Page 90 of His Sound
I stay focused on the package. Themauditthing won’t open. I start breathing heavily as I try to lift the edges with my too-short nails. I’m about ready to start swearing in front of my mother when I feel her hand on my arm.
“Jean-Paul.” Her voice is soft but firm. She takes the package out of my hand and puts it back down on the counter, then pats my sleeve a few times. “Is it...is it getting bad again?”
I go still for a second, and then I shake her hand off my arm.
“Itis called ADHD,Maman. Why can’t we call it that? Why is that a bad word?” I start pacing the room, looking anywhere but at her. “Why am I hiding it? My whole life, that’s what you told me I had to do, but why wasn’t there another option? Why didn’t we try anything else? It obviously wasn’t the best solution. I barely passed high school,Maman! And forget college. That was just another thing I was too stupid to do. Do you know howbadthat made me feel?”
She doesn’t offer a reply, and I plow right on, hardly giving her time to come up with one.
“No, of course you don’t! I’m just silly little Jean-Paul,le bébé, the funny one, the jokester, the one who doesn’t take anything seriously. Of course I didn’t take anything seriously! Do you know much it would have hurt if I had? If I let myselfcareabout everything I couldn’t do?”
I hear a sniff. I force myself to ignore the fact that she’s probably crying right now. I’m turned away from her, hand braced against the kitchen island to keep me from moving around anymore.
“And then theone timeI did something I was proud of, you andPapaignored it. Do you even realize howimpossibleit is for a band to succeed like mine has?Maman, it’s practically a miracle, and I helped make it happen, and you don’t even care. It doesn’t count. It’s not enough. I’m not enough. Is that why you made me hideitall those years? Were you ashamed?”
I hear her gasp when my fist slams down on the granite. I finally turn and see her with her hands pressed over her mouth, eyes wide with horror. Her shoulders are shaking. She suddenly looks so small.
“Maman...”
She shakes her head, blinking back tears, and rushes out of the room.
“Maman!”
I follow her to the kitchen’s entrance, but I stop there and watch her flee up the stairs. I hear the bedroom door open and close. I want to feel regret, but I’m still buzzing with too much anger. I walk back into the kitchen, grab a pair scissors, and cut the screw package to shreds, letting all the little pieces inside scatter onto the island.
I’m still tearing up cardboard whenMamanthunders down the stairs and into the kitchen. She slams a plain blue binder down on the island and takes a step back.
“Regarde,” she orders. “Look.”
I hesitate before reaching for the binder. I flip to the cover open, and at first, I don’t understand what I’m looking at. It’s only after I’ve scanned through a few pages that the realization hits.
The binder is filled with articles about Sherbrooke Station: newspaper clippings with my name traced in yellow highlighter, glossy magazine photos of me and the guys struggling to look serious, printouts of online music charts with our singles in various spots on the top ten lists. There’s even some tour media and posters from old shows tucked away in the binder’s pages. It’s so full of stuff the cover doesn’t even lie flat when I finally let it fall closed.
“Maman,you—you did this?”
I look up and see she’s got her hands pressed over her mouth again, new tears making her eyes look extra bright in the kitchen lighting. She shakes her head.
“Not me,” she whispers from behind her fingers. “Ton papa.”
Now I’m the one shaking my head. “I don’t—That doesn’t—What?”
“Every night,”Mamanmurmurs, “he gets on his computer to see what your band is doing. He started that book before you even made your first CD. He is so proud of you, Jean-Paul.”
I don’t realize I’ve been backing away until I knock against the sink. I feel like I’m in an alternate universe right now, like I’m stuck in a dream where everything looks familiar but not quite right. The angles are off. The proportions are wrong.
“No, he isn’t,” I say shakily. “He’s not. He never has been.”
“Come with me.”
She stretches her hand out towards me. I don’t take it.
“Jean-Paul, please,” she begs. “Come sit down with me. There are...There are some things I want to say to you.”
I let her pull me into the living room, where we sit side by side on one of the creased leather couches. I’m the first kid back for Christmas this year, and withPapaaway at work, the house is silent enough for me to hear the pot on the stove bubbling in the next room.
Mamandraws in a breath. “We made some mistakes, your father and I, but we always did what we thought was best for you at the time. You have to understand that fifteen years ago, things weren’t like what they are today. People didn’t talk about disabilities as much. It was starting to change, but still, humans can be so cruel to each other, especially children. When you were diagnosed, we just...We wanted you to have as normal of a life as possible. We thought that was the best thing we could give you.”
She stops to dab at her eyes with her sleeve. I feel like this couch is a boat, and everything around us has become a wild and raging sea. Nothing is solid anymore.
