Silence (12 page)

It’s his speech.

His words are slowed down. Stretched out. That’s why they’re easier to read on his lips.

The thought shames me and causes an ache deep in the pit of my stomach. That the thing which causes him so much pain would be the key to our connection. To my understanding. Does he know? How does it make him feel?

Mom calls a stop to our work at lunchtime, and we eat peanut butter and jelly at the table in the garden. It is a beautiful day, and I’m happy to have this time with my mom. It occurs to me that we don’t usually have much time alone together. With Emerson and me only a year apart, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t have to share my mom.

“I like this day,” I tell her.

She smiles and says something. I imagine it’s, “Me, too.”

When we finish lunch, Mom decides to work in her vegetable garden. Emerson is still at dance class. I check my phone messages. Another one from Lily.

Can I come by tomorrow? 2 talk 2 u? I am très bereft without u. Please.

I debate whether to respond. I think about the past year we’ve been friends. How knowing her made being at a new school bearable. How I let her drama and excitement spice up my own quiet life. I thought she would be my best friend forever. That nothing could come between us. Would she feel the same about me if I’d hurt her? Even if our friendship will never ever be the same again, I can at least try. I owe her that.

Maybe tomorrow after church. Text me first.

I send it. I breathe. And I realize that a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Maybe letting Lily back into my life is something I need to do. Something that I need to heal.

Tomorrow, I am going to church with my mom in the morning. After that, if Lily wants to come over and be friends, well, I will let her. The sooner I get back to my old life, the better.

That decided, I look at the rest of my messages. One from my dad wanting to know how I am and reminding me about his firm’s annual picnic next Saturday. I write back.

I’m better. Thanks for checking. See u Saturday. XO

And then a message from Hayden.

I’ll be there at 2:30. Wear jeans and sneakers. H

I check the time—1:00. For the next hour, I read
Hamlet
then go to my room to exchange my sweats and T-shirt for jeans and a plaid shirt. Then I take out my ponytail and brush what is left of my hair smooth. I grab my sneakers and head for the front step. Mom has already left to pick up Emerson. She knows I am going out with Hayden and that I will be home by dinner.

At 2:30, I watch the indigo truck pull up in front of my house. I stand and meet Hayden at the bottom of the front steps. My earlier thoughts still run through me, causing me to twist my fingers around one another like knots.

Hayden wears a baseball cap, a T-shirt, and khaki shorts. He said I am helping him, but I have no idea how. So I don’t know exactly what to do and am a little shy today. I duck my head when he looks at me and only catch a glimpse of his smile.

When I raise my eyes to his face, he is waiting for me. He tilts his head to the side, regarding me with a serious expression. As though he wants to tell me something. Something really important. I hold my breath.

And then the moment passes. He must have changed his mind. I can see it in his change of expression, as if he drew the blinds closed. I can no longer see inside.

“Ready for some fun?” he says instead.

“Sounds good,” I answer.

Then he takes off his cap and puts it on my head. He nods. “
Now
you’re ready.”

Hayden opens the passenger door, and I climb into the truck.

As soon as he is in the driver’s seat, I ask, “What do you have planned for today?” I don’t expect him to answer, but I have to ask anyway.

He turns to me and gives me a lopsided grin. “Helping others. How does that sound?”

“I think it sounds perfect,” I tell him.

The drive is really short. At the corner, Hayden pulls into the parking lot for the elementary school. The lot is full of cars and people. The parents and students have made an assembly line to soap up people’s cars—a car wash. Hayden parks on the side, and we get out.

“What is this for?” I ask.

“A student here who has leukemia. The family needs funds for her treatment. The car wash is to raise money to help them.”

I think of my rainbow girl at the hospital. Her courage. This student’s courage. They inspire me. And I want to help. I tell Hayden.

He nods. “I thought you would. Let’s go.”

Together, Hayden and I join the assembly line. He helps with the drying. I help with soaping the cars. I hold a giant wet sponge in my hands. When cars come by, I dip the sponge into my bucket and scrub away.

Before long, I am soaking wet, but I don’t care. I’m here to help—and I’m happy to do it. Hayden waves at me. I wave back and notice wryly that he doesn’t have a drop of water anywhere. So when he comes by to see how I am doing, I let him know with a quick splash of some soapy water.

“Much better,” I say. He laughs and splashes me back. We are both drenched—and laughing.

I reach out to squeeze the sponge onto his shirt, but Hayden stops me with a touch on my wrist. He moves closer to try to turn the sponge around. His arm is around me. His eyes are the exact color of the sapphire paint. So deep. There is a whole world to see in his eyes. Suddenly, we aren’t laughing. He is so close. If I lean forward, I will meet his mouth with mine. But I don’t. I am dizzy with the nearness of him. I want him to kiss me.

He doesn’t. He smiles tightly and takes a step back. Releases my hand. Releasing me. Cool air tingles my wet skin. Or is it the coolness of rejection?

Hayden gestures to a bin of sodas. I force myself to breathe in and out. I follow him. I choose a lemon-lime; Hayden takes a bottle of water. We sit side by side on the swings in the playground.

“How much money do they need to raise?” I ask. I can’t stop thinking about the little rainbow girl.

“Thousands,” he tells me. “There’s a walk next week to raise more.”

“I can walk,” I say. “Will you take me?”

Suddenly, Hayden’s eyes fill with a light so bright I almost have to look away. Then, just as quickly, it is gone—he looks away, embarrassed. “Of course,” he says.

I use my feet to push myself slowly back and forth while I sip my soda. “You never talk about yourself,” I say. Watching him.

Hayden shrugs as if he isn’t important. But he is. To me.

“What do you want to know?”

Everything
, I want to say.
I want to have a book about you that I can read over and over. Memorize.

But instead, I shrug, too. “Do you live with your parents?”

“My grandfather,” he answers. There is something in that moment. A flicker of something. So quick, like a flash of lightning—there and gone. But the impression is left in his eyes. A jagged streak of pain.

I pry further. “No brothers or sisters?”

He shakes his head, mouth tight as if he has to keep it from saying more. About things he doesn’t want to share.

I am sorry for him then. I can’t imagine life without Emerson. Even when she drives me crazy, frustrates me or embarrasses me, she is still so much a part of me, like my right arm.

“It is lonely,” he responds. As though he can read my thoughts. It is disconcerting—having him read my mind. I wonder if he has been able to tell what I am thinking about him. The thought brings heat to my cheeks. I imagine they are flaming red.

“Are you and Emerson close?” he asks.

My answer is immediate. I nod. “We’ve been through a lot together.”

He looks surprised. I am reminded of his initial criticism of me. That nothing bad had ever happened to me, so I couldn’t imagine myself in a different way.

“My parents are divorced. My mom moved us here last year.” I think of my first day at Richmond. “We didn’t know anyone.” And we didn’t want to move here. I don’t tell him that part.

Hayden’s expression changes; he didn’t know. “That must have been hard for you,” he says. “I thought—you just looked like everything came so easy for you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” It doesn’t matter anymore.

Then he broaches a difficult subject. “Do you see your dad?”

I shrug. “When he schedules us in. Emerson sees him more than I do.” I take a deep breath. “He really doesn’t know me at all.” It hurts to say it. Even though I can’t hear the words, I know they are out there.

Hayden shakes his head. A muscle tenses in his cheek. “I don’t understand how parents can just walk away like that. If I were your dad, I would want to spend as much time with you as I could. Nothing would be more important than being with you.”

His eyes blaze with passion. I can almost hear the intensity of his tone. My heart beats faster under the heat of his gaze.

And I know he means it as a criticism of my father, but also as a compliment of me.

“Thanks,” I tell him. He meets my smile with one of his own. Then he shares something with me.

“My grandmother passed away two years ago. It’s just me and my grandfather now.”

I picture him at a table, eating dinner with his grandfather. It does seem lonely. I catch Hayden watching me. And again, I have the sense that he is reading my mind.

“I’d like to meet him,” I say.

“He wants to meet you, too.” He is teasing me, of course. His grandfather can’t possibly want to meet me. But the thought gives me courage. Enough to say the words I have wanted to say all day.

“Hayden?”

He looks over and waits for me to speak.

“These days with you—they’ve meant everything to me.”

Hayden’s gaze takes me in. Holds me. Then he smiles. And it’s the way it always is when he smiles at me like that—like the sun is shining on me.

“I’ll never forget one moment,” he says.

We sit like that for a while. Just being together. And then we go back to help.

Postcards from the past

— 
Hayden
 —

About time you showed up,” my grandfather calls the moment I open the screen door. “I’m all ready for you.”

“G-good, ’cause I’m-m st-starv-ing,” I say.

My grandfather is standing at the kitchen counter, pizza fixings neatly laid out in front of him. He never reacts to my stutter. He just waits for me to finish like he has all the time in the world. It must be the artist in him. He sees the world in terms of moments. Always reminds me that life is a journey, not a race. His gray hair is neatly combed back from his lined face, and his blue eyes watch me, sharp as ever. Practicing yoga three times a week and eating vegetarian has made him look fifty instead of sixty-five.

“How was Stella today?” he asks.

“B-better, I th-think.” I have shared details about Stella’s accident, her injury and her recovery. I have not shared my feelings about her, but I think he knows. I can see it in his eyes, and I can hear it in the lilt in his voice when he asks about Stella. As though he is happy about me seeing her. Happy that I have a friend.

I drop my backpack on the kitchen floor. Wash my hands at the sink.

Gramps has already made fresh dough. He is pressing a ball into a flat circle. I watch his fingers work. Deft fingers that can sculpt a lump of clay into an animal bursting with life. Within moments, he has made a perfectly shaped pizza crust.

“You’re up,” he announces, as though I am seven and up to bat.

I take over and gently brush the dough with olive oil. Then add a spoonful of tomato sauce. I use the spoon to spread the sauce across the surface of the dough, swirling it in a circular motion. The dough turns from ivory to red. Next, I sprinkle cheese across the sauce. Then I decorate it with olives, peppers, mushrooms, and artichoke hearts. I create a pattern so that the entire pizza is symmetrical.

“G-good to g-go,” I say.

Gramps lifts the pizza stone and carries it to the hot oven while I pour myself a glass of cold milk.

“This one’s a beauty,” Gramps gushes. He always praises. Never criticizes. “Wish Bessie could be here to see this one.”

Even though my grandmother passed away two years ago, Gramps still refers to her as though she has just stepped out to run an errand and will be right back. He even talks to her in his sleep. I hear him sometimes. Having full conversations. They were married for forty-two years. Only cancer separated them.

She was so different from my mother, their daughter. We never talk about my mother. Not a word. It’s like an unspoken agreement between us. My grandmother used to speak about her, though. She wanted me to forgive my mother for her mistakes. She didn’t want me to carry anger and resentment. She said it would make me bitter, full of rage. Grandma said my mother was flawed and that she wasn’t meant to be a parent. But she loved me.

If that’s love, then I want none of it. Love brings you nothing but pain. And a feeling of emptiness when you get left behind. Because when my grandparents brought me here, that’s exactly what she did. Left me behind. Traveled the world. She came and visited a few times. Brought me T-shirts from exotic destinations. They were always in the wrong size, like she didn’t remember her own son’s age.

The last time I saw her was just after my twelfth birthday. She showed up with a wooden flute and a boyfriend she’d picked up in Thailand. I haven’t seen her since. She stopped sending postcards about two years ago. I don’t know if my grandfather hears from her, or if he even knows where she is.

I haven’t forgiven her. And I never will.

15

— 
Stella
 —

Sunday morning.

I pull on shorts and a T-shirt and head to the kitchen. I am ravenous. I take out eggs and flour and milk. By the time Emerson comes into the kitchen, I am already flipping pancakes. Emerson finds chocolate chips, and we make little faces on each one. Then Mom comes into the kitchen and adds whipped cream. We sit down to eat our little clown pancakes. Emerson makes funny faces, and we all laugh together. And it feels like it used to—maybe even better than it used to.