Silence

by Deborah Lytton

  I close my eyes for an instant as I struggle to gain control. I breathe deep, tasting the colognes and perfumes in my mouth. Tasting sympathy. I hate it. I hate being the center of attention for something that happened to me. If I had earned something, I’d be happy to receive accolades, applause.

  This feels like being a caged eagle at the zoo. Chained at the leg. Restrained from flying. Watching with resignation as people stare. Gawk. Point. Knowing they will all talk about you later. Behind your back. This isn’t the me I want people to notice.

  But this is the me I am.

  When I open my eyes again, they are all gone. But the poster remains to remind me of who I used to be.

  Fading into

  the shadows

  — Hayden —

  I have visited her twice, but she didn’t see me. The first time, I waited for two hours, but she didn’t wake up. Didn’t open her eyes.

  She looked like a painting of Ophelia floating on water. For a moment, I thought she might never wake up. I wanted to kiss her to see if she would wake for me. But I didn’t. I didn’t leave a note or anything either, so she will never even know I was there. But I will know.

  The second time, Connor Williams was walking down the hallway with his mother, carrying a box of cupcakes. I wanted to grab the box and throw it away. Tell him he has no right to see her, let alone speak to her. He caused her accident. I know it, he knows it, and she knows it. I blame him. Anger welled up in me, so strong I had to walk away. Or say something I would regret. Or do something I might regret. I have to remain in control—always. I can never let anger take over. Not like my mother—she can’t control it. I can.

  So I walked away. I didn’t see Stella that time. I went for a run instead. Pushed myself to sprint harder and faster. Ran until each breath burned my lungs—and the anger had drained away.

  My days are tedious, long. It’s like someone has closed the shutters. I can see the sunlight streaking through the slats, reminding me of what is outside, but I can’t touch it. I am closed inside the shadows until I can see her again.

  DARKNESS

  — Stella —

  It may be hours or minutes that go by. I don’t know. Mom comes to my room with a pair of sweats and a tank top. She helps me out of bed. I get dressed. I slip my feet into flip-flops. Sit down in the gray-blue wheelchair. And Emerson wheels me out of the hospital. The nurses wave good-bye, as if leaving this place is a good thing. As if I am healed.

  It takes forever for my dad to load all of the flowers and balloons and stuffed animals into the trunk. I know it should make me feel good that so many people care.

  It doesn’t.

  I sit in the car and stare out the window. For once, I am glad I can’t hear. It’s weird to be in a car with Dad driving and Mom riding shotgun, with Emerson and me in the backseat. It’s like we are a family again. Something we haven’t been for two years.

  The conversation will be about all the things we can do when I get home. How I will be back to normal in no time. Only it’s all a lie. In my silent world, I don’t have to pretend otherwise. I can just shut them all out. And no one can blame me for ignoring them.

  When we get home, I walk right into the house and straight to my bedroom. I close the door and turn to the mirror. It’s not the first time I have looked in a mirror; there was a little one in the bathroom at the hospital. But it’s different looking in my full-length mirror. Last time I looked at myself like this, I was on my way to a party. I was thinking about dress rehearsal. About Hayden.

  Today is a new day. A different me. I study my reflection.

  A white bandage clings to the side of my head, a white flag to remind me. As if I could forget. My hair has been shaved on one side. That doesn’t even matter. The rest of my dark-brown hair looks greasy and tangled. My usually rosy cheeks are pale, which makes the purple and green bruises look even worse than they are. Amber eyes peer over gray circles, like a lamp that has been turned off. Dark and empty.

  After all the sleeping I’ve done lately, it seems strange that I look so tired. I’m only fifteen but look forty. The aged remnant of the girl who used to be.

  I don’t look like myself. I look like someone else.

  I am someone else.

  I climb under my blue and white comforter. It feels soft compared to the sandpaper sheets at the hospital. I breathe in the smell of our detergent. And I pull the covers up over my head. Fresh lavender surrounds me.

  Someday Broadway. The thought flutters in the darkness. A golden butterfly seeking escape. It frees itself. Flies away. I watch Someday Broadway disappear.

  And I close my eyes.

  I wake in darkness. Still fully clothed, wearing my flip-flops in bed. I have no idea how long I’ve been sleeping or even what day it is. I sit up and feel the emptiness in my stomach. I need to eat something.

  I climb out of bed and open my door. The house is dark and quiet. Then I remember, the world will always be quiet for me now. I head for the kitchen, flip on the light, and open the fridge. A wrapped turkey sandwich sits on a plate. Mom surely left it for me. It makes me feel bad, in a way. She is still trying to take care of me, and I have shut her out. But the truth is, I have no choice. I have no idea how to communicate now. And I have no interest in learning. I think about that movie about Helen Keller I saw years ago. It all seemed so inspiring then. When I wasn’t her.

  I sit at the table to eat my sandwich. For a split second, I think about turning on the small television in the corner. Then I remember. So I eat in silence.

  The thing about not hearing is that it gives you a lot of time to think. Too much time to think. My brain keeps reliving the accident, over and over again.

  I see myself standing near the edge of the pool. Falling. The water coming closer and closer. Then blackness. Silence.

  NORMAL

  — Stella —

  I wake up to see bright sunlight streaming through my shutters. It illuminates the posters on my wall. Wicked, West Side Story, The Phantom of the Opera, Les Misérables, Chicago.

  Someday Broadway.

  There is no Someday Broadway now. Without singing, I am invisible. A nobody. The girl with the voice is dead. Nothing can fix that. I lie there looking at the posters. Not moving, barely breathing.

  Mom comes into my room. Her eyes fill with sympathy when she sees me staring at the posters. She comes to the bed and sits on the edge, wrapping me in her arms. She holds me tight. She’s trying to tell me it will all be okay. When I was little and hurt myself on the swings at the park or by falling down at school, her embrace worked.

  It doesn’t anymore.

  Because I’m not that girl anymore.

  Mom hands me a small box wrapped in pink and white paper.

  I tear off the paper, open the box, and there it is—the phone I have been coveting for three years. It is finally mine. I take it carefully out of the box. Run my fingers gently over the touch screen. It lights up. I glance at Mom. She is smiling. I can see tears glistening in her eyes.

  Then she pushes the button for texting. And I realize. I can text. A message is waiting. I open it.

  Your surgery is scheduled for Monday. It will only take a couple of hours, and then you can come right home. After a few weeks, they will program your implant, and you will be able to hear again. You can even go back to school.

  “Thank you, Mom,” I say. I don’t know how loud or soft my voice is. I don’t know what it sounds like at all. “This was a really good idea.” I mean it. About the phone. It will make things seem almost normal. Almost.

  I don’t want her to know that the idea of returning to school terrifies me. That I am afraid I will never want to climb out of this bed. Afraid that the shadows of grief will suck me into blackness and never let me go.

  So I pretend. I am a better actor than I thought. I force a smile and say, “Everything will be okay. I know it will” to make her feel better. I don’t want pity or sympathy. I want to be treated just like before. So I do the
only thing I can think of: pretend I am fine.

  Even though I’m not.

  I’m empty inside.

  Locked in this cell of silence, time passes slowly for me. I am stuck with myself and my own mind.

  Which can’t think of anything good to say.

  Turns out, the phone can hear for me. Mom has downloaded an app that turns speech into words I can read. She says something to me, and I can read it on the screen. Much better than writing things on paper. Much faster too. Sometimes the phone gets the words wrong, though.

  Mom comes into my room and asks me about lunch. The phone transcribes the words. According to the phone, she wants to know if I want “grilled seas and tomato shoes for lunch.”

  I smile and say, “Yes. I would love grilled seas and tomato shoes.” Mom doesn’t get it. It’s an inside joke between me and my new best friend, my phone.

  Emerson resets the televisions for closed captioning. Now we can watch our favorite reality shows together because I can read what is happening in the white words on the bottom of the screen. It’s like reading subtitles in a foreign film. Reading reality TV isn’t nearly as much fun as hearing it. You can’t exactly read the level of emotion in someone’s voice. But it’s better than not watching at all.

  Dad tries to help by dropping off a stack of books from the library—mysteries and science fiction. Too bad he has absolutely no idea what kinds of stories I like. As Emerson and I look through them, we play a game. She holds up each book, making a pretend serious face as she does. We read the title together. And then we burst out laughing. Each one makes us laugh a little bit harder. The truth is, there is nothing funny about the titles. Or about the fact that Dad tried to do something thoughtful by bringing the books. We just need to laugh, and this is the first thing that has seemed amusing. So we laugh until our stomachs ache. We lie on the floor of the living room, side by side. And then Em reaches out and takes my hand in hers. She holds it tight. We stay like that. For once, my little sister is trying to take care of me. And for once, I let her.

  Three days later, as promised, Mom takes me to the hospital. When she pulls into the parking lot, I shiver. The last thing I want is to be back here again. Mom parks and gets out of the car to open my door for me. She takes me by the elbow, like I am blind instead of deaf. We walk slowly through the parking lot. She leads me through the automatic doors. The smell hits me instantly. My reaction to it is so strong that I stagger. Stumble. Only Mom’s grip keeps me from tumbling to the ground into the fetal position. She holds me tighter and nods at me.

  We will get through this, I tell myself. And I move forward. Breathing through my mouth.

  We take the elevator to a different floor. I am an out-patient this time. When we get to the waiting room, we sit on a small blue sofa with gray dots. Mom reaches for her purse and turns off her cell phone. I just look around the room.

  We are not alone. A woman and a man sit across the room on a matching sofa—blue with gray dots. They have a little girl with them. She is tiny and frail. Maybe five years old. And completely bald. Her heart-shaped face houses two giant green eyes. So bright and large, they are like spotlights turned on me. She smiles. A beautiful, wide, happy smile. A smile of hope.

  I return the smile, sending her good wishes with my eyes. Because in that split second—the amount of time it takes to receive and give a smile—a rainbow of emotions spreads through me. Guilt, regret, and embarrassment take on shades of green, purple and blue. Resolve is orange. Hope is pink. And love is red. I have been spending so much time feeling sorry for myself. With bitterness coloring my world gray.

  This little girl is ringed in golden light. I remember Lily telling me about auras. This little girl’s aura is one of faith. I wonder what my aura looks like. I imagine it is quite the opposite. This shames me. Causes me to break contact, study my fingernails.

  I have been cloaking myself in misery. Wearing it. My situation is nothing like hers. I bite my lip as I think about my pity parties. In that moment, I make a silent promise to myself and to her. I will find my happiness again. I will make myself whole.

  With my hearing.

  Or without it.

  I stand and move toward the little girl. She smiles as though she knows what I am going to do. As though she has been waiting for it. I smile at her parents. And then I sit next to her. I wait with her.

  My mother watches me from across the room. A soft expression of wonder plays across her features. Smoothing them. Making her look younger somehow.

  When the nurse comes to get the little girl, she leans over and wraps her arms around me. She hugs me tight, resting her tiny head against my chest. She is so slight, but the weight of her hug is tremendous. It takes my breath away.

  And then she is gone.

  For the first time since my parents’ split, I find myself praying. I close my eyes and pray for her.

  When it is my turn, my mother touches my shoulder. I open my eyes to see a nurse waiting for us. We follow her to a small room. There I change into a gown decorated with a swirly blue and green pattern. The touch of the scratchy fabric on my skin triggers my nerves again. By the time the nurse gives me medicine to relax me, my heart is beating so fast that I can almost hear it. My hands and neck are sweating even though it’s freezing cold in here.

  I climb into the bed. Mom in the brown plastic chair next to me. She has brushed her hair today, pulled it off her face. Dark circles are around her eyes. Has she slept since the accident? Probably not.

  Mom doesn’t read a magazine or play with her phone. She just fixes a pleasant expression on her face. And watches me. While I watch her.

  We wait. I think of the little girl. So brave and hopeful. Then I think of Hayden. Of his white daisies of hope. The touch of his fingers on my face. I start to get drowsy—the medicine is working after all.

  The doctor comes in to see me. He writes everything down on a piece of paper. He uses really simple sentences. Here’s how I interpret what he tells me:

  I will go to sleep. He will cut into my skull and implant a transmitter in there. Then I will wake up dizzy. After a few weeks, I will get programmed. And I will hear again.

  It sounds so simple. So easy.

  The doctor is suntanned, as if he spends his afternoons on a boat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. He has that confident look all doctors seem to have, like everything is going to be alright because they say so. For a split second, his confidence touches me. So when he gives me a thumbs-up and then waits for my response, I hold up my own thumb.

  This is going to work. I am going to hear again.

  When I open my eyes a few hours later, I’m not so sure.

  I can’t hear anything. And now my eyes don’t work either. The room is spinning, and I feel seasick. My throat feels like someone has scraped it with a fork. I can barely swallow. I taste something bitter, like metal. All I can smell is antiseptic. I remember being wheeled into the operating room and counting backwards. I remember seeing Hayden’s face in the blackness. That’s the last thing I remember. I try to remember more, but I can’t.

  A nurse comes in and smiles when she sees I’m awake. She brings my mother into the room. Another smiling face. She writes me a note.

  I can’t read it. I shake my head, but that just makes me dizzier.

  I close my eyes and go back to sleep. Back to the same dream I keep having over and over.

  A dream of him.

  When I open my eyes again, I have no idea if I’ve been sleeping for ten minutes or ten hours. But I do feel better. My stomach isn’t churning anymore. And I can see clearly. Now I can read the note.

  You did great. In a few weeks, you’ll meet with an audiologist, and she’ll help you with the next step. Soon you’ll be able to hear again.

  I wish I could say that I believe her. I wish I could say I am excited about it.

  But I’m not. All I am is tired. And I want to go home.

  Mom helps me into my clothes because I am still dizzy. The floor
moves up and down like a fun house at the carnival.

  Somehow, Mom gets me home.

  I just want to sleep.

  HIDE

  — Stella —

  I feel the morning sun snake through my shutters, slithering across my pale blue walls, tempting me to join the living. I’m still dizzy, but I climb out of bed anyway. I stumble to the mirror to see how I look. A new bandage is attached to the side of my head, behind my ear. Otherwise, I look the same—like a train wreck.

  I look at the calendar hanging on my wall. I flip the page to April and use my marker to circle April tenth, the day I meet with the audiologist. The day she programs my ears. The day I can maybe, possibly, hear again. Twenty days to go. I let the page drop back to March. That date seems as faraway as if it were a year.

  I swallow a lump that is about to overflow into tears. As if pushing it into the rest of my body will somehow camouflage the feeling.

  It doesn’t.

  I take a deep breath. My throat is still raw, but my stomach feels better. And I’m hungry. Really hungry. I manage to creep down the hall to the kitchen. Every step or two, I have to grab the wall to steady myself. Sweat runs down the back of my neck, and by the time I reach the end of the hallway, I am panting.

  Emerson sits at the kitchen table, finishing last night’s homework and munching on a bagel. She grins at me and scribbles a note on the side of her folder.

  You look good. How are you feeling?

  My sister has apparently adopted the party line: Stella is going to be fine. Em matches my mother in Positive Attitude 101. They are twin Pollyannas. It’s like a bad dream. Everywhere I look are little yellow happy faces smiling at me and telling me to look on the bright side. I want to run from the room screaming. Instead, I grimace at her.