We meet in the foyer. Emerson’s dress is yellow with white polka dots. She has left her hair down with a silver headband. Mom wears a white dress and tan cardigan. We look like one of those commercials for spring dresses.
Church is crowded. Every seat is taken. People spill out the open doors. Little girls dressed like princesses carry little white baskets and stuffed bunnies. Boys pull at collared shirts and vests, looking uncomfortable.
Hayden isn’t here. I look for him during the service. And afterward, at the coffee and donut table. He isn’t there, either. My stomach drops with disappointment. There are two other services today. He must be going to one of the others. All I wanted was to see him, if just for a few moments. With five days off of school for spring break, I won’t have a chance to see him during school lunch, either.
We walk to the car. “You can sit in front today,” I tell Emerson. “I’m kind of tired.” It’s not a total lie. I am suddenly really, really tired. Emerson is thrilled to ride shotgun. As the oldest, I am usually in the front seat. But I don’t want Mom to see the tears welling in my eyes. The sag in my shoulders. Or the silent sobs that follow.
I check my phone every half hour. No message from Hayden. I finally break down and send him one.
Happy Easter. Hope u have a gr8 day! :)
I watch Emerson practice a routine for cheerleading tryouts. Emerson explains that the junior varsity squad tries out later than varsity, so the new cheerleaders can mentor the younger ones. I guess I should be happy that Lily wants to mentor my little sister. But it still gives me twinges. I smile at Emerson and clap for her when she does a spunky routine.
Emerson finishes with a series of jumps and then a perfect back flip. I give her a standing ovation. Not thinking about Lily now. Just Emerson.
Mom comes outside to see the routine. I stay and watch a second time. “You’ll make the team for sure,” I tell her. “I just know it!”
Emerson runs over and hugs us both at the same time. We’re the three musketeers.
Then Mom hands me a pair of gloves and garden shears. She sets my vase on the garden path before moving into the garden with her own gloves and shears.
She wants me to fill the vase with flowers. I breathe deep, inhaling the scent of roses and lavender.
Then I start choosing flowers. I cut a yellow rose just beginning to bloom. I add sprigs of lavender and a bunch of pink peonies. One single white daisy with a yellow center. I arrange the flowers so the daisy is the centerpiece.
By the time Mom comes to check on me, I am finished. I hold up the vase for her to see. She nods her approval. Warmth spreads from her smile to mine.
I spend the next couple of hours side by side with my mother. We pull weeds, tie back roses and drag the hose around. I like watching the water slowly trickle from the hose into the flowerbed. Turning the brown soil black. Drenching it.
I forget for a while. Forget Hayden. Forget Lily. Forget everything. It feels good not to think. I just feel—the sun on my shoulders, the dirt underneath my hands, the ache in my legs from kneeling, the calm in my heart.
Later, we sit together on the sofa and watch cooking shows. It’s easy to understand them without hearing or reading captions. Emerson makes a bowl of popcorn, and I empty our Easter candy into the bowl. The chocolate melts into the buttery popcorn and makes a tasty mess.
I keep my phone on the coffee table in front of us. I keep looking at it. Finally, at dinnertime, he responds.
Hope you have a great day, too.
Then nothing.
I can’t blame him. When I think of things from his perspective, I even understand it. I am hollowed out, like one of the chocolate foil eggs. A shell on the outside. Empty on the inside.
I stay awake in front of the television. Afraid to go to sleep and revisit my nightmares. I wrap myself in a blanket, watch infomercials until I can’t prop my eyes open anymore. And I fall into a dark, dreamless sleep.
Being in the moment
— Hayden —
With no hope of seeing Stella for the next few days, I pick up extra shifts at the nursery. There’s nothing worse than sitting around—I’d rather be moving, working, sweating. I show up at 6 a.m. to unload shipments from the truck.
Yesterday, I needed to find something else to keep myself busy. So I helped Gramps clean out his studio—tearing down clay models that have been turned into bronze, recycling the clay, sweeping the floor, wiping the tables. We stopped only to go to church, the last service of the day. I didn’t want to see Stella—too painful. Gramps didn’t ask any questions and didn’t pry. But he watched me, and I know he realizes something’s wrong. He’s waiting for me to share it with him, but I’m not ready.
I work at the nursery from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m., with only a short break to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I move bags of sod, rearrange rose plants, water everything twice. Today, Jeremiah needs my help with customers. Sunny days bring crowds—good weather is like a banner that advertises planting and growing things. So today I load cars with fruit trees, carry flats of flowers to trucks, help people fit tall houseplants in their cars. I smile and nod, do as I’m told. I don’t speak once all day. It’s better that way, like I’m in a bubble—my own silent world.
I won’t think about Stella; it’s too dangerous. One trickle of emotion seeping through my façade will destroy everything. I block her from my thoughts completely.
I stay in the present, the here and now. Putting one foot in front of the other. That’s all I can do. Just to get through this day, and the next, until I can see her again.
7
— Stella —
The day moves so slowly. Each moment lasts an hour. Each hour, an eternity.
I bake oatmeal cookies.
Clean my closet.
Make friendship bracelets with Emerson.
Weed the garden.
Start Persuasion by Jane Austen.
Make tea for Mom.
Braid Emerson’s hair like Katniss at The Reaping.
And it isn’t even dinnertime yet.
Underneath it all, I’m angry. Angry with my dad for deciding all of a sudden to be a father. Just to enforce a punishment and then waltz back to his Number One Family. Angry with Mom for accepting it and allowing him to make rules for our household. Angry with Hayden for going silent on me. Angry with my ears for not working.
The only person I’m not angry at is Emerson, and that’s because she’s the only one who can make me laugh. She’s my best friend.
Then I look at the picture, the one Hayden took of me with the butterfly. And I’m reminded about patience. This isn’t forever. It’s just a few days. A test to see if Hayden really means so much to me. If he does, time is immaterial. Because nothing will change my love for him.
So I sit on the floor cross-legged. Close my eyes. And breathe.
I breathe in life.
Love.
Grace.
Humility.
I find a place inside to be grateful. Full of thanks.
I let go of the anger. Fill myself with space instead.
Space for hope.
Possibility.
Dreams.
When I am fully relaxed, I pull out a notebook and a pen.
And I write.
Emotions begin in my heart. Flow through my veins and into my left hand. My fingers are the last stop. The pen carries the words forth. Giving them life. Ink gives them power.
I release it all. Freeing myself as I write. It’s like nothing else. Because here, I have complete freedom to be anyone I want to be. Without judgment or criticism.
Each word is like a drop of my blood falling on the page. And while I write, I am aware that I am somewhere else yet right here. I once thought that only singing could create that dynamic for me. I was wrong. It was all here right inside of me. I just didn’t know it.
She stands on stage
In the spotlight
Dressed in her dreams
Reaching for tomorrow
The unthinkable happens
Her dreams torn away
Leaving her naked
The spotlight extinguished
She is surrounded in darkness
Facing the worst of her fears
Mourning the loss of dreams
Unable to imagine tomorrow
A golden angel reaches out
Like a ray of sunlight
To pull her from the depths
With a promise of hope
Then she sees a rainbow
Braving the wind and rain
To touch the sun
Saying anything is possible
Finally, she sees a flower
Grounded in the earth
Reaching for the sun
Still there, always there
She sees outside herself
To the world beyond
Three beckon her step by step
With hope, faith and love.
Dreams reveal truth
— Hayden —
This morning I wake with dreams of Stella in the air, like the scent of her perfume—honey and wildflowers. I may be able to control my conscious mind and shut her out. But in sleep, my subconscious takes over, and I cannot lie.
Dreams trail through my mind like red ribbons all connecting back to her. I see her there in a red dress, on stage, singing to me. I am her leading man. Her voice soars over the audience with passion—and all of it is for me. I take her hands in mine and vow to never ever let her go.
Usually I can shake off my dreams. It’s been a survival mechanism, dispelling memories of my mother, my past. Dreams that once haunted me in sleep, I learned to extinguish while awake. It’s always worked before. Until today.
The dream of Stella will not disappear. It stays with me all morning, tormenting me. While I eat breakfast, get dressed, drive to work. Then more as I plant flowers, tend seedlings, move sod.
By noon, I know what I have to do.
I take a break to eat an apple, grab my phone, and send her this message.
I may not be able to see you. But I can still help you. So for today—day 6—shoot photographs. Tell a story with a camera. Challenge yourself. See things in a new way. Send me your best one. Here are two of mine.
I attach a photo of an apple tree laden with blossoms and another of a row of seedlings sprouting out of a red metal tin.
I add something: I miss you. But then I erase it. Instead, I sign it with an H.
I may not be able to be with her, but I can still keep my promise. I can still be there for her. Because like the red ribbons in my dream, I am tied to Stella, and nothing will change that.
Then I receive her response: I was afraid you were never going to speak to me again.
I write back. I was just giving you space.
I don’t need space. I need you.
That makes me smile. I want to write back to tell her I need her too. But I can’t.
Have to go back to work. Send me the pictures tonight.
All day long, no matter what I do, they are with me.
Red ribbons.
6
— Stella —
I stand in the backyard, camera in hand. Looking for a way to challenge myself.
Hayden asked me to tell a story with pictures. But what story do I want to tell?
All I can think about is Hayden. And how even when we are apart, he is with me. I meant it when I said I need him. I do. I need him like I need to breathe.
I imagine him planting seedlings in the red tin. Tending the apple tree. Seeing his day brings me closer to him. Makes me feel like I am there.
Emerson sits in a chair, sipping a lemonade. Engrossed in a novel. Mom is working in her office. I sit on the ground. Observing.
Mom’s garden is in full bloom. Bees fly here and there. I imagine they buzz as they move from flower to flower. Buds open to greet the sun. Daisies tip to touch the earth. Herbs spread their fragrant scent. The ground is carpeted with emerald grass.
I breathe in. Taste nature.
Lie back and look up. The sky sparkles like it is inlaid with diamonds.
I think of Hayden.
He cloaks himself in silence
If he isn’t heard, he won’t be seen
Guarding himself from memories
From a past he wants to forget
But his heart won’t oblige
And refusing to be hidden away
It glows from within
Fighting for the chance to stay alive
His heart destroys the cloak
Leaves it in a heap
Silence is shattered
With the sound of his voice
More than one life he saves that day
Because his voice is a gift
Allowing him to reach out
To speak. To heal. To love.
This is the story I will tell.
I stand and move through the yard. I take a close-up of a red flower. So close, the petals begin to blur, making it look more like a heart than a flower. This will be Hayden’s heart. The heart that refuses to be silenced.
I find a puddle. Take a shot of the water. Close enough to get the reflection of the sky. Infinite possibility. Hayden’s gifts to the world.
Then I lie down and shoot through the blades of grass. So that it seems I am small enough to fit between them. And be lost forever. Invisible.
I need to find a way to express the concept of hiding. I wander around. Search the yard. I see nothing.
So I go into the front yard. Look at the street. The white picket fence in front of our house. The front step where I waited for Hayden that first day.
Then I see it. The oak tree. I tuck the camera into my shorts pocket. Boost myself onto the lowest branch. Nestle myself in. And look up. There. Between the branches. The bark of the tree separates, and I can just make out the tender wood underneath. Hidden by the bristly bark. I take the picture.
I climb down from the tree. Remove the daisy pendant from around my neck. Lay it gently on the front step. Then I move back. Take a photo of the step and the necklace. I sit on the step next to the necklace. Thinking how far I have come since that first day.
I’m still sitting here when Mom comes to get me. She takes me and Emerson out to lunch and then shopping for the rest of the afternoon. Something we haven’t done together in a long time. I have so much fun that I forget I can’t hear them talk. It doesn’t even matter.
Later, I upload the photos to my computer. Then I type the words of Hayden’s poem. I add the photos where they belong to tell the story. His story.
Then I send it to him.
Hayden’s Song.
Eye to eye
— Hayden —
When I open the attachment to Stella’s email, I know what I expect—photos of Emerson or a squirrel, or maybe a rose in bloom.
So I am not prepared for this—Hayden’s Song.
As I read the words, and see the photos, I feel like someone has punched me in the stomach. I can’t seem to catch my breath, and I have the sudden sense that I am falling into an abyss.
It’s one thing to know that you are seen, but Stella sees me from the inside out, like she has climbed inside my heart. I read the poem again to let the images and words soak into my consciousness. So I can understand what she’s saying.
The voice in my head that sounds like my mother begins to fade. Her words telling me I am worthless, a disappointment. Those words blur, become unintelligible, as though they no longer belong to me.
In their place, I hear Stella’s voice—clear and deep.
Reciting her poem.
More than one life he saves that day
Because his voice is a gift
Allowing him to reach out
To speak. To heal. To love.
It’s all I can do not to jump in my car and drive over to her house, even though it’s ten o’clock at night and her dad has forbidden it. An email isn’t enough; there is so much I want to say.
Because
I want to tell her.
Everything.
I want to tell her.
That she is healing me, that her voice is the gift.
And she has saved me.
I send her this message: Stella, you are the gift.
When I open my eyes the next morning, nightmares still roar in my mind like storm clouds heralding a thunderstorm. For a moment, I am five again, hiding behind the kitchen door. Bottles and jars being thrown at my head and crashing against the door.
My body shakes uncontrollably, teeth chattering. I breathe in, hold it, clench my teeth. Count to five, exhale, then again. Calm myself, the way the doctors taught me.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Something is wrong; I can sense it in the air. Splitting molecules in uneven patterns, a manic frenzy.
I climb out of bed and open my door.
I hear one voice. And it stabs me in the chest, piercing deep—opening scars.
My mother has returned.
I think about running, climbing out the window, escaping. I pull on jeans and a shirt, with my escape plan worked out in my mind. Gramps steps into my room, closes the door behind him. Eyes me—and the window.
“Going somewhere?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Wh-wh-what d-does sh-she w-want?” I stammer worse than ever.
He shrugs. “Who can say? To see you, see me.” His eyes say more, something he isn’t telling me. It makes me nervous. The more nervous I become, the more my words struggle to be released.
Silence Page 17
