The Language of Silence

by Tiffany Truitt

  Ed freezes. His hand still holds the doorknob.

  “What are you talking about?” I whisper. I know exactly what she’s talking about, but I can’t comprehend that a mother could feel such things, even a mother like mine. It is moments like these I think the whole world could end, and we would deserve it.

  My mother uses the banister to pull herself from off the floor. I don’t offer to help her. Taking a step back from her, I bite the inside of my cheek.

  “Your father blamed me. I know he did. As if I somehow allowed him to be…”

  “Shut the hell up.”

  I turn to see Ed glaring at my mother. I barely heard him say the words. His face is red. His hand moves from the doorknob and it’s shaking.

  “Like I could control him,” my mother continues, ignoring both Ed and me. She doesn’t care who she tells. She just has to tell someone that she shouldn’t be blamed for who Tristan was.

  “You didn’t even know him,” I charge, a hardness slipping out between my words.

  “Stop being so dramatic, Brett,” she yells, pointing her finger into my face. “Everyone knew what he was, and it made your father sick. He always blamed me. Told me I made him into that—”

  “Stop!” I beg.

  “I could see it every time I touched your father,” she continues. “I would reach for him and he would cringe. Like it was some disease I gave Tristan. I really think your father thought I encouraged it. I was his mother. You really think any mother wants that for her son?”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “You weren’t his mother. You were just the thing that gave birth to him. You were never a mother.”

  She slaps me. I almost want to laugh. It’s in this moment I see my mother for who she really is. I see how much she has always resented having children. I see how much she blames us for her pathetic life.

  But I can’t laugh. I caress my cheek with my fingers.

  “You don’t even miss him,” I say softly. It’s the most painful thing I have said in my entire life. She throws up her hands in an attempt to dismiss my statement, and begins to walk back to the kitchen. She probably wants another gin and tonic.

  But I can’t let her leave. I still have to protect him.

  “No,” I shout. I can’t remember the last time I yelled at anyone, at least not like this. “I’m not done with you!” I follow her into the kitchen. I can sense Ed following behind us. Somewhere in the back of my head, I hear my guidance counselor’s speech on the different stages of grief. I wonder what stage telling off your mother belongs to.

  She pretends to ignore me and grabs a glass. I snatch the glass from her hand and throw it against the wall. “You think because you know one thing about Tristan, one little thing, that you know him? You never knew him. And you don’t know me. And as for your husband, you don’t have a clue. You’re merely a girl he had sex with and got pregnant. But I know you. I know you have struggled with a way to make yourself feel better about hating your children since the day they were born.”

  She falls back against the counter.

  “How come you didn’t ask more questions, Mom? Just because you’re a drunk doesn’t mean he was. How come you didn’t ask more questions?”

  “Brett.” His voice stops me. I feel his hand wrap gently around my wrist. He’s touching me. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, tugging on my arm.

  I look up at him, and I want to cry.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “No. But let’s go anyway.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ed:

  I can’t stop myself from glancing over at Brett as I drive. She keeps her eyes on the passing scenery. She bites on her lip. One hand is trapped under her knee while the other rests gently against the window—halfway between wanting to be anywhere but in this car with me and knowing she has nowhere else to go.

  As we pass the McDonalds, I know we are in my world. Streets away from the gilded mansion she is used to living in. When Tristan was alive, we all pretended such boundaries didn’t exist. Now that he’s gone, it feels like it’s impossible to pretend anymore. We come from different worlds. And while I am having my fun fucking around in hers, I won’t be able to stay. Nothing is permanent except the lines that separate her place and mine. I’m being reckless bringing her into my world, testing my self-restraint.

  Am I strong enough?

  What the hell am I doing?

  It was stupid to ask her to leave with me.

  But I couldn’t leave without her. The minute her mom started talking about Tristan, the moment she almost spoke a truth she didn’t understand, I wanted to rush Brett from that house. I wanted to protect her.

  As her mother threatened to destroy Brett with her venomous, idiotic words, I had to protect her. But in that moment of stupidity, I forgot one important thing—the one thing I had to protect her from the most was me.

  And now I am bringing her over to my house so she can crash.

  It’s not that I don’t care for Brett. God. I wish. I care for her too much. But I’m not ready to be anyone’s boyfriend, or whatever we would be. I don’t care if I hurt girls like Georgina or Evelyn, but I know what I could do to Brett would be so much worse than some silly high school breakup.

  She knows it too.

  We’ve always known it.

  As we pull into the driveway, she still says nothing. I turn the car off and we both sit silently. She leans back against the seat, closing her eyes. I try to control the desire to brush her bangs from her forehead. She pulls her legs to her chest and shifts, burying her head into her knees. I clutch my hands tightly around the steering wheel.

  I want to touch her so badly.

  “Why did you bring me here?” I hear her muffled voice ask.

  “Because.” I have no other answer for her.

  She turns her head to the side, still resting against her knees, looking at me. I know she will slowly decipher me. If I let her, she’ll have me all figured out.

  I can’t help myself. The force of my need for her is in full rage. I reach out my hand, running it through her hair down to her cheek. She closes her eyes and leans into my hand, but only for a moment. Her eyes open.

  “Please,” she quietly begs.

  My arm shoots back to my side. I grit my teeth and stare out into the darkness.

  She laughs. It’s short. It’s pain. “I thought you were sort of, kind of, maybe dating Evelyn?”

  “I am.”

  She nods and opens her door. I follow behind her as we walk to my house. She doesn’t wait for me to open the door. It’s never locked. Why should it be locked? According to Wendall, my mom and I are on the Most Likely to Commit a Crime because of their Socio-Economic Status list. My mom’s not home. It’s not unlike her to be out late at night. And I don’t mind it. She’s always there when I wake up.

  Brett eyes the couch. My mom lets people crash all the time. Right now, she’s letting Robert Yates sleep here. He’s a friend of hers from the local dive bar. His wife kicked him out when she found out he was sleeping around with the babysitter. My mom’s neither judge nor jury. She knows Robert is safe, and he chips in money to help pay rent. Maybe he has something going on with my mom. Maybe he doesn’t. I don’t really care. No matter what, he’ll eventually leave.

  “Soooo…..I get the bed and you get the floor?” Brett asks. She pulls her hand up her thigh to her hip in a way that appears to be effortless, but is very, very calculated. Whatever moment we had in the car is gone. She’s crawled back into herself now, pretending nothing can touch her.

  It pains me she feels like she has to be this way with me. But maybe it’s for the best. I can pretend too. I shake my head. “We can share my bed.”

  Denial. Denial. Denial.

  She raises an eyebrow. “Wow. You have had a girlfriend all of one day, and you’re already asking another girl to share your bed? Somebody is definitely not winning boyfriend of the year.”

  “I’ll be a perfect gentleman. Trust me,
” I say as I turn to trudge up the stairs. I don’t want to see her reaction, because I am afraid that I will see disappointment.

  I can only handle so much.

  I can hear her in the bathroom.

  This is a mistake.

  Monumental mistake. Right up there with turning a board game into a movie.

  ****

  Brett stands in my doorway. I’m lying in bed, a book propped on my knee. I look at her for only a second before turning my attention back to my history textbook. I’m already hard, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to stare at her as she enters my room.

  I hear a small laugh escape her lips.

  God. She’s driving me mad.

  I can’t help myself. I have to see her.

  She’s been waiting for this. She pretends to look at my Pulp Fiction movie poster as she begins to unzip her jeans. “What are you doing?” I blurt out, unable to keep the panic from my voice.

  “I can’t sleep in jeans, can I?”

  She doesn’t wait for me to respond. She begins to pull her jeans down. I can’t tear my eyes away from the delicate, untouched skin of her thighs. She stands there only wearing my Clash t-shirt.

  She’s killing me.

  She runs her hands through her hair. I can detect a faint blush upon her cheek. It’s the only sign this isn’t easy for her either. I know she’s a virgin. I wonder if she has even been kissed. Despite attempts by many, many, many boys at Wendall, Brett isn’t really the dating type. She told me she didn’t see the point in messing with things she knew she didn’t want. Contrary to all myths, virgins don’t ooze self-consciousness. Brett knows how to move to drive us all crazy. She knows her body. She just isn’t willing to share it with any old bum.

  I somehow manage to shift to the far left side of the bed as she throws back the covers. I briefly see the outline of her white, cotton underwear as she slides into bed next to me. We both sit still. I couldn’t move if I wanted to.

  She rests her back against the headboard. Her face turns toward me. “Do you really like her?” she asks after a brutal silence.

  I could lie to her, but wouldn’t that do us more harm than good? The truth is, I do sort of like Evelyn. She at least interests me. I could tell her the whole truth, explain that despite my small interest in Evelyn, she would never mean more to me than the girl who sat next to me now. But I don’t tell her this.

  “Yes, I like her.” I wonder if someday I will regret telling her this half-truth.

  “Tristan would have hated her, you know?”

  “I know.”

  “Do you miss him?”

  I close my history book and throw it on the floor. “No,” I reply, “I don’t miss him.”

  “Expect me to believe that?”

  I can’t answer. She doesn’t speak for a while, and I wonder if she’s mad. Against my better judgment, a small part of me hopes she’s a little jealous of Evelyn.

  “I have made a list of possible suspects in the murder of my brother.”

  No. Not jealous.

  “It was an accident, Brett. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can move on.” I don’t tell her the truth once again. I don’t think it was an accident, but I don’t think it was murder either. He left us. That knowledge helps me put him in my past, but it would hurt her. Besides, even as she makes this wild accusation, I can tell she doesn’t really believe it. As always, she needs a crusade.

  “The list is pretty short. I only have one name on it so far—Donnie Wallace.”

  I shake my head. “You’re reaching, Brett. Just because he’s—”

  “That’s not why he’s on my list,” Brett snaps. “You really think I would put him on the list simply because of that? I put him on the list because of what my brother did to him.”

  Right. Not one of Tristan’s brighter moments. Damn hypocrite.

  “Now, you could help me with this list if you wanted….”

  “I won’t. I have a thing about not wasting time.”

  She sighs, and it shakes her body. I can see her shivering, the emotions fighting for control. I watch as she fights back. “Why are you leaving me too?” Her voice is so small, so fragile, I barely hear her.

  I pretend this is a reference to my senior status. “I don’t even know if I will get into the University of Georgia, Brett,” I reply, attempting to brush off her fear as ridiculous.

  “That’s not what I meant,” she whispers.

  I was afraid of that.

  “I will have no one. I know what I sound like. Trust me. I sound like one of those pathetic girls who need to be surrounded by people to feel normal. But I don’t need that. I need….” Her voice trails off. She swallows. She chooses not to continue. Instead, she scrunches down under the covers and turns her back toward me.

  I turn off the light, sigh, and lie on my back. I just lie there. Her words cause my core to pulsate. Everything she said is true. I am leaving her. I tried to leave her with Georgina, and now I’ll try with Evelyn. The finality of these thoughts leaves me empty.

  I’ll try my hardest to leave her. Before she leaves me.

  Just like Tristan.

  Just like my father.

  “Thank you for letting me stay here. I don’t think I could have stayed with that woman tonight. There are just some things I can’t deal with right now,” I hear her say as her voice travels through the darkness.

  I know what she means. I know the one thing that would probably be best for both of us is the one thing I can’t stand. Not tonight. Not in this moment. I want to pretend I live in a world where things are permanent.

  “Come here,” I somehow manage, my voice choked with emotion. I gently pull her into my arms. She doesn’t hesitate. Her body presses against mine. She lays her head against my chest, and I can smell her perfume. I wonder if I will forever now be marked by her scent. She moves her leg across my torso—halfway between being on top of me and not wanting to touch me at all. I run my hand up her back and into her hair. A small sound escapes her lips as I do so. I’m not sure if it’s a moan or a protest. I stare into the darkness and she falls asleep. I know I’ve just sent us both to hell, and there’s no hope of salvation.

  And it’s all Tristan’s fault.

  God damn him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Brett:

  Last night, I didn’t dream.

  Since my brother’s death, I have done nothing but dream. I’m bombarded by images from our childhood. Some of these images I crave, and some of these images torment me. Out of all of these varying memories, two stand out—the day they found my brother in the library when he was seven, and my last moments with him the night of the wedding.

  After Tristan and Ed’s fight, we returned to the reception. Somewhere in the middle of the multitude of wedding traditions—cue chicken dance, cupid shuffle, cha-cha slide, electric slide…it says a lot about our society that we need so many following-the-leader-dances—I saw Tristan sneak out. Again.

  I tried to tell myself many times that evening that he was just in a funk. I tried to ignore his refusal to dance, his refusal to take part in the charade. He was never a fan of the whole dog and pony show that came with being a part of one of Wendall’s more prominent families, but he was always by my side. We somehow always got through it together. That night, no matter how hard I coaxed him, he wouldn’t participate, even for me. He just sat at the table fiddling with one of the bubble wedding favors, rolling it back and forth across the table.

  I still remember the expression on his face. It guts me to think of it now. It was an expression of absolute indifference. His expression was so empty, so devoid of life, I should have realized he was already gone.

  I didn’t ask my brother what was wrong. Fatal mistake. Sometime between Madonna and Journey, I noticed he had walked out. Maybe I should have tried to get Ed to come with me after Tristan, but he was avoiding me. Whatever fight he and Tristan had, it was obvious it left him not wanting to be around me more than was needed.<
br />
  I found my brother sitting on the curb outside of the hotel. The same expression, or lack of, still haunted his face. He was already a ghost, and I was too stubborn to see it. I plopped down next to him. We sat in silence for a while, nothing disturbing our mourning but the sound of him jingling his car keys.

  I cleared my throat. “Another pathetic attempt at trying to recreate a Martha Stewart wedding, huh?”

  He nodded.

  “I see. How very stoic we are acting tonight. Did Ed somehow convince you to watch Gossip Girl again? This whole Chuck impersonation does not suit you,” I replied, trying to elicit some sort of response from my brother.

  He still said nothing.

  “Ed really has the worst taste in television. And books.” I forced a laugh. “Don’t get me started on his fashion sense.”

  “Enough.”

  It was only when he spoke that I heard pain. I grabbed for his hand. I wanted to ask him what was bothering him, but knew if he wanted me to know, he would tell me.

  “I’m supposed to protect you, you know,” he offered, staring off as our aunt Judith chased my cousin Nick away from the fountain. Someone must have slipped him some alcohol because he was trying to do his best impression of Jesus walking on water.

  “Protect me from what?”

  “Don’t play dumb, Brett. It’s not very becoming, you know. It might work for other girls, but it doesn’t work for you. It will never get his attention.”

  “You mean Ed? I don’t need his attention. Don’t you know? I’m saving myself for Justin Bieber?”

  He suddenly let go of my hand and turned me to face him. “You two need each other. Why can’t either of you see that? You don’t need me.”

  “I will always need you, Tristan,” I whispered.

  He shook his head. “That’s just selfish,” he spat.

  “What are we talking about here?” I demanded, my voice rising.

  “We’re talking about you, and me, and Ed. We’re talking about how you two depend on me too much. I can’t hold my secret and yours too. It’s too much. I don’t want the responsibility anymore, and it’s not fair to ask me to carry your burden as well as mine.” He spoke so fast that I could barely keep up with him.