The Language of Silence

by Tiffany Truitt

  She gives the slightest shake of her head, but doesn’t say a word. She just marches up the stairs to my room. I follow behind her. When we reach the door, she stops and waits. She lets me walk into my room first. A small, subtle sign we aren’t dating anymore.

  This is no longer our shared space.

  Once in my room, I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know if I should sit or stand. I don’t know where to put my hands. I just want to disappear or fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness. I know she doesn’t want either from me. Not her style.

  Brett rolls her eyes. Her cheeks flash red. It’s the only signal that she is just as uncomfortable as me. She pulls something out of her purse and tosses it to me. It’s my Clash t-shirt. I catch it, and I swear it feels like it weighs a billion pounds. I don’t want this back. I want her to have it, but it would be the worse consolation prize ever. Sorry, I’m the shittiest boyfriend of all time. Will you keep this Clash t-shirt to remember me by?

  Brett’s hands move to her hips. She narrows her eyes and stares me down. I don’t know what she wants me to say. Sorry just won’t solve anything. She offers a short laugh and shakes her head. “Was it worth it?” she asks.

  No. It wasn’t. I never wanted to hurt you. I always knew I would. I just wanted you. These are the things she deserves to hear, but I can’t say them. I’ve never been able to tell her the things she needs to hear. I’ve been afraid of these ugly truths since the day I met her. So instead, I simply shake my head.

  She turns around. She’s going to leave it like this.

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

  But she doesn’t leave. She locks the door to my room. One click. One little noise, and I don’t know a damn thing about the world anymore. Brett slowly turns around and faces me. She seems less determined and pissed than before. She looks scared. Her trembling hands move to her shirt. She begins to unbutton it. I’m so caught off guard by this that I can’t move.

  I watch as her shirt slides off her shoulders to reveal her white bra.

  Something in me snaps back into place.

  “What…what are you doing?”

  “What I want to do.” Her voice is so strong and sure. This was the girl I fell in love with. The girl who marched into Tristan’s room years ago and demanded to be introduced.

  She no longer looks nervous. She’s the brave, self-assured Brett I have loved for years. Her hands reach behind her back to unhook her bra clasp. I rush to her and hold her wrists in place. I’m breathing like a dying man again.

  “Stop this,” I whisper. I beg.

  She shakes her head. She presses her lips forcefully against mine. I stumble back. I release her wrists and hold onto her waist. The touch of her skin ignites me in a way I thought was lost forever. Her hands move down to her jeans. She’s pulling them off.

  “Stop, Brett.” I pant.

  She shakes her head again.

  She’s pulling off my shirt. She’s standing in nothing but her bra and underwear, and she’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. White, delicate skin. Dark, black, wild, tempting hair. Always tempting. She presses her lips against mine again. There is no hesitation in the way her lips move against mine.

  Everything lights up inside me like a fucking firework in a mailbox.

  She has no fear.

  I’m trembling.

  I’m crying.

  My hands reach up to her face. I’m kissing her back. I can feel my tears spill against her flushed cheeks.

  I’m near sobbing.

  She still doesn’t stop.

  I don’t want her to stop.

  Somehow, we end up in my bed, neither one dressed. I’m not sure how it happens. It’s all a haze of flesh and limbs, tears and sweat. I make sure to put on a condom.

  I push against her.

  And push.

  I push through.

  I hear her cry out.

  It kills something inside me.

  She’s clutching onto my back with her nails.

  I ask her if she wants me to stop.

  She shakes her head. She’s crying now too.

  I tell her I love her. I tell her over and over again.

  When it’s over, I stay with her for a few moments. As one. Neither one moving. Just being there. Together. I press my sweaty forehead against hers. We’re both still breathing heavily. I lift a hand to wipe away her tears. She reaches up a hand and wipes away mine.

  She was right. I do feel different.

  Anyone can have sex.

  Not everyone can experience that. It exists. This feeling that musicians and poets write about. I just never thought a schmuck like me would ever feel it. I feel the enormity of my mistakes. I see the truth in her words. I gave myself away to all the wrong people. I didn’t have to give anything away to Brett. With her, it didn’t feel forced or wrong.

  When she comes out of the bathroom, I want to kiss her. I want to ask her to come with me. Instead, I simply tell her I love her.

  She nods. “I know.”

  She walks to the door. She’s leaving. Before she goes, she looks back at me. “Who was Tristan seeing? Someone in town?”

  “Officer Daniels,” I tell her. I wish I would have told her sooner.

  “I feel different,” she replies.

  Then she’s gone.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Brett:

  I’m soaking in the bath, letting the water wash over every touched part of me. I feel sore and tired, but I don’t feel used. I don’t feel regret. I did what I wanted to do. I was ready.

  I am glad it was with Ed. It’s the only thing I can be certain about from this whole crazy year. I’m no fool. I know what happened with Ed doesn’t change anything. He will still leave, and I’ll still stay here. Neither of us is ready to be in a relationship. We both are a bit broken. Maybe we are crazy for doing what we did, but I just don’t care.

  I wanted something for myself.

  I wanted something for him too. I wanted him to know what real intimacy could be like. What I imagined it was like.

  I can hear the television in my mom’s room. I’m not done wanting things. I pull on my pajamas. I don’t feel ashamed they have little cartoon turtles on them. I don’t feel I’m too mature or experienced to wear such a thing.

  I’m glad.

  I do feel different, but it’s more inside. I feel calm, comforted. I feel strong. I didn’t choose to have sex to keep the guy around. I chose to have sex because it was what I wanted. I was safe. I thought it through. I controlled the situation.

  I don’t knock before entering my mother’s room. She’s my mom. I have a right to be here. Life doesn’t change the fact that we’re family. I can tell instantly that my mom is uncomfortable with me being in her sacred space. She sits straight up on her bed and begins to rearrange the pillows, trying in vain to make it look perfect. Once she has fixed the pillows, she moves to tame her hair. A tight smile appears on her face.

  She is looking better, though maybe a little pale. She’s dressed. That’s something. I worried she was up here rotting in her nightgown. She even has her hair done and makeup on. I can tell she’s feeling a little more herself.

  So am I.

  We are making progress.

  I take a seat next to her on the bed, and she goes stiff.

  “Are you going to yell at me?” she asks nervously. The tears well up in her eyes.

  I shake my head, and she lets out a sigh of relief. “I’m just here to talk. Is that alright?”

  She contemplates the idea for a moment and then nods her head. The problem is now that I have my mother’s full attention, I don’t know what to say to her. I bite on my bottom lip and furrow my brow, willing the words to come out. They stay hidden, buried. As always. I begin to trace patterns on her comforter with my fingers.

  My mother clears her throat and my hand freezes. “Brett? Did you take your brother’s car out today?”

  I swallow. I wonder if my mother is going to use
the first conversation we have had in years to admonish me for taking my dead brother’s car. I grit my teeth and nod, bracing for her words.

  “Your father thinks I’m an idiot for salvaging it,” she says softly. “How did it drive?”

  I look up at the woman who bore me, and I know my face shows it all—my complete and utter shock. “I wondered how the car got back in the garage and who taped it up.”

  My mother shrugs. “It is rather silly. I know that. Surprisingly, the car wasn’t totaled. Isn’t that the oddest thing? I mean, he died in that car, but it wasn’t destroyed. Your father wanted to get rid of it. It was a clunker anyway. But I demanded that the engine be fixed. I didn’t want them to do much to the outside. Just tape it up, I told them. It’s the way…” Her voice trails off, and she starts to sniffle.

  “The way Tristan would have wanted it,” I finish. Suddenly, I’m crying. I am sobbing. I need my mother. I feel a strength in me, but it doesn’t mean I’m healed completely.

  Maybe my strength is what allows me to reach for my mother.

  I bury my face into her lap and cry until I cannot cry anymore. Somewhere during my crying, my mother’s arms find their way around me.

  When I can talk, I tell her everything. I tell her about Tristan’s affair with Officer Daniels. I tell her about his suicide note. I tell her about kissing Sophia and the fight. I tell her about what it was like having her gone, and how I realized I never gave her the respect she deserved. I tell her how much we needed her and how much I need her still. I tell her about my experience with vodka. I tell her about Ed, how I love him and how he’s leaving.

  I don’t tell her about the sex.

  That is something between Ed and me.

  Something I need no one to touch.

  When I’m done talking, my mother starts crying full-out. It’s my turn to comfort her. She tells me how she always suspected Tristan was gay. She admits that she didn’t think it was alright. She wonders if Tristan could tell that she didn’t approve. She said she tried to feel differently, she just didn’t know how to. She tells me she wishes she could leave my father.

  When we are both cried out, I make us some coffee. I convince my mom to come downstairs. We stay up all night watching reruns on Nick at Nite.

  We are not healed. We are not perfect.

  It’s just a start.

  Sometime between I Love Lucy and The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, I begin to realize something. I think about my brother’s poem. I’ll never be sure what he meant by leaving it. I can only create my own meaning.

  Maybe he meant it to be like this.

  I decide on something else, though. I’m writing my story from here on out. Starting with my own exposition. Starting with my brother’s death.

  It’s just a start

  Chapter Fifty

  Brett:

  I’m halfway to Officer Daniels’ house before I realize I never changed out of my pajamas. It’s nearly morning, so at least the outfit is not too out there.

  My brother never spoke to me about Daniels, but he told Ed. The night I found out he was gay, I never would have guessed Daniels was on the other side of this messy affair. The fact that Ed knew means my brother wanted someone to know about him. Which means Daniels was important to my brother. It will always hurt that my brother didn’t feel comfortable telling me, but I can’t stop living just because my brother decided to end his life.

  I’m not going to Daniels’ house to seek answers. There are no answers. I’ll never find the answers I searched for. I’m going to Officer Daniels’ house to speak for my brother and say the things he couldn’t say.

  I bang on the door until my knuckles are red and swollen. Daniels’ police car is in the driveway, which means he’s home.

  It’s good to know he can sleep at night.

  When Daniels appears at the door, I can see someone in the background.

  Jenna Maples.

  “Tell her she needs to leave,” I demand.

  I’m not sure if it’s the sight of me in my turtle pajamas or the tone of my voice, but in five minutes, Jenna is gone and I’m inside Daniels’ house.

  The place where my brother spent so much time.

  Daniels gets himself a cup of coffee and guzzles it. I start to suspect he just wants to keep his mouth full so he doesn’t have to speak. I sit on the arm of his couch. I’m tired of waiting. “Did you know my brother was going to kill himself?”

  Daniels chokes on his coffee. “Excuse me?”

  “Did. You. Know?” I say slowly.

  “Look, kid, I let you in here because I could tell you were upset, and I didn’t think your father would want you driving around when you’re like this. Your father is a pretty important man. Not someone I want to piss off.”

  I clench my jaw and shake my head. “Cut the crap. I know.”

  Daniels pales slightly. “You know what?”

  “About what went on with you and my brother.”

  The hand holding the cup of coffee starts to shake. Daniels turns his back to me and flings the contents of the cup into the sink with much more force than is necessary. He proceeds to chuck the cup into the sink. The sound makes me jump.

  “I think you should leave,” says Daniels. His back is still facing me.

  I push my legs to move so I’m standing in front of him. I grab his arm and force him to face me. “You’re sick. Really sick. What twenty-seven-year-old fools around with a teenager? Is it because you can’t get someone your own age? I mean, that’s how these things work, right? You suck at relationships, so you find some young, stupid kid to play? You wait till you find someone who is so inexperienced, so naive they believe all the crap that comes out of your mouth.”

  “Shut up.”

  “And of course they’ll want to please you. They think they’re special being chosen by someone so mature. They’ll do anything you want them to do. They’ll do all those dirty, little things you’re ashamed that you want to do. And they won’t talk about it because you told them it’s a secret. You told them—”

  In a matter of seconds, Daniels has pushed me against the wall. His hand is clamped painfully over my mouth.

  “I’m not gay,” he snarls.

  It takes all my strength to push him off of me. “I don’t care if you’re gay or not. I care that you’re a manipulative little pervert who hurt my brother.”

  “I hurt your brother? Go home, Brett. Go home and keep your mouth shut,” he snaps, shoving his finger in my face.

  I could hear it waiting between his words. A threat. A man desperate enough to keep his promise. A man who hates a part of himself so much that he’ll do anything to deny it exists. Even hurt people. Like my brother. My brother who loved him.

  “No. I can’t stay quiet. Not anymore.”

  Daniels springs to action in a matter of seconds. He pulls me roughly by the arm out of his house. The more I struggle, the tighter his grip becomes. We’re moving toward his police car. I wonder if I lie and say I won’t tell about him and my brother if he would let me go.

  But I can’t lie.

  Even to save myself.

  He shoves me into the passenger seat. My head hits the door on the way in, and the sting radiates down my spine. Daniels pushes a hand against my chest and holds me in the seat. He grabs a pair of handcuffs from his glove compartment and snaps one around my hand and one around one of the bars on the roof of the car that my brother always called the Oh Shit bars.

  I know it’s pointless to pull against the bar, but I do it anyways.

  I wonder how hard it would be to break my own wrist?

  We’re driving, and I know exactly where I’m going.

  The place where my brother died.

  It makes sense.

  Daniels doesn’t talk to me the entire way. I only ask him to let me go a few times. We’re both determined now.

  Daniels slams on the breaks about a hundred feet from the tree my brother smashed into. “You want to know what happened that night?” he grun
ts out between his clenched teeth.

  I nod. An odd calm has overtaken me. It’s almost serene.

  “He called me. He told me to meet him right here. So, I did. I could never say no to your brother. Think what you will, but I did care about him. I know the whole thing was fucked up…”

  “It was fucked up,” I agree.

  “When I got here, he was sitting in his car. I went to knock on his window so he would roll it down. He did. He handed me a bottle of vodka. I asked what the hell it was for. He told me to pour it over him when he was done. I thought he had finally lost it.”

  Daniels’ car is in park, but his foot moves to the gas. He pushes it against the gas and the engine roars as if to echo the tension that fills the car.

  “Guess what he did then?” Daniels asks.

  The calm that sought answers has disappeared. I begin to pull frantically against the bar.

  “He stepped on the gas. He didn’t say anything to me, just stepped on the gas.” Daniels pulls his car into drive.

  “Don’t,” I whisper.

  “He let me watch as he rammed his car right against that tree. He just needed me to clean up the mess.”

  “Please. Don’t.”

  “So I did. I cleaned it all up. Sad thing? I thought I was a good person for doing it. But you don’t think I’m a good person, do you? You’re going to tell everyone, aren’t you?”

  I am. If I survive, I am going to tell everyone. I’m going to tell everyone how this man took advantage of my brother. I should tell him I will keep my mouth shut, that I don’t want to end up on an episode of 20/20.

  I just can’t.

  I nod.

  Daniels nods back. He presses his foot against the gas and we’re speeding toward our own deaths. But I don’t close my eyes. I have been closing my eyes for sixteen years.

  Suddenly, gravity pushes me forward, farther than is possible. I can hear the snap of my wrist as my body flies toward the windshield. I wait for the blood. I wait for the darkness.