Behind These Hands Read online

  Mom from the kitchen: Claire, stir the soup while I deal with the boys.

  Me barely in the door: Burn this moment into my brain:

  the shrieks,

  the running,

  the energy,

  the life,

  the urgency of silly boy-conflicts.

  I want it to be like this

  forever.

  A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO…

  Dad is at his most ridiculous best at dinner

  and Mom lets it go on without the usual

  reprimand to keep order at the table,

  but I watch the concern about

  eating and choking

  in her vigilant gaze.

  Dad: Anyone know how to make a bandstand?

  We all chew and think.

  My exhausted brain is betting one of my brothers

  will get it before me.

  Mom tells Dad this is too much of a play on words

  and makes him explain what a bandstand is.

  Dad hints that bandstand can also be two separate words,

  band and stand,

  and he demonstrates the standing part.

  Trent: Dad, if you didn’t have a chair you would have

  to eat standing up.

  Dad:(Points and gestures “more” as in charades.)

  What would that do to the members of the band?

  Trent:They would all be standing up to play.

  Davy:A standing band, right Dad?

  Dad:(His face flushed and almost glowing.)

  Exactly, Davy. You’ve almost got it. They would

  be standing because we took their…

  Davy and Trent together: Chairs away!

  Mom gets up to clear some plates,

  and from the kitchen

  I hear muffled sniffles and nose blowing.

  For the second time today

  family, my family,

  feels like a vocabulary word

  that suddenly takes on

  a whole new meaning.

  DON’T QUESTION A GOOD THING

  I wake from a good night’s sleep

  feeling rested,

  hopeful,

  confident,

  ready to hammer out the rough edges

  and launch—record—”The Kite”

  soon,

  maybe even tomorrow if I can get in

  a decent practice today.

  I wonder

  as I comb the snarls out of my long, brown,

  non-Tara hair

  why I feel so peaceful this morning.

  Juan’s pumped-up words of encouragement

  that I all but dissed,

  and

  the noise of Trent and Davy

  in their boys-will-be-boys mode,

  and

  the dinner fun brought on

  by Dad’s ridiculous riddle…

  It all added up to

  things that filled my cup

  at the end of a sad day,

  and except for two minutes of Rachmaninoff,

  the day was a musical void.

  I decide to let that fact dangle as an observation

  to be pondered

  on a more analytical day.

  BLOOD WORK

  The good feeling follows me downstairs

  where once again

  I welcome the morning chaos.

  This time, Trent’s protests about missing

  flag football take center stage.

  I don’t tune in until

  I hear my name.

  “Claire,” Mom says

  with a too-huge smile that doesn’t match

  the edge in her voice,

  “I’m picking the boys up after school today

  and we’re all going to drop by

  the doctor’s office

  to donate a few drops of our blood so that…”

  “and it won’t be any worse than getting a shot,”

  Davy interrupts through a mouth full of cereal,

  parroting back what he’s already heard this morning.

  “But I have to miss football and it’s

  just not fair,” shrieks Trent.

  “…and as I was saying, doctors do this from time to time

  so they can learn more about us

  and treat us more effectively when,

  when we are sick

  and yes, Davy, it’s no worse than a shot,

  and I’m sorry, Trent, but it’s just one day

  out of the season you’ll miss

  and Claire, I’ll swing by right after I get them, at about three…”

  My heart lurches.

  I feel dizzy, lightheaded.

  Maybe if I’m lucky

  I’ll faint.

  She’ll let me stay home.

  That’s the only way

  I am ever going to get any practice in.

  “…and I can swing back and drop you off at

  the practice rooms if you want afterward, Claire,

  because it won’t take long and I know how much

  you want to work on your piece.”

  Mom pauses to take in a deep breath.

  I look at her

  as the blood starts flowing back to my brain,

  and I realize what really just hit me

  wasn’t about music

  or getting much-needed practice,

  it was about the realities

  of Batten.

  MUSIC MADNESS

  In all the events of the past few days

  it hadn’t occurred to me to ask

  what about Trent and me?

  Now the unanswered question

  makes my stomach feel

  like it’s a wet wash cloth

  being wrung out by someone’s angry twists.

  Mom drops me off

  and tells me to text Dad when I’m ready

  to be picked up. I head for the door

  that my key opens.

  I try warming up on one of my favorite thinking pieces,

  Handel’s Sonata #7,

  letting the quiet of the practice room calm me,

  thankful for a Mom who understands

  how I desperately needed this time.

  I try to resist letting my thoughts

  turn from wondering to worrying.

  The bandage over the cotton wad

  where they took my blood

  pulls my thoughts to the samples our family

  just dropped off at the lab.

  …there is no cure;

  you may not live to see twenty;

  everything shuts down…

  I lunge off the bench,

  thankful that no one is around

  to see me pace in circles,

  talking to myself like a crazy person,

  not just talking to my hands

  but to my whole being.

  Talking myself,

  no, SHOUTING myself

  out of Batten thoughts

  and into music thoughts,

  because

  the only reality

  in my life

  that I am sure of

  at this moment

  is

  to practice “The Kite”

  into perfection.

  TAKE “ONE”

  By the fifth run-through

  I’m feeling loose,

  “The Kite” is soaring

  finally,

  and I’m setting up the recording equipment

  when Mom texts:

  Home soon? Getting late.

  I’m shocked to see it’s after 8:00 p.m.

  Recording. Tell Dad side door at 9.

  Can’t stop now or I’ll lose it.

  Sit tall.

  Flex fingers.

  Breathe deep.

  Hit ‘record.’

  I keep the image of “The Kite”

  right before me

  on the screen that I imagine

  running across the top inside of my brain,


  like one of those news tickers

  with bright neon lights at Times Square.

  The melody paints a picture

  of warm afternoon sun,

  strong wind coming in off the ocean,

  whipping “The Kite” into a frenzy,

  swirling and soaring,

  spiraling to a near nose dive in the sand

  before jetting skyward

  and dancing above me

  on a whimsical high current

  with barely a tug on the string—

  and then

  Davy’s face appears across my inner screen

  like a hologram,

  and I totally lose it,

  slam the off button,

  sit on the bench holding my head

  in my hands,

  rocking back and forth

  and saying every curse word

  I’ve ever heard.

  IT’S SIMPLY TOO HARD

  I stand under the street light

  so Dad won’t have to remind me

  it’s under the street light

  he expects me to stand

  when he picks me up.

  “Well?”

  I turn towards him in the dark car,

  trying to see what’s behind the bite

  in his voice.

  Is it me,

  his hectic job,

  Davy,

  all of the above?

  “Well, what?”

  Immediately I regret the sassy come back.

  I face my palm towards him

  like a traffic cop

  before he does the same to me.

  “Whoa, I’m sorry, Dad. I know what you

  want to know, but I don’t think you want to hear

  all the fowl language I just let loose with

  in the practice room when I let…

  when I totally lost

  all concentration

  in the middle of recording.

  It’s no use. I can’t do this.”

  I fight the tears.

  Long silence.

  “You know, honey,

  it’s okay with your mom and me

  if you, if you…”

  “Bail?” I can’t decide if I want to hear this

  from him

  or not.

  He tells me it’s understandable

  under these circumstances

  to find it difficult

  to concentrate

  and maybe

  I should give myself permission

  to, yes,

  bail,

  and wait for

  things to quiet down.

  Really?

  Quiet down?

  Blow over?

  Get better

  when there is a time bomb ticking

  in our family now?

  “You didn’t want me to enter this contest in the first place,

  did you, Dad?”

  My question takes us both by surprise,

  and so does his silence

  that speaks volumes

  and lasts all the way home.

  I barely make it to my room

  before letting the floodgates open.

  It’s

  simply

  too

  hard.

  SATURDAY AT THE PARK

  It’s Saturday.

  Long, deep breaths,

  easier said than done

  after yesterday’s disastrous

  recording fiasco.

  I start and delete text after text.

  First to Mia

  because she’ll tell me to stop whining,

  get off my butt,

  get over it,

  and get the stupid recording

  done.

  Then to Juan

  because I don’t want to hear what I suspect,

  that he’s finished recording

  and submitting

  and just waiting for me to say when

  for our world premiere party.

  I stuff my phone in my pocket,

  turned off,

  because I suddenly know what I need to do.

  I take the stairs two at a time

  and burst into Davy’s room

  where I have to yell to be heard

  over the Nintendo noise.

  Trent adds to the volume with whoops

  and shouts every time Mario

  bumps Luigi off the track.

  “Who’s up for going to the park

  and then, if all goes well,

  ice cream?”

  They both throw down the

  controls and head for the door

  when I remember I haven’t checked with Mom,

  but

  when I see her start to tear up,

  I know I’ve made the right decision

  and I also know if I stay one more minute

  I’ll join her with tears.

  We alternately walk

  and race

  once we get to the park’s entrance

  just two blocks from our house.

  It’s always been like an extension to our backyard

  and probably the single biggest reason

  Mom and Dad chose this house.

  I push both boys high

  on the swings.

  They have the usual contest

  to see who can pump even higher.

  I spot for Davy while he climbs a spiral ladder

  to get up to the platform

  that has several choices of slides,

  and I watch warily to make sure

  he chooses a slide and not the edge.

  I watch agile Trent

  out of the corner of my eye

  as he nimbly swings by his arms

  from bar to bar across an elevated climber

  and scrambles down the ladder

  to run to the other side

  and do it all over again.

  This is how it should be,

  always.

  I linger in the moment

  even as we head for ice cream at Ben & Jerry’s

  next to the park.

  We take our time strolling back,

  dripping,

  slurping,

  gently guiding Davy

  along the sidewalk

  when I notice Trent,

  ever so slightly

  hesitate at the curb,

  groping with his foot

  more than once.

  I won’t let myself think,

  even for a nanosecond,

  that it was anything more

  than a bumpy sidewalk

  and the distraction

  of an ice cream cone.

  NOT TO WORRY

  Dad grabs the boys for haircuts

  and corrals them into the car

  while Mom gives me an unexpected hug.

  “Thanks, Claire.”

  I hug her back and break away

  before either of us says words

  we are both thinking.

  It’s new, giving me “thank-you” hugs

  for paying attention to my brothers.

  I grab a cold soda out of the fridge

  and plop down on a bar stool next to her.

  It’s new for me to give them unsolicited attention

  on a Saturday afternoon.

  “Ready for the deadline this week?”

  Mom’s voice comes out almost comical

  in its attempt to sound

  casual,

  perky,

  relaxed,

  unworried,

  not exhausted,

  confident about anyone

  or anything.

  I give her a long look,

  unsure myself

  if she really wants to know

  or is just making conversation.

  “No.”

  “But you will be, I’m sure.”

  “Not sure. Not sure at all. I can’t

  concentrate, and Mom,

  when

 
; will we know

  about

  the blood tests?”

  Her hand shakes as she sets her cup down.

  “It might be three weeks or so. I’m sorry,

  I should have told you…”

  not to worry?

  I shove the observation

  of Trent deep down somewhere

  out of sight

  where no one can add it

  to the

  not to worry.

  MONDAY PRACTICE ROOM, TEXT TO JUAN

  You’ve submitted, right?

  Not telling.

  Why?

  Keep working.

  Why?

  Don’t want to do this alone.

  Why?

  You started it.

  Why?

  Good question.

  KEEP WORKING!!

  I hit ‘record,’

  get all the way through,

  but it’s not good

  and I know

  why.

  MONDAY NIGHT, TEXT TO MIA

  Wasting my time.

  Why?

  Can’t concentrate.

  Why?

  You know why.