I hold my key-chain flashlight in my mouth and shine it on my journal. It’s dark in the Quiet Room and I don’t want to turn the ceiling light on because then this place won’t be a good hiding spot anymore.
The Quiet Room is the perfect place to go when I’m feeling extra-lonely because only good memories have happened in here. It’s where I sit when Dad records my songs. As soon as you step inside this little room it’s like you’re the most important person in the world because every sound is blocked out except the sound you’re making.
Right now the only sound I’m making is with my pencil against the paper. There’s so much to write about and think about, like how Gavin doesn’t want to be my partner anymore now that we finished our song and we handed it in. I finally know how bummed the Beatles must have felt when they broke up and they had to do all those shows and interviews all alone without anyone else to share the spotlight with. It must have sucked.
And then there’s Dad, who I used to think understood me better than anyone else, because he’s the only one who listens so closely to music and the only one who remembers all the artists who were once big but aren’t anymore and the only one who knows how powerful one song can be. But it seems like he’s forgotten about all of that now.
It just won’t be the same without the studio. Enough has changed around here already. People think I shouldn’t miss things because I always have the memories of them saved in my brainbox, but the memories only make me miss the things more. That’s why it was so hard to act normal tonight in the restaurant while everyone drank out of their fancy glasses, because I actually saw Grandma Joan sitting at the table with us. I wanted to talk to her and tell her about my song but I couldn’t because she wasn’t really there.
Gavin should know what I’m talking about. When I shared my Sydney memories with him, it was like he got confused sometimes and thought Sydney was actually sitting there in front of him. I guess that makes us even closer than I thought, because we both know what it means to lose someone special.
Dad says Grandma Joan is a spirit, and Aunt Lauren says she’s in heaven, and Grandpa says she’s an angel, and my older cousin says she’s in a box with worms. Mom has students who believe a grandma can turn into a different animal and come back to life, but I have my own idea. I think Grandma lives inside a cassette tape and when I listen to the cassette tape and I hear her sing and play piano, it almost feels like she’s singing and playing just for me.
I turn off my flashlight and close my journal because now I want to find Grandma’s tape. I want her songs to remind me how good it feels to be around her. I push open the heavy door and it seems like someone just pulled earplugs out of my ears because now I hear voices: Dad’s and Gavin’s.
“You remember?” Gavin says. “You wrapped your hand up, but the bandage kept unraveling. You tore it off in the middle of the song and it landed on my head.”
“That’s right,” Dad says. “I cut it on that stupid lock we had on the trunk.” He sounds much happier than he did at dinner. “How about the show in DC when you walked on the pool table?”
“I was out of my mind back then,” Gavin says.
“Was?”
They both laugh.
Then Dad says, “How’s it been going?”
“It?” Gavin asks.
“You. How are you?”
“Some days are okay. Some days really aren’t.”
“It sucks, man. I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say.”
“Yeah.”
It gets quiet. I’m starting to sweat in here. Dad made it so the air conditioner doesn’t flow so well in the Quiet Room because it’s too noisy when he’s recording.
Now Gavin is asking Dad if he remembers anything about the last time Sydney visited us in January and Dad is doing what he always does if the subject isn’t music: forgetting. “Sorry,” Dad says, which is another thing he always does: apologizes for forgetting. “Did you ask Paige?”
“She didn’t remember much.”
“Really?” Dad says. “That’s surprising. She usually holds on to that stuff. She can still remember what we ate for dinner each night on our honeymoon. It’s amazing. I can barely recall what we had for dinner last night.”
Gavin doesn’t say anything and Dad just keeps talking.
“I’ve always thought that’s where Joan got her memory from. But the doctor said it doesn’t work like that. Who knows.”
Dad finally shuts up and everything stays quiet for a long time. I climb onto the stool and crouch on my knees and peek through the window. Dad and Gavin both have glasses in their hands. Dad has his feet up on the couch. His eyes are moving all around the studio and I have to duck in the window so he doesn’t see me. I hear him say, “It’ll be hard to tear this place down.”
Gavin still isn’t speaking.
“But hey,” Dad says, “I lived out my dream. Almost twenty years.”
“Are you sure it’s the right move?” Gavin says finally.
“I think so. I’m tired of scrambling. It’s too much, having everyone sacrifice just for me. I should be the one taking care of them.”
“But you are.”
I raise my head slowly. Dad is staring into his glass like he found an eyelash or a fruit fly.
“It doesn’t have to be all or nothing, right?” Gavin says. “Why don’t you set up a little spot for yourself upstairs?”
“I don’t know. I sort of feel like it does have to be all or nothing. I’m like an addict. If I see an instrument lying around, I have to play it. Before I know it, hours have gone by. Honestly, right now it feels like maybe my music days are over.”
I hear the loudest cymbal crashing in my ears and rattling my bones and I almost fall off my stool. Not really, but that’s how it feels. That’s how much Dad’s words shake me. He told me he was closing the studio, but he never said anything about not making music anymore. That’s a whole different thing.
I want to jump out of the Quiet Room and run to Dad and beg him to keep the studio open and to quit working for Grandpa and to just leave everything the way it’s always been. We already lost one musician in the family, Grandma Joan. We can’t lose another. I’ll be the only one left.
But Dad already said no to me once tonight and I don’t want to hear it again. I decide to stay in the Quiet Room and think this through. It seems like Dad is doing the same thing he did after our dog Pepper died. Once Pepper was gone, Dad took Pepper’s bed and toys and food and he threw it all in the garbage. It’s like he was purposely trying to forget Pepper and now he’s doing it again with music. It’s what Gavin did when he burned all of Sydney’s stuff. But Gavin didn’t really want to forget Sydney. He wanted to hold on to him and I helped him do that. Maybe I can do that for Dad too, help him hold on to what I know he loves.
But how? I can ask Grandpa to fire Dad, but I don’t think he’d ever do it. I heard him saying earlier at dinner that he named his business Sully and Sons because he wanted both of his sons to be working with him and now they finally are. And Mom already told me weeks ago that she’s tired of having to pay for the studio, so she’s definitely not going to help.
Actually, that’s not all Mom told me:
Tuesday, July 9, 2013: “If you want to pay for the studio, be my guest.”
Maybe I’m the one who has to do it. If I can find a way to keep the studio, then Dad won’t be able to forget, because all his instruments will still be here, and if they’re still here, he’ll see them, and if he sees them, he said it himself, he’ll have no choice but to play them.
The next morning, when the house is very quiet, I open the drawer in the kitchen and I find the phone number that Mom crossed out the other day. Next to the number is the name Felicia Dufresne.
I know I shouldn’t do it, but I can’t just sit around anymore and watch Dad become a different person. I have to remind him who he really is.
Mom said that some of the people who call the house about me want to give us money, and I’m hoping The Mindy Love Show is one of them.
I dial the number and a lady answers.
I whisper, “Is this Felicia?”
“Yes, this is Felicia. Who is this?”
“My name is Joan Sully.”
“Can you speak up, ma’am?”
“I’m Joan Sully,” I repeat just a tiny bit louder. I don’t want anyone to hear me. “I think you spoke to my mom, Paige Sully?”
She must have hung up, that’s what I’m thinking, but then her voice comes back. “You’re the girl with the memory.”
“Yes. That’s me.”
“Joan Sully. Well, well, well, we’ve heard some incredible things about you. Let’s see, what day of the week was December sixth, 1923?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t?” Felicia says, sounding angry.
“I was born in 2003.”
“Oh, right. Of course. How can I help you, Joan?”
“I’m calling about The Mindy Love Show.”
“Yes, you know, we were really hoping to feature you on our whiz-kid episode. We’ve got an eleven-year-old premed student, nine-year-old twins who are chefs, and an eight-year-old herpetologist.”
“That’s great because I have good news. My mother changed her mind. I can go on your show. Just tell me when you want me to come in and I’ll be there.”
“Oh,” Felicia says, turning that one small word into a whole song. “That’s a shame. I wish you would’ve called sooner. I’m afraid it’s too late now.”
“Too late? No, it’s not too late. Why would it be too late?”
“We’re shooting the episode tomorrow.”
“That’s okay. I don’t have anything to do tomorrow.”
“No, you don’t understand. We’re completely booked.”
“But you called my mother just the other day!” I say too loudly.
“Yes,” Felicia says. “We were holding a spot for you. But now that spot’s been taken.”
“I want my spot back. You have to give me my spot back.”
Felicia laughs like I’ve told the funniest joke, but no one ever thinks of me as a funny person. “This isn’t some web series, okay? This is network television. I can’t just add you to the show at the last minute.”
I ask myself: What would Mom do? She’s a master on the phone because she always gets the cable company to fix our bills. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to go with Dr. Phil, then.”
“Dr. Phil?”
“Yes. He wanted me really badly.”
“Is he doing a whiz-kid show too?”
“Um, yes. I’m pretty sure he is.”
“No,” Felicia says.
“Yes. I better call him right now and tell him I’m ready. I wonder where my mom put his phone number.”
“Let me speak to your mother. I really should be discussing this with her. I’m sure she and I can figure something out.”
“My mom said I should do this by myself,” I say, which isn’t a complete lie. “You can talk to me.”
“Joan, listen to me. Dr. Phil is on at the same time as us and we have way more viewers, so if I were you, I’d definitely want to be on our show, not his. Plus, you don’t want to fly all the way to California. That’s just ridiculous. It’s such a long flight and it’s so hot out there in the summer. Let me see… oh, look at this! It appears we have some room at the top of the show. Why don’t we just slide you right in there? How does that sound?”
“It sounds good. But what about the money? Do you pay a lot of money?”
“Oh my,” Felicia says. “You know, I’d prefer to discuss that with your parents. But yes, our pay is industry standard.”
I’m not sure how much Dad needs to keep the studio open but industry standard sounds like a lot. “And you’re in New York City, right?”
“Yes, and I see you’re right across the river, so that should be a piece of cake. What do you say? Are we all set?”
I don’t want Dad’s music days to be over. I just want everything to go back to normal. I want him to be downstairs right now playing his instruments and not to miss any more trips to New York City, and while all of that is happening I’d also like to play my song for thousands of people on TV and have it go deep into their systems so they’ll never forget me and I’ll finally feel safe inside their boxes. I don’t even care if Gavin is with me or not, because I can still sing a little bit and a little bit is better than no bit. Besides, Mom already said that I could do this if I really want to.
“Yes,” I say.
“Excellent! I’ll go ahead and send your mother the paperwork. It’ll have our location and your call time. Have your mother sign the last page and bring that with you tomorrow. Do you have her e-mail address handy? I’ll zip it right over.”
I tell Felicia to send the paperwork to our family e-mail address. I say good-bye and I’m about to go on the computer to get Felicia’s e-mail, but just as I’m hanging up, Dad walks into the kitchen. I’m worried that he heard me on the phone, but probably not, because he hasn’t had his coffee, which means he’s not totally awake yet.
“I thought you’d be working today,” I say.
“I’m going in late.”
“Where’s Mom?”
“She had to run out.” He pours a big glass of water and drinks all of it. “Have you had breakfast?”
“No.”
“How about crepes?”
I miss Dad making breakfast, but I can’t stick around. “No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”
I try to leave the room.
“Joan,” he says. “Sit down.”
It takes Dad almost twenty minutes to get breakfast ready, because he’s still waking up and also because he takes his crepe-making very seriously. He fills my crepe with Nutella and strawberries that he cuts paper-thin. Then he folds the whole thing up, sprinkles powdered sugar on top, and puts it in front of me. Before he’s had a chance to sit down at the table with his own crepe, I’m already halfway done with mine, that’s how good it is.
“So,” he says, putting down his coffee mug and cutting his crepe with the side of his fork. “Are you going to tell me what you were doing in the studio last night?”
I didn’t plan to, but I fell asleep in the Quiet Room. Dad and Gavin just kept talking and I was too scared to leave the vocal booth. Then somebody said my name and the door pushed open and Dad carried me to my room and covered me with a blanket. When I opened my eyes, my journal was waiting on my nightstand.
“Writing in my journal,” I answer.
“Why down there?”
“I like it there.”
He stops chewing his crepe, which is filled with yucky bananas and some type of gooey cheese. “I know you do.”
He watches the table and I watch too, thinking there might be something to see, but the movie he’s watching is playing only in his head. I know how that is.
“When I was your age,” Dad says, “Uncle Nick and I asked Grandpa to make us a tree house. He wanted us to build it ourselves. He did most of the work, but we had our hands on the tools. We held the wood in place. We felt like we were building it. At the end, we had this thing that we helped make. We could put our hands on it, touch it. You don’t get that from a song. It exists in the ether.”
“What’s the ether?”
“The air. You can’t see it. It’s mostly in our minds. Music involves a lot of faith.”
Memories are that way too. That’s why I like keeping a journal. It makes all my memories feel more real.
Dad’s arm is resting on the table and his Monkey Finger tattoo is staring right at me. “I like it better when you’re home,” I say.
He takes his thumb and wipes Nutella off my cheek. Even after the Nutella is gone, he keeps staring. “I know it’s hard, Joanie. It’s hard for me too. But when you go back to school in September, you won’t even notice I’m gone.”
But that’s not true.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013: I walk in the front door after school and I drop my book bag on the floor and grab an apple out of the fridge and I walk down to the studio and Dad is at his computer. I grab the Gibson off the rack and I start playing and Dad is working and I’m working too and we’re not even talking to each other but it’s perfect.
That school day is pretty much like every other school day, except the songs are different and our clothes are different and sometimes it’s a nectarine in my hand and not an apple and sometimes I’m not even playing music because I’m doing my homework instead, but I’m still down in the studio with Dad.
And now Mom comes through the front door wearing her sunglasses. I look at her hands, thinking she might have gone food shopping or maybe she got her nails painted at the salon. But her hands are empty and her nails look dull and clear. She’s not even carrying her purse, which is weird, and her hair is up in a ponytail, which is even weirder. Mom hates her ears, so she puts her hair up only if she’s really hot, like when she’s exercising. But right now she’s in her normal clothes, not her workout clothes.
“Where were you?” I ask.
“I went for a walk,” Mom says, which for her is even weirder than not having her purse or wearing her hair in a ponytail. “Is Gavin still sleeping?”
“I think so,” Dad says.
Mom opens the studio door and heads downstairs.
Dad and I watch her go and then Dad turns to me in his chair and reaches out his arms. “Come here.” He pulls me in and the hug makes me feel even worse because it only reminds me how happy I am when he’s around. Sometimes I forget things too.
“I’m sorry about the whole Mindy Love thing,” Dad says into my ear. “I’m just trying to do what’s right for you.”
I’m trying to do what’s right for me too. And while I’m doing that, I’m also trying to do what’s right for him.