“Hayden?”
He looks over and waits for me to speak.
“These days with you—they’ve meant everything to me.”
Hayden’s gaze takes me in. Holds me. Then he smiles. And it’s the way it always is when he smiles at me like that—like the sun is shining on me.
“I’ll never forget one moment,” he says.
We sit like that for a while. Just being together. And then we go back to help.
Postcards from the past
— Hayden —
About time you showed up,” my grandfather calls the moment I open the screen door. “I’m all ready for you.”
“G-good, ’cause I’m-m st-starv-ing,” I say.
My grandfather is standing at the kitchen counter, pizza fixings neatly laid out in front of him. He never reacts to my stutter. He just waits for me to finish like he has all the time in the world. It must be the artist in him. He sees the world in terms of moments. Always reminds me that life is a journey, not a race. His gray hair is neatly combed back from his lined face, and his blue eyes watch me, sharp as ever. Practicing yoga three times a week and eating vegetarian has made him look fifty instead of sixty-five.
“How was Stella today?” he asks.
“B-better, I th-think.” I have shared details about Stella’s accident, her injury and her recovery. I have not shared my feelings about her, but I think he knows. I can see it in his eyes, and I can hear it in the lilt in his voice when he asks about Stella. As though he is happy about me seeing her. Happy that I have a friend.
I drop my backpack on the kitchen floor. Wash my hands at the sink.
Gramps has already made fresh dough. He is pressing a ball into a flat circle. I watch his fingers work. Deft fingers that can sculpt a lump of clay into an animal bursting with life. Within moments, he has made a perfectly shaped pizza crust.
“You’re up,” he announces, as though I am seven and up to bat.
I take over and gently brush the dough with olive oil. Then add a spoonful of tomato sauce. I use the spoon to spread the sauce across the surface of the dough, swirling it in a circular motion. The dough turns from ivory to red. Next, I sprinkle cheese across the sauce. Then I decorate it with olives, peppers, mushrooms, and artichoke hearts. I create a pattern so that the entire pizza is symmetrical.
“G-good to g-go,” I say.
Gramps lifts the pizza stone and carries it to the hot oven while I pour myself a glass of cold milk.
“This one’s a beauty,” Gramps gushes. He always praises. Never criticizes. “Wish Bessie could be here to see this one.”
Even though my grandmother passed away two years ago, Gramps still refers to her as though she has just stepped out to run an errand and will be right back. He even talks to her in his sleep. I hear him sometimes. Having full conversations. They were married for forty-two years. Only cancer separated them.
She was so different from my mother, their daughter. We never talk about my mother. Not a word. It’s like an unspoken agreement between us. My grandmother used to speak about her, though. She wanted me to forgive my mother for her mistakes. She didn’t want me to carry anger and resentment. She said it would make me bitter, full of rage. Grandma said my mother was flawed and that she wasn’t meant to be a parent. But she loved me.
If that’s love, then I want none of it. Love brings you nothing but pain. And a feeling of emptiness when you get left behind. Because when my grandparents brought me here, that’s exactly what she did. Left me behind. Traveled the world. She came and visited a few times. Brought me T-shirts from exotic destinations. They were always in the wrong size, like she didn’t remember her own son’s age.
The last time I saw her was just after my twelfth birthday. She showed up with a wooden flute and a boyfriend she’d picked up in Thailand. I haven’t seen her since. She stopped sending postcards about two years ago. I don’t know if my grandfather hears from her, or if he even knows where she is.
I haven’t forgiven her. And I never will.
15
— Stella —
Sunday morning.
I pull on shorts and a T-shirt and head to the kitchen. I am ravenous. I take out eggs and flour and milk. By the time Emerson comes into the kitchen, I am already flipping pancakes. Emerson finds chocolate chips, and we make little faces on each one. Then Mom comes into the kitchen and adds whipped cream. We sit down to eat our little clown pancakes. Emerson makes funny faces, and we all laugh together. And it feels like it used to—maybe even better than it used to.
Mom writes me a note. Church? I haven’t been to church in a long time. Not since the divorce. It was something we did as a family. I went alone once, but it felt lonely. I haven’t gone since. I smile and nod. I want to go today.
An hour later, Mom, Emerson, and I are walking into church. It’s crowded. Mom finds seats on one of the back rows. We slide in. I won’t be able to hear the service or sing along with the hymns, but I can pray. I close my eyes and talk to God.
I pray for my family. I pray for healing in my ears. I pray for my rainbow girl. I thank Him for my life. I thank Him for Hayden.
I feel the vibrations of song and organ filling the air around me. I open my eyes. My mother and sister are singing. I look around the church. Everyone is singing and praying. And then I see him.
On the stage. Playing the organ. Singing.
For a second I wonder if I am imagining it. Maybe that’s not him. But then his blue eyes meet mine.
Golden sun shines on me, filling my day with color and light. I sense my mother’s eyes on me, and I turn to look at her. She has seen Hayden too. She raises an eyebrow. She thinks I knew he would be here and that this was the reason I agreed to join her today. I shake my head.
“I didn’t know,” I say.
She slips an arm around my shoulder. I turn back to watch Hayden. Even though I can’t hear the music, I can feel the power in it. A heat begins in the center of my chest and moves outward until my whole body is warm. Everyone is clapping along with the song. I can watch the rhythm and clap in time. I find myself smiling—no, beaming—right at Hayden. And when he looks up from the keys and smiles back at me, I am flying again.
After the service, Emerson finds two of her friends. I stand with Mom while she talks to someone. I search for Hayden in the crowd. But I don’t see him. I swallow a lump of disappointment and don’t even bother trying to read Mom’s lips to participate in the conversation. For the moment, I am content in my bubble of silence.
And then I know he is here. I don’t see him; I feel him. His presence like fire racing up my veins. I turn around slowly. Hayden and I are face to face. Words are no longer necessary between us. Our eyes speak instead. His expression is almost proud, like I have passed some kind of test.
We stand there like that, staring at one another, until my mom turns around and sees us. She steps across me to hug Hayden. She must compliment him on his playing, because he thanks her. He says he doesn’t always play here, but he was asked to fill in for someone. Mom glances from me to him. Back to me. Then she points to the door and holds up five fingers.
“Outside in five minutes,” I confirm. So she waves good-bye to Hayden and leaves.
I stand there for a moment. Saying nothing. Just breathing in happiness. Then I say, “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”
Hayden’s eyes are filled with little lights like wishing stars. “I had a feeling you would be here.” He holds out his hand. Palm up. Closed. “This is for you.”
He opens it slowly.
A perfect pink seashell.
I reach out to lift it gently from his hand. His fingers slowly close over mine, holding my hand for a brief moment, keeping us together.
When he releases my fingers, I am holding the shell. I turn it over in my hand. Marvel at the color and shape. It is still warm.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” My eyes drop to the floor. “I wish I could have heard you play.”
His fingers
gently tilt my chin. I meet his azure gaze. “You see me, Stella.”
Tingles run up and down my legs. His expression is so intense, I can’t breathe.
I see him. It doesn’t matter if I can hear him. I see him.
And he sees me. The real me.
I understand. I watch him watch me.
Then he turns his head to look away. When he looks back, he grins sideways, narrowing his eyes. “Ready to meet the family?”
I don’t have time to answer. A tall, handsome gentleman with gray hair joins us. I know who he is instantly because he has Hayden’s eyes.
He takes my hand in both of his and holds it tightly. I can’t understand what he is saying, so I look from his mouth to Hayden’s.
“This is my grandfather, John Rivers.”
“I’m so happy to meet you, Mr. Rivers.”
He says something, and Hayden translates again. “He says you can call him Gramps. Mr. Rivers is too formal and reminds him of his teaching days.”
He was a teacher. I wonder what subject he taught. I want to ask. I want to know everything about Hayden’s family.
“Your grandson is very brave,” I tell him. His eyes twinkle at my compliment of Hayden.
He says something, but again, I can’t understand. I crinkle my forehead as I try to read his lips. I want so much to impress him. My forehead is damp, and my hand clenches the seashell so hard, it is digging into my palm. But I cannot make out his words. I turn to Hayden. Shake my head. “I don’t understand.”
Hayden nods slowly, wearing an expression I cannot read. He translates once again. “My grandfather thinks you are brave.”
Oh.
My eyes flicker back to Hayden’s grandfather. He nods, eyes still twinkling.
“Thank you,” I say, ducking my head. When I look up again, they are both watching me. Twin eyes.
I grin at them. And then I remember that my mother is waiting for me, and it has been more than five minutes. “I have to meet my mom outside,” I explain. “I’m so sorry.”
I want to stay. I want to have one more minute with Hayden, but I have to go.
“Maybe later?” Hayden asks.
I hesitate; I have agreed to see Lily. And tomorrow is my first day back at school. I need to finish my homework.
“Tomorrow?” I suggest instead.
If Hayden is disappointed, he covers it. He nods. “After school.”
I walk away slowly, resisting the urge to look back. In my hand, I still grip the pink seashell. And Hayden’s touch.
Lily will be here any minute. Emerson is in her room. Mom in the kitchen. And I am waiting in the living room. I’m more nervous than I was auditioning for the musical. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m going to vomit.
When I see Lily’s blonde hair out the window, I start to breathe heavier. I’m almost panting. I tell myself that this is Lily. My best friend. Nothing has changed. It will be just like it has always been.
I stand and open the door. And there she is. Her blonde hair is pulled into a ponytail. She’s wearing a lot of eye makeup, but her cheeks are pale under the blush. She’s nervous. The realization makes me relax.
“Hi,” I say. I step back. “Come in.”
She comes into the house and hugs me. She smells of cigarettes. The scent clings to her clothes, surrounds her like a gray cloud. It makes my stomach flip.
I head into the living room. Normally, Lily and I would go straight into my room and close the door. Not today. Today, I want to stay out here.
I sit on the blue and white sofa. Lily stands for a second, unsure of where to sit. Then she takes a seat in the chair opposite the sofa. She looks at me. Her eyes dart back and forth, looking from my scar and my partially shaved head to my ears and back again. She chews on her lip, and I can tell she has no idea what to do, now that she is actually here. I have brought paper and pens to make this easier.
I hand her a pad with a pen. “I can’t read lips very well, so if you want to tell me something, write it down.”
Lily nods but doesn’t use the pen. She just stares at me. I decide to speak again.
“I’m going back to school tomorrow.”
Her gray eyes widen. She begins talking. I shake my head, point to the pen.
“You have to write it down for me. In a couple of weeks, I will be able to hear you. But for now . . .” I trail off. I don’t want to go into a full explanation.
Lily nods and starts writing. Then she hands me the paper.
Stella, I am so, so sorry for what happened. It should have been me. Not you. You didn’t even want to be there. Connor is really sorry too. He didn’t mean for things to get out of control.
I know everything’s going to be fine. It has to be. You are going to hear again. And it will be like this never even happened.
It’s très fabulous that you are coming back to school. We’ll have the BTE. We both have boyfriends and we’re popular. How cool is that!?
I read her note over twice to give myself time to process it.
She doesn’t get it. Not one bit. But then, how could she? She isn’t living it. I am.
I consider telling her. Explaining that I don’t care if I’m popular. It doesn’t matter to me. Not anymore. I consider explaining that nothing will be like it was. Ever again. But I don’t. It wouldn’t change anything. Instead, I force a smile at my best friend, who may as well be a stranger. And I say, “Hayden isn’t my boyfriend.”
There it is. Hayden is not my boyfriend.
A smirk crosses her face before she douses it with a pout. So she does reign supreme after all. Lily has the first boyfriend. Now she can be benevolent.
She takes the pen.
Well, SC wasn’t right for you anyway. And Connor has lots of friends.
Yes. I’ve met some of his friends, and I have zero interest in meeting any more. But I don’t tell her that.
“Don’t call him SC,” I say. Maybe in a stronger tone than I intended. But I can’t hear it. “His name is Hayden.”
There. He may not be my boyfriend, but he’s my friend. And I won’t let Lily or anyone else make fun of him. Not in front of me.
Lily shrugs and crosses out the last two sentences. She writes something else.
No problemo. There’s a whole football team. And we’re almost juniors.
Instead of being disappointed or hurt, I find I am relieved. I can finally see what I only glimpsed through a haze before, what I couldn’t quite grasp. Not using my ears has made me use my eyes.
I see Lily now. The real Lily.
“I know you’re sorry—and I know you didn’t mean for me to get hurt. I forgive you. Of course I forgive you. But I’m not the person I used to be. I’m different now. So I think I just need some time to see how this all goes.”
Lily has always been about Lily. I didn’t see it before. Or if I did, it didn’t bother me like it does now. I was just happy to have a friend. In my heart, I know that we’ll never be best friends again. Not like before. There’s no point in telling her that, either. I can tell she feels really guilty. That’s enough pain for her to deal with right now.
Lily nods. She stands and comes over to give me a hug. I hug her back. Tears start to sting my eyes. I blink them back and walk her to the door. When I pull it open, I see that the clouds have moved in and it has started to drizzle outside.
“Do you have an umbrella?” I ask.
Lily lives a block away, so I know she walked here. She shakes her head.
I go to the coat closet and pull out a red umbrella. I hand it to her. “You can drop it off next week.”
Lily hugs me again and takes the umbrella. At the doorway, she turns to look at me once more. Raises her hand in a small wave. And then she leaves.
I close the door. Then I sit down right there on the floor.
And I cry.
STEPS
— Stella —
Monday morning at Richmond High School. Only I don’t hear the melody of the school anymore. I can’t hear the t
hunder of feet moving across concrete floors. Lockers clanging. Cell phones ringing. Flirtatious laughter. Hollered greetings. Books dropping. Doors slamming.
I can no longer hear the soundtrack of high school. It looks the same. But now it is silent.
Emerson walks beside me, one arm looped through mine. Chewing on her lower lip. She is worried that this will be too much for me. And the truth is, she may be right. It may be too much for me. But I need to try. I need to be normal.
I glance around for Hayden. Seeing him would make me happy, like getting a present when it isn’t your birthday or Christmas. But I don’t see him anywhere.
Students wave to me. People I’ve never even met. Girls come up and hug me. Saying things I can’t understand. I put on a happy mask. Move through the bodies. Now seeking Hayden like a life jacket to keep me afloat in the current. Lily waits for me in front of my locker.
She smiles and says something I can’t understand.
I open my locker, put my books inside. Pull out my notebook for history. I can go right to class. My mom has already spoken with my teachers and the principal. They know I have an app that lets me see their words translated onto my phone’s screen so I can read their lectures in real time. I should be able to fit seamlessly back into school.
Should is the operative word, because it’s hard. Really hard. I am locked in my cell of silence. The day is happening around me. Not to me.
Classes are okay. I can get a pretty good idea of what I am supposed to do. Most of my teachers write a lot on the boards and screens. We use remotes in math to transmit our answers. Technology is definitely my friend.
It’s just that everything is so different. I am removed from it all. I feel like I am on the outside of a store, looking through the glass windows. I can see everything, but I am not part of it.
The amount of schoolwork is overwhelming. It’s block schedule today, so I only have three classes, but each one is ninety minutes long. I get a headache in first period. By the time I reach third—English—my skull is throbbing. We spend most of class reading Hamlet. I stare at the page, but I don’t comprehend anything at all. I just want to go home. This is so much harder than I thought it would be. Being here forces me to acknowledge the truth. The fact is that I am changed. And I am completely alone.
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