Behind These Hands Read online

  AMBIVALENCE

  It doesn’t help,

  the self-satisfied look

  on Juan’s face

  at the lockers.

  “Great practice session this morning, huh?”

  Blank stare

  diving for my books,

  pushing down tears

  he’ll never understand.

  “Oh, oh. Looks like you hit a snag?”

  He knows our family

  like his own

  and we’ve always been close,

  so why don’t I tell him?

  “We need to talk?”

  He’ll think I’m bummed out

  because of him—

  our competing against each other,

  so when I tell him the truth

  he’ll never believe me.

  “Lunch, the table near the door?”

  I nod

  and head for the cafeteria.

  THE TRUTH

  Juan slides onto the bench

  two minutes after me.

  Half a minute later

  Tara’s radar picks it up

  from across the cafeteria

  and reflects it back

  with a sugar-coated, way-too-smiley wave

  that only I catch.

  Morning classes cleared my thoughts.

  I need to air them out.

  I’m just about ready to start talking

  when Mia plops down.

  I can’t hide my disappointment,

  and she starts to leave.

  “Oops, I see I’ve interrupted something big.”

  I almost let her leave and then signal her to sit down.

  What am I thinking? The three of us

  have been like the musketeers

  since third grade.

  “It’s Davy.

  The house is on red alert

  waiting for the doctor’s report.”

  Juan interrupts. “What doctor’s report?

  What’s going on?”

  “The school has noticed significant changes recently.

  You know, a school for kids with learning disabilities

  is tuned into that stuff.”

  “Seems like he’s had every test imaginable this past year.”

  “Exactly.

  Opthalmologists.

  Neurologists.

  Brain scans.

  Everything but a definite diagnosis.

  My parents act like it can only be bad.

  It ticks me off the way they are carrying on.

  I mean, it could just be a glitch in his system

  that meds can take care of, right?

  It doesn’t have to be the end of the world

  or Davy’s world,

  does it?

  I know he has a bum rap already,

  losing vision at age seven,

  learning difficulties.

  He doesn’t need one more thing,

  but until we know anything for sure

  I just wish everyone could chill.

  I can’t concentrate.

  I mean, the timing…

  That’s it.

  It sucks.”

  Juan says, “Davy’s situation or the contest?”

  Davy, of course.

  I chew extra long and hard

  on my cardboard sandwich

  and look away from my longtime friend’s

  see-through stare.

  At least he didn’t flat out ask me

  if competing against him is the problem.

  At least I didn’t have to answer

  to something I can’t possibly sort out

  right now.

  “I’m so sorry, Claire,” Mia says.

  “I’m with you. Let’s hope for a cool-down in your family

  until you find out. In the meantime, poor Davy.”

  Her words sear.

  Where do I get off

  feeling sorry for me?

  TEST RESULTS

  The suspense is over.

  Our house feels like

  those pictures you see

  after a tornado levels

  everything

  but the victims are alive,

  shuffling around the debris

  in a daze.

  It’s called Batten disease.

  Mom and Dad sat me down

  between them

  on the couch last night

  after Davy and Trent were in bed

  and told me what they know

  or maybe

  just what they want me to know.

  The failing vision

  and learning problems

  are part of it,

  and

  it’s going to get worse:

  seizures,

  total blindness,

  physical and mental deterioration.

  There is no cure.

  He may not live to see twenty.

  Before the end

  everything,

  everything

  shuts

  down.

  WHY

  We all cry.

  I’ve never seen my dad cry before,

  but this is gut-wrenching sobbing,

  sobs that shake the couch cushions

  like a kid jumping on them

  while mom weeps quietly and gropes

  for a box of tissues.

  I make them tell me again

  and again

  what it all means

  as if my brain can’t absorb it all

  in one terrible dose.

  “Claire,” Mom puts her arm around me

  and finds my eyes. “The boys

  are not to know any of this, do you

  understand?”

  I nod, unable to stop crying.

  “It would serve no useful purpose,” Dad says,

  blowing his nose.

  “But why?” I stammer.

  “You mean why not tell them?” Mom says.

  I try to pull myself together,

  unable to define

  what I mean

  by

  why.

  Why Davy?

  Why our family?

  Why is this happening?

  Why now?

  Why do I have to carry this burden of silence?

  Why can’t the problem be fixed?

  NEW NORMAL

  I see immediately

  how things have changed.

  Mom gives me something to help me sleep.

  She tells me

  we won’t make this a habit.

  “I know we put a lot on you tonight.

  You have a deadline that is important

  to you

  and us,

  and life needs to go on

  in this house,

  in this family,

  and Dad and I love you so much.”

  She shakes two pills into her own hands

  and we all turn our backs on

  this horrible day.

  THE NEXT DAY

  The alarm triggers my thoughts

  abruptly

  like electricity coming on

  after an outage.

  My brother is going to die

  young,

  sick,

  wasted

  before our eyes.

  Last night didn’t really happen,

  did it?

  This can’t be a school day.

  My body feels like crap

  four days to deadline,

  and I’m not ready to record.

  How can I face Davy

  or Trent

  and act normal

  ever again?

  BUSINESS AS USUAL

  Dad’s in the shower.

  Mom’s fixing the boys’ lunches.

  Davy’s making a mess with his cereal,

  milk half in, half out of the bowl.

  Trent slams his dish into the sink

  and races upstairs to get dressed

  without responding to Mom’s

  “Hey
, slow it down.”

  I’m gathering my book bag

  when Carlos honks twice.

  I give Mom a quick hug

  without eye contact

  and head for the door.

  The only thing

  out of the ordinary

  on this new morning

  is the inability to say Davy’s name

  without choking up.

  They said I couldn’t say anything

  but they didn’t say I couldn’t

  do something different.

  I give my brother a silent hug

  and dash out the door.

  A GOOD DOSE OF TARA

  First thing inside the car

  my heart sinks.

  I forgot it was Tuesday;

  Tara always rides with us

  on Tuesday.

  Not only does my heart sink

  but my stomach turns

  at whatever she has slathered

  somewhere on her body

  to give off

  such a sickening

  fragrance.

  And then there is the chatter

  already in high gear

  and not missing a beat

  as I slide into the seat next to her.

  It is, of course,

  a cheerleading story.

  Instead of listening

  I stare, mesmerized by her

  long, thick, bottle-blond hair

  that sways like a heavy curtain

  powered by her body language;

  glossy lips totally color-coordinated with

  well-manicured nails;

  long, thick, black eyelashes

  that flutter and accentuate

  the orthodontic-perfect smile.

  It’s a total package of goodies

  so foreign to me

  (I forgot to mention the huge boobs)

  that sitting next to her this morning

  feels like being on the set

  of a soap opera.

  Mom sometimes says this about quirky things:

  It was just what the doctor ordered.

  Tara, good for my health.

  A SECOND GOOD DOSE

  Tara jumps out of the car first

  and runs toward a cluster of pompom girls

  with a hasty “See ya.”

  Juan and I head to the lockers.

  He’s laughing and scratching his head.

  If there is a good joke, I want to hear it.

  “Claire, want to hear something funny?

  I think my big bro has the hots for Tara.”

  “Ya think?” I break into a

  genuine fit of giggles.

  “I take it you noticed

  how he practically

  rolled the car

  while his eyes stayed glued

  to the rear view mirror

  during her cheerleading

  monologue.”

  “Man, I about cracked up.” Juan is laughing

  deep belly laughs. “I was afraid if I looked

  across the seat I’d decompose.”

  Juan laughs at his musical pun.

  We both laugh and snicker

  all the way to the lockers

  and I realize

  how good it feels

  until I remember,

  and then I feel crazy

  as I fight tears

  so close behind

  a good laugh.

  A BAD FIT

  On an ordinary day—

  the days before last night—

  I could sail through classes

  with music themes posing

  the only significant distraction.

  Today is different.

  It feels like uncomfortable new shoes,

  shoes someone else picked out for me,

  shoes that pinch,

  rub,

  squeeze,

  burn.

  Shoes that are ugly,

  cost too much money,

  and shoes I have to wear

  someplace I don’t want to go.

  Shoes that hurt

  make me think of Davy

  and how he already has trouble

  walking without bumping into something

  because of his eyesight,

  and now

  I wonder how long he will

  walk

  at

  all.

  Today

  there is no music

  running through my head.

  PRACTICE

  Juan follows me to the practice rooms

  and hollers for me to wait up.

  We haven’t talked since the morning laugh session,

  but now

  I really wish he would go to his cubicle

  and leave me to my cubicle,

  and we could both get on

  with music contest preparation,

  life as it was

  before yesterday.

  I slam the door

  practically in his face

  without a word,

  while he stands

  bewildered

  at the window.

  I slide onto the bench

  and begin playing

  something,

  anything

  to let him know

  I desperately need music right now.

  Two minutes into

  Rachmaninoff Concerto #2

  I slam both hands down

  hard,

  discordant,

  loud,

  slip off the bench

  onto the floor

  crying,

  wailing uncontrollably,

  beating my fists to the floor.

  Why, why, why?

  CONFESSION

  Juan pushes the door open

  in a rush

  as if he might find

  blood and guts,

  broken appendages,

  or damaged piano parts.

  He eases down on the floor

  next to me and waits long minutes

  for the crying to end,

  for me to talk.

  “It’s the worst you can imagine,”

  I say, and start crying again.

  We both have a music deadline

  and so much to do.

  It’s been a long day,

  but Juan’s earnest, kind eyes

  tell me

  he has all the time in the world

  to listen.

  “Davy,” he says so firmly

  it catches me off guard.

  It’s a statement, not a question.

  I tell him all I know in a cascade

  of jumbled words,

  and end with something approaching confession:

  how crappy I feel

  for thinking Davy’s death sentence

  will mess up

  my preparation

  for the contest.

  FEELING DIRTY

  “Not my man,” he says.

  It’s what he’s always called Davy

  since he was a toddler.

  Juan cradles his head in his hands,

  elbows digging into his crossed legs,

  as if this position might help make sense

  out of the words he just heard.

  “Not my man.”

  I pull myself together.

  Shock spreads across Juan’s face

  like a time-lapsed solar eclipse,

  and tears pool in his dark eyes

  as he struggles

  with his own reaction.

  He has the same questions I had

  but mostly,

  it’s the big one that I can’t answer:

  How long?

  How long does he have?

  I shrug, take in a shaky breath,

  rivet my eyes on the piano,

  addressing the elephant in the room

  with a burning glare.

  Juan picks up on it.

  “It’s okay, Claire. Don’t beat up on yourself.

 
Who wouldn’t feel the same way right now?

  I mean, jeez,

  you’ve got this humongous deadline,

  you’ve given it everything you have so far,

  you’re under a lot of pressure

  and it’s hard,

  hard as hell

  to concentrate.”

  I return his intense gaze

  with a look of gratitude

  and for a second,

  I believe he has a valid point,

  but the truth sits like deadweight

  at the bottom of my soul.

  “Thanks, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling

  dirty inside.”

  AFTER-SCHOOL MAYHEM

  I check my eyes for puffiness

  as Carlos lets me out in the driveway,

  then I feel a wave of nausea

  when I realize puffy eyes

  won’t be noticed by Davy anyway.

  It doesn’t get past Mom’s radar.

  She gives me a concerned look

  that gets lost in the after-school mayhem

  of two screaming boys chasing each other

  around the house over a Nintendo issue.

  Dad from the family room: Stop the noise I’m on the phone.