14

Distress Calls

Species with close physical resemblances are more easily distinguished by voice than plumage, markings, or coloring.

—G. Gordon’s Field Guide to the Birds of the Pacific Northwest

Composition, at its most practical, is a layering of pieces of musical anatomy. Melody, harmony, timing, phrasing. Before it’s plotted out on the staves, it has a kind of physical architecture to it. At the core, there is some mechanical action of pulling the pieces together, a kind of fascia. Then there’s the narrative, which has its own construction of verses, bridges, and choruses. All those elements are easily seen on the page by performers when they’re looking at a piece for the first time. But the actual emotional interpretation—the thing that excited Anne most—that happened off the page. Yes, a composer could guide the concept with the suggestions offered in the staff—lively, slowly, with feeling—but usually that was just a word or two, not a mandate, not a clear directive. The emotional interpretation came from the performers themselves, guided by the director, who was influenced by the composer. In this way, composition was a collaboration between what was written and what was unwritable—the ephemeral, the elusive, almost magical transmutation of music. Between living singers, a director, and an absent or even dead composer. It was an ongoing conversation that began from a single flash of inspiration that was grounded in a specific moment in time and carried on into the future indefinitely whenever the piece was performed. This creative interconnectedness is what Anne tried to convey to her students. It all began from the singular moment the composer began. She wanted them to understand how wonderful that could feel—that joy, that spark, the flow of being immersed in the mysterious creative process.

She sat at the patio table and stared at the empty page of her notebook, remembering how she’d explained this to her students again and again. Often, they looked back at her like they had no idea what she was talking about. But how do you actually start? they’d ask. She’d laughed then, which she meant as a sort of playful encouragement. And now she understood why some of them squirmed and others looked like they’d wanted to smack her. Because for the last year and a half, the blankness of the page in front of her made her feel like she’d never written a single bloody song in her life. That no one ever had. That the very idea was as impossible as trying to fly.

Her head ached and her eyes watered. A head cold on a sunny September day, no less. She leaned back in her chair and looked at Aiden. Lying on the patio in his swimming trunks and Spider-Man T-shirt, he spun a cushion on his slender shins. Earlier Tim had tried to interest him in a swimming lesson, plunging into the lake and thrashing around expertly while Aiden sat in the sand wrapped in a towel. Tim had tried to draw him in with his enthusiasm, but the boy wouldn’t budge. As much as Anne wanted him to learn to swim, she didn’t blame him. The water was simply too cold. The lake had turned its heart away from summer and it was impossible to convince Aiden, or her, otherwise. Yet Tim had persisted.

“It feels great! You’ll warm up once you start moving around!”

Anne, laughing, told him his lips were blue.

“You’re hypothermic, love! Not thinking clearly.”

He’d given up then and gone in for a shower. She watched Aiden in his new game, spinning the pillow a full turn on his knees with his hands, kicking it high in the air, and catching it on his shins. He wore an absorbed and happy look.

Glancing down the seawall toward the dock, she saw the red water-taxi boat pulling away. The driver had been chatting with Frankie for some time and now headed west across the lake. It was too far away to make out her face, but Anne saw Frankie turn and look down the seawall toward the Magnusens’ house. Anne thought of the other day, Frankie’s curious manner, the baby crow, and her patience with Aiden. She leaned forward and raised a hand, but Frankie had turned away and started up the trail. She wondered what Tim had said to her when he’d helped her land the boat. He’d been cross when he came in the house shaking the rain out of his hair.

“Of course I wasn’t rude, Anne,” he’d said. “I just told her what she already knew. It was a stupid idea being out on the water in that weather.”

When she’d asked Tim about Frankie’s family, he’d been vague.

“Fine, I guess. They’re reliable, you know. They do good work.”

But as neighbors, Anne persisted. As people.

Tim looked annoyed and frowned.

“I don’t know. We never hung out much with Frankie and Patrick. Doing different things, I guess. Their grandmother was sweet. She was a tiny little thing. She gave us stuff all the time—jams and things. And their dad!”

He laughed, his face lighting up.

“Funny guy, but Jesus! Trying to repair things with old parts he’d saved. Anything to save a dime or spare a trip down to Mill Three. And that boat!”

He gestured toward the dock.

“It’s ancient. Frankie shouldn’t be out on the lake alone in that old thing. They should have bought a new one years ago.”

Anne listened to him, silently fuming.

“Maybe they couldn’t afford one, Tim,” she said.

He rolled his eyes. It was an old argument.

“That’s not what I meant, Anne.”

He backpedaled, but she knew it was exactly what he meant. Though Tim was not overtly materialistic like his siblings, he could never know what it was like to grow up without the comfort of ready cash as Anne had done. As most of her friends had done. She let the matter drop.

Now Tim came out of the house, his hair damp from the shower.

“Feeling any better?” he asked, squeezing her shoulders.

“I’ll live. I think I’ll have a lie-down if you don’t mind.”

“Sure. I’ve got some boat chores. Aiden can help me.”

His eyes traveled to the boy lying on the patio, and Anne braced herself. Tim didn’t like Aiden’s odd games no matter how much they contented him. Spinning, flicking, rocking—he discouraged such things.

“Aiden, put the pillow back, please, and come here.”

Anne could hear him fighting to keep the edge out of his voice, and Aiden didn’t respond. Spin, spin, flip. Spin, spin, flip. The striped pillow went round and round.

“Aiden, come here, please. Daddy has some chores for you to help with,” Anne said.

The boy remained absorbed in his activity as if he were alone, not an arm’s length away from the people who loved him most in the world.

“Aiden—” she started, and Tim silenced her with a look that reminded her she’d promised not to interfere. She felt a tightness in her throat as the seconds ticked by. When Tim spoke, his voice had changed, purposely low and casual.

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to do it myself,” Tim said. “I’ll go get the electric drill and the screwdrivers—”

Aiden caught the pillow, popped to his feet, and marched over to his father. Tim laughed, and everything was okay. Saved by the boy’s obsession with mechanical things.

As they walked away together, Aiden cradling the extension cord in his wee arms and Tim carrying the toolbox, they looked like a typical father and son, and her heart felt easier. It lightened the weight she felt between Tim and herself, the heaviness they didn’t talk about. Ever since her in-laws had insisted on the bloody assessment from the University of Washington, she’d been on edge. Tim tried to convince her that it wasn’t a big deal, but the longer they waited for the results, the less inclined she was to believe him. After she and Tim had filled out the long questionnaires, she’d spent weeks that summer in the freezing corridors of the research center while the behavioral specialists had one-on-one sessions with Aiden. Those sessions had seemed interminable but were nothing compared to this excruciating wait.

She went inside and lay on the couch, dozed but could not sleep. She pulled out the novel she’d been reading, but it made her head ache to look at the page. At one point she considered checking on Tim and Aiden at the boat. But no. She’d agreed to this, letting the two of them be on their own, letting Tim try to connect without managing the situation. She’d agreed to those terms, and she knew it was the right thing. Even so, it was hard. Aiden had so rarely been away from her these past months since her leave began.

She thought of Frankie then, and the little crow, and wondered how it was convalescing. She’d hoped Frankie might come by and say hello. As she looked around the carefully curated living room, her eye fell on the coffee-table centerpiece—a collection of perfect seashells and starfish glued to a mirror shaped like an old sailing vessel. Ocean seashells and starfish at a lake house. She was almost certain her mother-in-law had purchased it at Pier 1 in Seattle. Seeing that, she realized that Frankie O’Neill would never drop in on the Magnusen family to pay a neighborly visit. But Anne could go to her.

She pushed herself off the couch and went into the kitchen, pulled out flour, sugar, salt, butter, the mixing bowls, and an apron. What would she make? She thought of the cottage, the warm little room with its low ceilings and crackling fire, the comfortable disorder of the living room and the deep, capable kitchen sink. It reminded her of Gran’s place. Irish soda bread, she decided. Simple and nourishing. A nice neighborly offering.

She started a yeast sponge, then measured the flour, whisked in salt, sugar, and soda. She mixed it into a dough, rolled it, and turned it in an oiled bowl to rise. It was a satisfying chore, and she realized her headache had gone. By the time Tim and Aiden came back from the dock—her son first and her husband a few minutes later—the smell of rising dough filled the kitchen.

Aiden scampered past her and clambered into the window seat with his book. She crossed the room and leaned down to kiss him. His hair and clothing held the scent of fresh air.

Tim followed bearing an armful of mail, which he sifted through at the counter.

Anne tried to keep her voice casual.

“Anything interesting?”

“Mostly work stuff. Here’s a letter from your mom,” he said, passing her a blue airmail envelope. “Junk mail. Oh, and looks like there’s something here from UW.”

His voice changed slightly when he said that, and Anne shuddered. She watched him open the thin white envelope and pull out a sheet of paper, willing herself not to snatch it out of his hand and read it first or tear it to pieces. She turned toward the oven and slid the bread inside. Tim dropped the letter on the counter.

“Just a notification that they received our questionnaires,” he said. “And that they’re reviewing Dr. Shelley’s data. Probably playing catch-up from summer vacations, I expect.”

She could hear Tim trying to keep his voice light, as if it was nothing at all, just a small thing they were waiting for, like a dental appointment. Not some kind of edict that could change their lives completely.

She felt a flare of anger in her belly remembering the questionnaires. The University of Washington Department of Pediatrics had requested that each parent complete one separately. At the time Anne had scoffed that it seemed excessive, but a shadow flickered across Tim’s face. That had been the first inkling that they were of different minds about their son’s behavior.

Anne had sat down with the forms that very night after Aiden had gone to bed. The sooner this inquest was done, the better, she thought. She’d listed his food preferences and noted that he had no allergies. She detailed his sleep patterns and sleep disruptions, potty training, and documented with pride that he hadn’t had an accident since he was two.

The form asked about attachments to routines and objects. She balked at the question, as if attachment were a bad thing. Begrudgingly, she made a note about his storybook that had been a favorite talisman for ages. Every child had special things. She felt like they were trying to catch her out. The questionnaire just got worse from there.

Please describe behavioral issues such as tantrums, screaming, pushing, hitting (self and others), biting (self and others). Please note any general anxieties and worries (articulated or suggested).

Please explain any episodes that have involved hospitalization of patient or others and use the page below to describe in more detail.

Please note any episodes that have involved social services or law enforcement.

It went on like that for pages and pages.

Sweet Mother of Jesus, she thought.

What activities does your child enjoy? What people does your child have special relationships with? Does your child enjoy any favorite games? What activities does your child enjoy doing alone? With others? How does your child behave with others?

“Crikey! On this page they’re actually calling him a child! Isn’t that lovely?” she said.

Tim kept his eyes on the tennis match he was watching and didn’t laugh.

“They’re just trying to help, Anne. Maybe try not to take it so personally?”

She bridled then.

“Not take it personally that people think we don’t know what’s best for our own kid?”

Tim sighed, came to the table, and reached for the forms.

“Why don’t you take a break?”

She shook her head.

“I’ve nearly finished,” she said.

What the forms didn’t ask, what nobody asked, were things like: Please describe how it feels to be unable to comfort the person you love most in the world. Please describe the depths of your failure as a mother and a human being.

She hadn’t read Tim’s answers and she didn’t know if he’d looked at hers before he mailed them back. That had been weeks ago, and the waiting hung over them. The letter sat on the counter for the rest of the day, and Anne refused to read it or move it. After a while it was gone. She pulled the soda bread out to cool, fed the sourdough starter, then brewed a pot of tea. She took a cup to Tim, who was reading through the stack of mail from work, and he thanked her. She leaned down and kissed him, reminding herself that they were together in this.

Aiden had pulled several CDs down off the shelf. Blessedly not the Streisand collection.

“Want to play some music, love?” Anne asked. “Just not too loud, please.”

Aiden clicked the power button and Anne watched him carefully load a CD into the tray—a collection of children’s songs. He lowered the volume and scooted close to the speaker.

Mary had a little lamb,

Little lamb, little lamb!

Mary had a little lamb

Whose fleece was white as snow!

She sat at the counter and read the letter from her mother, which was as newsy as ever. With the length of her social commentary, you’d think Margaret Ryan lived in midtown Manhattan and not a small island village off the west coast of Ireland that had two pubs, one church, and a greengrocer. Father and the deacon were at odds over the design of the new baptismal font. Laney McPhee was engaged to be married to that young John from Killybegs, and it looked like it would be a May wedding. Old Thomas Murphy had passed, God rest his soul, which was a shame as there had been plans for his centennial birthday. Lastly, someone had been stealing milk off the doorstep once or twice a week. Margaret had complained to the milkman, James, who’d confessed she wasn’t the only one to report such a thing.

I’m of a mind to undertake a stakeout, which your father says is a daft idea. Since he leaves earlier than James arrives, it would fall to me. So don’t be surprised if you read about me cracking the village milk thief.

Anne chuckled, imagining her mother sitting in the dark in her dressing gown armed with a broom and a flashlight waiting for milk-stealing hooligans. Probably just a hungry newsboy, she guessed, or her own da just taking the piss.

Aiden had replayed “Mary Had a Little Lamb” and was now starting it for the third time.

“Let’s let it play through to the next song, love,” she said, and turned back to the letter.

Margaret asked about her job, and Anne’s stomach dropped, then further as her mother wondered if she might be coming home that fall. Anne could picture her sitting at the kitchen table, pen in hand, trying to work out how to ask without asking.

Margaret wrote that there was to be a memorial Mass on All Souls’ Day at Trinity in November. The O’Faolains were organizing it in recognition of the Good Friday Agreement. She would be happy to meet Anne on the mainland if she was of a mind to go.

Hugs and kisses to my grandson and to yourself. Please give my regards to Tim. All my love, Mam.

Anne put the letter aside. She felt a host of feelings rise in her chest and she pressed them down. She wrapped the soda bread in a clean tea towel and poked her head into the sunroom.

“I’m going to run up to Frankie O’Neill’s,” she said. “I’ll take Aiden with me.”

Tim looked up from the binder he was reading.

“That’s nice of you to take her something,” he said. “You know, when you were asking about her family, I’d forgotten about her dad.”

“What about him?” Anne asked.

Tim rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand.

“He died this spring. It was quite sudden, I think.”

Anne remembered Frankie’s stricken look when Anne had asked her about her family.

“Oh, how terribly sad,” she said. “How old was he?”

“Not that old. Maybe fifty-five?” Tim said.

She thought of her own parents and felt a deep pang of homesickness.

Tim had returned to the document he was reading.

“Right. Well, I’ll be back shortly,” she said.

Aiden was letting the song repeat again.

Followed her to school one day,

School one day, school one day!

At the suggestion that they go see Miss Frankie and the little crow, he snapped off the CD player and bolted for his shoes.

Maybe all children were predisposed to repetition, she thought as she retied his laces. Did other mothers grind their teeth? She wished she had some good mam friends to ask, but she didn’t. Just friendly acquaintances from the daycare.

Aiden flew down the seawall ahead of her, as sure-footed and energetic as a young colt, and Anne found herself humming the inane nursery rhyme. She recalled a day at the Pediatric Clinical Research Center and the child singing down the corridor while she waited for Aiden.

Mary had a little lamb,

Little lamb, little lamb.

Mary had a little lamb

Whose fleece was white as snow.

The voice came through the open door of a room just down the corridor from the waiting area where Anne sat. It was a mournful wee voice—a girl or boy, she couldn’t say.

Mary had a little lamb,

Little lamb, little lamb.

Mary had a little lamb

Whose fleece was white as snow.

The wain sang the opening lines over and over and over, failing to move the song forward. Now the child began to cry, and someone closed the door. Anne turned back to her book and tried to concentrate.

A woman came down the hallway toward her pushing a little girl in a wheelchair. The child had dark hair plaited into thick braids and tied with pink ribbons, which matched her sweatshirt and sweatpants. Even her stocking feet were pink. The little girl’s shoulders were hunched, and her hands balled into fists, which she waved around. Her face was contorted in a grimace, and she was drooling. The woman stopped and wiped the girl’s chin and Anne could see from the resemblance that this must be her daughter. The child moaned and waved one fist and the woman caught it in her hand and kissed it.

Gran’s voice echoed in her ear.

“Its own child is bright to the carrion crow.”

She immediately felt ashamed thinking that. The woman noticed her looking and smiled. Someone might have thought it was a simple, genuine smile. But most women didn’t smile like that, not mothers, and especially not mothers of children who were different, not quite right, strange. Smiles were armor.

Anne smiled back and turned away. She walked to the end of the corridor and bought herself a Diet Coke and a packet of crisps from the vending machine. She was so tired of this waiting area where she’d spent hours that summer.

Hearing tests, vision tests, image recognition tests, the alphabet, color matching, shapes, and numbers. Dr. Shelley and her research assistants had walked Aiden through those as well as dexterity tests and tests that measured his sensitivity to color, light, and sound. Most of this was accomplished through games, and Aiden didn’t like to play with others really, so Anne was skeptical about what they might elucidate about her son.

Dr. Shelley had asked Anne to call her Amy, which she’d tried and failed to do, Amy seeming far too informal an address for a doctor. To her credit, Dr. Shelley had listened to Anne’s doubts, though she had an air about her as if she’d heard it all. Parents, she seemed to be thinking.

“You’ve got to trust me, Anne, and let me finish the process,” she said.

Anne could tell that Dr. Shelley believed wholeheartedly in this “process.” So did Tim’s parents, who had suggested it in the first place.

“They’re the best in the field,” her father-in-law said. “Experts in pediatrics. They’ll tell you what the boy needs.”

It made her want to scream when Tim Senior said things like that. This from a man who had never changed a diaper in his life or toilet trained a wee child or walked the boards in the small hours with a teething baby. Yet he thought he had all the answers.

She watched Aiden climb the steep trail and leap in and out of the little red trolley. He danced toward the door of the cottage and stopped himself, glanced back at Anne, and dutifully rapped on the door. When Anne reached him, Aiden knocked again. It was quiet but for the sound of birds in the trees, the waves splashing below. Her disappointment rose and she realized how much she’d been looking forward to seeing Frankie.

“Looks like Miss Frankie is not home, love. We’ll have to say hello another time.”

She set the bread on the windowsill where Frankie would see it. Aiden stood in front of the door a moment longer, as if unwilling to accept Frankie’s absence. He swung around and skipped past her down the path. She followed him, with love and sorrow tearing at her heart.

Back at the beach, Aiden dutifully zipped on his life preserver, and they wandered down the dock toward the boats. Aiden lay on his belly and peered between the slats of the dock. She sat next to him and leaned her back against the wall of the little building that was the store during the summer. She listened to Aiden humming and the plonking of the boats in the water.

She thought of her mother’s letter and the mention of the All Souls’ Day Mass in honor of everyone lost during the long decades of The Troubles. Of course, she knew about the Mass already because Mrs. O’Faolain had written to her after Easter, right before the spring concert. She’d asked Anne to please be there if possible. Even before the invitation, with the Good Friday peace agreement all over the news, Anne felt herself closing down, moving into a bubble of silence that grew and grew. She couldn’t talk about it. How could she find words for the inky blackness that bloomed around her? She woke to it, fell asleep to it, and swam around it all day; like some dark sea creature, it threatened to pull her under and hold her down. And then came the night of the spring concert, when she went under.

The college campus had been decorated by students from the theater department to reflect the varied heritages of the graduating seniors. Luminarias lined the walkways, their flickering votive candles turning the brown paper bags into magical way markers. The large cottonwood tree had been adorned with traditional German Kerzen that flamed in the twilight. Giant papier-mâché puppets from a recent production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream embraced the lampposts around the courtyard, their large, whimsical faces laughing and crying. Bright multicolored flags of various countries adorned the white chairs facing the stage. The evening performance would highlight the graduating class of 1998, Cornish College of the Arts.

Anne had considered skipping it but couldn’t lie to Patrice, who was her friend as well as the department chair. Trying to explain seemed harder than simply showing up, keeping to herself, and leaving early. She only had to introduce one student, Melissa Baine. Lovely Melissa from Vermont had been bright, so hardworking, and had a natural ear for music and the Irish language. That evening she’d be singing “Spancil Hill”—an old song by Michael Considine about an immigrant longing for home. Anne gave a brief introduction and retreated backstage as Melissa stepped into the spotlight. She looked so young and lovely in her white dress with a eucalyptus wreath in her dark hair. Every bit the May Day maiden. Her diction was perfect, her timing, her phrasing, and her interpretation. She brought such life to the old song; it was just brilliant to hear. And in that moment Anne realized with a shock how much Melissa reminded her of her friend Katherine O’Faolain. Katherine who was now lost to her.

Katherine had been invited to Cornish first. But her mam was sick and her father needed her, so Katherine had stayed and Anne had gone in her place. Because she stayed, Katherine was in the north last year to perform on Easter weekend. Katherine was at the outdoor market when a car crashed into the crowd—no accident at all. And Katherine—sweet and funny and loyal and talented, who should have been in Seattle—was dead. Dead a year when that Good Friday peace deal was struck.

Anne had felt that feeling for the first time then, ice water in her veins, the feeling that she was there and not there. The audience applauded and tossed flowers onto the stage at Melissa’s feet. The world tipped and a high pitch whined in her left ear. Then Melissa was pulling Anne onstage for an encore, wanting to share the moment with her favorite teacher. It was so generous of her, so kind. She whispered and started to sing. Anne heard the first rising notes of the tune and the beat of the bodhrán drum behind her. She looked out into the twilit audience, their faces distorted by the shadows, and heard Melissa finish the first line in Irish. She turned to Anne, her young face shining, and waited for Anne to take up the verse in English.

I am stretched out on your grave

And will lie here forever.

If your hand were in mine,

I’d be sure we could not sever.

My apple tree, my brightness,

It’s time we were together.

For I smell of the Earth

And I’m worn by the weather.

Anne opened her mouth to sing, and it was impossible. The drum kept beating. She saw Melissa’s face fall. Melissa turned back to the audience and tried to carry the song. But Anne couldn’t hear Melissa over the guttural sound she realized was coming from her own mouth.

Time had bent and folded. She didn’t remember anything after that until she was backstage with Patrice. She couldn’t have said how much time had passed before Tim arrived, his face creased with worry and Aiden in his pajamas. As Patrice walked them to the car, Anne noticed that the courtyard was dark. The Kerzen had been extinguished, the giant puppets lying prone on carts, and the luminarias flickering out.

After that, all the feelings Anne had worked so hard to bury came roaring back. The previous year was a blur of grief, but she’d slogged through the months and clawed her way back to some kind of normal. She truly had been feeling better, until the anniversary of Kat’s death, until the letter from Mrs. O’Faolain, until the international news of the peace accord, made her grief erupt all over again. And guilt too, for if Kat had been in Seattle instead of Anne, she’d be alive, wouldn’t she?

Following the spring concert, she knew she’d tried everyone’s patience to the limit. No surprise Patrice had put her on leave, though she’d been so kind about it.

“It’s okay, Anne. I think you just need some time,” she’d said.

And then her in-laws had pressed the assessment. Could she blame Tim for going along, with how absent she’d been the year before? She longed to talk to him about it all, but she couldn’t. That was a terrible truth; she didn’t trust him.

A light rain began to fall, and she pulled her hood over her head. She coaxed Aiden to his feet, and they walked back down the dock as the rain began to fall harder, darkening the air and turning the sand gray. She could see the lights on in the big house at the far end. Aiden ran ahead of her toward Tim, who was standing on the patio with beach towels.

Tim draped a towel around Aiden’s shoulders but did not try to hug him or pick him up. They’d both surrendered that sweet closeness after Christi’s birthday. That bloody awful party. A knot rose in her throat.

Family, like composition, was a layering of parts. It had so many planes in its anatomy: responsibility, obligation, love, longing, fear, hope. But what was the fascia that pulled it all together? That knowledge was illusive, immaterial, and yet so imperative. The emotional interpretation was up to the family itself. Yet there was no guidance in this, no helpful notes in the staff. Nobody could tell you how to fix the errors in the composition of your singular family, your partnership, your marriage. Anne and Tim were the composers, performers, and conductors all in one. Their success or failure was in their own hands. He turned to her, expectant, and she searched his face for some sign of assurance, some indication that he was worried too about how to move forward. That whatever happened next, they would be in it together.

Tim held out a towel, and she accepted it, though she was hardly wet at all, because it was what he had to offer.