Silence

by Deborah Lytton

  “Liar. How do I look like I’m feeling?”

  At least you don’t have to go to school, she writes. Lucky you.

  That’s looking on the bright side, I guess. Lucky me.

  My younger sister has always wanted whatever I have. It’s a given, ever since we were little. If I have it, she wants it. She has masses of auburn curls and melting brown eyes, a gorgeous combination, but she’d trade them in a second for my long, dark hair and tawny eyes. She’s an amazing dancer, but she’d rather have my voice.

  Just thinking about my voice makes me want to weep giant, bloodred tears.

  I swallow them and force a smile at Emerson.

  “I’m going back to school. As soon as I can stand up without toppling over.”

  Emerson’s almond eyes widen at my words. Her mouth drops open, and I can see chewed bagel on her tongue. She writes in giant letters. WHAT?

  “I’m going back to school,” I say, as if repeating it will make the idea more palatable.

  Because the truth is, the thought makes me sick to my stomach. But I know that going back will make me feel like it’s all going to be okay. Staying home will make me feel like I have lost everything—even my academic success. No, I will just have to figure out how to get better in a day or two so I can get back to class.

  Emerson frowns at me. Her slender face scrunches up, and she looks like a pug. I laugh. She writes another note.

  This is your chance to stay home every day. That’s what homeschooling is for! I’d do it if I could. Spend all day at dance class. No homework . . .

  I laugh. “You wish.” It feels good to talk to Emerson. It feels normal.

  She writes again.

  You should check your texts. Some people have been asking for your number. A certain person, actually, which my friends thought was really cool. This whole thing has been really good for my social status, you know. :)

  She’s teasing, of course. That’s Emerson—always trying to make me laugh. I smile at her. “I’m really happy it’s worked out so well for you,” I retort.

  She throws her head back. I can tell she is laughing even if I can’t hear it. I imagine the sound, like tiny fairy bells. Emerson gets out of her chair and puts her arms around me—and almost knocks me over. But I steady myself and lean into her. It feels good to let her hold me. Tears prick the backs of my eyes. I blink them away quickly. Breathe deep.

  When Emerson lets go, she helps me into a chair. Then she makes me a toasted bagel with butter, my favorite. I try to eat it. I take one bite. Chew slowly, willing the nausea to calm down. I try to swallow, but the bread claws at my throat. Almost chokes me. I grab the glass of milk Emerson has just poured. And I drink the entire glass. I look up to see Emerson watching me. She stands and heads to the fridge. Comes back with vanilla yogurt instead. I take the spoon she offers, dip it into the shiny, whitish mass in the cup. The yogurt slides down my throat. Soothing it. Cooling it. I nod. Then I smile. “Much better.”

  Emerson grins and munches her bagel. We eat together. It feels peaceful. Normal.

  After breakfast, I make my way back to my room. I am less nauseated now but still gripping the wall. But better, definitely better. I lie down on my bed. Close my eyes. Breathe.

  I can get through this, I tell myself. I know I can.

  Mom comes in to check on me. She writes a note to say that she has to take Emerson to school and then she is working at home so she can keep an eye on me. I nod and smile, pretending to feel much better than I really do. Mom kisses the top of my head.

  I close my eyes, will my body to rest. To heal. So I can get back to normal. This time, I don’t dream of Hayden. I dream of bees flying into my ears, blocking them. I try to swat them away, but they keep coming until I can no longer hear anything but their buzzing. Then the bees swarm my throat, choking me. Stinging me. They make my throat swell up. I can no longer speak. Or sing. My head is filled with buzzing. I try to scream, but nothing comes out.

  When I wake up, it’s afternoon. The clock on my bedside table reads 3:30. I can still hear the bees in my ears. Feel them in my throat. I am disoriented. Confused. My head aches. The phone glows in the shadowed room, daring me to touch it. I am treading water in this sea of darkness, but a teeny tiny part of me fights for survival. For the light of hope. That part reaches for the phone. For a connection to the world outside.

  I click to read the text messages. The first one is from my mom.

  Just wanted to tell you how much I love you. I am so proud of you.

  Not much to be proud of. But I save it anyway. The next is from Lily.

  Stella, I’m so sorry. I would do anything to change what happened. If you need anything, please let me know. You’re my BFF.

  Another is from Kace.

  I hope you get better soon. Drama isn’t the same without you.

  Then there are messages from people I don’t even know. They say Feel better soon! and We miss you! They’re like Hallmark texts. Lots of happy faces and exclamation points. I wonder if Emerson passed out my phone number on flyers.

  My dad has sent me one as well.

  Hope the surgery went well. See you later today. Love you.

  A couple more from Mom checking on me from the car when she’s gone dropping Emerson off and then later, picking her up from school.

  I come to the last one.

  How are you?

  It’s from Hayden.

  I don’t know how long I sit staring at the message.

  Then I answer. Better. I’m going to be ok. I don’t hit send though. To anyone else—to Lily, Kace, Emerson, even to my mom—this is my response. But for some reason I can’t begin to understand, I don’t want to pretend with Hayden.

  I erase the message. I type a different answer. An honest one.

  Afraid.

  Afraid of not being brave enough. Afraid of losing hope. Afraid of never hearing again. Afraid of life without Someday Broadway. Just afraid.

  Send.

  I stare at the phone. As though anyone would actually respond to that message. I want to call it back, erase it.

  But it’s too late.

  I sigh and leave the phone on my bedside table.

  In the bathroom, I leave the light off while I brush my teeth. Better not to see myself in the mirror. If I don’t remind myself of what happened, I can keep living inside this bubble of silence.

  I climb back into bed. The warmth of the tears on my cheeks comforts me in an odd way. I hide my face in the neck of my T-shirt and wrap my arms over my head. I bury myself there as though I can block it all out. As though this time will be different, and I won’t dream about it.

  I do anyway.

  Hours, or even days, later, for all I care, my door opens. It’s Dad. Strange to see him here in my room like this. He stretches his face into what might pass for some as a smile. He hands me a large frozen yogurt. Then he sits on the edge of my bed. His brown eyes take it all in. His hair is perfectly combed. His blue dress shirt hasn’t got a crease in it. I smirk.

  The cold yogurt tastes good on my throat, soothing the bee stings. I feel it hit my empty stomach like a heavy weight. It settles in. Peach and vanilla. Emerson’s favorite. I wonder if he realizes, if he knows that I would choose chocolate.

  Dad has a yellow pad in his hands. He writes a note.

  How are you doing?

  I answer, “Peachy.” Just like the yogurt.

  Does anything hurt?

  “My head.” And my heart. But I don’t add that part.

  You’ll be back to normal before you know it.

  He wants that to be true; I can tell. Not just for me. I understand that now. Because I’ve noticed that he isn’t looking at me at all. Not really. Not at my scarred head and bruised face. Not my defective ears. He can’t deal with the damaged me. I’m not a problem he can fix. Suddenly, I don’t want to talk to him anymore.

  “I’m really tired,” I say. “Thanks for coming.”

  A look of relief passes over his fac
e. And then, just as quickly, he covers it with another stiff smile. He leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

  I watch him leave. Seeing my dad leave always makes me sad. I used to think he was my hero. But after what he did to my mom—to us—it can never be like that again. Now he’s a hero to his new kid, I guess. I think he visits out of obligation, to prove to himself that he’s not such a bad guy. That just because he divorced my mom, he didn’t divorce us.

  He might be able to lie to himself like that, but I know better now.

  I turn onto my side and face the window. I wonder if I will ever be happy again. I think of the little rainbow girl in the hospital. Happiness danced in the air around her. Surrounding her with a joy for life. I want to be like her. Instead, I am treading water, trying desperately to stay above the depths of despair threatening to pull me under. Threatening to drown me in sorrow and self-pity forever.

  I am struggling so hard. And I know, even if I don’t want to admit it, that right now, I am losing the battle.

  A lone tear slips down my cheek. Lodges itself between my skin and the pillow. I feel the dampness soak into the pale blue cotton. I keep the other tears inside, not letting them fall. One tear is enough. If I let them out one at a time, maybe I won’t drown.

  The freedom in honesty

  — Hayden —

  I know the instant she sends the text. I look at my phone and wait for it. I can almost hear her clear deep voice speaking the single word to me: “Afraid.”

  I waited to hear back from her, second-guessing my text. Maybe I didn’t say enough. I wondered why she hadn’t responded.

  But now she has. I stare at her message, thinking of the subtext beneath the single word. Afraid. I think of her sitting alone in silence. Feeling lonely, lost.

  I want to tell her that she isn’t alone, that I am here for her. But I don’t want to scare her away, not when she is already afraid. Not when she is brave enough to be honest with me. So I write back, carefully. As if she is the tawny cat basking in the sun on our porch.

  For weeks, the cat watched me, and I watched her, knowing that one day, she would learn to trust me. Every day, I sat on the porch. I played my guitar, pretending not to notice her. And every day, the cat moved closer and closer. Until one day, I found her lying in a sliver of sunlight right next to me. Since that day, she has waited for my truck to pull into the driveway after school. As soon as I step onto the porch, she takes her spot. The streak of faded sunlight across the dusty porch calls to her. Just as Stella calls to me.

  We are all afraid, I text back. Some more than others. It takes courage to admit it.

  I hit send before I change my mind. I am far more eloquent in writing than in person. I feel more like myself—somehow—when no one can hear my voice.

  I pick up my guitar, strum softly. The cat stretches, moves closer. Her litter of kittens settles around her, lulled by the music. Like the cat, I bask in sunlight once again.

  Stella will write me back, and then I will ask how soon I can see her again.

  DAYS

  — Stella —

  When I wake up in the morning, I am still tired. My eyes are swollen and achy. My head pounds. I roll onto my side. But just before I close my eyes once more, I see it.

  A new text message.

  We are all afraid. Some more than others. It takes courage to admit it.

  A current of excitement runs through me. He isn’t trying to make me feel better—he isn’t pretending. It feels so good to talk to someone. Through the shadowed aches and deep pain inside me it feels like a river flowing through a forbidden forest. Daring to enter the darkness.

  I heard you call my name. Why? Did he know I would fall into the water? Hit my head? I send it. And I wait.

  I had a feeling, like when you know it’s going to rain. You can smell it in the air, feel the weight of the clouds press down. It was like that. I just knew.

  A feeling. A premonition.

  Does that happen often?

  I don’t wait long for his answer.

  Sometimes. With you, it happens a lot.

  A tingle runs through my stomach. What else does he have premonitions about? I want to ask, but I resist.

  I stare at the phone, deciding whether to write back. Then, this:

  Are you coming back to school?

  Good question. I answer honestly.

  Maybe next week.

  Send.

  His answer comes so fast, I feel like he’s sitting next to me. Are you ready to go back?

  I just want to feel normal. Something about talking like this is freeing. I can be myself because he can’t see me.

  I don’t know how I expect Hayden to respond. Maybe it doesn’t even matter. This is all like a game. A game that doesn’t mean anything, except that while I’m playing, I don’t want to disappear.

  What is that? Normal?

  I try to explain. The way I was before.

  Before the accident. Before everything changed. Before.

  A long moment goes by without a response. He doesn’t write back. We both know I’m not the way I was. That girl is dead.

  Looks like I have to save you again.

  I remember his arms around me. Holding me close. Saving me. I write back. Save me? From what?

  I wait for his answer.

  From yourself.

  That’s the last message he sends. I keep checking. It breaks up the monotony of my geometry and history homework.

  Doing homework is a better torture than sleeping. It makes me feel normal. I can still read chapters and take notes. Still make flash cards. Still research online. Normal.

  I am reading about the Industrial Revolution when I glance at my phone again. I have a message.

  Still pretending?

  Pretending? I write back. I’m not pretending.

  I’m not.

  He responds immediately. Ok. If you say so.

  What is that supposed to mean? I respond with a question mark.

  His reply comes quickly. I bet nothing bad has ever happened to you before.

  He is so wrong.

  You don’t know anything, I type.

  Tears burn my eyes. This time, I can’t hold them back. He thinks I am some Princess of Perfection. He has no idea what my life has been like.

  How my family shattered into pieces, slicing all of us, leaving wounds that will never truly heal. Hayden doesn’t know a thing about that. He doesn’t know me. If I have been pretending, it has been that he is some hero on a white horse, riding in to save me from my fate.

  But no one can save me. I see that now. Even through the haze of tears.

  I leave my homework and find Emerson. We watch subtitled reality television. We sit on the sofa and share a bowl of sliced bananas. I know Emerson would rather be having our usual—popcorn doused with salt, but the salt and the popcorn would hurt my throat. So we both have bananas instead. I feel better when I am with Emerson. She treats me as she always has. No different.

  Later I get another text from Hayden.

  I think I know what your problem is.

  I angrily reply. You don’t know me at all.

  What if I do? Let’s make a bet—and if I’m right, you have to say yes.

  A bet for what?

  If you lose, you’ll go somewhere with me.

  Do I want to go somewhere with him? Like this? Probably not. But I can’t resist the idea of learning what he thinks is wrong with me. I want to see if he’s right. Somehow, he has tapped into my competitive streak—the one thing that can overcome my pity party. And that’s what makes me answer. Ok.

  You can’t imagine how to be a different you.

  I read it over three times to be sure. It’s not a very nice thing to say to someone. What makes you say that? I write it as a defense, and I know it. He’s onto me. Someone I barely know. He knows my secret.

  And I don’t like that. Another text comes in.

  I see you.

  And another.

  Am I
right? Be honest.

  He is. He is right.

  I hate to admit it. But he does see me.

  And I felt that right away the first time I saw him.

  Maybe, I say.

  See you tomorrow at 2.

  Seeing the unseen

  — Hayden —

  I like working in the nursery, watering plants and helping them grow. I think about Stella. Maybe I can help her too.

  I took a big chance calling her out. It was risky, and I might have lost her right then. She might never have wanted to see me again. But she is depressed. I can sense it. I want to help her, help her to be happy.

  Maybe that is the reason I was at the party that night. Maybe that is the reason we are connected. Because I can help her. Because I can see what no one else can. Being silent for so long left me as an observer of life rather than a participant. So I see things, know things. Sometimes before they happen.

  I see Stella, and I know what is happening to her. The silence is closing her in, and she is giving in to it—drifting into the darkness. I can help her. I can bring her out of the darkness. But to do that, I have to be honest with her—and she has to be honest with herself.

  She may never hear again.

  She needs to learn that there is more to life than what she has always thought. There is a world without sound. I want to show her all of the things she can still do. All of the things that make life worth living.

  I turn off the hose and coil it back into its holder. I turn the gardenias so their blooms face out. I line up the containers of basil, oregano, and thyme. Another thing I like about working at the nursery: you don’t have to talk to plants. You just have to water them and give them sun.

  “Hayden, give me a hand with those empty flats, will you?” my boss, Jeremiah, calls from the counter.

  “N-n-o pro-blem.” I cringe at my voice. I hate it. The stutter and stammer. It sounds like it doesn’t want to come out—and for eight years, it didn’t.