Word Matter

APRIL

Chapter One

I'm a walking musical.

Yes, you heard me right. A walking musical. Don't let my name fool you—Arpeggio Daniel Jasper Rock. I know, weird first name, but it's the one my parents gave me. Arpeggio is a musical term. It means the notes of a chord played in succession, either ascending or descending. For those of you who aren't musical, a note is the pitch and duration of a sound as it is played or sung.

Music is magical.

With a name like Arpeggio Rock and parents like mine, one would think my singing was a good thing. You know, note and chords and Rock 'n' Roll. Problem is, I'm pitch-challenged, which means I can't carry a tune in my fanny pack let alone my voice. Dad's name is Daniel, so I go by Jasper. I'm not sure when I started singing for the masses in Hollyweird, I mean Hollywood, but I was young. Like really young. I had to be somewhere between three and four because I hadn't really started school yet.

Who's to blame for this affliction? My parents. Specifically my mother. She took me to my first concert in utero ten years ago. Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton. Who does that to a developing baby? Country music is not music. Yes, I know it's music, but really, it's not. Listen, I don't want to argue so let's agree to disagree.

Okay?

Thanks.

Anyway, Mom tells everyone I danced the night away because I couldn't get enough of Kenny and Dolly. But I bet I was just trying to get Mom to leave since I couldn't, you know, walk out on my own. It didn't work, and before long, Mom took me everywhere even after I was born. She stuck to me like two eighth notes in a Ti-Ti.

Oh, sorry.

I'm talking the Kodály Method in music. A quarter note is a Ta, and an eighth is a Ti. Between the two of us, we're a Ti-Ti.

You see, music is in Mom's blood, going back two more generations: singing, composing, playing instruments. The whole gambit. So, of course, that means music is in mine. Just not as finely tuned. And talk about finely tuned.

Dad introduced me to the piano before I could walk. I'd sit on his bony legs and pound away while his extra-long fingers played Mozart and Bach and Beethoven and all those other famous dead guys. Dad also loved Big Band music, notably Glenn Miller. But his favorites were the rock tunes written in the sixties and seventies with several from the eighties and nineties. Anything but disco. He drew the line at disco like I did country. Between him and Mom, my knowledge of music is as vast as the Encyclopedia Britannica is big.

Like Dad, I can hear a song once, and the tune and lyrics are in my memory forever. Unlike me, Dad could sing. I mean really sing. Frank Sinatra, Bobby Darin, Elvis, not to mention almost everyone else, had nothing on Dad. He was the bomb. The best. My idol.

“Why am I such a ramblin' fooo-oool.

Goin' on and singin' and tryin' to be so cooo-oool.

When I'm done a writin'

You'll better understand

Why I'm such a ramblin' fool.”

I know that I'm singing about my ramblin'. And yes, both are flaws, but I need them to keep me sane.

You see, my brain, well, it never stops. Thought-chatter and uninvited emotions ping around my crowded head like they're trying to find a home, but can't. Lucky for me, ramblin' keeps me grounded. Somehow, hopping from one subject to another opens a door, so some of my thoughts can escape. I try not to open that door too far because past escapees—mostly the sad ones—are always trying to sneak back in. Some succeed, but thankfully, most don't. While this method of door guarding isn't perfect, it works. More or less.

So does singing. It helps me let go of all the random feelings bouncing around inside my cranium. This is why I've been singing since I could form words. Before that, I operaed. That's not a word, but that's what I did. I'd belt out operas as best as I could, sounding more like a screeching owl than like Luciano Pavarotti or Beverly Sills. Friends of my parents didn't mind. They liked me then and still do because they say “I'm adorable.”

Everyone knows adorable only goes so far, and a ten-year-old is definitely pushing that limit. It's a good thing I don't have to rely on being adorable.

How, you ask?

Well, people say I'm smart. Brilliant even.

They're right.

My IQ is in the genius range. Not quite Albert Einstein or Stephen Hawking, but pretty darn close. Once, someone told me I'm an idiot savant. Though honestly, they have no idea what that meant. I informed them that it wasn't nice to call anyone an idiot. Then I explained that Autistic Savant was the correct term, without clarifying that I'm neither affected by autism or a savant, which is a sage or learned person. I'm a prodigy – just one of those freaky-smarty-smart people, created by their parents for who knows what reason. What I lack in pitch, I more than make up in the brains department.

Truthfully, I don't mind being super-smart. It's kind of nice to know all the answers. I started reading when I was two. Impressive, I know, since most kids don't learn until they go to school. I don't want to brag, but in the fall, I'm going to be the only eleven-year-old senior in high school. This would be easier if the kids at school could see past my age and know-it-allness, not to mention, my breaking out in song when provoked.

There are times, more and more often, where I just want to be a normal kid at a normal school with a normal friend. I'm tired of kids, really people in general, who hang with me because my parents are famous. Or because I'm beyond smart. I want to find a friend who likes me for me, weirdness and all. I'm just not sure the average person is ready for Jasper Rock. Sometimes, I'm not ready for me.

Chapter Two

My favorite book is called Gray's Anatomy.

My second favorite book is Atlas of the Human Body. It's sitting on my bed, propped open to the glossy pictures of some of the internal organs in the human body. I ignore the gallbladder and trace the outline of the pancreas, which hides behind the stomach. The pancreas plays a crucial role in converting food into fuel. It also is a great place for cancer to hide undetected.

If there's anything you want to know about the human body, which is a masterpiece like Beethoven's 5th Symphony, you'll find it in these two books. You see, I have dreams. Big dreams. I plan to cure Cancer or Alzheimer or Muscular Dystrophy or maybe all of them. But before I get to curing anything, I plan to do two things. And I have fifteenish months to do both.

First, since Dad's gone, I have to find someone for Mom. I know it's a bit early to be thinking about this, but she's not growing younger like Benjamin Button, and I'm only getting older. Mom shouldn't be alone when I finally traipse off to medical school. I'm leaning toward Stanford in Northern California. It's a short plane ride away.

Second, I still want to sing on stage in a play or a concert for an audience. Any real audience. Dad and I planned to do this together, maybe with Mom, but several days ago, death got in the way. Now, it'll probably never happen cause of the whole not being able to carry a tune thing, and Mom stopped performing when I was born. I'm hoping the reason I randomly break out in song will help me achieve both of my goals. The right song with the right words makes up for a lot.

Songs are magical.

Remember how I said music was in my blood because of Dad and Mom and her ancestors? Well, music is literally in my blood. The interplay of the melody, the harmony, and the rhythm help me choose what song to sing. This isn't a superpower. No. It's just a fact. One that courses through me like oxygen flows through the body inside red blood cells. Mom and Dad never felt music the way I do, but they didn't have two beyond amazing musical parents like I do. Sometimes the music is so loud I dance. I'm fine with that. While I sound like a wounded bear when I sing, I've got sweet moves like Michael Jackson. We both slide and glide and spin to the beat of our own brains. Our own worlds.

You know, I met him once. A few months before I turned two, I went to the Grammy Awards with my parents. They had to muzzle me to keep me from drowning out Mr. Jackson when he performed, but after the show at a party in the neighborhood, he and I sang and moon-walked up a storm. That's what most people would call the best night ever, but for me, it was the norm. At least it was until last month when Dad was diagnosed with stage four cancer.

Sometimes, Dad called me the Word Doctor. If only I were a doctor, I could've stopped him from dying. Or given him more than five weeks to live.

After the diagnosis, our lives changed big time.

Yeah. I know. How could they not?

It's been worse for Mom.

Oh, she slipped on her strong and steady mask during Dad's illness, but after he died, she's barely gotten dressed. Neither have I, until today when I finally came up with the perfect words to the perfect song. Dad knew Bill Withers, so I'm sure Mr. Withers wouldn't mind that I changed the words before I sing them to Mom.

Like I said, words matter.

I pull on jeans and a T-shirt. Then with bare feet, I pad down the hallway with peach-colored walls and artwork inherited from the grandparents I've never met or don't remember. Dad's parents died when he was in his twenties. A car accident. Mom's dad passed away when she was thirty-three and her mother, Grams, died the year I turned two.

Now, it's just Mom and me.

The door to my parent's bedroom is open. I knock and step inside. Mom is in bed under Gram's handmade double-wedding-ring quilt. It was a gift for Mom and Dad's first anniversary. Mom is curled up on her side, with her back to me. She's been in bed a lot the last two days. Dad's sitting on her nightstand. Or his urn is. Mom, wearing her pajamas and a coat, picked him up from the funeral home this morning.

If Dad could still talk, he would've told her to get up and hug me. I took that as my cue. I mean, who doesn't love Mr. Withers' song Lean on Me?

“There will be days that we live in pain

We live in sadness

Mom since you are smart

Please don't forget life also bring gladness

Turn to me, if you feel weak

For I'm your child

I'll keep you upright

Soon it will be me

Who's going to need

A person to turn to.”

Mom rolls over and pushes the hair off her face. Her eyes are puffy and red. I lean down and kissed Mom on the cheek. The blue pillow she hugs smells like Dad. I always gave him a bottle of Jovan Musk for Christmas. I take in another lungful of Dad's aftershave and continue.

“Mom push back your fear

I've got some strength for you to use

I can not help you if you don't ask

This will not do

Shout for me Mother, I'll give you a hug

It's okay to need an embrace

I'll shout for you mother, when I need a hug

It's okay to need an embrace.”

I throw out my arms, lift my face to the ceiling, and tapping my right foot, finish.

“Turn to you, when I feel weak

You are my mother

You'll keep me upright

Now it's up to us

to see that we have

each other to turn to

We should shout for each other, when we need support

We'll then have each other to turn to

We'll work to fix the issue, together we will

Because we'll have each other to turn to

To turn to

To turn to.”

My song may not have flowed perfectly or sounded great, but there are tears in Mom's eyes again. She is also smiling. She lifts the quilt, and I crawl under and into the best double-wedding-ring hug ever.

Words always matter.

I hug Mom back.

As I lay in her arms, she sings to me, and I suspect Dad, the original version of Lean Me. She sounds like an angel, and I knew, in time, that we'd be okay.