Your Voice Is All I Hear

by Leah Scheier

  Katie was shivering on our doorstep, her little hands blue and chapped, her thin sneakers caked with snow. She was crying into her sleeve, and as I knelt down, she flung her arms around me and buried her face in my sweater.

  “Something’s wrong,” she gasped. “Please come back with me. I’m really, really scared.”

  “Katie, where’s your mom?” I asked as I led her inside. “Where’s Jonah? How did you get here by yourself?”

  “Mommy’s out grocery shopping,” she explained. “I was playing at my neighbor’s house. But I forgot my wand back in my room, so I ran home to get it. When I got upstairs, I heard Jonah yelling at someone in his studio. So I got scared. I remembered where you lived so I walked over here. I didn’t want to call the neighbor. She doesn’t know Jonah like you do. Please, April? I don’t want to go home by myself.”

  We helped Katie peel off her wet socks, and Kris wrapped a comforter around her shoulders. Katie let out a feeble sigh and burrowed into the blanket. “I should have called my mom,” she said. “But I was so scared I just ran out of the house.”

  “Don’t worry, Katie. I’ll go check on Jonah right now,” I told her. “You stay here with my friend, okay? She’ll put on some movies for you in the basement.”

  Kris pulled me aside as I was zipping up my boots. “Where are you going?” she whispered anxiously. “What if there’s a robbery going on at his house? You can’t go back there alone!”

  “I can’t explain right now,” I said. “Please call Jonah’s mom when I’m gone and tell her to meet me at her house. Katie knows the number.”

  I didn’t pause to wait for her response. I pulled on my coat and was out the door before she could speak. There was nothing she could have said to stop me, even if I felt deep down that maybe she was right. There were plenty of reasons to be scared. I had no idea what I would find when I got to Jonah’s house. But I trusted Katie’s instinct, and I knew that she wouldn’t have begged for help without good cause.

  As I rounded the corner onto his street, I stopped to catch my breath and gazed out at the row of clean, white lawns that stretched into the horizon. Everything was pure and still, the snow gleaming untouched and new over the manicured lane. Only one house marred the perfect view; the Goldens’ yard was mostly slush, trampled rows of footprints, and bits of dirt. As I stepped over the garden path, I noticed small drops of reddish liquid darkening the trail. I leaned over to touch the crimson snow, my heartbeat roaring in my ears. The marks across the lawn were prints of bloody, naked feet.

  I should have turned and run away. I felt like I had stepped into a horror movie, and I was the naive teenager about to stick her head into a slaughter room. But what was I supposed to do? Jonah was in that house. He might be hurt and scared, and there I was, shivering outside, staring helplessly at clumps of bloody snow across his lawn. How could I forgive myself if I abandoned him now, when he needed me the most?

  Gritting my teeth, I inhaled slowly and walked up to the door. It swung open at my touch. I peeked into the hall and shouted Jonah’s name, hoping desperately that he would answer. The only sound I heard was my own echoing voice and the steady beat of music from upstairs. I climbed up to the second floor and paused in front of Jonah’s room. There was no sign of him, no shouting, no swearing, no punching bag slam as I’d expected, just a rhythmic shriek blasting from his speakers.

  I’m screaming louder, but you’re walking away.

  I’m screaming louder, but you’re shutting me out.

  I pushed Jonah’s door open and peered inside. There was no one there. The room looked exactly as it had the day before. His iPod was propped up on his desk, and the walls were vibrating from the song that he’d set on repeat play.

  I call your name.

  Blood runs over my hands.

  Please don’t turn away.

  You have to watch me go.

  I stepped into the darkened corridor, and the music followed me, wailing and hammering in my ears. As I walked, my boot slid forward across the floor. I lifted my foot and stared at the reddish sludge beneath my heel. A trail of dark and sticky fluid was oozing from behind Jonah’s studio door. I put my hand over my mouth and swallowed against a wave of nausea. I can’t go in there, I thought, shutting my eyes. I was too scared to look inside. “Oh God,” I prayed. “Please, please, let him be okay. Please don’t let me be too late.”

  Shaking with fear, my eyes down, I crept along the hallway, calling out Jonah’s name in a strangled whisper. Still no answer, only the screeching drone from his bedroom.

  I’ll make you watch, I’ll make you watch, I’ll make you watch—

  I tapped on his studio door, took a deep breath, and pushed it open. The next moment, I was kneeling on the floor, my hands over my eyes, staring in disbelief at the scene in front of me. There was no one in the studio, but every painting in the room had been uncovered, the sheets tossed in piles across the room. The canvases were all stained in red, bleeding scarlet paint from top to bottom, dripping in streams across the hardwood. Not one painting had been spared. He’d overturned ten cans of dark-red house paint over his art and smeared the stuff across the pictures in destructive, bloody strokes.

  Those were the tracks I’d seen on the lawn. He must have been covered in paint when he left that trail outside. But where was he now? Where could he have gone? He had destroyed years of hard work in a few wild moments. What else was he planning to destroy?

  As I walked out of the house, I looked down at the muddied yard. Jonah had left footprints—clear, crimson marks across the snow. All I needed to do was follow the trail he’d made. And so I did. I tracked the prints like an amateur bloodhound, around and around in circles, up a nearby alley and then back onto my street, and finally straight ahead in the direction of my home.

  When I finally understood the way he’d gone, I broke into a run, picking up speed as I neared my house, panting for breath as I burst in through my door. There was no one in the living room. I called out for Kris and Katie, cried out their names over and over. The tracks of pinkish snow ended in a melting clump next to the kitchen table, and from there, small puddles of water extended in a trail up to my bedroom door.

  I walked slowly to my room and listened. There was a noise coming from the room, the low sound of whispered muttering and the clunking jangle of a piano note, one key being pressed over and over again. I reached out to open the door when a hand rested on my shoulder. I screamed and wheeled around, then exhaled in relief when I saw Kris standing behind me.

  “God, April, what’s wrong with you?” she demanded, stepping forward. “I heard you calling so I came up. Katie and I were downstairs watching a movie. What’s going on?” She paused and listened at my door. “Is someone in there?”

  The muttering sound stopped just as she spoke; there was a padding of footsteps toward us. The doorknob turned, then stopped, and Jonah’s voice called out to us. “Who’s there? What do you want?”

  I felt Kris’s eyes on me. I could hear what she was thinking. Who breaks into their girlfriend’s room and then demands an explanation?

  “Jonah, it’s me,” I answered. “Can I come in, please?”

  The door swung open, and he stepped into the light. Kris gasped behind me, and I drew back in shock. I expected him to be a mess, but I hadn’t been prepared for this. He was dressed in a light T-shirt and shorts; his bare legs were tinged pink and blue with cold. His hair was windblown and crusted with ice, and streams of melting snow were dripping down his face and neck. From his shoulders to his hands, his skin was stained blood red, like a warrior who’d slaughtered an enemy and then dipped his arms into the corpse. Clenched between his dirty fingers was my mother’s silver butter knife. He was looking at me with blazing, wild eyes, and as I stared at him, he reached out and grabbed my hand.

  “Where is it?” he demanded in an urgent voice. “Where did you hide it?”

&n
bsp; I had no idea what he was asking. I glanced past him into my room. Two keys from my keyboard lay in pieces on the floor. “Jonah, what happened to my piano?” I demanded in a shocked whisper. “What did you do?”

  But he shook his head impatiently. “We don’t have much time. They’ve bugged your keyboard. They’ve been inside my studio. When they find out that I’ve blocked them, they’ll come here next. I need to know now—where is that painting that I gave you?”

  I could see that he’d made some disorganized efforts to search my room. Some of my books had been knocked out of my bookcase; the rug had been pushed aside. He’d opened up my closet and tossed around my shoes. That was the closest he’d gotten to it. I had faithfully hidden the portrait like he’d requested, and it was hanging covered up behind my clothes. But I wasn’t going to tell him that.

  “Jonah, I’m not giving you the painting so you can destroy it like you destroyed the others. And I’m not talking to you until you put that knife down.”

  He looked annoyed. “It’s a butter knife, April! And you’re missing the point. I didn’t destroy the paintings! I protected them. They’ve been stealing them and trying to steal your music. Haven’t you felt it? Haven’t you felt them sucking away your talent? I’ve been feeling it for months now! Poisonous little bugs feeding on my brain! We have to block them now before they get here.”

  “Before who gets here?” I shouted. “No one is coming to get you—”

  I would have tried to finish the useless argument, I would have tried to reason with him a while longer, but at that moment, we were interrupted by the sound of wailing sirens.

  Jonah froze in place, and his mouth fell open in alarm. “I told you, April. I told you they were coming. Stand next to me, quick. We’ll face them together.”

  Kris, who until then had remained paralyzed behind me, now began to back away from us. As the sirens came nearer, she flung open the front door and rushed out into the yard. “In here! We’re in here,” she called out, waving her arms wildly as an ambulance and a police car pulled up to the curb.

  A moment later, a policeman was on the lawn. Mrs. Golden jumped out of the passenger side and ran toward us, calling Jonah’s name.

  With a rough gesture, Jonah grabbed my hand and staggered outside onto the lawn, pulling me after him. The officer froze in place when he saw us, and one hand went defensively to his holster. I realized that Jonah still held the knife firmly in front of him. What would the cop think of this wild-eyed boy with red hands who was waving around a knife? I wondered. What would he do if Jonah didn’t surrender?

  “Put down the weapon and place your hands over your head!” the man commanded and slowly drew his gun out of its holster. “Let the girl go now.”

  Jonah wasn’t going to do it. I could feel it in his clenched muscles and see it in his eyes. He was going to try to stand this policeman down. And if he advanced or threatened him, the cop would have to shoot. Jonah’s mom was hovering behind the officer and calling desperately to her son, begging him to listen to her. But Jonah wasn’t going to hear her. He wasn’t hearing anyone now. There was only one way to end this.

  Slowly, I stepped in front of Jonah and stood between him and the waiting officer. “Please, sir!” I called out. “My boyfriend’s really sick. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. We have to get him to a hospital.”

  The officer wavered for a moment but didn’t lower his gun. “He needs to put the weapon down,” he ordered again.

  “It’s a butter knife!” I shouted. “He can’t hurt anyone with it!”

  The cop wasn’t convinced. “Move aside, young lady!” he demanded. “Step away from him immediately.”

  Jonah leaned down and whispered in my ear. “What are you doing, April? I’m not going to the hospital with these people. I’m not going anywhere. This is my destiny, don’t you understand? I’m a messenger. There’s no way to fight this.”

  How do you save a person who refuses to be saved? I couldn’t reason with Jonah; he was convinced that we were surrounded by enemies and spies. Nothing I could say would make him see that he was wrong. To him, everyone else was crazy; he was the only sane one in the world.

  And then it came to me. The only way to get to Jonah was to come into his world, to share his delusions with him, to embrace the fantasy. I would have to pretend that I believed only him and nobody else.

  I turned around to him and gently put my hands over his cheeks. Slowly I drew his face to mine and brought my lips close to his ears. “Jonah, listen to me,” I whispered to him. “You have to put the knife down and let the ambulance take you to the hospital. No, don’t pull away, just listen to what I’m saying. If the cop arrests you, they’ll take you to the station and throw you in a cell. I’ll be all alone. And then they’ll be able to get me too, because I won’t have you to protect me.” He was staring intently at me; I could see that he was hearing me. “Jonah,” I pleaded, “if they take you to the hospital, then I can stay with you. We’ll be together, and we can watch out for each other. I won’t let them harm you, I promise. But if you try to fight, the cop will shoot you. Or he’ll handcuff you and take you away. You have to tell them that you’re sick and that you’ve made a big mistake. Please, Jonah. I’m begging you.”

  I’d expected him to argue or think it over for a minute. But instead, he smiled suddenly, as if a happy idea had just occurred to him, and stepped quickly away from me. With a careless gesture, he flung the knife aside, then suddenly, dramatically, clutched his hands over his head and dropped like lead to the ground.

  The officer rushed over, his gun at his side; Jonah’s mom threw herself onto her son and grasped his face between her hands. A medic climbed out of the waiting ambulance and ran across the lawn. I sank weakly down into the snow and watched them scramble over his limp body. Jonah didn’t resist when the EMTs strapped him to the gurney and tied restraints onto his wrists. As they hoisted him into the ambulance, I called out to the EMT, “Can I ride with him to the hospital?”

  The medic looked doubtfully at me. “Do you get sick at the sight of needles?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  He shrugged and indicated a seat beside the gurney. “Ma’am, you’ll drive behind us to the ER,” he called out to Jonah’s mom and shut the door behind us.

  We rode to the university hospital without sirens or lights. The medic examined Jonah, muttered something about stable vitals, and then placed an IV in his arm. Jonah remained absolutely still throughout; he didn’t even flinch when the needle went in. As they pulled him out into the lobby, Jonah opened his eyes briefly and winked at me. I leaned down to him.

  “I think they bought it,” he whispered and then shut his eyes again.

  Chapter 23

  The emergency room was boring. That was a surprise to me. From watching shows like Grey’s Anatomy and House, I’d come to think of hospitals as places where exciting things happened. Patients would be screaming, needles and scalpels flying, everyone shrieking orders at each other, blood spurting in all directions, and doctors making love to nurses in the on-call rooms.

  But it was nothing like on TV. We went through triage quickly and were assigned to a corner room. A nurse wandered in, checked Jonah’s pulse, drew some blood, then wandered off again without a word. An hour and a half went by. Five more pulse checks. Jonah’s mom and I sat silently and watched the door, waiting for someone to come in to talk to us. Jonah lay absolutely still; he hadn’t moved since they’d brought him into the room. I tried to speak to him once, but he opened his eyes briefly and hissed, “Don’t say anything in here. They’re listening.” Then he shut his eyes again.

  Finally, after what seemed like hours, a tall young woman came in. She leaned over Jonah’s bed for a moment and then flipped quickly through his chart. “I’m Dr. Wilde, the attending emergency physician,” she said, addressing the clipboard in her hand. “I understand that Jonah has been
having some behavioral trouble? Can you tell me what happened today?”

  Behavioral trouble? Is that how she described this? Like calling out in class and throwing spitballs?

  “Well, it’s been going on for a while,” Mrs. Golden told her in an apologetic voice. “I was worried about depression at first. Or drugs. But I’m not sure what’s going on with him now.”

  Dr. Wilde was still looking at her chart. “I see his blood tests were normal. Drug and alcohol screen was negative.” She appeared disappointed by the results. “So has he seen a doctor about this?”

  “Yes, we took him to the pediatrician last week. Dr. Steiner said—” Mrs. Golden hesitated and glanced over at Jonah. “He said that he was worried about psychosis,” she finished in a lower tone. “But I didn’t believe him—”

  “Hold on,” the doctor interrupted. “Hold on. His pediatrician was worried that Jonah was hallucinating?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “You’re telling me that he suspected that his patient was psychotic and yet he didn’t call anyone in?” the doctor demanded. “Social work? A psychiatrist?”

  Mrs. Golden shook her head. “We didn’t really give him a chance. I’m sorry, Doctor, I thought that we could deal with this at home. I never thought I’d end up calling the police on my own son.”

  Dr. Wilde had opened her mouth to answer when she was interrupted by a high-pitched yell and a clatter from the bed. Jonah had opened his eyes and was pulling furiously at the wrist restraints that bound him to the bed. “You called the police on me?” he shouted at his mother. “It was you?”

  The doctor jumped back in surprise and began flipping through her chart again. “What is going on here?” she muttered angrily. “They told me that they restrained and sedated him!”

  Jonah was thrashing about and screaming; his mom ran over to his side. “Jonah, I’m sorry! I didn’t know what was going on! April’s friend called and told me that somebody was robbing our home. I didn’t call the cops on you. I thought you were in danger. Baby, listen to me—”