Silence

by Deborah Lytton

  Hayden pulls onto the freeway. We pass buildings and fast-food restaurants. Fields and grazing cattle. Before long, Hayden exits and turns down a deserted road. At the end is a red farmhouse. He parks in the dirt.

  “We’re here,” he tells me.

  When I climb out of the truck, I breathe in fresh air. The sky is a pale blue, with white clouds scattered like sprinkles on an ice cream sundae. A warm breeze tickles my bare arms. A windmill spins lazily.

  I turn to Hayden. He is watching me, a lopsided grin playing softly at the edges of his lips. “What do you think?” he asks as we walk to the small red building.

  “I like it,” I respond.

  We’re in front of a farmers’ market. Bins of shiny, crimson apples and baskets of ripe strawberries. Racks of ruffled lettuces in jeweled colors, ripe tomatoes still on the vine. I smell the potpourri of heavenly scents. Hayden speaks to the stout, weathered woman behind the counter. She hands me a basket. Says something I can’t understand.

  “Thank you,” I tell her then follow Hayden out the back door.

  Horses graze on their hay, goats meander around in their pens, hens peck the ground. A peacock walks right in front of us, spreading its tail to reveal purple and green feathers like a blessing.

  A group of children wait in line for a pony ride. Others climb into a wagon for a hayride. Hayden points to the fields just ahead. We walk through the white picket fence. Now we are surrounded by fields laid out in neat rectangles like a child’s drawing. Hayden steers me to the left. Takes the basket from me. With his free hand, he curls his fingers around mine. His touch is gentle but strong. I feel safe. Calm.

  We walk slowly. I watch the little birds dart in and out of the plants. The orange and white butterflies glide in front of me. Breathe in the scents of soil and plants growing. With no shade in sight, the sun spreads across the back of my shoulders like a heating pad. It relaxes me. I move forward, using my senses to explore. My feet sink into the dirt. Crunch against the gravel. Makes me grateful that I chose the boots instead of sneakers.

  Within a few moments, Hayden pulls me to a stop. We are all alone out here, surrounded by rows and rows of crops as far as I can see. And on the ground, strawberries, red as rubies, sprout on vines.

  Hayden leans over and picks a strawberry. He grins and bites into it. “Your turn.”

  I find a perfect strawberry, pull it off the vine. I take a bite. It is sweet as candy. Hayden chooses more and places them in the basket. I do the same. I look for the perfect ones. I am so busy picking strawberries that I forget about everything.

  And that’s when it happens. A melody begins in my head. And I sing. I don’t realize it at first. Not until I look up and see Hayden frozen in place, watching me. A warm flush moves through my neck and up to my cheeks. But he isn’t laughing. His eyes are filled with a happy surprise. It matches the surprise I feel inside myself.

  I listen inside my head for another song. Hear it as clearly as if with my ears. I open my mouth and sing. The sound vibrates in my throat, my chest. Filling my lungs with air, with life. I hold the last note and then take a bow. Hayden applauds.

  I never thought I would sing again, not like this. With abandon. With power.

  Later, back at the market, we choose some sunflowers for my mom. Hayden pays for the strawberries and flowers, along with turkey sandwiches and lemonades. We find a giant tree with a view of the horses. And there we sit, side by side, our backs up against the tree.

  “Having fun?” Hayden asks as he hands me a sandwich.

  “So much fun,” I answer.

  “Good.”

  I offer him a strawberry from our basket. He bites into it, and the juice runs down his chin. I reach up to wipe it away. My fingers run across his skin. I lean closer. Closer. I let my fingers move across his scar. Trace it softly. Gently.

  I want to smooth it away. Smooth the hurt away. Hayden pulls back. Flinches from my touch. My hand drops to my lap, and I look down, letting my hair cover my face like a curtain. Hiding me. I watch an ant crawl across the dirt. Wishing I could be like it, knowing exactly where I am supposed to go and what I am supposed to do.

  Then I feel something. I don’t move, don’t breathe, as Hayden moves my hair from my cheek. He reaches for my chin and gently turns my face toward him.

  I don’t want to look at him. I just want to disappear.

  But I look anyway; I can’t help myself. His eyes have deepened to cobalt, like the bottom of the ocean where sunken ships are found. I can see the muscle in his jaw flex. He seems to be struggling with something, like he wants to tell me something but can’t.

  “Tell me,” I say. An echo of his words at the beach. It’s an offer of trust, of connection.

  “I can’t,” he says. “I want to. But—” He breaks off, and his hand drops from my face. He looks away and his hand reaches for mine. “I just can’t.”

  I don’t know what to say. My thoughts whirl around my brain like a bird caught inside. Trying to find a window.

  He doesn’t trust me. I see that. Not like I trust him. And that knowledge pierces me. I want to pull my hand away from his. To retreat. To pretend this never happened.

  But my accident has taught me something. Something I would never have understood before. The old Stella pushed and pulled until she got something she wanted. The old Stella looked at patience as a weakness. She had forgotten the butterfly touch.

  The new Stella, waiting for her hearing to miraculously reappear in nine days, this Stella understands that some things are worth waiting for—and that some things take time.

  Right now, I have time. So I say nothing. I don’t pull away. I just hold his hand.

  The drive home seems short. Too short. If I could hear, and the ride home was silent, I would feel like I had to fill it with conversation. To pretend like everything was okay. But this kind of silence seems reverent, somehow. Respectful and peaceful. There’s a deeper understanding between us. So when he walks me to the door and says good-bye, it’s with the promise of tomorrow. And the day after that. And suddenly, my days of silence no longer seem like such a bad thing. They seem rather like a gift.

  I’m in such a daze, I don’t notice Dad’s car parked in the driveway. So when I step into the front hall and see him standing there, I am surprised.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say. My arms are filled with a carton of strawberries and a bouquet of sunflowers.

  But Dad isn’t smiling back. He is angry.

  Mom is standing near the door to the kitchen, looking like she wants to escape.

  I turn from her face to his. “What’s wrong?”

  Dad begins speaking. No, yelling. I can tell his voice is raised because the veins in his neck strain. He is angry. Really angry. But his lips are moving too fast, and I can’t understand.

  I shake my head back and forth. I am plunged from a calm peacefulness into the depths of confusion.

  I don’t understand.

  My stomach clenches into knots just like it used to when they would fight. When he would yell at Mom like this. Only now, instead of crying and running from the room like she used to, Mom steps forward and places her hand on my arm. She is protecting me from his anger.

  Someone in this house is always disappointing him in some way. I can’t imagine what I’ve done. I hand her the berries and flowers.

  Then I face my dad. “I can’t hear you!”

  Dad freezes. Mom watches me. Steady. Strong. Not leaving.

  “I can’t hear, Dad. I can barely read lips—and only when someone speaks slowly. Whatever you are trying to tell me, I can’t understand it!”

  So he pulls out his cell phone and begins typing. He glances up every few words to make sure I am still standing there. His fingers fly over the keys. I had no idea he could text so fast. He could win a contest against teen girls.

  He hands me the phone to read.

  I sent you a message to remind you. Today is my office picnic, remember?

  Oh no. I completely forgot.
I continue to read the message.

  We were supposed to leave over an hour ago. But you weren’t here. You don’t answer your messages. And then I find out your mother has let you go running around with some boy. Unsupervised.

  Unsupervised? What is this, 1810?

  And he isn’t some boy to me. But I know Dad will never understand that.

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I forgot.”

  His expression softens slightly. But I know it isn’t over.

  “Can we go now?” I offer. “Even if we’re a little late?”

  Dad nods. He takes the phone and types again.

  I don’t care if this boy saved your life. You still can’t go running around with him. The rules don’t change just because you can’t hear them.

  Okay, now I’m angry. Really angry. I turn to look at my mom. I hand her the phone and watch her read the message. She looks from me to him and back again. I think she is trying to decide if she should step into the ring or not. She opens her mouth. Apparently she’s stepping in this time.

  I can’t tell what she says, but whatever it is, it makes Dad furious. He argues with her, waving his hands around in the air for emphasis. Mom is surely sticking up for me, and I appreciate it. But I can speak for myself, too. So I do.

  “You don’t have to remind me that I can’t hear, Dad. I live with it every single moment of the day. If it weren’t for Hayden, I’d be sitting in my room in the darkness right now. Instead of trying to make the best of it. No matter what happens with my hearing, one thing is for sure: I will never ever be the same girl I was before. That girl is gone forever.”

  The looks on both of their faces say that I’ve surprised them. I’ve never spoken to my parents like this. And as I look at them, my words resonate with me. It’s true. I’m not the same girl anymore. And not just because I can’t hear anything. The accident has changed me. Hayden has changed me. I see more, feel more, maybe even understand myself more than before.

  “I love him.”

  I told them before telling him. But right now, it matters. They need to know what he means to me. So I say it out loud. Even though I can’t hear it. I say it. Mom doesn’t look surprised. She already knew. Maybe before I did.

  But Dad. He’s another story. His face turns a deeper shade of red. But he doesn’t say anything or write anything. He just stands there, speechless.

  Mom puts her arm around me and hugs me close to her. I breathe in deep and relax against her. I close my eyes, wishing this were all over. But when I open them again, Dad is still here. He hands me the phone.

  I still don’t approve. But I will think about it. For the next few days, no Hayden. Then we’ll talk.

  Truthfully, it’s more than I hoped. The dad I know never changes his mind. But a couple of days is too long to be separated from Hayden. Our seventeen days are not up yet.

  I want to argue more. To convince Dad.

  I look at Mom. She smiles and nods. It’s going to be okay, she says with her eyes. I almost believe her.

  I agree to go with Dad to his office picnic. Emerson is ready, but she has been hiding this whole time. I find her in the kitchen, munching apples and licking peanut butter from a spoon.

  “Thanks for all the support,” I say sarcastically.

  She shrugs. She doesn’t need to answer. I already know that this is her way. She avoids conflict at all costs.

  “Let’s go,” I tell her.

  Then Emerson surprises me. She reaches out and embraces me. And for a split second, we are sisters again, bound together by blood and history. And by the experiences no one but she and I will ever understand.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  She takes me by the hand, and we head outside to climb into Dad’s car. I look out the window at Mom as we drive away. She is standing in the open doorway. For a minute, I can sense her conflicting emotions. Sadness, loss and something else. I watch from the window as she turns back into the house and closes the door.

  And then I brace myself for the next two hours of Dad’s colleagues and their families. Sometimes it is nice not to be able to hear anything at all.

  Walls that crumble

  — Hayden —

  I can’t spend the next few days with you. I wish I could, but I can’t. It’s my dad, and it’s complicated. Or not really complicated, just really unfair. He’s got these rules. In a few days, everything will be back the way it was. I hope.

  I’m sorry.

  I read her message over and over again, wondering if it’s true, or just an excuse. She reached out to me, asked me to trust her—and I pushed her away.

  I have never told my story to anyone, not even Gramps.

  And as much as I want to trust Stella, my instinct tells me not to. It tells me to protect myself, to keep my secrets safe where they can’t hurt me more than they already have.

  I’m used to disappointment, so when I read her words, I imagine the worst. I see other words instead.

  I can’t do this anymore. You have this wall up, and you won’t let me in. You won’t trust me, even though you’ve asked me to trust you. Maybe after a few days of not seeing each other, we can step back.

  I write her back.

  I’m sorry too. Sorry things ended the way they did today. I didn’t mean for it to be like that. I want to tell you. All of it. But I can’t.

  Stella must be sitting next to her phone. She writes me back immediately.

  “Can’t” and “won’t” are two different things. But it doesn’t matter. You’ll tell me when you’re ready. I’m not going anywhere.

  It’s the last sentence that breaks down the wall, leaving my chest open and exposed, wounds raw even after all these years. They might be healed by her. And maybe that’s the reason for our twined destinies—healing, for her and for me. I have given her something, and she wants to give me something back. A salve for my open wounds. If only I could take that first step and speak the words.

  If only . . .

  8

  — Stella —

  I cry myself to sleep the same way I did when I found out my parents were splitting up. My sleep is restless. Bits and pieces of nightmares jar me into semi-consciousness like someone is pinching me. Keeping me awake when all I want is to sleep. To escape into that quiet place where everything is exactly the way I want it to be.

  I roll over. I bury my head in the pillow, and try to forget. But the nightmares continue.

  A fog. I can’t see anything. I am running. Away from something. I slam into a giant boulder. It slices my head open. Hot, sticky blood runs down my face like crimson tears.

  I stumble. Confused. Disoriented. Blinded by pain. Fall into a bottomless lake. Black water sucks me in. Pulling me down. Deeper and deeper. I can’t breathe. My lungs burn. I don’t want to open my mouth. Don’t want to let the blackness in. I clamp it shut, clenching my jaw. So the water seeps into my ears. Filling them. Weighing me down like a sandbag from within.

  I shake my head to keep it out. But it’s too late. My mouth opens to scream. And the darkness envelops me. Until I am no more.

  I wake. Shaking. Soaked with sweat. Sobbing.

  Mom rushes into my room. I must have been screaming. She pulls me against her. Cradles me in her arms and rocks me back and forth. I let her hold me, needing to forget. To chase the nightmare away with reality.

  Mom releases me. Takes the pad and pencil next to my bed. Writes.

  I’m here. I’m always here. I know you must be angry with me for letting your dad make rules in our house. But I have to at least try to co-parent with him. Just lie low for a few days while this blows over. Your dad is right about one thing. You have been spending too much time with Hayden. What seems like love when you are 15 won’t seem that way later. What about Lily or your other friends? Why don’t you see them instead?

  “I don’t have any other friends. Lily’s changed.” Correction: I’ve changed. And I’m not ready to talk to Mom about love. How she doesn’t understand that the way I feel for Hayden will ne
ver ever change. Whether I am fifteen or fifty.

  But her heart has been broken, so there’s no sense trying to convince her. The only way to make her see would be to bring up things that would hurt her. Things that would remind her of my dad. What he did to her. To us.

  Mom writes again. What about all of those kids in drama?

  Kace Maxwell. He’s a friend, I guess. But he asked me out on a date. According to Dad, that’s off-limits. Quinn hates me. That leaves me with exactly no one.

  I shake my head.

  I’m sorry, she writes.

  Sorry doesn’t help me much. Sorry is just a word.

  Suddenly, I’m exhausted. Whether I am really tired or just sick of this subject, I don’t know. But I can barely keep my eyes open. Mom must notice, because she stands. Tucks me beneath the blue-and-white-checkered sheets. Kisses me on the top of my head like she used to when I was little.

  When I wake again, the sun is shining. Today is Easter Sunday. Mom has chocolates for us. Little bunnies and eggs wrapped in pastel foil.

  I help make tomato and jack cheese omelets. Then I wake Emerson with a plate of cinnamon rolls. She grins and dives for the plate. I hold it just out of reach, teasing her. She chases me around the room. And for a few moments, I forget about everything.

  Mom has hidden plastic eggs in the yard for us to find. We’re too old for these games, but we pretend to love it for her sake. Plus, the eggs are stuffed with jelly beans and chocolate. We’ll never be too old for those. So we race around the yard in our pajamas, pushing each other out of the way when we spot an egg we both want. Laughing until our sides hurt.

  Later, we go to church. We always get new dresses for Easter. Floral or pastel flowing dresses that make us spin in front of the mirror. Today, I spin a few extra times. Because Hayden may be at church. Dad said I couldn’t go out with him. But he can’t keep me from running into Hayden at church.

  My dress is pale blue with a white lace overlay. It has a blue ribbon at the waist. I tie it on the side. Then I twist sections of my hair from the front and pull them back, off my face. I leave the rest of my hair down.