A Song for Julia

  I nodded. “He is. He plays guitar and sings.”

  “I like Crank. He’s really weird. Can I come to one of your shows? How many earrings does he have?”

  “As a matter of fact, Alexandra, we’re going on tour this summer. With Allen Roark. And we’re playing two shows in San Francisco in August. And yes, you can come. Backstage, even.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Backstage?”

  Carrie said, her voice bordering on the hysterical, “That’s so wild. I can’t wait.” Then she got a sly grin. “Do you think you can get me a couple extra backstage passes for my friends? They’ll die.”

  I put my arm around her waist and tugged her to me. “Anything for my sister.”

  “Do you think when I grow up I can be in a rock band?” Alexandra asked. “I could learn guitar, it doesn’t look that different than cello.”

  “I think you can do anything you want,” I said to her.

  “Mom would be really mad,” she replied.

  I couldn’t argue with that, but I did say, “I know. But sometimes we have to go our own way. Crank said to me one time that everyone has to have something to rebel against. I don’t know what yours will be, but mine is deciding my own life.”

  Alexandra looked thoughtful. Then she said, “Mom didn’t like Crank. But I did. He called me Alex.” She smiled.

  I wish she’d talk about something other than Crank. “Let’s talk about something else, okay?”

  Carrie gave me a sideways look, and I asked Alexandra, “How is school going for you?”

  She frowned. “I don’t like being the new girl. Again. They’re mean here.”

  Oh, Alex. I sighed. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I went through that when we were in Bethesda. It was hard.”

  She said, “I did make a friend, though. Her name’s Michelle, and she’s in my homeroom. We eat lunch together. And Mom said I can go to Michelle’s New Year’s party, if I’m good over Christmas.”

  “I’m glad you made a friend,” I said.

  Ten minutes later, we were headed home in Mom’s minivan. I had to shed my heavy coat and gloves, which were appropriate for Boston but certainly not here. Carrie switched on the radio and flipped it to a different station.

  I froze.

  Familiar chords were pouring out of the speakers, and then I heard Crank’s voice.

  “Oh, my God,” I said. It was one thing to hear it live or the recording. It was something else entirely to hear it over the radio all the way across the country.

  “Is that it?” Carrie asked.

  I nodded. Alexandra leaned forward in between the seats. “That’s your band?”

  “Yeah,” I said, and she squealed.

  By the time we reached the highway, Carrie looked over at me and said, “This song is about you.”

  I nodded, didn’t say anything.

  Her eyes were big, and she had a huge grin on her face. In a quick, excited voice, she said, “Oh, my God, that is so cool.”

  I grinned back but felt a little apprehensive. I knew it was going to be a matter of seconds now before she asked me about Crank.

  Not even that long.

  “So, what’s going on with you and Crank?”

  “Nothing really,” I said.

  She looked at me. “Talk to me, Julia. Did he do something? I just…don’t get it. I’m not trying to be a nag, but … being honest? I’ve never seen you happy before. Ever. And I want to see that again.”

  I grimaced. “Harry showed up in Boston.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, her voice hushed.

  “He showed up at the club we were playing last night. And Crank beat him up.”

  Carrie said, “I’m loving Crank more every time you mention him.”

  “Me too,” I whispered.

  “Then why did you break up with him?”

  I shook my head. “Because I’m afraid, okay? For the first time in my life, I’m … doing what I want. I’m living a life that’s mine, one that I chose. I’m afraid of losing that.”

  She was silent for a few moments. “Look, it’s none of my business. But … I think you’re making a mistake. You’re not the kid you were in China. You need to look in the mirror and really see yourself. When I look at you I see someone who cares. You’re smart, organized as hell, and you try to treat people the right way. And you’re a hell of a lot stronger than you think you are.”

  “I’m a lot of things,” I said, “But I don’t think strong is one of them.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Julia—”

  I held a hand up. “Just … stop, okay? I know what you’re trying to do. But I’ve got to work through this on my own, all right?”

  And then I felt a hand on my arm. A small hand. I turned in my seat, and Alexandra leaned forward and said, “I want you to be happy, too.”

  I blinked back tears and held her hand.

  Always forgive (Crank)

  I clicked on the play button, and my own personal Christmas mix started to play. It had the traditionals that everyone loved, but it also had some of my personal favorites: songs like The Vandals’ “Oi to the World” and “Hang Myself from the Tree.”

  You gotta have a sense of humor about these things.

  Once the music was playing, I sat down on the couch and stretched out, looking up at the ceiling.

  Sean was stressed about Mom being in the house. He was doing his best to contain it, but I could see it from the way he paced in the living room, his temper slightly shorter than normal. Mom was stressed about being in the house. Both of them stressed me out. Plus, we were all stressed wondering if Dad was going to be able to call tonight, as he’d said. It’s one thing to hope and plan, but when you’re on a foreign deployment with the military, there are no guarantees.

  I hated that he was out there, living in some tent camp in Kuwait, instead of home with us. Of course, he might well have ended up being on duty tonight … he was a cop after all. But cops come home at the end of their shift. Soldiers have to wait a lot longer.

  Of course, the diplomatic mission to Iraq had failed. Julia told me weeks ago she didn’t believe it was ever meant to succeed. Window dressing. I wondered how her father felt about that. Odds were, we’d never know.

  I put my hand in my pocket, feeling for my cell phone, for the hundredth time wanting to pick it up and dial Julia. I would call her tomorrow for Christmas. But I wasn’t going to nag. I wasn’t going to call multiple times. I wasn’t going to do anything. And that drove me nuts, because what I wanted to do was chase her down and make her talk to me. Make her finally admit that she loved me.

  Last night, briefly, I thought she was going to come around. When she looked at me from the audience, I saw her wiping her eyes. When she’d wrapped her arms around me and said, “Thank you.” But not long after that, she seemed to clam up and grow distant again. Not long after the show, she packed up and disappeared without even saying goodbye.

  I was slowly beginning to accept that Julia was never coming back to me.

  We’d be friends. Colleagues. She’d keep managing the band. But what I wanted from her was so much more.

  My mom stepped into the living room from where she’d been puttering in the kitchen. I looked at her, gave her a rueful grin.

  It was so odd having her here. Odd that I wasn’t angry with her. If anything, I was finding myself protective. Wanting to shield her from Sean’s occasional blowups, which were always hard on her. I didn’t understand it really. I’d been angry so long. Angry that she was gone. Angry that she left. But when my dad told us what happened that night … it was like someone had let the pressure out, all at once, and I couldn’t be angry with her any more. It was a strange and odd feeling, and I wasn’t really sure what to do with it yet.

  I’m sure it was the same for Sean, but even more so. And for that matter, I didn’t even understand why he’d forgiven me. Because I left too.

  I just wished Dad were home, to see her here, to see us all here, together.

  She wat
ched me for a moment, then said, “When you smile like that, you remind me so much of your father. He smiled at me like that the night we met, and I thought my knees were going to melt.”

  I chuckled and said, “I wish I was half the man he was.”

  “You were looking kind of sad over here. Thinking about Julia?”

  I sighed and nodded. “Yeah.”

  She walked over and sat in the chair next to me. I shifted position, dropping my feet to the floor and facing her.

  “She and I had lunch a couple of times, you know,” she said.

  “I know.”

  She looked at me, her eyes sad. “Don’t give up on her Crank. If you love her, don’t give up on her.”

  “Dad said if I love her, I should let her go.”

  My mom’s eyes went red, and she covered her mouth to stifle a sob. After a second, she collected herself. “And your father was right. Julia’s a smart girl. She’s smart enough to know what a catch you really are. I think she’ll come around.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. She went through some pretty screwed up stuff.”

  Mom nodded. “I know that. And she’s just now starting to really deal with it. She told me you’re part of the reason for that.”

  I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees; face buried in my hands, I gave a long sigh. The thing was, it was obvious she was working things out. Every time I saw her, she seemed more confident. She was losing that haunted look in her face.

  I grimaced. “Mom? You want to know what’s sick? I know she’s growing. I know she’s working out her issues over the past. And I’m afraid. I’m afraid she’s going to grow right past me and end up falling in love with some asshole who has it all together.”

  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 blushing 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 damn 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 Fuck 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 asshole 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.

  “Hello?”

  “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 God, really?” I shifted 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 godforsaken 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 sill
y at all, kid. I’d have been honored to have you as a sister. I always thought of you the same. God 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 pricked 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 embassy.

  “No!”

  “Yeah. Settled down, I got two little girls. The oldest kind of reminds me of you. She’s a complete smart ass.”

  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 hell. 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 pissed 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.