The Language of Silence

by Tiffany Truitt

  I have never tried to search out the liars of this town. Is it filled with them? That has to be it. The reason I don’t want to find my brother’s murderer. If I find this person, I will never be able to trust anything or anyone again.

  I lost my brother.

  I don’t know if I could survive losing my faith as well.

  ****

  My dad is screaming at me. Mom is nowhere to be seen, and the house is a wreck. I have counted all of the empty liquor bottles three times now. Seventeen. The age of my brother. I shouldn’t have watched LOST with Ed. I’m starting to see freaky number connections everywhere.

  Number of times my fathertells me how hard his job is: 4

  4 is also the number of photographers we used to take last year’s Christmas picture because Mom just didn’t think we looked “family enough.”

  Number of times my father mentions my brother: 0

  Same number of times I have ever told him I loved him. Maybe I don’t love him. Do I have to love him?

  I know it makes my father upset that I’m not fighting back. The lawyer in him is a little disappointed that he doesn’t have to fight to show me the error of my ways. But I understand exactly how much I have screwed up.

  I try calling Ed’s cell phone once my dad is done with me. It goes straight to voicemail. I feel restless, so I begin to make a to-do list.

  1. Fix things with Ed

  2. Talk to Donnie. Ask him if my brother ever talked to him about being gay. Maybe they had a thing. Find a motive.

  3. See if I can connect Officer Daniels to Donnie.

  4. Find out where my mom is.

  I go into my brother’s room and grab his iPod. I’m banking on the fact that Ed probably tried to push his love of The Smiths onto my brother. I luck out. I crawl into my bed still wearing my jacket. I put the earplugs in my ears and throw the covers over my head. I push play. The tears start to fall without warning. For a few days, I have been happy. I loved and felt loved. Everything was perfect. I was more than the dead boy’s sister.

  I was with Ed, and he was with me.

  I don’t bother to wipe the tears from my cheeks. I grab for my phone and trying calling Ed again. He doesn’t answer. All I can think of is how much he must hate me right now. He hates liars. Hates them.

  It would probably be wise to just let it go for the night. Give him space. But being back in this house, reminded of everything that’s lost and broken, all I want is him.

  And so I call and call.

  Praying, he’ll pick up.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Ed:

  I’m going a little crazy. I think I might be having another anxiety attack. I think about trying some Vodka. Do I like Vodka? No. That’s dumb. I’ll just call her and demand to know what’s going on. Why hasn’t she called me?

  Why am I acting like the girl here?

  Maybe because I fight like a girl.

  I reach for my phone only to realize its dead. Damn phone. I make a note to ask Mom about when our plan will allow us to update our phones. This one is a piece of crap. I pick up the house phone and dial Brett’s number. It rings and rings and rings. Taunting me. Mocking my damn pain.

  Did I really think she would be sitting and waiting by the phone?

  This is why I didn’t want to get involved. Relationships can drive a man freakin’ insane.

  No.

  Don’t act like that.

  Don’t run.

  Don’t be like your pathetic father.

  You can do this.

  Whatever it is, you can work it out.

  I want to work it out.

  I love this girl.

  I’m running down the stairs. I don’t bother to put on a coat. Brett was right, it’s cold as balls. I get in the car and drive. A million thoughts cross my mind as I move through the night toward her. Most of them are bad—thoughts attacking my brain, trying to convince me to turn around. Bail. This is already getting messy. I could skip out now.

  But I keep driving. It’s almost chemical, my need to see her. I have to make sure she is alright. My heart pounds so hard against my chest that it’s almost painful. I’m sweating. My stomach tightens as I get closer to her house.

  There are no lights on at the Jensen household. Her dad’s car isn’t here either. I know where they keep the spare key. I don’t even think twice about using it. I’m a damn crazy man. Criminal really. Breaking and entering. But I just don’t give a fuck.

  I’m climbing up her stairs in no time. I don’t even worry about running into Mrs. Jensen.

  Yep, crazy man. I can’t be stopped.

  I open the door to Brett’s room.

  She’s sleeping. How can she sleep? Momentarily, my concern is replaced with anger. But it lasts for only seconds. I can hear the sound of music. I can hear The Smiths. I listen more closely—the faint whispering of, “Please, please, please.” The covers push down from her face, and I see she hasn’t been sleeping at all. She sits up and looks at me wide-eyed. She’s still wearing her jacket. Her face is streaked with tears.

  I don’t hesitate. I don’t care that she’s been lying to me. She had to have her reasons. I have to trust that. I have to trust her for this to work.

  I rush to her and pull her into my arms. Her lips find mine and we’re making out to The Smiths.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Brett:

  “Do you know how idiotic that was?” Ed asks, his face getting red.

  “I guess,” I reply, nervously pulling on my seatbelt.

  “You guess? You guess! You could have been raped or worse. Why didn’t you just stay with me? Why would you go stay at some random ass motel?”

  “I just wanted us to have a normal start to a relationship. I mean, if we are in a relationship. I mean, I’m not saying we have to have titles or anything. I mean. I just mean. I mean. I don’t really know what I mean,” I confess with a defeated sigh.

  We drive in silence. Ed reaches over and takes my hand into his. I know he’s mad, but this is a good sign. It was Ed’s idea to go for a drive. I think he figured that if we stayed in my room, we would end up kissing more than talking, and I guess he wanted to do some talking. I don’t blame him.

  I lean my head against the seat and stare out into the night. I don’t even know where my mother is. What a strange thing. A lump forms in my throat. I don’t want to worry about her. I want to tell Ed to pull over. I want to go back to making out. It sounds better than talking. I like kissing and being touched. Maybe I’m not supposed to like it as much as I do.

  I start to hum Joan Jett’s “Do You Wanna Touch Me,” and to my surprise, Ed joins in. I bite on my bottom lip and smile at him. He’s amazing. Tomorrow, I think I will find my own band t-shirt. Joan Jett and The Blackhearts.

  Suddenly, the car lurches forward. I fly into the dashboard head first. I hear the tires of Ed’s car squeal. He’s cussing. Then I hear nothing.

  I lose the world for a second. Everything is gone. Light. Sound. Ed. Myself. Did we hit something?

  Was it like this for my brother?

  No.

  And my world rushes back to me so quickly that it leaves me feeling dizzy.

  It wouldn’t have been so sudden.

  It wouldn’t have been an accident.

  You can’t choose what world to live in.

  “Brett? Brett, you alright?”

  No. I try to force down the lump that sits in my throat. My hands shake. I can already tell my neck is going to hurt like Hades in the morning.

  “Brett?” Ed is unlocking his seatbelt.

  I vomit onto the floor of his car. I need air. I throw open the passenger door and unlock my seatbelt. Ed’s hand barely grazes mine as I leave the car. He’s out almost as quickly as I am. I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth. I fall/sit against Ed’s car.

  He crouches in front of me. “I’m sorry, Brett. Something jumped out in front of the car. I swerved. I shouldn’t have done that. I could have killed us. Jesus Christ.”


  “I’m fine,” I manage.

  I look around to see if I can locate what darted in front of the car, but it’s really dark. We are out in the country. Farmland. Only a distant streetlight and Ed’s headlights offer us anything to see by. As my eyes adjust, I begin to notice where we are. I begin to understand the meaning of the treedown the road.

  Wilmington Ave.

  “Oh, God,” I whisper. I start to cry without warning. Acknowledgement passes over Ed’s face. He goes pale. He sits next to me, leaning against the car.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he whispers.

  Down the road is where my brother died. I’m crying harder. I want my brother back.

  “Asshole,” Ed mutters.

  “What?”

  “Your brother is a fucking asshole,” he replies. He won’t look at me. He stands up and begins walking toward the mangled tree. The last living thing my brother ever came in contact with. Seemingly weak, it had killed him. It takes every ounce of strength in me to get up and walk after him.

  “You don’t mean that,” I call out between sobs.

  He turns on me. “Yes, I do. Stop crying. He doesn’t deserve your tears.” He’s yelling at me.

  “Stop crying? He was my brother!” I yell back.

  “Well, he was my best friend!”

  We’re back to fighting.

  “He had no right, Brett. People who kill themselves at least pretend to have a good reason. He didn’t even leave a note! Sure, maybe he had problems. Who doesn’t? I sure as hell do. We both know that. And you, you’re not perfect either. But unlike a lot of the schmucks walking around this earth, he had people to talk to. He chose not to! I don’t feel sorry for him. He was selfish!”

  My breath is coming out in crazy, short, rapid-fire puffs. I move away from Ed, away from the place my brother died. I vaguely make a note of the closeness of Officer Daniels’ farm to this place. I feel dumb for not putting that together before.

  So, Ed thinks my brother committed suicide? I shake my head. I want to yell and hit him. I want to tell him he’s wrong. I want to accuse him of being a horrible friend, and an even worse boyfriend. Just because he has already decided the whole world is waiting to screw him over doesn’t mean he can do this to me. I need his help to find my brother’s murderer, not…not…not….

  Oh, God.

  Is he right?

  I can see the expression on Ed’s face morph into something else besides the scowl that seems permanently connected to his head. He reaches his hands to me. “Brett,” he whispers.

  I take another step back. I hold up my hand. I need him to shut up. I need to work this out on my own. My stomach hurts. I’m not positive I won’t throw up again.

  I think back on my brother’s dark ramblings the last time I saw him alive. He wanted me to know he wasn’t drunk. I think of the way my brother crawled inside of himself in the past year. Yes, he had always been a little on the introverted side, but the past months had been complete radio silence.

  I think of my number one suspect—Donnie Wallace. The same boy who passed out when he was asked to dissect a frog in biology. A boy I was ready to convict of murder simply because he shared my brother’s secret. What did that say about me?

  I have known all along. The biggest liar in Wendall is me. I know my brother killed himself.

  Something keeps throbbing inside of me. It urges and urges me to let go. It has been whispering to me for weeks. I’ve been ignoring it. But I can ignore it no longer. Ed wasn’t being a jerk. He was setting it free.

  A wild sob breaks from my lips. I sound like a monster. Every noise that issues from my lips sounds unnatural. I fall into Ed’s arms without looking. I just assume he will be there for me.

  He is.

  I cry.

  I cry.

  I cry.

  I cry.

  I cry.

  I cry.

  I can speak now.

  My tears are still falling, but it’s a little easier to talk. “You’re right. He was selfish. And you’re right about having people to talk to. Maybe he just couldn’t do it. I don’t know why. No matter his reasons, it doesn’t change the fact we lost him. We lost him, Ed.”

  Ed’s hands move to my face. He steps closer to me. I think he’s close to crying himself. “He left us, Brett.”

  I shake my head. I know he’s right, but it hurts so badly. He grabs my hand and starts pulling me toward the tree. I don’t stop him. Maybe I need to see this. “Right here, Brett. Here is where he said, ‘I don’t care.’ Here is where he said, ‘Screw you Ed and Brett.’ Didn’t he ever think about the fact that we might have needed him?”

  Why did he do it?

  “He left you, Brett. And if I mess this up, who will be there for you?” His voice breaks. He pulls me close and presses his forehead against mine. “I can’t help it. I have to hate him, Brett.”

  I shake my head. “If you hate him, you hate me. We’re the same, him and me.”

  “I don’t accept that,” he says roughly. “You wouldn’t ever…you couldn’t…”

  “I don’t understand why he left, Ed. But I know he loved us.”

  Yes, he loved us.

  “I want to go home,” I say softly.

  Ed nods, interlaces his fingers with mine, and walks back toward the car.

  There doesn’t seem to be much damage to the car with the exception of my puke. I pull out some fast food napkins from the glove compartment and try to clean it up.

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll get it,” says Ed.

  I raise an eyebrow.

  He offers a weak laugh in response. It sounds a bit broken. “What? It’s not like I haven’t cleaned up your puke before.”

  I smile.

  Ed leans over to kiss me. I quickly cover my puke-mouth with my hand. This causes a genuine laugh to escape from his lips. He kisses me on the forehead instead. “I love you, Brett Jensen.”

  My heart stops. Did he just say that? He looks like he is a little caught off-guard himself. I wait for him to joke it off, but he doesn’t. I look up at him, and the words are out of my mouth before I can stop myself. “I love you,” I whisper.

  He places a gentle hand on my thigh as he pulls the car back onto the road.

  I’m exhausted.

  Ed plugs his iPod into the aux, and I can hear Joan again. She’s singing “Crimson and Clover.” I can only join in on the lyrics here and there. My mind has found a new goal.

  I will find out why my brother killed himself.

  I will start with Donnie Wallace.

  I have already discovered the killer. Now I need a motive.

  I am crazy.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Ed:

  I sometimes wonder if I can really blame my dad for ditching. I remember a few years back actually packing a bag. I looked up bus times on the Internet. I was going to run, and I don’t even know why. I just felt the need.

  Need.

  Being with people, truly being with them, is a lot more than television or movies make it out to be. My dad had sex with my mom. Should he have been punished for the next eighteen years because the condom broke or because my mom didn’t take birth control?

  My mom doesn’t seem to mind too much that he isn’t around. Do I have a right to mind so much? I guess I just miss the life I could have had. Maybe it would have sucked ass having my dad around. Brett’s dad certainly doesn’t make her life easier, but I miss what could have been.

  I’m pissed he doesn’t ever wonder what could have been.

  He doesn’t wonder at all.

  I was selfish tonight. I don’t know why I told Brett about the suicide. I just had to. I can’t stand to see her keep searching for some truth that just doesn’t exist.

  He didn’t wonder what could have been either. He only saw one possible future.

  I have to wonder. I know what’s likely—I’ll break her heart. But I have to hope the future is a lot better than that.

  I’m surprised to see
my mom up when I get back home. I’m tried as hell, but I know I won’t sleep. I didn’t realize it was possible to experience so many damn emotions in one day.

  They should make a drug for this.

  Mom is reading a magazine at the kitchen table. She’s holding a beer. Whatever plans she had tonight must have been a disappointment. On good nights, I don’t see her till morning. I pull out the seat across from her and plop down into it. “Hey,” I say, half-acknowledgement, half-yawn.

  “Hey, kid.” She flips a few pages of her magazine. She pushes the beer in front of me. I shake my head. She pulls it back and takes a swig. “How’s Brett?”

  I let out a long sigh.

  Mom nods. “How are things with you and Brett?”

  “Good. Bad. Amazing. Breakable.”

  My mom goes to the fridge and pulls out a can of soda. She sets it in from of me. I open it and chug it down. Caffeine. That’s a drug, right? I let free a loud belch. My mom doesn’t mind. She’s lived with me for seventeen years. She’s used to it.

  “Want to talk about it?” she asks.

  I tap my fingers against the table. My mom’s always been like this. She’ll never win mother of the year by anyone else’s standards but my own. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whisper.

  “I’m thirty-three and I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  I offer a laugh. “That’s comforting.” I take another deep breath. Everything inside me feels all jittery and shaken up. I hope it’s just from the caffeine. “She makes me so happy, Mom. And a little miserable at the same time,” I confess.

  For a short time, we pretended like we could be a normal couple, but we’ll never escape the shadow of Tristan. Something is wrong with me.

  “Have you told her this?”

  I shake my head.

  “Maybe you should.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Brett:

  My mom is in rehab. Everyone knows. I can tell by the way Mrs. Freeman looks at me when I go to get the newspaper. It really isn’t a big deal. Sooner or later, some member from every important family in Wendall makes a trip to rehab. It’s a Wendall tradition.