head on his shoulder.
Nobody quite knows what to say,
except my mother:
“I made peach upside-down cake
and homemade whipped cream.
Anyone still hungry?”
140
After Ned and Justine have said their good-byes,
Dave and I move to the family room.
The television is tuned to HBO,
where a movie starlet is slipping out of her dress.
Blushing, I turn the television off,
pretty sure now that cable doesn’t have all the answers about love;
ready to be a real girl, with a real boyfriend,
to make my own heat.
I drop beside him on the couch.
“I’m not crazy about Cal O’Casey
being your roommate,” Dave says.
“His dad wants him to leave America, give up on his dream.
I—we—know how terrible that feels.
We can’t let that happen.
Besides, you can trust me.”
“Oh, I trust you. It’s him . . .”
I laugh and plant a kiss on his nose.
“Don’t worry, Dave.
My parents are experts at watching people,
and I couldn’t handle a complicated house.
I’m still getting used to feeling safe,
not having to ask permission to stay late
after school . . .”
“Well, I have something to ask you,” Dave says.
He scratches his head
until his hair goes from gorgeous to insanely goofy,
then takes my hands in his.
“I don’t have the money to rent a tux or anything, but
would you be my date to the Black-and-White Dance?”
I jump onto his lap like that night in the Fiesta,
run my fingers through his mane to set the goofy right.
I can meet Dave at the pits, have him take me to a dance,
kiss him knowing that my being out at night won’t
imprison Mom in our house,
that I won’t spend the hours afraid
that my parents are fighting,
that, maybe, they’ll be watching the clock,
waiting for me to get home on time.
They’re only a hallway away now, still,
I kiss my boyfriend’s warm mouth
with all the relief and longing
of a hallelujah because,
“Dave, I’d really like to be that.”
141
I peek through the closed curtain
of the Evergreen High stage.
My parents sit in the dead-center seats of the third row.
Mom in her faux fur coat;
Dad’s leather jacket is on her lap.
They are turned toward each other, talking.
I wish I could see them smile, touch,
but content myself with the closeness of their faces;
try to get used to the fact that they are here
at my school concert.
Justine and Ned are in the audience, too,
fingers entangled, giggling and whispering.
I don’t see Dave, but being with me
hasn’t magically turned him
into an on-time kind of guy.
“Let’s get seated, everybody,” Mr. Orson says.
He is wearing a red tie and Santa Claus hat.
The rest of us are in our concert black—skirts, slacks, ties.
I have succumbed to the rules and am wearing black pumps.
I take my seat on one of the folding chairs,
arranged on risers for the occasion.
The curtain opens.
We begin with “Adeste Fideles”
(“O Come, All Ye Faithful”).
The steady, rich tones of the baritone sax
embrace me with the sound of comfort,
carry me through my fight against memories
of baby Steven, of toddler Steven,
still not dangerous, still just odd.
The audience applauds.
As I shuffle my sheet music for the next number,
I catch a glimpse of Mom’s beaming face.
Then we play the swing medley,
the Ellington piece.
Dave must have slipped in the back with Aggie
sometime during “Good King Wenceslas,”
because I see them
when we all stand up to acknowledge applause.
And it’s my turn.
I lay my fingers over the valves,
raise my horn to my lips,
test the mouthpiece,
then nod to Mr. Orson,
who signals the accompanist to begin
“Hallelujah.”
And I reach the music out, out into the audience
to Aggie,
who loves to hear me play;
to my parents,
who are trying to learn how to treat me like a child again;
to Justine,
who never quit on me;
to Ned,
because he belongs to Justine;
to Dave,
who has decided to try to become
the kind of man we imagined him being
those years ago making sandcastles and flying on swings.
And I will help him.
The standing ovation brings tears to my eyes,
and I don’t care if Jasper notices my smudged mascara
as I wipe them away.
In the lobby afterward,
cookies and bottled water are proffered,
“Band Geeks Rock” fund-raiser T-shirts sold.
“You sounded great, Cal,” I say.
“You too. A fun first American band concert,” he says.
“But not my last, thanks to your family.”
142
Saturday, I wake up to falling snow.
I wonder what Steven is doing
as I drive slowly into town,
whether the people at Holland House know
how to prepare his waffles;
imagine him being gentled into his coat for a walk;
chuckle at my knowledge that he’ll refuse to wear a hat;
feel tears spring to my eyes.
My life feels like a book with a chunk taken out of the middle, moving from one bizarre planet
to another with no journey in between:
all change, no transition,
what Mr. Orson would surely deem a bad composition.
I don’t know what else to do
but go on:
back down the stairs to the kitchen,
back to school and jazz band,
back to the parking lot of the Arts Center,
where I park in a covered spot, grab my trumpet case,
head for the Youth Orchestra practice room.
Sometimes my trumpet roars like a lion
with a splinter removed from its paw.
Sometimes it whispers the covert celebration
of a nameless slave set free.
And sometimes it wails like a grief-stricken sister
who has lost her brother.
When the rehearsal is over,
I pack up my trumpet quickly,
try to look casual as I wander to the woodwind section.
Shelby is still methodically wiping down her flute.
“Hi, Shelby. I was wondering, since we both live in Jasper,
if you’d ever like to ride over here with me.
I, uh, have a car.”
“I do, too.” Her voice is the slightest bit taut, mechanical.
“My dad gave me one for my sixteenth birthday.
It is very large, safe. Hard to park.”
She gives a tentative grin.
I smile back. “Dads are very protective.
Anyway, if your car is ever in the shop or anything,
I can drive.”
“Me too. I mean, same thing for you.
If your car breaks down.”
She looks a little breathless, uncertain,
waiting, perhaps, for a dialogue she’s practiced,
even dreamed about.
I cannot walk away.
“That sounds great.
We musicians need to stick together.
Like family.”
And now I do have to go;
my lesson is in ten minutes.
But one day, maybe,
I’ll invite Shelby out for Thai food after practice,
ask her how she started playing the flute,
tell her my story.
143
The gossip’s spread round Jasper, of course:
that the Irish boy is moving in with the Meehan family
now that they’ve given up on that disabled child.
And I hate it when Andy Bouchard gives me a free coffee
and a hang-in-there nudge; hate it less
when Shirley presses me against her ample bosom
and says, “It’s okay to cry, my little Daisy,”
or when Mrs. Ackerman calls to thank my mom for the pie
and for giving Cal, “that charming boy,”
a way to stay in America.
“I’m all packed up and ready for tonight’s move-in!”
Cal announces as he sits on the cafeteria bench
across from me and Dave.
And I don’t hate it at all when Ashleigh Anderson pauses
not too far from our table, takes in me beside Dave,
across from my new housemate, Cal,
and maybe looks a little bit jealous.
I pick up my fork,
dig into the slightly disgusting bliss of turkey and gravy.
“Seriously, Daisy,
you shouldn’t look like you enjoy that so much,”
Justine says, as she and Ned join us.
He’s carrying trays for both of them: two salads.
“She’s got a right to like whatever she likes.”
Ned, of all people, comes to my defense.
144
There’s pain in my mother’s face
as she watches Cal carry his few boxes of clothes,
books, instruments, up our stairs;
stands silently in Steven’s bedroom doorway
while Cal puts his underwear, his shirts,
in my brother’s emptied dresser drawers.
“Take your time settling in.”
Her voice is barely above a whisper.
“We’ll have dinner in an hour.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Meehan. I’m so very grateful to you.”
I see the tiniest charmed-by-the-Irish twinkle
in my mom’s wistful eyes.
I follow her downstairs to the living room.
We both drop onto the couch.
“Dave’s coming for dinner, too,” I tell her.
“To keep watch on me. Or maybe he just likes your pie.”
I pull out my phone, smile
at the custom Fake Happy Families screen saver
Dave has made, with his and my faces superimposed
on a “prom night” photo booth cartoon.
Beneath my real kohl-lined eyes, I am adorned
in flowing pink satin, toes peeping from beneath the frills
in black-and-blue Keds.
Dave’s messy brown hair, easy smile, hover
over the most ordinary jeans and tee.
But wrapped around the neck of his hoodie
is a huge purple bow tie.
“My goodness, this house is always overflowing these days.”
Her tone is bright,
but there’s an odd hesitation in the way she speaks.
She’s thinking, perhaps,
of this morning’s call from Holland House,
asking to approve a new medication regimen
to try to moderate the violence
that comes with Steven’s anxiety.
I think maybe the house is too loud for my mother.
“I miss him, Mom,” is all I can think to say.
“Me, too.” She wraps her bony arms around me.
She says nothing more. Doesn’t move.
Doesn’t let me go.
We’re still there on the couch
when Dad gets home right after work
without stopping at the gym.
“Gonna go to yoga tonight, hon?”
he asks, kicking off his shoes, tugging at his tie.
He looks older somehow,
even though there are fewer tight lines around his mouth.
“I dunno.” Mom’s arms slide away from me now.
She stands up, goes to his side.
“Maybe we could have wine with dinner? Light candles?
Put on some music?”
They stand together in the living room doorway.
I sit alone on the couch. Free from Steven
but no longer joined to my mom and dad
as a third parent.
I have lost my place in this house,
but maybe that’s how it needs to be.
I bury my hurt in this idea:
that, maybe, it’s just time.
“Or I could play something,” I say.
145
“Whatcha doin’?” Cal asks.
I’m surprised.
I’d somehow managed to forget
The Sound of Letting Go Page 20