Your Voice Is All I Hear

by Leah Scheier

  “Because he wouldn’t have been able to do the voices,” she replied sadly. “He always does the voices when he reads to me. But you took the voices away.”

  “Katie—”

  “I liked him better before,” she declared before the doctor could finish. “And I don’t want to come here anymore.”

  Chapter 35

  You’re beautiful, he says

  Why can’t you see it?

  I stare into his eyes, but nobody looks back

  My reflection is fading

  Sheets cover the mirrors, the glass is now black

  Jonah was discharged from the hospital later that week. We’d all waited so long for that day, and yet, when it finally came, no one felt happy or festive. My mom and I had talked about hosting a welcome back party, Kris brought up the double date idea again, and his parents planned a neighborhood barbecue. But in the end, we let the plans fall through. Maybe none of us truly believed that Jonah was really coming home for good.

  The only emotional thing that happened on his discharge date was a hysterical display from Shawn, who clung to Jonah until the security guard had to pry him off. I felt sorry for the boy. Besides the hospital staff, Jonah had been the only reliable presence in his life. No one had visited Shawn in the months that he’d been in the ward, and I overheard one of the nurses grumbling that he would be on 11 West forever, because every time they tried to discharge him, Shawn’s mother would “forget” to pick him up.

  Jonah promised to write and visit, but Shawn knew what we were all thinking: nobody discharged from 11 West ever willingly came back.

  I stayed with Jonah for a couple of hours in his room that afternoon, curled up next to him on his bed, his laptop balanced between us. We tried to watch a movie, and I tried to ignore the fact that he was barely reacting to anything that happened on the screen. He only laughed once, toward the end, when nothing funny had actually happened. When Kris called to ask if she could stop by my house, I welcomed the suggestion and was embarrassed by the feeling of relief that washed over me as I left the Goldens’.

  Kris was waiting for me on the porch when I got home. It was good to see her again. I knew I hadn’t made enough time for her over the last few weeks, but it wasn’t until I saw the person standing next to her that I realized just how absent I had been. “April, I want you to meet Danny,” Kris said as he stepped forward.

  I tried not to stare as I greeted him. I knew that Kris had wanted to introduce me to her boyfriend ever since they’d met, but between Shady Grove and piano practice, I’d somehow never found the time. I didn’t even know what Danny looked like. I’d avoided Facebook since Jonah’s hospitalization, because the ever-changing relationship statuses of my classmates had started getting on my nerves, so I’d missed all of the photos Kris had posted of them.

  So this sweetly smiling, freckled, round-faced boy came as a bit of a shock. He didn’t fit Kris’s type at all. Danny wasn’t tall and blond, he wasn’t intensely aware of his hotness, and he looked like he’d be more comfortable scoring guitar chords than a winning touchdown. While not exactly unattractive, Danny wasn’t going to be on a magazine cover anytime soon.

  I had to be missing something, I decided as the two of them settled on the sofa opposite me, and Danny gingerly curled his arm around my best friend’s waist. He was shy and a little awkward; he didn’t take control of the conversation or crack hilarious jokes or come up with interesting stories to tell.

  It was a few minutes later, when Kris was returning from the kitchen with a drink, that I finally saw what I’d been looking for. Danny turned toward her as she came forward, and when he glanced up at her, their eyes met. Kris looked as she always looked: royally, confidently beautiful, with the glow of a girl who knows that everyone is staring at her. But it was Danny’s eyes that made me catch my breath, the flame in them as she approached him, the sweet adoration of a boy who could hardly believe his luck.

  It was that look that made me understand why Kristin was so blissfully happy. And it was that look that finally broke me and made me cry.

  Kris hurried over and wrapped her arms around me, and I fell against her shoulder and sobbed. I should have been embarrassed to be weeping like a baby in front of a complete stranger, but at that moment, I just didn’t care. Kris had told Danny about Jonah, and if her boyfriend was as gentle and thoughtful as he seemed, he’d understand.

  And he did. He got it right away. He didn’t say a word, and while Kris held me, he rushed around the house trying to be helpful, coming back with piles of tissues, a hot drink, and finally (out of desperation) a bag of Cheetos from his backpack.

  When I quieted down, he sat next to us and smiled nervously. “Was Jonah discharged from the hospital today?” he asked.

  I nodded and tried to speak, but nothing came.

  “Maybe we should have come another time then?”

  I shook my head and wiped my wet cheeks with the back of my sleeve.

  “Jonah hasn’t gotten any better?”

  I shook my head again. “Not really.”

  “Are you worried he’ll go back to the hospital again?”

  “No, that isn’t it,” I replied. “I mean, of course, I know Jonah might have to go back. But that isn’t why I’m crying. I just realized all of a sudden how much I miss him.”

  Kris squeezed my arm and smoothed my hair back. “We could walk you back to Jonah’s house now if you want.”

  “No, I was just at his house. You don’t understand, Kris. He isn’t there. I’ve been by Jonah’s side for months now, and I’m always missing him. I miss that—that look.” I pointed my finger at Danny. “I haven’t seen that look in months. I’d give anything for that.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, but his blush told me that he knew what I was talking about.

  “The way you looked at Kris just now,” I continued miserably. “Jonah used to look at me like that all the time. Even when I wasn’t doing anything special. I’d catch him staring at me, like I was the only person in the world. And now he barely realizes I’m there. I think he wants to. I really do. But he just can’t. He can’t see anyone anymore.”

  “He knows you’re there,” Kris reassured me. “He has to. And when he comes back, he’ll remember what you did for him, how you stood by him.”

  “But I need him now! Did you know that my art school audition is tomorrow? And he was supposed to come with me, to support me. I kept telling myself that if only he could get out of the hospital in time, maybe there was still a chance. But now—”

  “So I’ll come with you!” Kris suggested. “I’ll be with you the whole time, okay?”

  “I’ll be happy to help too,” Danny put in.

  “Thank you,” I told them. “I think I might actually take you up on that.”

  “I’ll switch my guitar lesson to Wednesday,” Danny said to Kris, “so I can come with you guys.”

  “It’s okay, Danny.” I smiled. “You don’t have to. My mom and Kris should be enough support.”

  “Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do. I really do want to help.”

  “Actually,” I said hesitantly, “there’s something I’ve been working on for a while. A history project for school.”

  “Did you need help with the research?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ve already done that. What I need is someone who can record soundtracks.”

  Danny’s face lit up. “I can record anything you need! Instrumental, vocal, drums… We’ll have to do it at my house, but I can’t do guitar and bass. I can ask some friends—”

  I shook my head. “No, no instruments, Danny. I just need your voice. Both of yours.”

  They stared at me for a minute, and Kris giggled. “April, you know I can’t sing.”

  “You won’t need to sing!” I assured her. “I’m going to ask you to scream. And I want Danny to
record it.”

  “You want us to…scream—what?”

  “Don’t worry,” I replied. “I’ll tell you exactly what to say.”

  Chapter 36

  Five minutes after we entered the art school, I was sure I was going to make a fool of myself, that the judges would stare at me patiently and then roll their eyes the minute I left the room. I couldn’t go through with it. Until then, I’d only performed for friends and family, people who were obligated to be supportive and kind. But the audience behind the painted brown door was different. They knew what real talent sounded like. I could hear strains of music echoing through the building as I paced the hall in front of the audition room. The walls vibrated with sound, the trill of a flute floating over us, the rising notes of a singer practicing her scales. The students in this school were true artists. The nervous little violinist next to me who was plucking her strings and sweating was probably a prodigy, a future star. And I was nothing.

  “What’s the point?” I whispered to my mom as a beaming clarinetist brushed past us. “They only accept a handful of incoming juniors. Why am I even bothering?”

  “Because you owe it to yourself,” my mom said. “You’ve been practicing so hard. And you’ll never succeed if you don’t try.”

  “Oh, Mom, that’s such a cliché. Who cares if I don’t succeed? If I leave now, I’ve only wasted my own time. At least I won’t embarrass myself.”

  Kris folded her arms. “I’m missing a class trip for this. So if you don’t go through with it, you’ve wasted my time. Stop whining and get in there. They’ve just called for the next applicant.”

  Sometimes the best advice is a kick in the ass. It was exactly what I needed.

  As I introduced myself to the three smiling music instructors, my voice sounded small and scared. My knees felt weak as I slid onto the stool, and my palms had gone slippery with sweat. How could I play like this? I couldn’t even control the trembling in my hands.

  The silence closed in around me as the judges waited for me to start. But all I could do was wipe my hands over and over on my corduroy skirt. “Anytime now,” someone said good-humoredly, and I laughed nervously and nodded. Had I disqualified myself before I even began? Were they thinking who cares if she has talent if she freezes on stage?

  This isn’t how this was supposed to happen, I thought. Jonah should have been here with me. He was the one who believed in me, who encouraged me. I’d wanted to become the confident girl he’d painted, the one he saw when he looked at me. Today I’d hoped to make him proud. Jonah was the real artist, not me. This was his school, his world. And he’d wanted to bring me with him.

  I remembered his vacant eyes, the baffled expression, the Jonah who shut down when I spoke about painting. And then I finally understood: he wasn’t coming with me after all. And I wasn’t going to make Jonah proud, no matter how I played. Even if I burst into his room waving my acceptance letter, he wouldn’t be happy for me, because he couldn’t feel anything anymore. Who was I doing this for? My mom and Kris would love me no matter what school I attended.

  The only person I could disappoint was me, and I was used to disappointing myself.

  So what was I scared of? I had nothing to lose. I could be the confident girl in Jonah’s painting, if only for a few minutes. Over the last few months, I’d been through hell, and I’d survived. I could survive this too. I would show those judges that a five-minute audition was nothing compared to watching the boy I loved disappear in front of me. The students who were waiting in the hall didn’t matter to me. These teachers didn’t matter. Even this school didn’t matter.

  Jonah was the only one who’d mattered, and he was gone.

  So I was the only one left.

  And I would show them that.

  My hands raised themselves as if by magic, and I sounded the first chord. My fingers traveled along the keyboard, and the first few bars rang as clear and perfect as a recording. I wasn’t thinking or planning; the music just came. Before I knew it, I’d played through half the page and still hadn’t slipped or missed a note. I heard the melody that I’d rehearsed five hundred times, and yet it seemed to have nothing to do with me at all. The song had somehow learned to play itself.

  I didn’t hear the teacher call out to me at first; I was too absorbed with the piano in front of me. When I heard my name shouted again, I pulled my hands back and clasped them in front of me.

  “Thank you,” one of the judges said, smiling. “That will be enough.”

  I sat rooted to my piano bench. Why had that been enough? I hadn’t gotten to the hardest section yet. I could do even better if they’d let me!

  Or had I been fooling myself? Had it sounded so awful that they couldn’t wait to get me out of the room?

  But the judges didn’t look irritated or critical. The male judge was scribbling something in his notebook while the two female judges nodded approvingly. “We believe you!” one of them said, and the other one laughed pleasantly.

  What does that mean? I wanted to ask. Are you telling me I was good?

  The male judge murmured, “You’ll be hearing from us soon, April,” and before I knew what I was doing, I had stumbled into the hallway and my mother was hugging me.

  “That was amazing, April,” she gushed. “We were all in shock out here!”

  “You did it, you did it!” Kris squealed and threw herself at me. “Those judges are probably peeing themselves!”

  “I can’t go in there after that,” wailed the sweaty little violinist. “Oh God, they just called my name.”

  The tension and fear were gone, and I was suddenly filled with love and generosity. “You’ll be great,” I assured my fellow applicant, whose pit stains had spread nearly to her waist. “Just pretend that none of this matters.”

  Chapter 37

  It did matter though. I realized just how much it mattered during the next few weeks as I waited for that letter to come. I went to school, I visited Jonah in the afternoons, and I got together with Danny and Kris and worked on my history assignment. But everything was colored by that day; I now thought of events as “before the audition” or “after the audition.” I couldn’t practice the piano anymore. I was afraid to touch the keys; my performance at the art school was still tinged with magic, and I didn’t want to ruin it.

  So instead of music, I decided to focus my energy on doing something for my mother. She’d been really supportive before my audition, and I wanted to show her that I appreciated it. So I started a thank-you note to her. I wrote a few poetic lines—and then I quickly tore it up. She didn’t need poetry. I wanted to give her something useful, something that might actually make a difference in her life. I just didn’t know what that could be.

  One evening, I was chatting with her about my history project when I noticed that her attention had drifted. She was gazing over my shoulder at the neighbors’ house again. “Mom, why do you keep looking at that home?” I asked her. “What’s so special about the Greenwalds?”

  She shook her head and shrugged. “It’s—nothing.”

  I turned around and followed her gaze. Mrs. Greenwald was at her dining room window; her children were gathered around her in a circle. She lit one candle, passed the match onto the second, then placed her hands over her face in silent prayer.

  “What is she doing?” I asked. “Are those Sabbath candles?”

  My mother nodded. “It’s Friday night.”

  I finally understood why Mom had looked so sad when I’d asked her about the Greenwalds. She’d been watching her neighbor light the Sabbath candles every Friday night for weeks.

  “Mom, do you want to do the candle thing with me?” I asked her quietly.

  She slid off her chair. With a quick motion, she reached out and drew the curtains, shutting out the light.

  “Why? What would be the point?” she said.

  “I don’t know.
Because it meant something to you once? It was so important to your family that they pushed you away. But you don’t have to accept that. They’re not the gatekeepers of your religion. It’s yours. And I’ve been thinking about your traditions, ever since you told me about Jonah’s Hebrew name. I realized you never told me mine.”

  She gave me a strange look. “I didn’t give you a Hebrew name. I never thought you’d care.”

  “Oh.” I felt disappointed, as if there was a part of me that she’d lost, and now it was gone forever.

  “But you can give yourself one, if you want,” she suggested, smiling. “If it would make you happy.”

  “I can?”

  “Sure, why not? Choose a name that’s meaningful to you.”

  “Would that make you happy?”

  She seemed to consider for a moment before replying. “Yeah. It would, actually.”

  And that was how I got the idea for the letter. It started from a name, my Hebrew name, and ended with a letter, written late at night, after a long search in the attic for an address on a fifteen-year-old envelope.

  The letter began:

  Dear Bubbe and Zayde,

  I hope it’s okay if I call you by the Yiddish words for Grandma and Grandpa. My name is April—but if you would rather call me by my Hebrew name, I’ve just chosen Shira, because it means song…

  It wasn’t a long note. I wasn’t sure it would get to them and even less sure they’d reply. But I understood how my mother felt now; she missed her family just like I missed Jonah. I was sure I’d never give up on the boy I loved, and I didn’t want to see her give up either.

  And I hated that the neighbors’ candles made her sad on Friday nights. So a few days later, I stopped by a Judaica store on the way home from school and bought two candlesticks. I set them on the windowsill, lit the wicks, and waved my hands around in circles.

  “April, what on earth are you doing?” Mom was standing behind me and staring at the dancing flames.

  “I’m lighting Sabbath candles. I found an instructional video on YouTube.” I began to mumble the blessing—or what I could remember of it.