A few seconds later the minister is clearing his throat again and people are snickering yet again. Oh right! I snap out of it, then start speaking and signing as I practiced “I promise to never run. To let our scars make us stronger. To always face any adversity with you head on, by your side. To always let you know you are truly loved.” I slip a matching band on the finger of the most beautiful creature in the world. Still amazed that she chose me.
Our lips quickly meet in a tender passion, we just resonate our love through it as it becomes more urgent. I sort of hear the minister mumble something like “Well, ummm, I guess you can kiss the bride.” There is cheering on the peripheral of my hearing, I'm lost in happiness. We continue our lip lock and someone yells “Get a room!” Immediately followed by the Rand's and Tams yelling “Wait! No!” in unison, causing a wave of laughter.
Tammy by the way, did wind up getting herself de-wenched by Nick. Their wedding is in April. I told you he was throwing those googly eyes at her.
We break off our kiss, giggling. I say to Bella, “Hey MRS. West, we have to get you to the swearing in ceremony down the hall. Wow! Councilwoman West! I'm so proud of you.” She grins lovingly back at me and says, “Why MRS. West, I thought you'd never ask.”
I offer her my elbow. “Shall we?” She takes it with both hands, our eyes never leaving each others gaze. “We shall!”
A Deafening Whisper
By Erik Schubach
Copyright © 2013 by Erik Schubach
Self publishing
P.O. Box 523
Nine Mile Falls, WA 99026
www.erikschubach.com/books
Cover Photo © 2013 Katie Little / ShutterStock.com license
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, blog, or broadcast.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Manufactured in the United States of America
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-9889998-1-7
Prologue
Mia Jacobs was busy in the art studio in her garage, putting the finishing touches on the two pieces for the Christmas exhibit at the downtown Seattle gallery. She had turned down four other prestigious galleries across the nation for this exhibit. After all, it was only right to show it in their hometown. It still amazed her that her art was in such high demand. To her, it was just her imperfect way of conveying her own feelings and emotions, and she never thought that anyone else would understand what she was trying to say with each piece.
She was frowning, not a good look for her attractive face that just screamed femininity, it caused little crows feet to appear at the side of her eyes. That's something she was noticing lately as she rapidly approached her fortieth birthday, little lines like that were appearing more and more frequently. Though she looked almost ten years younger she still felt old unless she was working on her art or speaking with her daughter.
Mia was never satisfied with her own work, especially when the subject was the love of her life. It had to be perfect, for... her. Mia's obsessive compulsive nature had her assessing each piece over and over again, checking and rechecking everything from the composition to the alignment of each individual component.
She brushed the straight, raven black hair that had fallen forward as she worked back over her shoulder. It was annoyingly long, but that's the way her wife liked it.
This grouping was a series of collages on two huge canvases. Hundreds of tiny photographs of her wife, assembled in a manner that, from a given distance, formed a portrait of the woman she loved. Inset into each collage were a series darker photos that formed words across the large canvases, celebrating works of poetry by her wife.
To most people it was shocking that she could see the tints of each photo in her head and arrange them like pixels on a computer screen to form larger images that were almost photo perfect at a distance. But to her, it was just how her brain worked. She never had to back up to see the result, she knew exactly what it looked like. She used to think that things like that meant that her mind was broken or defective, until she met her bride.
The final photograph was put in place and she dabbed decoupage paste across it, sealing it in place. Seven strokes left, seven strokes right, seven strokes up, seven strokes down. “Damn.” she muttered as she saw her last down-stoke had a tiny clump no bigger than the head of a pin. Nobody would ever have seen it in a million years, especially since the decoupage would dry clear, but she obsessed over it.
So she quickly walked, counting seconds in her head, over to the deep metal utility sink beside the door that led into the house, and washed the paste from her brush. Then she returned to her bench and placed the brush, neatly parallel to her other brushes, being sure to align the bottom of the brush with the bottoms of the others. She nudged it slightly up and down until it was perfectly aligned.
She then turned to her other tools and retrieved a small scraper, with a flat tip no bigger than a pencil and meticulously removed the clump from her art. Then she rushed over to sink again, the countdown in her head continuing, to wash the scraper then return it to its place beside the other tools. Nudging it until it was properly positioned.
She took a breath, knowing she was doing the obsessive compulsive thing that just drove her wife crazy. Not the bad kind of crazy, but the “that's so hot” kind of crazy. This brought a small smile to her lips. She was the only person that had ever fully embraced Mia's quirks and made her feel normal.
She sighed and grabbed her brush again, dipping it into the decoupage and started over on the last photo. Seven strokes left, seven strokes right, seven strokes up, seven strokes down. Mia exhaled the breath she didn't know she was holding. Then she turned and walked to the sink again to wash the brush, and then replaced it with the other brushes, making sure it was placed just right.
She looked at the small worn out white teddy bear on the workbench as she sealed the jar of paste, the one with its tattered pink bow and holding a little heart. Then she placed the jar in it's proper place on the workbench, turning it so that the label was exactly parallel to the edge of the work surface. She grinned at the bear and asked “So what do you think Little Vee?” as she motioned over to the canvases.
She took off her smock and hung it on the wall hook next to the bench, smoothing out any wrinkles. She then swept her emerald gaze around the spotless, almost sterile garage/studio to make sure everything was in its proper place. Looking at all the artwork hung on the walls, her wife's large leather bound books of handwritten poems on their shelf, and an almost antique FJ Cruiser in pristine condition in the far bay before being satisfied.
The door into the house opened just as the countdown in her head expired and she reached over to snatch her three inch tall teddy from the counter. She turned to the door as she idly stuffed Little Vee into the pocket of her relaxed jeans. The same spot the little bear has lived the past twenty two years.
Mia smiled as her daughter Abbey laughingly bounded through the door, dragging her girlfriend Sam with her. They were holding hands with their fingers interlaced. Mia couldn't help but smile wider, remembering how she and her wife had been almost inseparable like that as well, always needing the touch of the other. Abbey flashed a white toothy smile at her mother. “It is exactly 6:00 on the dot ma, just like you requested. I take it you finished on time?”
Mia could tell Abbey was trying hard not to laugh at her own inside joke, knowing that clocks were jealous of her mother's internal timer. Mia just rolled her eye
s “Well, by a coincidence, I just happened to finish a moment ago.” She motioned over at the canvases. The girls looked over, admiring her work.
It never ceased to amaze Mia how Abbey looked so strikingly like her mother, with her mane of curly brown locks flowing over her shoulder and her stunning amber eyes, so light they looked almost orange, giving her a catlike quality. Her tall, thin frame conveying feminine grace, the girl next door look of her face fit her friendly outgoing personality to a T. She liked everyone, and it was almost impossible not to like her too. Her smile was so infectious.
Mia turned her attention to Samantha as the girl was looking at the artwork. She had to hand it to her daughter, she really knew how to pick them, this girl, for lack of a better word, was gorgeous. At first glance you would believe she was a model. With her layered straight blonde hair and its single signature curly pink shock on the left side that brought your eyes to her face. Her complexion was perfect without needing much makeup. What little makeup she did wear drew your gaze to her radiant, ice blue eyes that sparkled with a great deal of intelligence and emotion.
She surely had curves in all the right places, which she showed off easily with the clothes she wore. Today she was in a pair of jeans that were so tight they could have been a second skin. The short white and pink tank tee showed just enough of her toned stomach and abs to make even a preacher blush. All of this just screamed “Barbie” to Mia the first time she met Sam, when Abbey had brought her home one weekend in her freshman year at the New York Academy of Art.
That first impression was quickly thrown out when they all sat around and spoke seriously that first night. Samantha was intelligent, witty, caring, and very protective of Abbey and her feelings. This won Mia over quickly, and she has viewed Sam as a second daughter these past four years. None of the other boyfriends or girlfriends that Abbey had ever dated had been able to accomplish this.
As Abbey smirked at her mother, quipping “Oh, a coincidence is it?”, Sam had her head tilted, really absorbing the canvases in the middle of the garage. She spoke quietly in her rich British accent “I know those poems. We read them in our contemporary American Literature class. They're by Vee A. Jacobs.” her eyes narrowed and she looked back and forth between the canvases and the two other women.
Realization hit her and she looked at them accusingly, then spoke to Abbey “Oh my God! Not only is your mother Mia friggin' Jacobs, but your other mom is Vee Jacobs?!? Why didn't either of you ever tell me?” Mia noticed Abbey bite her lower lip in want at the sound of Sam's accent. She smiled to herself, recognizing the look.
Sam looked at the first canvas with the profile of a beautiful woman that reminded her of Abbey, but she knew the woman was Abbey's other mom, she had seen old photos. The darker photos formed words, with letters crisp enough at this distance to look like a perfectly formed font.
Every Day
A gift.
A breath.
A look.
A touch.
A smile.
A love.
Fleeting glaces. A stolen kiss.
Your loving embrace.
Teardrops fall. A granted wish.
The words resonated with Sam, they felt like the way she thought of Abbey, like how their relationship began four years ago. She shook her head and turned to the other canvas. It held another poem by Vee Jacobs with that same woman holding a baby. She heard Abbey chuckle as she spoke “Well, it kinda never came up. I keep forgetting that my parents are famous, I just see them as, well, just my moms. I told you she dabbled in poetry.” She shot one of her patent pending, knee buckling innocent smiles at Sam.
Counting
Two hearts.
One soul.
Two minds.
One thought.
Two voices.
One love.
A single lingering touch.
Merging.
A deafening whisper.
Sam snorted “Dabbled?” This one was Sam's favorite, that last line “A deafening whisper.”, struck her as so profound and powerful without even knowing why. She smiled and turned back to the two women shaking her head in disbelief.
Mia just grinned and grabbed both of their hands and dragged them into the house. “Come along ladies, lets catch up a bit before I start dinner. I only get you two for the holidays before that dreadful school steals you away from me again. Thank God you two graduate this year.”
Abbey and Sam laughed as they were dragged through the kitchen, past the huge Christmas tree, and to the living room and the super comfy couch. Mia jumped up cross legged onto one side of the couch as the two girls snuggled into each other beside her. The older woman grabbed a little remote off the side table and started some soft violin Christmas music in the background for some ambiance. Then placed the remote back in its place, nudging it around until it was exactly perpendicular to the edge of the table.
The girls waited patiently for her to finish. “So tell me about school. I haven't heard much out of you girls since spring break.” Mia said with an eager twinkle in her eyes. She loved her daughter more than anything and was fascinated with anything about her. She was still amazed that she had come from her. She was so glad Abbey had found someone to make her happy. A blind man could see how the two young ladies felt for each other.
Abbey spoke up, “Well actually mother, can we do that a little later. There's a story I want you to share with Sammie first if that's okay. It is pretty important. Could you tell her the story about how you and mom met? It's pretty epic.” Abbey's eyes were twinkling as she grabbed Sam's hand and laced their fingers together, feeling her warmth.
Mia smiled softly, settling deeper into the couch for the story, already getting lost in the memory. “I never get tired of sharing the story of my Valla and I.” She looked over at the two girls and smiled fondly at them as she began.
Chapter 1 - Define Yourself
First let me tell you a little bit about myself. I was a pretty shy kid growing up. I had a couple quirks, but they were pretty manageable. I used to stutter a bit whenever I got nervous, it still pops up from time to time. Also, I've always been a little obsessive compulsive, but not to a debilitating degree. The doctors always said it was usually indicative of a larger problem, and boy did that wind up being the understatement of the century right around the time I hit puberty.
That's when the symptoms of my condition started manifesting themselves with a vengeance. The first time it struck was in the seventh grade. I was stressing about a math test I was about to take, even though math comes as easy to me as breathing, when my shoulder suddenly twitched up, brushing my cheek. I thought it was odd, but then it happened again, and again. I started to get sacred and raised my hand to get the teacher's attention as it continued. I was going to say something when I blurted out “It's my pencil!”
I was on the verge of panic. Am I having a stroke or something? Aren't I too young for that? As these thoughts passed through my head I blurted out “It's my pencil not yours!” again. I continued to twitch and rambled things about my pencil. The class was laughing and the teacher, Mrs. McGinniss, ran to my side with a look of distress on her face. I was crying and just wanted to melt away “My pencil.”
The twitching stopped as I was being led away to the nurse's office. My foster parents brought me to the doctor, who couldn't find anything wrong. Over the next couple weeks, another episode, a bunch of tests and more doctor's visits it was determined that I had Tourette Syndrome. But the doctors said that in most cases the symptoms would clear up as I matured into adulthood.
Fat lot of good that did me at that time, my classmates had already started the teasing that would follow me the rest of my school years. “Freak” and “Spaz” were the common nicknames that were applied to me and everyone avoided me like the plague. The ones that didn't avoid me usually pushed me around or tripped me in the halls to make me look like more of a freak.
I had retreated within myself, trying to hide and to not be noticed. I starte
d wearing dark hoodies with the hood up at all times, the sleeves pulled over my hands. I just wanted to disappear. School was a living hell for me. I'd take sack lunches and hide outside or in the back halls to eat. I rarely spoke with anyone and just focused on my schoolwork and art. Art was a good release for me, it felt like math, and my obsessive nature virtually guaranteed my 4.0 average in my other classes.
High school wound up being ten times worse than junior high, the symptoms got worse and the episodes increased in frequency. They were brought on mostly by stress from the harassment other students subjected me to. The only semi-positive thing was that I was beginning to recognize when an episode was going to manifest itself so I could try to remove myself from the situation, before it started.
The back hall restroom was my only friend back then, I weathered many an episode there, but I'd get teased and bullied every time I came out of it. I could, to some extent, postpone an episode, but the longer I held out the worse it would be when it hit. It was like an itch that you try to ignore, eventually it drives you crazy and you break and just have to scratch hard.
By my junior year, four sets of foster parents had grown tired of my condition and passed me on to the system again. But my fifth set of foster parents, Ben and Nancy Cohan, were nice. They didn't care about my Tourettes, they were the closest thing to real parents I had since mine had died in a car crash when I was eight. They encouraged me to pursue my art more aggressively as an outlet.
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