The Sound of Letting Go (30 page)

“Whatcha doin’?” Cal asks.

I’m surprised.

I’d somehow managed to forget

there was another teenager in this house

who, clothes unpacked, books sorted,

could come down the stairs unbidden, say hello.

“I was going to play something. You could join me.

Improvise a little.”

“Hang on.”

He’s back in moments with his saxophone.

I press my lips against familiar cold metal,

feel the rush of belonging as I fill my lungs

and breathe out

into the song that’s been building in my heart

through these icy weeks,

into the music that is Steven scratching and whirling,

pounding and slapping

from inside the metal confines of his mind;

push the notes:

seemingly random yet completely rational

gusts of expression, communication, reaching

for the world outside—the listener

jabbing and rocking and softly humming—

shouting and singing and wildly scatting,

making meaning where before there was chaos.

The tips of my overgrown bangs

dip into the wet of my tears.

My fingers, forehead moisten with sweat.

I fight the slipperiness, press the valves firmly,

play the love, the hate,

the misery, the hope,

the freedom that I wanted, never wanted, can’t have;

that doesn’t exist.

I play the music of Steven

for Steven;

ragged, helpless,

it owns me, envelops me

with an incomprehensible love—

I almost don’t notice when Cal picks up the tune,

but suddenly he’s there, brightening the minor keys,

adding those daring deep notes he plays so well.

Our duet rambles imperfectly,

awkward as my parents holding hands,

Cal’s phone calls to his father,

but certain in its way.

Strong.

It’s the start of something loud and soft,

classic jazz and wordless love song,

free and entangled:

forgiving yourself for being human,

for the things you want to grab hold of, own,

and giving yourself permission

when you need

to let go.

Acknowledgments

Carrie Harris, Elana Johnson, Jessi Kirby and Gretchen McNeil: silly, salty, cynical and matchless pillars of writerly support. Conrad Wesselhoeft, Cathy Benson, Megan Bilder, Louise Spiegler and Susan Greenway, in whose critique group this story had its start. The team at Penguin, beginning with my amazing editor, Kendra Levin, copyeditors Ryan Sullivan and Abigail Powers, designers Vanessa Han and Jim Hoover, and Viking’s literary leader, Ken Wright, for shepherding another verse novel to publication. My awesome agent, Catherine Drayton. The people who helped guide my research: Kyla Moscovich and Natalie Dungey, trumpet girls extraordinaire; Chris Coleman, PhD, Colleen Peck, MD and Carol Kirk, early autism information resources; and the countless individuals who shared their stories of living with developmentally disabled family members. For vetting the finished manuscript: Alexandra Watters, Autism Speaks, and Tonia Ferguson, The Autism Society. And my family, for their encouragement and support despite my myriad shortcomings as a daughter, wife and mother in the hours

I spend trying to be a writer.