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.”