Reverend of Silence

by Pamela Sparkman

  “Curtains,” I said.

  “Right. Almost forgot.”

  After Doc pulled the curtains closed, he left, and then I lit a candle, opening the first letter. Why was I doing this? I didn’t need to read these. I knew what they said. I had missed her so much when I had written them. I didn’t want to feel those things again. I didn’t want to feel anything anymore. But the look in her eyes. She was feeling everything, and I couldn’t stand the thought of her feeling things alone. So, I opened a letter and let my eyes roam over the words I knew so well. And then I read another and another.

  I read your letter. I have it sitting here beside me. I keep reading it repeatedly. We had the same teacher, my mother, so it doesn’t seem fair that you command words better than me, but there your letter sits with proof, and here mine is, also with proof. I apologize now before going forward that I will stumble a bit with what to say. I always have with you. Always. But there is one thing you must know, and that is I will never forget you. I couldn’t if I tried. And if I had looked out and found you underneath my window, I’m certain I would have thought I was dreaming. Because I had been dreaming of you that night, Lucy. You were wearing that smile that makes not just your face soft, but the world soft. And we were dancing. In my dream, I was the happiest I’d ever been. I want that feeling again. So, learn all the things you need to learn, Lucy Marie Hallison. And come home. And then we’ll dance again.

  Until then, I want to hear all about your time there, and when you get the chance, write to me.

  Oh, one more thing. Don’t ever say you aren’t brave. You are the bravest girl I’ve ever known.

  Mr. Gallaudet and Mr. Clerc seem like fine fellows. I am happy to know they are making your stay at school everything you hoped it would be. Beyond happy, really. It eases my mind to know you are doing so well. Thank you for that kindness. I have yet to have the chance to speak with Noah after reading your letter. However, the moment I see him, I will assure him that all is well with you.

  It’s early now, the sun has yet to rise. I had a dream we were dancing. Thank you for wearing your smile. It got me through a difficult hour of missing you. You looked beautiful. I wore my topper as per your request. You said I looked dashing. We danced to The Sussex Waltz. And then we danced to it again. It was a perfect dream. Thank you for meeting me there.

  Around here, there isn’t much news to report. Your Noah misses you. We both miss you. Mama and Papa miss you. I know your parents also miss you very much. We are all just waiting patiently for your letters, and in between that we continue to do what we’ve always done. I will let everyone know how well you are doing your first weeks there. They will be so very glad to hear it.

  The sun is starting to rise now, and I must be getting ready for school. I just couldn’t start my day without bidding you good morning, Lucy, and thanking you for the dance.

  May I have another?

  It’s grown cold now. I can’t seem to find enough warmth this time of year. When I’m at home, I stay close to the fire and watch the flames arch and dance. It’s hypnotizing. I can’t help staring. I find myself drawing nearer to the hearth, seeking its heat, its refuge.

  I’m convinced I wouldn’t need the fire as much if I just had you here with me. You’re my warmth, Lucy. My refuge. You always have been. I hate the winters now that you’re gone. I can’t get warm. At least not while I’m awake. But when I fall asleep, I find you, and I’m warm again.

  Someday soon we’ll be together in person. You and me. I can’t wait for that day. But until that day comes, we’ll dance by the fire. That sounds nice, doesn’t it? Dream of me dancing with you by the fire, Lucy. By the fire is where we’ll meet.

  And don’t forget how much I love you.

  It was impossible not to remember how much I loved and missed Lucy when I wrote those letters. I still loved Lucy. I would always love Lucy. This was . . . it was killing me. I had to pause several times to wipe the tears from my eyes to finish reading all of them. When I had read all my old letters, I picked up the one Lucy had set aside, the one on the table. With trembling hands, I unfolded it . . .

  Dear Sam,

  If I was your warmth and your refuge, you were my shining ray of light in a dark and lonely world. Because a boy looked into my eyes when I was seven years old and saw a girl . . . not a deaf girl . . . just a girl . . . and he never stopped staring . . . never looked away. You became my friend, my sanctuary, my everything. I fell in love with you, Sam. Because no one had ever looked at me and saw me the way you had.

  And when I was twelve years old, I wrote my first letter to you. I was heartbroken and scared, leaving the only home I’d ever known to face an uncertain future all on my own. I climbed inside a coach that would carry me away from you, leaving you with a letter, a confession of my heart, not because I wanted to leave you behind, but because I wanted to make you proud. I wanted to be everything your eyes ever said I was. Unafraid, fearless, capable, deserving. I felt none of those things, but I wanted to feel them, and you gave me the courage to want them for myself.

  I left you standing on your porch, confessing to you how much you meant to me, and I begged you to never forget me.

  And here I am, five years later, with a letter, a heart so tender I feel I should be bleeding, and I’m begging you again not to forget me.

  I’m begging you to remember us. I’m begging you to remember the boy and girl we were before this evil thing happened to you, and I’m asking you to hold on to them . . . to fight for them, Sam. Because I intend to fight for them . . . for us. Even if that means I must fight you along the way.

  Because I believe with all my heart that I am everything your eyes ever said I was. Unafraid, fearless, capable, and deserving. I owe that to you, Sam. I wouldn’t be the woman I am today had you never entered my life and colored my world. Let me do that for you. Let me color your world the way you colored mine. Let me be your friend. Your sanctuary. Your everything. Let me be your ray of light in the darkness. Let me be that for you.

  But what I want most of all is for you to fall in love again. With yourself.

  Until then, I’ll be your warmth and your refuge. You just be my Sam.

  All my love,

  Lucy

  The door opened and Papa stepped inside. I brushed the tears from my face and tried to harden my expression the way I had been doing the past several weeks, but I couldn’t master the disguise anymore. Lucy had shattered the walls I had built around myself.

  Papa sat on the chair beside the bed, folded his hands in his lap, and rolled his thumbs.

  Folding Lucy’s letter in half, I placed it on the table and gathered up the rest of the letters and set them aside.

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  I shook my head, then opened my mouth and allowed weeks of anger and frustration and hurt fall from my lips.

  “I’ve been thinking that God makes mistakes.” I waited for him to interject, say something . . . a passionate rebuttal maybe. He said nothing, just kept rolling his thumbs, over, under, and let me finish my thoughts. “He made humans too weak,” I said. “Bodies that break, hearts too fragile. That must be a mistake, right? He didn’t intend for us to crumble under so much weight, did He?” My voice warbled and cracked, but I kept going. “He didn’t mean for life to be this hard. He made a mistake.” I punched the bed with a closed fist. “Or maybe he made a mistake when He made me. I love so h-hard. But I can’t hold on to anything. The only thing I ever wanted was Lucy. That’s it. And now I may never walk again. What kind of life will we have if I can’t use my legs? And you ask me how I’m doing? I die a thousand deaths every day. Because God made a mistake! He made me too weak! He should have given me a stronger body! One that can’t break! Or at least a heart that can’t break! Something!” I shouted.

  I wanted to get up and run from the room, down the stairs, out the door, through the fields. I couldn’t. I was stuck. Immobile. Maybe forever.

  I wiped the angry tears that fell down my
face and wiped my nose on the handkerchief my father handed me from his pocket. Still, he remained silent as a tomb, letting me stew in my own sauces, marinate in my own bitterness for a while. Papa’s nonverbal rebuttals were his most effective, forcing you to hear the words that came out of your mouth and reflect upon them. And I tumbled those words over and over in my head until I closed my eyes and shook my head at my own foolishness.

  “I know God doesn’t make mistakes,” I said after some time, blowing out a defeated breath. “I know that. I just feel like something is wrong with me or I’m being punished maybe or I’m n-not good enough. If this is a lesson . . .” My words died on my tongue as pain surged through my chest and rippled throughout my body in waves.

  The room was semi-dark. The candle by the bed flickered. If this was a lesson, then I was a hard man to teach, because I had no idea what I was supposed to be learning. I wanted to laugh at the senselessness of it all. A bubble of laughter crept its way into my throat. It felt like laughter, but I hadn’t laughed in so long, I was afraid to trust it. I pushed it back down and schooled my features to match my father’s. Pensive. He continued to twirl his thumbs around one another. All this time, he had yet to break his silence.

  Looking closer, I could see sadness sitting all over his face, hollowing out his cheeks. Was it my words that had caused this? My head fell back on the pillow. My father, a pastor. I had been blaspheming God, and it undoubtedly broke my poor papa’s heart.

  “I know God doesn’t make mistakes,” I whispered. “Please, Papa, you need to remind me of that sometimes. Could you do that?” My voice cracked. “Just remind me.”

  Papa stilled his thumbs and after one, two, three beats, his gaze found mine. He gave me one decisive nod, patted my hand, and then stood. When he got to the door, he turned his head, giving me only his profile.

  “You have loved that girl for nearly your whole life. Ten years, Sam. What are you doing?”

  I rubbed the aching center of my chest. “I don’t know. I’m a man. Not a burden. I don’t want her taking care of me. Certainly not for the rest of my life.”

  “I’m going to give you something else to think about. Think about it long and hard. Instead of asking what kind of life you’ll have with Lucy if you can’t walk, consider a life without her at all. If a life without Lucy doesn’t scare the absolute hell out of you, then perhaps you’re not as in love with her as you thought. Fine. Let her go. But if it does—if the thought of her not in your life makes your heart race and your skin sweat and you can’t catch your breath, then you hold on to her for as long as you can—for as long as God is willing to give you, and her, and this second chance at life. You don’t need legs to love her. You have a heart for that. You need arms to hold her, eyes that see her, and hands to tell her she’s beautiful. That’s it. You possess everything she needs. Get out of your head, Sam, and into your heart.” He opened the door. “Think about that.”

  Lucy

  “Why did you knock?” Mama Burke asked when she opened the door.

  After six weeks of being made to feel unwelcome . . . well, I tried not to let that emotion show on my face.

  The day before, I hadn’t knocked. I had walked in, the same way I always had, only with an armful of letters and a good mind to tell off her son. Fortunately, Mama and Papa Burke had been downstairs when I’d arrived, saw the look in my eyes and the bundle in my arms. I’d marched past them and right up the stairs. I supposed they’d seen I’d had a goal, a mission, and chose not to interfere. I had been grateful for that.

  But today, I knocked. I knocked because this wasn’t my home. Even though I had always felt like it was. The past six weeks had made me feel uncertain about my place within these walls. Did I even have a place here anymore? I didn’t know.

  “May I come in?” I asked.

  Mama Burke stepped aside, frowning as she allowed me entry. I crossed the threshold with a posture as stiff as dried clay and made it two steps into the parlor before Mama Burke tugged my arm and pulled me around to face her.

  “You do not knock to come into this home,” she signed, her eyebrows gathering and lips flattening. “You open that door and walk in like you belong here! Understand me?”

  I let out a breath as the tension left my body. “Yes, ma’am,” I said, feeling relieved.

  “Come here,” she said. She held out her arms. I let her hug me. It felt like coming home. Pulling away, she said, “I’m sorry. We are all out of sorts. Not ourselves. Forgive us. Sam especially. He needs you. That’s why you’re here, right? For Sam?”

  “Yes.”

  Mama Burke smiled. It had been too long since I’d seen her smile, I had almost forgotten how beautifully she wore one. “Good. Yesterday, what you did with the letters . . .” Her mouth twitched. “I wish I could have seen his face. He needed that.”

  “He was . . . surprised to see me.”

  “I’m sure.” We shared a conspiratorial glance up the stairs. “Go. You know where to find him.” She winked.

  “Thank you,” I signed.

  “No, Lucy. Thank you.”

  A dark room greeted me. Ignoring the fear that Sam would try to toss me out again, I strolled into Sam’s room like I deserved to be there and opened the curtains, letting the light in. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling with a stony countenance. I ignored that, too, and sat in the chair beside him and waited for him to look at me. Slowly, his eyes lowered to mine.

  “I’ve missed you,” I said, getting to the heart of the matter. “And I’m here.”

  He sat up. I helped him adjust the pillows so he would be more comfortable, then sat down again.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  That was all Sam had to say. I had hoped for more. Prayed for more. An “I missed you too” would have been enough. The terrible pang that stabbed my heart would have to be tended to later. This was Sam’s dark place, and I prayed the night before that God show me how to be Sam’s light.

  But time stretched and pulled, and I became afraid because a chasm was also stretching and pulling. The gulf it formed was too big to cross without taking a giant leap. I wondered if Sam could feel it, the distance between us.

  “I read the letters,” Sam said, and pointed to the table where they were all neatly stacked and tied with twine.

  My heart thumped. Had he felt the gulf between us, the distance, and decided to take that giant leap when he decided to speak?

  I nodded, waiting, wanting him to elaborate, to tell me his thoughts, anything. He gave me nothing else. His gaze turned inward, staring off, distant.

  It was jarring to see this side of him, and I wondered if he was only being polite with me. At that moment, I wanted to curl up on the floor and have a good cry. I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because I had to be strong. For Sam. For myself. My father’s words haunted my every thought. They had haunted me since the moment he had said them.

  Fight for him, Lucy. You are the only one who can bring him out of that dark place. I know it in my heart.

  I closed my eyes and imagined reaching for him, begging for him to take my hand. Take it, Sam. Take my hand.

  “Do you remember when we first met?” I asked.

  “I don’t like to think about that,” he said, stone-faced.

  Tears pricked my eyes. Was he trying to hurt me? I looked away, swallowed, turned back. “Why?”

  He was dry-washing his hands. I waited an eternity before he said, “I scared you that day.”

  My head reared back. “What are you talking about?” I asked, searching my memory, not recalling that at all.

  His face turned grim, though he did not answer.

  I waited for a beat before admitting a truth to him. “I knew I would love you then.”

  He flinched. “How can you say that? I was mean to you.”

  “Were you?” I thought back on the day we had met. He had walked through that schoolroom door, biting his lip, refusing to make eye contact with anyone, shuffl
ing from one foot to the other. He hadn’t known a living soul in that room, had been so nervous that I could see the sheen of sweat on his brow. And not a soul in that schoolroom had known him, but that was the one commonality we had shared, Sam and me. The thing that had drawn me to him. No one had known me either if you took my brother out of the equation. I was as much a stranger among them as he had been, only they had chosen not to know me. “I don’t recall you being mean to me,” I said.

  “You sincerely don’t remember?”

  “No, tell me.”

  “You kept staring at me. Do you recall that?”

  A flush crept across my cheeks. I could feel the heat as though the sun was warming my skin. “I may recall that,” I said, trying to appear nonchalant.

  There was a tightness in Sam’s face as he observed the redness washing over me. “I didn’t know you were deaf then,” he said. “I didn’t know. You were staring. It bothered me. I didn’t like it. Why you were staring at me like . . . like . . .”

  “Like you were the cutest boy I’d ever seen?”

  “What?” His mouth fell open.

  I laughed. “That’s why I was staring.” I shrugged. “I was enamored.”

  Sam scrubbed his hands over his face, then signed, “I didn’t know. I tried to give you a taste of your own medicine. I turned around and stared at you. Remember?”

  I recalled that in vivid detail. I had gone home that night and dreamt about green eyes that had stared at me so deeply, I had felt it in my soul.

  “I remember,” I said.

  “I scared you.”

  “You did not.”

  “I remember, Lucy. Your eyes got wide as plates, your breathing got shallow, and when you turned away from me, your hands shook.”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or smack him in the head.