Silence (8 page)

The cold yogurt tastes good on my throat, soothing the bee stings. I feel it hit my empty stomach like a heavy weight. It settles in. Peach and vanilla. Emerson’s favorite. I wonder if he realizes, if he knows that I would choose chocolate.

Dad has a yellow pad in his hands. He writes a note.

How are you doing?

I answer, “Peachy.” Just like the yogurt.

Does anything hurt?

“My head
.
”
And my heart.
But I don’t add that part.

You’ll be back to normal before you know it.

He wants that to be true; I can tell. Not just for me. I understand that now. Because I’ve noticed that he isn’t looking at me at all. Not really. Not at my scarred head and bruised face. Not my defective ears. He can’t deal with the damaged me. I’m not a problem he can fix. Suddenly, I don’t want to talk to him anymore.

“I’m really tired,” I say. “Thanks for coming.”

A look of relief passes over his face. And then, just as quickly, he covers it with another stiff smile. He leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

I watch him leave. Seeing my dad leave always makes me sad. I used to think he was my hero. But after what he did to my mom—to us—it can never be like that again. Now he’s a hero to his new kid, I guess. I think he visits out of obligation, to prove to himself that he’s not such a bad guy. That just because he divorced my mom, he didn’t divorce us.

He might be able to lie to himself like that, but I know better now.

I turn onto my side and face the window. I wonder if I will ever be happy again. I think of the little rainbow girl in the hospital. Happiness danced in the air around her. Surrounding her with a joy for life. I want to be like her. Instead, I am treading water, trying desperately to stay above the depths of despair threatening to pull me under. Threatening to drown me in sorrow and self-pity forever.

I am struggling so hard. And I know, even if I don’t want to admit it, that right now, I am losing the battle.

A lone tear slips down my cheek. Lodges itself between my skin and the pillow. I feel the dampness soak into the pale blue cotton. I keep the other tears inside, not letting them fall. One tear is enough. If I let them out one at a time, maybe I won’t drown.

The freedom in honesty

— 
Hayden
 —

I know the instant she sends the text. I look at my phone and wait for it. I can almost hear her clear deep voice speaking the single word to me: “Afraid.”

I waited to hear back from her, second-guessing my text. Maybe I didn’t say enough. I wondered why she hadn’t responded.

But now she has. I stare at her message, thinking of the subtext beneath the single word.
Afraid.
I think of her sitting alone in silence. Feeling lonely, lost.

I want to tell her that she isn’t alone, that I am here for her. But I don’t want to scare her away, not when she is already afraid. Not when she is brave enough to be honest with me. So I write back, carefully. As if she is the tawny cat basking in the sun on our porch.

For weeks, the cat watched me, and I watched her, knowing that one day, she would learn to trust me. Every day, I sat on the porch. I played my guitar, pretending not to notice her. And every day, the cat moved closer and closer. Until one day, I found her lying in a sliver of sunlight right next to me. Since that day, she has waited for my truck to pull into the driveway after school. As soon as I step onto the porch, she takes her spot. The streak of faded sunlight across the dusty porch calls to her. Just as Stella calls to me.

We are all afraid,
I text back.
Some more than others. It takes courage to admit it.

I hit
send
before I change my mind. I am far more eloquent in writing than in person. I feel more like myself—somehow—when no one can hear my voice.

I pick up my guitar, strum softly. The cat stretches, moves closer. Her litter of kittens settles around her, lulled by the music. Like the cat, I bask in sunlight once again.

Stella will write me back, and then I will ask how soon I can see her again.

DAYS

— 
Stella
 —

When I wake up in the morning, I am still tired. My eyes are swollen and achy. My head pounds. I roll onto my side. But just before I close my eyes once more, I see it.

A new text message.

We are all afraid. Some more than others. It takes courage to admit it.

A current of excitement runs through me. He isn’t trying to make me feel better—he isn’t pretending. It feels so good to talk to someone. Through the shadowed aches and deep pain inside me it feels like a river flowing through a forbidden forest. Daring to enter the darkness.

I heard you call my name. Why?
Did he know I would fall into the water? Hit my head? I send it. And I wait.

I had a feeling, like when you know it’s going to rain. You can smell it in the air, feel the weight of the clouds press down. It was like that. I just knew.

A feeling. A premonition.

Does that happen often?

I don’t wait long for his answer.

Sometimes. With you, it happens a lot.

A tingle runs through my stomach. What else does he have premonitions about? I want to ask, but I resist.

I stare at the phone, deciding whether to write back. Then, this:

Are you coming back to school?

Good question. I answer honestly.

Maybe next week.

Send
.

His answer comes so fast, I feel like he’s sitting next to me.
Are you ready to go back?

I just want to feel normal.
Something about talking like this is freeing. I can be myself because he can’t see me.

I don’t know how I expect Hayden to respond. Maybe it doesn’t even matter. This is all like a game. A game that doesn’t mean anything, except that while I’m playing, I don’t want to disappear.

What is that? Normal?

I try to explain.
The way I was before.

Before the accident. Before everything changed. Before.

A long moment goes by without a response. He doesn’t write back. We both know I’m not the way I was. That girl is dead.

Looks like I have to save you again.

I remember his arms around me. Holding me close. Saving me. I write back.
Save me? From what?

I wait for his answer.

From yourself.

That’s the last message he sends. I keep checking. It breaks up the monotony of my geometry and history homework.

Doing homework is a better torture than sleeping. It makes me feel normal. I can still read chapters and take notes. Still make flash cards. Still research online. Normal.

I am reading about the Industrial Revolution when I glance at my phone again. I have a message.

Still pretending?

Pretending? I write back.
I’m not pretending.

I’m not.

He responds immediately.
Ok. If you say so.

What is that supposed to mean? I respond with a question mark.

His reply comes quickly.
I bet nothing bad has ever happened to you before.

He is so wrong.

You don’t know anything
, I type.

Tears burn my eyes. This time, I can’t hold them back. He thinks I am some Princess of Perfection. He has no idea what my life has been like.

How my family shattered into pieces, slicing all of us, leaving wounds that will never truly heal. Hayden doesn’t know a thing about that. He doesn’t know me. If I have been pretending, it has been that he is some hero on a white horse, riding in to save me from my fate.

But no one can save me. I see that now. Even through the haze of tears.

I leave my homework and find Emerson. We watch subtitled reality television. We sit on the sofa and share a bowl of sliced bananas. I know Emerson would rather be having our usual—popcorn doused with salt, but the salt and the popcorn would hurt my throat. So we both have bananas instead. I feel better when I am with Emerson. She treats me as she always has. No different.

Later I get another text from Hayden.

I think I know what your problem is.

I angrily reply.
You don’t know me at all.

What if I do? Let’s make a bet—and if I’m right, you have to say yes.

A bet for what?

If you lose, you’ll go somewhere with me.

Do I want to go somewhere with him? Like this? Probably not. But I can’t resist the idea of learning what he thinks is wrong with me. I want to see if he’s right. Somehow, he has tapped into my competitive streak—the one thing that can overcome my pity party. And that’s what makes me answer.
Ok.

You can’t imagine how to be a different you.

I read it over three times to be sure. It’s not a very nice thing to say to someone.
What makes you say that?
I write it as a defense, and I know it. He’s onto me. Someone I barely know. He knows my secret.

And I don’t like that. Another text comes in.

I see you.

And another.

Am I right? Be honest.

He is. He is right.

I hate to admit it. But he does see me.

And I felt that right away the first time I saw him.

Maybe,
I say.

See you tomorrow at 2.

Seeing the unseen

— 
Hayden
 —

I like working in the nursery, watering plants and helping them grow. I think about Stella. Maybe I can help her too.

I took a big chance calling her out. It was risky, and I might have lost her right then. She might never have wanted to see me again. But she is depressed. I can sense it. I want to help her, help her to be happy.

Maybe that is the reason I was at the party that night. Maybe that is the reason we are connected. Because I can help her. Because I can see what no one else can. Being silent for so long left me as an observer of life rather than a participant. So I see things, know things. Sometimes before they happen.

I see Stella, and I know what is happening to her. The silence is closing her in, and she is giving in to it—drifting into the darkness. I can help her. I can bring her out of the darkness. But to do that, I have to be honest with her—and she has to be honest with herself.

She may never hear again.

She needs to learn that there is more to life than what she has always thought. There is a world without sound. I want to show her all of the things she can still do. All of the things that make life worth living.

I turn off the hose and coil it back into its holder. I turn the gardenias so their blooms face out. I line up the containers of basil, oregano, and thyme. Another thing I like about working at the nursery: you don’t have to talk to plants. You just have to water them and give them sun.

“Hayden, give me a hand with those empty flats, will you?” my boss, Jeremiah, calls from the counter.

“N-n-o pro-blem.” I cringe at my voice. I hate it. The stutter and stammer. It sounds like it doesn’t want to come out—and for eight years, it didn’t.

From seven to fifteen, I was silent. After eight years, my voice forgot how to work. Now, every time I hear myself speak, I am reminded of the silence, and the reason for the silence. It takes me right back there, to the place I want to forget. I call back the words as they come out, pulling and pushing them at the same time.

That is why my voice sounds like a train chugging up a hill, pulling and pushing. Never knowing if it will ever reach its destination.

I collect the empty flats. Stack them neatly, fitting each one into another. I enjoy the mindless work. I carry the pile to Jeremiah. He points to a spot near the door.

“That’s great. Just leave ’em there.”

I set the flats down.

“Can you give the indoor plants a drink before you go?” Jeremiah asks.

“Sure th-ing,” I tell him. I step into the shaded part of the nursery. The indoor plants are neatly arranged in circles on a large table. In the middle is a giant fern. I smile at my display, which is much better than the one Jeremiah had before—the plants in complete disarray. Now they look like they belong.

I fill a giant blue watering can from the nearby faucet. Then I give each of the plants a long drink. I watch as the clear stream pours out of the neck of the can, disappearing into the shiny green leaves.

If I’d had a friend when I needed help, if I hadn’t been so alone, maybe things would have been different. Maybe.

I think of Stella’s last text message.
Maybe.

I move around the circle, watering each of the plants. A ray of golden sunshine trickles through the awning. I watch as it showers light on the leaves of the giant fern, and I add water to it. I can almost see the leaves stretching before me, reaching to the sky.

I think of Stella again. Maybe she needs a little sun and water. Maybe that will help her reach out.

And that’s when I know exactly what we will do tomorrow.

SIGNS

— 
Stella
 —

It’s 1:45. I’m standing in front of my bathroom mirror.

Half of my head is shaved. A bandage is on one side of my head. My eyes are still sunken, the bruises faded to a pale green. Add that to my inability to stand without getting dizzy, and I’m not exactly looking my best.

But I made a bargain, and I am going to keep my word.

So, looking in the mirror, I make a decision. I won’t worry about how I look. There’s absolutely nothing I can do about it anyway. The decision is surprisingly freeing. I’m letting go of what is on the outside. Letting go of what is out of my control.