A Song For Julia Part 39

She didn't say anything. But she put her hand on my shoulder. And she was shaking when she did it. Which was the craziest thing. I mean-this was my mom. My mom, who I'd barely spoken with in years. It was like we'd been taking baby steps toward each other. And this conversation went way beyond baby steps.

She was shaking because she thought I might reject her. Like I had so many times in the last years.

And that made me think of the past. Past Christmases, long ago. My mother, the concert pianist. Teaching me to play piano from the time I was a toddler.

Abruptly, I stood up. "Come on," I said. I walked over to the piano and sat down on one side of the bench.

She tilted her head and looked at me.

"Just watch," I said. "Sean will come running. I mean ... you remember what we used to do on Christmas Eve."

She nodded and blinked back tears, while she stood and came over to sit next to me on the piano bench.

As she sat down, I put my hands on the keyboard and played the opening chords of "Carol of the Bells". I could play this in my sleep. When I was four, she'd done a special four-hand arrangement, based off of George Winston's version. The opening was haunting, and she joined in immediately, the waves of sound resonating through the house.

With each note, each measure, each stanza, I felt myself swept up, lost in memories. Memories of this house when I was younger. Happy memories. The four of us, sitting in the living room drinking hot chocolate and playing board games long into the night on Christmas Eve. My mother laughing and blus.h.i.+ng as Dad whispered something in her ear, while Sean and I pretended not to notice. Sean sneaking in my room and climbing in the bed with me, as we speculated what morning would be like. Then the call, usually around seven A.M. on Christmas morning, when my dad would shout up the stairs, "All right, you kids, get down here!" Already awake, we'd run down the stairs and be greeted with hugs and laughter, and then we'd open presents. Each year, Dad made a huge breakfast of bacon and eggs and pancakes right after presents, and then Sean and I would play until afternoon when family and friends drifted in.

I felt a tear running down my face. This music was so d.a.m.n haunting. I was in middle school when it started to fall apart. I remembered Christmas my sixth grade year. It was a slim one for us, because my parents had spent just about all of their savings on hospital and doctor visits for Sean. And I was awful. I blamed him and threw a tantrum more suited for a five-year-old than a sixth grader. Dad told me to shut up, and Mom burst into tears.

As our hands moved together on the keyboard, my thoughts rolled over all those memories. I'd never realized how hard it must have been on her.

To watch her younger son, unable to cope with people, and her older son, unwilling to.

When Christmas of my eighth grade year rolled around, it was about a month after I'd pulled my f.u.c.k the police stunt at the play. Dad was picking up a lot of overtime to pay the medical bills, and Mom was so stressed that she had too much to drink that night, and that was the first Christmas Eve I can remember without us playing piano together. It was silent and lonely. Desperately lonely. I missed my mom so much that year.

I swayed in my seat as I played, and then I heard Sean say, in a sad tone, "Don't cry, Mommy. Dad will come home."

When he said the words, she sobbed out loud.

I looked up at him, and realized I was crying too, and so was Sean. I faltered in the playing, and then I said, my voice cracking, "Mom, I'm so sorry I was such an a.s.shole to you. I never meant to drive you away."

She stopped playing, very suddenly, and threw her arms around me.

"Don't ever say that," she said, her voice urgent. "You didn't drive me away, I did it to myself. And for whatever you did do, I forgive you. I'll always forgive you."

She grabbed Sean and pulled him over to us, and we put our arms around each other and cried for the years we lost.

My big brother (Julia) At noon on Christmas Eve my phone rang, and I almost didn't answer it. The phone number displayed was a long string of numbers, more than made any sense. International call. I picked it up, much to my mother's annoyance. Just a few minutes prior, she had gathered me, Carrie and Alexandra at the table in the family room to play cards.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Hey, I'm trying to reach Julia Thompson." The voice sounded familiar but far away. Bad connection.

"This is she."

"Julia? It's Barry Lewis."

I gasped, my eyes going wide, hand flying up to my chest. "Oh, my G.o.d, really?" I s.h.i.+fted the phone away from my mouth. "I'm sorry, I have to take this call. I'll be back." I walked out of the family room, down the hall and sat down on the stairs. I could feel my heart beating.

"Barry ... I can't believe it's you! What ... where are you?"

"Before you say anything else ... there's about a thousand guys in line behind me to use the phones, too. So, let me get your email address."

I gave it to him and then he said, "I got your message a couple days ago. But this is the first time we've been able to get to the phones. I'm in some G.o.dforsaken place in Kuwait."

I swallowed. "Kuwait, really?"

"Yeah, I'm in Recon these days. It's no big deal. Just lots of freaking sand. What about you? I couldn't believe it when I got the message. What's it been, almost ten years?"

"Almost ... I, um ... I live in Boston now. But I'm in San Francisco visiting my family."

"Oh yeah? You all finished with school?"

"I'm in my last year at Harvard."

He chuckled. "That's what I'm talking about. I always knew you were one smart kid. You going into the Foreign Service like your dad?"

"No," I said. "I've ... believe it or not, I've gotten in managing a rock band. And I really love it. It's going to be the music industry for me."

This conversation was so strange. After so long, I didn't even know what to say to him. I asked, "What happened with you? I was so upset back then that I never got to say goodbye. This is going to sound silly, but I always thought of you like a ... a big brother. Family."

There was a pause, and he said, "It doesn't sound silly at all, kid. I'd have been honored to have you as a sister. I always thought of you the same. G.o.d knows my sister wouldn't have ever helped me rebuild an engine." He laughed. "You remember the day you pulled the drain plug out while you were right underneath it? I thought your mother was going to kill me."

My eyes p.r.i.c.ked with tears, and I crossed my arms over my chest as I laughed. "Yes, I remember. That was a mess."

"When this stupid war's over, I'm thinking about getting out, starting my own restoration shop back home in Houston. If this music gig doesn't work out for you, you can always come down and work for me."

I sniffled and blinked my eyes. "I might take you up on that."

"It's funny," he said. "I was telling Dea about you not long ago. You know I got married, right?"

I was stunned. Barry had been notorious for chasing every girl in the emba.s.sy.

"No!"

"Yeah. Settled down, I got two little girls. The oldest kind of reminds me of you. She's a complete smart a.s.s."

I laughed. "That's not nice."

"Sure it is. And you always were. I worried about you, you know. You were such a lonely kid. But brave as h.e.l.l. I'm glad you've found a place for yourself. What are you, twenty-one now? Twenty-two?"

"Twenty-two."

"Dating anyone?"

"There's a guy ... I'm not sure dating's the word."

"Well, tell this guy, if he ever does anything to hurt you? There's gonna be one very p.i.s.sed off Recon Gunnery Sergeant coming after him."

I said, hesitantly, "I think I love him." As I said the words, I heard my voice break a little. It was the first time I'd said it out loud.

He replied, his tone warm, "Yeah? I'm glad. You deserve someone good. When we knew each other, I know I was always chasing the next piece of tail, but I gotta tell you, kid, Dea taught me different. Family matters more than anything. Having a place you can call home? That's really something."

Having a place you can call home. Did I have that? Maybe, just barely, back in Boston. But I was terrified I'd blown it. I was terrified I'd already hurt Crank so much that he wouldn't want anything to do with me. I was terrified he would. I felt paralyzed.

"I've never really felt at home anywhere," I said.

"No wonder, living like a bunch of vagabonds," he said. "But I'll tell you what I think. Home's where the people you love are. It's about finding the things that matter to you, and holding on to them and taking care of them. You make your own home, wherever that is. Kid ... you're family as far as I'm concerned. Keep your chin up. You'll find what you need."

I fought to smile. I wished I could be so confident. I wished I had any clue as to what I needed. "When you get back home, I want to come see you."

"Deal," he said. "I'm trying to picture you all grown up. You gotta email pictures, all right?"

"I will. You do the same."

"Ok, my time's up."

I sniffled again and wiped my eyes. I didn't want to let go. "Barry? Before you go ... thank you. You don't know ... you gave me more than you realize, letting me tag along with you all that time in Belgium. I owe you."

"You don't owe me nothing. You're my little sister, okay? We take care of family."

"Okay," I said, starting to cry. "Be careful over there, all right? I'm going to be really worried."

He grunted skeptically. "I'm Recon, kid. In civilian, that means invincible. Gotta go. I'll email you tomorrow. Merry Christmas, kid!"

I closed the phone and leaned against the wall and let the tears come. I'd lost so much time. So much life. Wrapped up inside myself, protected so tight inside my own coc.o.o.n where nothing could hurt me, nothing could touch me. All these emotions felt ... raw, dangerous, out of control.

But those emotions ... they also made me feel alive. And I was starting to want that. I was starting to want to live, to really live, to let myself be who I really was. Not wrapped up in protecting myself, not wrapped up in hating myself.

"You okay?"

I looked up. It was Carrie. She stood, leaning against the wall, with her arms crossed and a concerned expression on her face.

I thought about it for a second. And then I said, "Yeah, I am. Maybe better than I've ever been."

"Who was that?"

"Do you remember Corporal Lewis? From the emba.s.sy in Brussels?"

She shook her head.

"I guess you were too young. He was ... my big brother."

She gave me an odd, questioning look.

"I'm okay, Carrie. Really."

She leaned close and kissed my forehead. "You know you can always talk with me, right?"

I reached out and took her hand and squeezed it. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

I stood. "How p.i.s.sed is Mother?"

"Her knuckles are white, and her face is all pinched up like she ate something sour."

I said, "Well, I guess it's time to go brave the dragon. This should be fun."

"Coming with," she said. So holding hands, we walked back into the family room.

Alexandra was sitting, s.h.i.+fting uncomfortably in her seat. Mother sat across from her, shuffling the deck of cards in her hands and speaking. "The Brewers will be here for dinner this evening, and I expect you be on your best behavior, young lady."

"Yes, Mother," Alexandra said.

We took our seats as she continued talking.

"You should strike up a friends.h.i.+p with young Randy. He's a nice boy."

"He's mean to the kids at school," she said. "He's a bully."

"Don't you argue with me, young lady."

Alexandra shut up. I looked back and forth between the two of them, and I wanted to scream. Alexandra was sitting, staring at the table, face down. Alone. Sad.

It was Christmas Eve, d.a.m.n it. She shouldn't look like that. She should be laughing and having fun. I studied my mother.

What happened to make her so hateful? What happened to make acid drip from her tongue, to make her speak to all of us, and me most of all, as if we were something she hated? I didn't understand it, and even though I'd always hated it, I didn't really know any different, until I spent those weekends in Jack's house.

I couldn't help but wonder what Christmas was like there, if Jack hadn't been deployed with the National Guard. Somehow I imagined him puttering around in the kitchen, making a huge meal, joking with Tony, and laughing with Sean and Crank. Here, my father was locked away in his study, as always, and my mother was ... cold. Angry.

Alexandra was a wonderful, sweet little girl. And she didn't deserve that treatment. She reminded me so much of the little girl I had been in Belgium. When the only family I could find was my security guard, who gave me s.p.a.ce in his life and in his heart, and just a few minutes ago had called me from halfway around the world to tell me he still thought of me as his sister.

Seeing Alexandra like that-sad, in her formal dress, hands in her lap, face down, fidgeting as she stared at the table-something inside me broke.

"Mother. We need to talk. Right now."

She looked at me, her face imperious, dismissive. "About what, dear?"

"Alexandra," I said. "You might not want to be here for this."

Mother raised her eyebrows. "I don't recall you becoming the parent. I'm sure whatever it is you have to say, it won't do your sister any harm."

Carrie muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Oh, s.h.i.+t," and sat back in her seat, as if she was trying to get as far away as possible from our mother.

"Fine, then," I said. "But I need you to know ... I've had enough. I've had enough of you treating us all like we're your personal punching bags. I've had enough of you talking to us like there's something wrong with us."

She narrowed her eyes at me. "Who do you think you are? You don't speak to me that way, young lady. Now go away until you can be civilized."

I stared at her and said, "Do you remember my senior year in high school, Mother? In Bethesda?"