The Sound of Letting Go (4 page)

My parents tell the stories

of their courtship, their marriage, their life before kids

to me—only me—never Steven.

I alone hold their history in my brain.

I am the only child in the house

who mourns the loss of their romance,

the only one who can hear in the tones of their voices

longing,

rejection,

apology,

a broken connection between hearts,

between people.

The bell rings.

The din around me quiets.

The sounds of Ireland empty from my brain.

“See you later.” Ned, looking mildly defeated,

stands up and heads for the cafeteria door.

Justine and I look across the aisle

to where Cal O’Casey has gallantly stacked

two girls’ trays beneath his own,

getting set to clear their table.

I am the keeper of secrets
,

I think, as Justine shoves tinfoil into her paper lunch bag, confesses: “I wanted to die

when that boy shut me down in homeroom.

I mean, what a jerk.

Couldn’t he have just taken my hospitality?

I can’t believe I thought he was cute

when he first walked into the room.”

“You didn’t.” I try to comfort her.

We walk toward the exit.

“It was just when he spoke. That accent’s pretty hot.

But he’s not so cute.”

“You’re the best friend ever.” She smiles.

Usually, she waits beside me

through the dump-your-hot-lunch-tray line,

then we head together to our fifth-period classes:

hers, choir; mine, concert band—

oh yeah, the dynamic duo of coolness.

But today, I see surprise in her eyes; she’s gone with a wave.

“You’ve got a good appetite for somebody so thin.”

In a flash, I understand Justine’s departure:

Dave Miller is behind me,

standing so close his elbow brushes mine,

which makes my guts jump, my tongue go stupid.

“Been a long time since breakfast,” I say.

Not my worst reply at all. I steal a look at his tray,

as empty as mine.

“Admit it,” I tease, “you
like
those mashers!”

He drops his fork into the bin,

slides his tray onto the metal clearing shelf,

raises his arms up mockingly.

“Guilty as charged, officer.

I have high-class taste, just like you!”

“Um, would you move it!”

Ashleigh Anderson demands, doesn’t ask.

She’s heeled and blonde,

behind us with Cal in tow, who’s quiet again,

looking down.

I shove my tray onto the shelf

and glare at them both on Justine’s behalf.

“C’mon, Dave,” I snark.

“Let’s get going to our gourmet cooking class.”

Surprisingly, he follows.

“So, you coming?” he asks as we clear the cafeteria door.

“Coming where?”

“I’m gonna go have an after-lunch relax out back.”

He grins that shaggy Dave Miller grin.

“I can’t. I have concert band.”

“You’ve already done band once today.

Fifteen minutes. They won’t miss you.”

Two nose-ringed girls pass by us at the lockers,

wave to Dave.

I imagine the “out back” he’s headed for:

a smoky, not-college-bound,

what-the-heck-we’ve-got-detention-anyway

stand of bleachers not far from the dumpsters.

My trumpet is waiting for me on the band room shelf.

Concert band music is not nearly as much fun to play as jazz.

The group is larger, more amateur. Still,

the flutter in my heart fizzles.

Am I miserable as I say,

“No, I am first chair of the trumpets,”

and scurry away?

Am I miserable when, after school,

I watch his Ford Fiesta squeal out of the parking lot,

then turn my Subaru in the opposite direction?

“Dream a Little Dream of Me,” from the Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald album in my car’s CD player,

serenades me down Main Street,

past Bouchard’s Flower and Gift Shoppe.

Small-town folks don’t like chain stores.

We flock through Bouchard’s horseshoe-shaped doors

even though the place is owned by Andy Bouchard,

who took up with Dave’s mom, broke up the Miller family.

It was she who encouraged him to put in the coffee bar.

But other peoples’ affairs

aren’t anybody’s business in Jasper,

and we all prefer Bouchard’s Special Blend

to what the baristas pour

into those franchise-familiar

green-and-white cups one town over.

New Englanders are proud people.

We don’t talk much about what’s going on

behind other people’s doors.

Nobody’s business but their own.

We don’t talk about everyone’s secrets,

even though we know them.

What happens inside my house is nobody else’s business, too.

But I know Dave knows my family’s story as well as I know why he’ll never be spotted drinking a latte at Bouchard’s.

So I hope he understands, or at least suspects

that I’m dreaming of him

even as I drive toward my quiet neighborhood,

down my well-landscaped street,

right on time.

I live in a house of metronomes

ticking back and forth, back and forth,

with no better purpose

than to keep the tempo from changing; not

to guide musicians in a song, to create a symphony,

but simply to keep the chaos always nipping at our toes

from biting off our legs.

Mom’s yoga is Monday, Wednesday, Friday,

so Thursday is a good night to get homework done.

I read passels of A-PUSH,

conjugate French verbs in the pluperfect tense,

ruing my stubborn refusal to take Spanish,

my idiot argument that I wanted to read

Victor Hugo’s
Les Misérables
in its original language.

Sometimes I feel guilty

that I resent learning French when Steven

can barely form a handful of words.

His sounds, when he makes them, are atonal,

uninflected, as if he cannot hear himself.

For Steven, sound is an enemy.

Noises too high, too loud, lead him to self-harm—

twisting his palms until they’re bloody,

smacking his head against walls, floors.

And so he has silenced the rest of us in this house.

We tiptoe, whisper, exist in an even, steady cadence

that belies the sadness, the frustration,

even the laughter we might release

behind some other front door.

French finished,

I head to the basement for trumpet practice,

so it won’t disturb Steven.

When he was younger,

he seemed able to tolerate more music.

I played my trumpet in the family room, and Mom

used to harbor dreams

that he would become one of those savant-like people

who, despite myriad challenges, had a talent to share—

a gift to give the world.

Back then, our house was filled with paintbrushes,

crayons, tambourines, and recorders,

and when Steven drew on the walls

or smashed an instrument to bits,

she would just grab a sponge or broom and try again.

Now, the toys have been put away

with the good china and sharp steak knives,

the picture frames and crystal vases.

Now it’s only once in a while that I try playing for him:

gentle tunes with narrow ranges, repetitions—

“Row, Row, Row Your Boat” and “Frère Jacques”—

easy, steady notes.

But on those rare occasions,

I don’t think I am just imagining

that I see his face muscles relax, his body still.

I picture his mind escaping to some faraway place

where he can communicate,

grow up,

understand, and maybe

really love us.

That face tells me when I’ve played a perfect note.