The Sound of Letting Go (10 page)

Yoga

is bullshit to me

but salvation for my mother.

I do not see how “downward dog” and “tree”

can bring her some kind of peace. I think

it is the music of the voices around her;

the quiet lull of the instructor’s voice, encouraging;

the birdlike chatter of the other moms, who,

after bending and stretching, cluster round her, listen

to the tune she plays, the horrible, discordant song

of Dad and me,

of Steven,

of inescapable tension, of worry,

of hoping today won’t be as bad as yesterday,

that tomorrow won’t be worse.

That is yoga for my mother,

while I sit and wait

for Dad to oblige us all by coming home

before Steven hits me

out of some incomprehensible frustration

or tosses something hard against a wall.

Why do we pretend

that there is any kind of harmony in our house?

Thank God there is music at school,

at band,

at orchestra.

Thank God there are places

with sounds that make me cry

from beauty,

not from pain.

“C’mon, Steven, bedtime,”

Dad says as he comes through the door,

drops his briefcase by the hall table.

No hello, no “how was your day?”

Even if Steven’s reactions are often nonexistent,

it seems to me inhumane to behave that way.

No wonder Mom twitches at the sight

of Dad and Steven together.

I think Dad loves him in some way.

I remember when I was small, before I realized

that Steven wasn’t like other little brothers,

that his staring and stimming were not games

for me to imitate;

when I thought we lived a normal life,

when my parents both assured me

that, despite everything, we could.

A tiny ball of this emotion still curls deep inside me,

still stirs when I remember

pushing cars along the edges

of the family room carpet beside Steven

and smiling at him

and not thinking much of anything

about his failure to smile back.

I want to believe

there’s a place like that inside my father’s heart, too.

As Dad slides a hand under his arm,

gets ready to encourage him up off the couch,

I try to look into Steven’s eyes:

matching brother-and-sister blue with mine

but different in every other aspect.

Steven does not meet my gaze, and yet

when I play for him, there’s something I know,

some connection

that stretches past the neurological limits,

the things the doctors tell us he can know,

can feel,

can express.

There is something

there

inside,

kind of magical,

kind of unique.

“Up we go,” Dad says.

Together they move slowly to the door,

Steven beginning to wring his hands, knowing—

without us ever learning how—

that the time has come

for bathroom, bed, things he does not enjoy.

“Easy does it, big boy.”

Despite Dad’s tension, I remember

just days ago

one of Steven’s explosions yielded

to a melody.

Despite the new forearm bruise

Mom’s short-sleeved yoga shirt cannot hide,

despite the whirling, flailing bombs

that explode with barely a warning,

despite the resistance to everything not routine,

to everything wet and cold,

to everything spicy, loud,

I still want to believe

there is

something kind of

kind
.

The second Dad and Steven head for the stairs,

the evil ritual of pajamas,

brushing teeth with bubble gum toothpaste,

tepid water,

I run, not to the quiet of the basement

but up to my bedroom

to write the rest of the Overton application.

The words of the essays fly from my fingertips

fast as musical scales.

Breathlessly, I complete another application,

and another,

casting desperate lines out into a lake of alternatives:

to Philadelphia, Los Angeles, Boston, Maine . . .

I open the tin box on the top of my desk,

count out the eighty-two dollars inside it.

I can probably get Mom to write one application check

for the Boston school,

since it’s not too expensive, nor too far away.

I can pretend all the kids in jazz band are applying to it,

like an assignment.

Justine will cover what fees I can’t manage

until I can pay her back.

Cut and paste, search and replace:

My “musical inspirations” and “performance histories”

are tweaked for each program.

I want to have it all typed and saved

so it can be sent out

and I won’t have to think anymore, to wonder

if I’ll dare.

It’s late when I finish,

but I need to practice,

even if it’s just for half an hour.

So I turn off my computer,

tiptoe down to the basement.

Passing the kitchen, I pause at the pocket doors,

slid shut again.

Hear voices rise and fall. Tones sharpen and mellow.

I think of the stories Mom and Dad used to tell

about meeting in a college history class.

(Romance and A-PUSH? Unimaginable.)

About getting together for an after-class beer one night

and talking on and on

about the role of folk music in cultural transitions.

(Yes, they were both super-nerds.)

About singing together.

(I get my musical talent from somewhere.)

Could something behind that door be mended

with a song? Should I remind them

of their mutual love of history, of music?

Would they try harder if they knew how badly

I want them to fix what’s broken in this house

beyond the kicked-in closets and shattered dishes?

Or is what’s here unfixable,

like Steven, simply beyond repair?

“I need a shower.” Mom is using her exasperated tone.

“I’ve got e-mails to write.”

Dad’s voice is nearly emotionless, flat,

defeated.

“I finished the applications!” I announce to Justine

in homeroom that morning.

“Let’s go to my house after school

and submit everything,” Justine says.

Her excited grin is infectious, her voice so loud

Ashleigh Anderson sneers in our direction.

It’s Thursday, so no yoga.

I text Mom the plan, get the okay.

Justine is unlocking her front door by 3:15.

Her mother is still at work, as usual.

She refills the dog’s water dish, pours us two Cokes

while I scratch Dickens behind his soft cocker spaniel ears.

Up in Justine’s pink room,

we log on to the Overton website.

I cut and paste my essays into the appropriate boxes.

She types in the credit card name, address, number.

We clink soda glasses and click “send.”

I e-mail Mr. Orson the instructions for sending his recommendation.

“Woo-hoo!” Justine cheers.

“Now the Danielson Conservatory Program,” I say.

“That’s the one in upstate New York.”

An hour later, we flop onto her rose chenille bedspread.

“I can’t believe I did it,” I say.

“Your parents are going to be
so
surprised when you get into all these programs.”

“If I get in,” I correct her,

though Justine and I both know my chances are good.

“I bet it’ll be Overton,” she says.

“Imagine, a summer in sunny Pennsylvania.”

“Is it sunny?”

“I don’t know. It’ll feel sunny to you, I bet.

All that music.

All that peace.”

I wonder how wrong it was not to tell my parents,

to borrow application money, to be so secretive.

“Wanna stay for supper?” Justine offers.

“Mom could bring home pizza.”

“I can’t,” I say,

because my mother has already texted

that she wants me home.

I guess she needs a break.

But it’s not a break Mom needs.

At least, she is not alone.

Dad is sitting at the kitchen table,

watching Steven chew methodically through a cookie.

There’s no smell of dinner in the air,

no moist green aroma of steaming broccoli

or warm welcome of something roasting.

No “Kiss the Cook” apron covers

Mom’s T-shirt and jeans.

“Glad you’re home, Daisy.” Dad smiles.

“We’ve ordered Chinese,” Mom says.

“But Steven doesn’t like . . .” I feel my voice trail away,

watching my brother’s innocence while my heart

has, possibly literally, stopped in my chest. I wait,

ears throbbing with heat, for the

“sit down, we’ve got something to tell you,”

for the “your Mom and I have tried, but this marriage . . .”

Do I take my usual solitary spot at the kitchen island?

Sit willingly at the table like a lamb at the slaughter?

I feel all limbs and fire,

suddenly furiously angry at Steven.

How can he sit there?

How can this—
this
—

not trigger the rocking, the smashing,

the need to call Dad at work?

Bite, bite, bite. Warm cookie in mouth.

Swallows of milk to wash down the sweetness.

Crumbs scattering like garden seeds

on the barren hardwood floor.

“Holy shit, what is going on?”

I slap my hand on the granite countertop.

“Just. Tell. Me!”

And I, of course, succeed where they failed.

With a wail

Steven stands up, grabs his chair,

and shoves it to the floor.

Even after I whisper “sorry,” bow my head,

his violent momentum cannot be stopped.

It’s a bad one, long-lasting.

Luckily Dad is here with his strong arms

to protect Mom and me

while he looks over Steven’s thrown-back head,

mouths “see what I mean” to Mom.

The doorbell sounds with the long, intense rings

of someone who has tried several times without success.

It’s the Chinese food delivery guy,

wearing an exasperated expression.

Mom apologizes, pays cash with a giant tip.

We leave the neatly knotted, steaming white plastic bags

on the counter

untouched for two hours.

Afterward, Steven locked into his bedroom,

pocket doors open,

Mom and Dad invite me inside.

Over plates of congealed cashew chicken, cold rice,

they talk a long riff about autism, adolescence,

family dynamics, marriage,

skidding and turning while I wait for the word—

divorce
—

that never comes.

Instead:

“Your Mom and I have decided”—

Dad looks over my head at my mother,

who is trembling a little,

her eyes, slightly wet, gazing

at some spot on the far kitchen wall—

“that it would be better for Steven,

for all of us,

if he were moved to a group home,

a sort of boarding school for kids like him,

where they could support his needs, keep him safe,

maybe teach him some skills for the future,

like tying his own shoes.”

He stops.

The house grows so impossibly still

I can feel the air quiver,

the earth rotate beneath our feet.

Or maybe it’s the oxygen rushing from my lungs,

the blood from my head.

I am going to fall down
.

I cannot balance on this planet

twisting in an altered universe.

What?

Where?

Questions stagger into my brain,

but I cannot push them through my lips.

“It’s not going to happen right away.”

Mom’s voice is as unsteady as my heart.

“There’s more to do, paperwork and visits and things.”

I nod, not sure if I am understanding her words,

unable to process this digression

from the divorce I had anticipated.

Instead . . .

This is the unthinkable.

“This wasn’t an easy choice, Daisy.

There are a lot of factors,” Dad says.

“Your father put Steven on a couple

of program wait-lists last summer.”

The tendons in Mom’s neck stand out

like barren winter trees.

Her tone is both accusing and grateful.

“We didn’t think we’d need . . .”

Dad’s voice is low and deliberate.

“The program director feels that Steven

is no longer a fit for the special-needs classroom.

Mom can’t handle him here, all day, every day, alone.

We could try hiring more home health aids,

people like that,

but what if he hurts someone besides himself—

a repairman or caregiver?

That would wreak havoc on our lives, our finances,

our futures.

Your future.”

His eyes follow me the same way they watch Steven

when Dad thinks he’s about to erupt.

But I am the good-girl ghost

who floats past the dining table to the kitchen island,

disappears before Dad’s out the door,

quietly watches Steven line Blokus tiles end to end.

“I’m gonna go downstairs and practice,”

is the sentence I manage to force

through my clenched throat,

feeling nearly as wordless as Steven,

but I will not slap my own skull, my own mother.

I just need to go somewhere I can make a sound

that might burst through the horrible calm,

destroy the otherworldly stillness of this night.