Capture the World

by R. K. Ryals

  On the other side of my bedroom wall, I hear my mother stirring, restless in her sleep.

  Window still open, I slide down to the floor, the cold air refreshing despite its chill. It’s breathing on me, and I inhale it.

  I’m smiling, and I don’t know why.

  I’m changing, and yet I’m not. I’m a butterfly. A cocoon forms around me, and I wonder what I’ll look like when I break free of it.

  NINETEEN

  The real world

  In which I feel like Rip Van Winkle

  SCHOOL IS SURPRISINGLY quiet. For the first time in years, I don’t keep my head down, I don’t hide my face behind my hair, and I actually smile at people. When I remember to. I have a lot of ground to make up for. I’ve conditioned myself to my mother’s life without realizing I was disappearing inside of her world. Completely disappearing.

  “It’s a little weird, isn’t?” Gracie asks when I see her in the halls. “It’s almost like you’re a new student.”

  She’s right. The other students aren’t actively avoiding me. They aren’t talking, either, but it’s a step up from avoidance.

  After fourth period, I pass Kagen in the hall. He’s with a group of athletes, Vanessa on his arm, and I start to drop my head, remembering last minute to lift my chin. No hiding.

  He catches my eye on passing, nods, and greets me with, “Reagan.”

  I don’t know who he surprises more: me or his friends?

  “Kagen,” I reply, nodding back.

  I fight not to glance over my shoulder to see if he does the same thing.

  CHEMISTRY COMES TOO soon, and I walk inside the room, my palms sweating.

  Matthew isn’t at our table.

  My heart sinks, disappointment dropping hard and quick, crushing me.

  Glancing around the room, I sit, and for the first time, I let my head fall, my fingers drawing out sheets of colored paper from beneath the cover of my textbook.

  Hooray for you! The thought comes full of sarcasm. I’ve managed to scare off the first guy I’ve ever had a real crush on.

  Mrs. Pierson comes in, beginning a lecture that drones on forever. My fingers fold, a paper camera forming under my hands. It has a long lens.

  Mom will like this, I think. She can take photos of the places she goes. The camera will be my peace offering, the gift that cheers her up after our falling out on Saturday.

  Class is almost over when Matthew comes in, breathless, and takes a seat next to me.

  “Hey,” he says, quickly turning away to open his textbook.

  “I hope you have a good excuse for coming in this late, Mr. Moretti?” Mrs. Pierson asks.

  He doesn’t hear her.

  I nudge him.

  He smiles. “Doctor’s appointment,” he says aloud. Too loud. “I turned in my excuse at the office.”

  For a long time, he doesn’t look at me, and when he finally does, I have to fight to hold eye contact.

  “You okay?” I mouth.

  He gestures at his ears, turns his head. His hearing aids are missing.

  We don’t speak for the rest of the period.

  When the bell rings, I gather my books, touch his arm. “Do you need any help?” I mouth.

  He shakes his head, slides me a letter, and then leaves.

  I open it, fingers trembling.

  Confession: I’m not sure how I feel about the way you kissed me yesterday. What it meant. If it should mean anything at all.

  This is all insane, you know?

  The videos you’ve sent me … I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone so well. I’m not talking favorite color or the type of food you prefer to eat—please tell me you’re not a vegetarian—because I don’t know what your favorites are. I think I’ve seen something better than that. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen your soul.

  Would it be cowardly of me to admit that scares the shit out of me?

  Also, not sure why, but you being around my family has really softened Christopher. He talks to me more now. Real words. Not noncommittal grunts.

  You scare me because I see a little of myself in your soul. You’ve learned to live inside this extraordinary world your mother has created, and I’ve learned to exist inside this silent world where the only thing important to me is basketball.

  I’m not wearing my hearing aids on purpose, which seems odd.

  Do me a favor? Send me another video, but don’t talk. In my world, it’s not always what you say that’s important, it’s how you learn to say it.

  P.S. You should have given me time to kiss you back.

  P.P.S. Thank you.

  TWENTY

  My mother’s world

  Atlantis

  I GO TWO days without seeing Matthew. Other than chemistry, but even then, he isn’t really there. He doesn’t talk. He stares at Mrs. Pierson, focusing on her lips so he can keep up with her notes and the lessons she teaches. Anything he misses is given to him in a handout.

  Mom forgives me.

  The origami camera goes over better than I thought it would. We go on two expeditions with it. The first is to Mongolia, which is where my mother tried taking me Saturday, to a monastery built in the 1600s.

  The second is to Atlantis.

  I’ve been to a lot of places with my mother, figuratively speaking, but this is the first time she’s ever suggested going somewhere fictional.

  “Atlantis isn’t real,” I tell her gently.

  She stands in the middle of her room fanning a blue sheet she yanks off of her bed. It flies up, up into the air, bubbles above our heads, and then sinks down. Over and over.

  “Because no one can find it?” Mom asks.

  “Because no one can prove it existed. They can’t make sense of it.”

  Mom laughs. “The best things ever given to us by history were things people couldn’t make sense of. The telephone. Electricity. Just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

  Sometimes Mom sounds so scarily normal that I think she is. That maybe, just maybe, she’s coming back to us.

  The sun pours into the window, wrapping her in brilliance, the blanket continuing to billow. Blue and gold. Over and over. Up and down. It’s magic.

  This is the wonder that is Mom. She’s all of these delusional moments with rare nuggets of wisdom wrapped up in radiance.

  We’re floating, skipping over white pebble clouds before diving into an ocean of glass. We’re wearing togas and drinking wine, because it seems the right thing to do, while searching a white beach for pearls. Monuments and grandiose buildings reach for us from the waves, pulling us into the ocean with them. In Atlantis, an entire day passes in under two hours. From blue skies to a black abyss that spits us out on a trail of comets. We count the stars.

  “Mom?” I ask.

  From the bedroom floor, under our sky of faux stars, she glances at me. “Hmm?”

  “Why do you think Atlantis disappeared?”

  She thinks a minute. “Because people destroyed it. They lived in a utopian world full of magic, and they wanted more.” She frowns, and then brightens. “But we won’t take it for granted, will we, my jewel?”

  Standing, she brings me with her, and we twirl, surrounded by extinct perfection.

  It’s the most fantastic trip I’ve ever been on.

  Suddenly, I know exactly what Matthew is asking for.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The real world

  Silence is beautiful

  A FAN OF paper sits on my floor, a rainbow of color. My camera is on, and I prop my phone up, held up by a stack of books.

  I press record.

  My hands fly, folding and unfolding paper, blue on green on brown on yellow. The world forms in my hands, an origami globe, and I hold it in my palms, offering it to the camera.

  Setting it down gently, I pick up a yellow sun I made beforehand, show it to him, mimic it setting over the origami globe.

  Then, laying it all aside, I cover my eyes with my hands, closing everything away.
It’s dark because I’m shutting out the world.

  My lashes flutter against my palms, and I drop them, peering into the camera before grabbing a basketball I’ve borrowed from the Morettis’ backyard.

  Holding the ball above the paper globe, I drop it, and the globe smashes. Inside the paper earth, a handful of origami hearts rest, and they scatter with the impact.

  I’m left with a crushed world—a sun setting on it—open eyes, and a handful of new hearts.

  Smiling, I stop the video.

  Press send.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The real world

  Silent filmmaking

  I CALL THIS the montage of silent films.

  A few hours after sending Matthew my video, I receive one from him, and then suddenly it’s a thing. I reply; he sends another. Me. Him. Me. Him. Two days’ worth of videos where we say nothing, where we live inside a world of silence, and yet the videos speak more than words ever could.

  It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever done, which is saying a lot because … well, Mom.

  It’s work, all of these symbolic gestures that I have to decode in my head, and yet somehow, it makes the videos more. This incredible thing I doubt I’ll ever experience again. This incredible thing I doubt I’ll ever be a part of away from Matthew. He’s invited me into his world where words mean less than feeling.

  His videos are a collection of images; these things I know define him. Things he wants and things he needs.

  Him in bed patting an empty spot next to him.

  Him walking through his house surrounded by chaos like he’s the eye in the center of a hurricane, silence barging through noise.

  Him reading.

  Him opening a door, waving his hand through it, like he’s opening it for me.

  A sunset off of his back patio.

  His brother, Christopher, lying on their living room floor flipping through photo albums. He’s looking at pictures of someone dressed in a football jersey.

  His niece, Mia, climbing onto his bed, babbling. She didn’t get the memo about the silence, but he doesn’t mind. She tries to get him to talk to her, her tiny fingers patting his lips. “Talk, Matty!”

  A picture of a younger Matthew when he was awkward and gangly, more legs and feet than anything, holding a picture of a basketball player. When I Google the team and number, I discover it’s a picture of Lance Allred, the first legally deaf player in National Basketball Association history.

  Finally, in the final video, he holds up an origami butterfly—the same butterfly I dropped on the gym floor the day he sat next to me at the pep rally. He kept it. This little part of me. A piece of my paper soul.

  My conclusion: Yeah, I like him.

  MY VIDEOS ARE shorter than his.

  Me and the origami world.

  Me kneeling next to my mother’s bed while she’s sleeping, fingers steepled, eyes closed.

  My aunt sitting in our living room drinking coffee while doing a crossword puzzle. My uncle in his recliner watching ESPN and National Geographic.

  My origami empire, which I’ve never shown anyone. A room full of paper treasures. Little hidden pieces of me, of my mother’s fantasies, and my dreams. My kingdom.

  A picture of me with my mom … before.

  Me holding up a DVD case, my recent copy of The Outsiders, a heart drawn in permanent marker over Ponyboy’s face. It feels silly, but I send it anyway.

  A sunset off of our back patio, camera angled toward the tree line, toward the bayou. There’s something about the bayou that calls to me, this grassy, muddy place full of hidden dangers. The waterways hide alligators, snakes, and trouble, and yet its beauty is its darkness, its mystery, and its resilience.

  Me setting a stack of college applications next to the institution brochure where my mother is being sent.

  Me on my bed, staring at nothing.

  Finally, me in pajamas curled up in a quilt, because in the end, that is the essence of me. Comfort, love, and family.

  His conclusion: I have no idea.

  I hope he likes me.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The real world

  Bow chica wow wow

  IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT, and Aunt Trish and Uncle Bobby are out meeting with friends when there’s a knock on the back door.

  Matthew stands on the other side. It’s cold outside, and he’s hunched in his jacket, his hands stuffed inside the pockets. His head is down. Air puffs rise from his mouth, white and anxious.

  I’m in a long, white T-shirt and a pair of knee-high socks my Aunt Trish bought me two years back during my unicorn phase. It’s weird, and my face burns.

  “Hey,” I say, surprised, holding the door mostly closed, leaving only a crack between us, so that it hides my socks and bars the cold.

  I barely have the greeting out of my mouth when Matthew suddenly pushes the door open, slides his hand behind my neck, and kisses me.

  I forget there’s a world and that I’m trying to capture it.

  The kiss is that powerful, his fingers curling into my hair, his lips cold against my warm mouth, the stark difference so startling I gasp.

  He lifts me, no effort at all, shutting the door with his foot before setting me on the bar in the kitchen.

  He settles between my legs, his mouth never leaving mine.

  I am breathing Matthew Moretti, and he is breathing me, which is probably the worst description of a kiss ever, but I don’t know how else to describe it.

  It resuscitates me.

  He falls back, and we stare at each other. No words. I’m not sure I even remember how to talk. We’re all of these things in my head now—images, words, and feelings—and combined all of it has turned us into this huge thing I can’t pin down.

  He kisses me again. Words no longer mean a damn.

  His hands grip me, one on my hip, the other on the nape of my neck, as if letting go means failing himself somehow. He never tries anything. It’s just a kiss and a grip, and yet it feels like everything.

  He falls back again, breathing hard.

  “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m so sorry.” His eyebrows pop up. “No, scratch that. I’m not … I’m …” He doesn’t finish.

  My eyes go wide, unseeing. “What—” I begin, and then stop because I realize he’s staring hard at my lips. “You still don’t have your hearing aids in, do you?”

  He doesn’t have to answer. By the way he concentrates, I know he doesn’t.

  Suddenly, this is way more than a kiss. This is him feeling the world, hearing it the way he hears it, through sight and touch and feeling. Through descriptions of sunsets and book quotes.

  Reaching out, I grab his hands, lifting them to my head where I place them over my ears.

  I kiss him, my legs wrapping around his waist, capturing him. My fingers massage the skin just under his ears, feeling the scar I’d seen in one of his videos.

  He breathes against my lips. Our tongues touch.

  I don’t know what to do with all of the sensations running through me. It’s like I’m stuck in a wild whirlpool inside the massive Mississippi river, and the current is pulling me under. Down, down, down.

  Ending the kiss, Matthew rests his forehead against mine, his chest heaving.

  If he touches my chest, he’ll feel my heartbeat, feel the way its skipping, excited and a little scared. Like a bird trapped inside of me, fluttering to get free.

  For a long time, we stand there, a world of letters, videos, and silent images between us, and it is the most powerful thing I’ve ever felt outside of the pain I feel when I think of my mother … gone.

  Strange how this can feel as wonderful as that feels painful. Two different emotions. Both of them devastating.

  “I should—” he begins.

  “Shhh,” I say, my fingers touching his lips, stopping him.

  I don’t know what Matthew is—what part he’s supposed to play in my life; if he’s going to own my heart or break it—but right now, I don’t want to hear anything.
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