Silence

by Deborah Lytton

  I shrug too. “It’s a-a li-little l-late for th-that,” I say, panting with each syllable.

  Gramps steps closer. “One thing I know about life is that anger has a way of turning on itself. Of eating you up inside.” He places a hand on my shoulder. “If you face your mother, maybe you can start to let go of the past. That’s all I want for you.”

  He’s not asking me to forgive her, or even talk to her. Just to face her. I’ve never told him what happened all those years ago, but somehow, he knows. And that gives me courage.

  I don’t say anything; I just move past him and open the door.

  When I walk into the room, she’s standing at the kitchen window. My mother. The voice in my head, the author of the memories that haunt me, the reason I stutter and stammer.

  The last time I saw her I was twelve years old—and silent.

  Now I am seventeen. I may still bear the scars she gave me, but she can no longer intimidate me. I stand a full head taller than she does.

  My mother turns when she hears us come into the room.

  I stop still, watching her hands as they clench and unclench. Remembering them, how they would strike my face, my stomach, my back.

  Again and again.

  The past collides with the present, and I flinch. She stares at me for a moment without moving, not recognizing me.

  Then, “Hayden Jagger.”

  No one has used my full name since she left, since I was ten. She opens her arms and moves toward me. I step back, shake my head.

  She drops her hands. I look into her panther eyes, searching them for signs of intoxication. She has deep wrinkles around her eyes and mouth and her skin is sallow. Her hair isn’t the blonde mass of curls I remember. Instead, it’s short and tufted, dyed a bright magenta. She has a tattoo of a heart with an arrow on her arm, wears denim shorts made for a teenager, and feathers hang from her T-shirt.

  “You look so grown up,” she says, studying me. I squirm under her eyes, waiting for her to find fault. To call it out—expose it.

  She tilts her head to the side, pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Taps the pack to pop out a single cigarette.

  I am waiting for Gramps to tell her he has asthma and can’t be around smoke.

  She flips open her lighter, snaps it once, twice, before he finally speaks. “Dee, you’ll have to step outside with that.”

  “Gotcha,” she says. Walks out to the porch, the screen door clanging behind her.

  My eyes flicker to the door, tracking her every move. Tensed in a fight-or-flight response, waiting.

  Gramps pours me a glass of orange juice, hands me a plate with a bagel on it. I set it down on the counter.

  Suddenly, I remember being in this same kitchen with her. Right before I turned seven—before the silence. It was Grandma’s birthday. She had just blown out the candles on the cake. Grandma had promised me the first piece. I was still talking then, telling them about how I was going to be a professional racecar driver when I grew up.

  My mom interrupted, said she needed to leave me with them for a little while. She wanted to sing background vocals for a new artist opening for someone in Asia. She didn’t know when she would be back.

  Now I remember something I had forgotten. My grandfather said yes, but my grandmother said no. My mother needed to be responsible, she said. Dreams of touring and singing on stage were over; she had a child to raise.

  My mother began screaming, accusing my grandmother of being jealous, of not wanting her to be a star. And then she pulled me by the arm, dragging me right out of there. I never did get my piece of cake.

  My mother finishes her cigarette. Grinds it into the ground with her high-heeled sandals and returns to the kitchen. The air is filled with the stale smell of smoke, reminding me of her and how she always smelled like this—smoke and alcohol.

  She turns to me, lips stretched back over her teeth in a forced smile.

  “Your grandfather says you’re talkin’ now. Says you’re a real musician. Guess I gave ya somethin’ good after all.”

  I still haven’t said a word.

  “You sing, too?” she asks.

  I nod, still not willing to speak.

  She smiles again. Then her smile turns bitter, sours before my eyes. “Remember, Haydie. Nothing wrong with being a musician. No matter what they told ya.” Her eyes narrow, turn resentful.

  I find myself gripping the edge of the counter, preparing for her anger. So attuned am I to her moods even after all these years, I can still read her.

  She suppresses her bitterness, takes a long drink from my orange juice. I won’t be finishing it now. “So, you got a girlfriend?”

  I shake my head.

  “You do like girls though, right?” She laughs at that, a coarse cough sort of sound that gives me chills.

  I don’t think I need to answer a question like that. Either way, it’s offensive. Silence is my friend. I say nothing. Whether she takes a nonanswer as an answer, I wouldn’t know, and I don’t care.

  I look at Gramps, willing him to say nothing. The mention of Stella is not allowed in this room right now. I won’t touch her with any of this, even by speaking about her.

  Then my mother sighs, as if this is all boring her. I’m not interesting enough to warrant further inspection. She turns to Gramps. “I better get goin’. King’s waitin’ on me. So . . .” She lets the word hang in the air, waiting for him to catch on.

  My eyes flick back and forth between them. Gramps nods, reaches into his pocket, and hands her an envelope. She nods but doesn’t thank him.

  She turns to me. “You be good to your grandfather now. Stay out of trouble.”

  She moves to hug me again, and again I step just out of her reach. She shrugs, turns away.

  And she’s gone, in a puff of smoke.

  Just like that.

  I step to the screen door to look out. She climbs into the passenger seat of an old, beat-up Chevy. A guy with long hair and an armful of tattoos is in the driver’s seat. This must be King. The car rumbles as he backs up. I watch as she drives away, gone for good.

  I turn back to look at my grandfather, his eyes full of unshed tears. “Sh-she came f-for money, didn’t sh-she?”

  He nods, unable to speak the truth—the horrible truth.

  “Wh-why did you g-give it to h-her?”

  He shrugs, and his face crumples. For the first time, Gramps looks his age.

  “She’s my child after all.”

  I don’t understand it, and I won’t even try to. I leave the bagel on the counter, set the empty juice glass in the sink. “Y-you c-could’ve w-warned me.” I speak without turning around.

  “I didn’t know. She rang the doorbell at 6:30 this morning. You were still asleep.”

  I turn to look at my grandfather. “Sh-she’s n-never go-going to say s-sorry,” I say finally. The smell of smoke still lingers in the room. Only now do I understand what I needed from her—what I needed and will never get. An apology.

  Gramps runs one hand through his hair, a gesture I haven’t seen since my grandmother was dying and he was helpless. “Would it matter if she did? Would it change things?”

  I shrug. Maybe it would change things. Probably not. Gramps moves toward me then, reaching out to place a hand on each of my shoulders. I stand slightly taller than he does, but his grip is strong, powerful.

  “I’m sorry, Hayden. For every single moment she didn’t love you right. She’s my daughter, so it’s partly my fault. And it breaks my heart to think of the things she did to you. The ways she hurt you. I can never make it right. Never change the past. But I can tell you that I am so proud of you. You are the son I always wanted.”

  He’s never apologized to me before, not for her behavior. And he’s never called me his son before. It chips something away inside, a piece of the wall around my heart.

  5

  — Stella —

  I’m just getting dressed when I receive Hayden’s message.

  My mother was here. Toda
y.

  Within moments, my mother has agreed to let me see him. I don’t give her the specifics. She already knows that Hayden lives with his grandfather.

  “Hayden’s mother showed up this morning. At his house,” I tell her. “And I think he’s really upset. Can I please see him? We’ll stay here. Just for a little while?”

  That’s all it takes.

  I reply to his message. My mom says it’s ok for you to come over. If you want.

  I’ll see you soon, he says.

  I wait on the front step, twirl the daisy charm back and forth in my hand. Wondering what I will say when he gets here. How I will help him. I hope I’ll know the right thing to do.

  I chew my lip as his truck pulls down the street. It stops in front of my house. I watch as he looks at me through the window. He gets out. Walks toward me. He looks so pale. Crumpled, like he is broken. He moves slowly, almost like he must control every step. Not his usual graceful stride. And I know exactly what to do. Because the expression of pain on his face connects with my heart. Instinct takes over. Moving for me. Speaking for me.

  I stand and move toward him. I wrap him in my arms, and hold on tight. He trembles, like little earthquakes are rolling through him. He rests his chin on the top of my head as he lets me hold him. Lets me love him.

  I feel him melt into me. Lean into me. The shaking subsides. I hold him tighter still. I don’t know how long we stand there. It doesn’t matter. Because he needs me as much as I need him. We need each other. We’re stronger together. Better together.

  When we break apart, I look into his eyes. They glisten. Seeing him so emotional does something to me. It makes me take over. As though I need to be stronger for him. To take care of him for once. So that’s how I take his hand. Lead him around the side of the house through the gate. And into the backyard.

  I walk him through the garden past the rosebushes and the lavender. Through the herb boxes. And to the little iron bench in the back. The one Mom bought at an antique sale years ago. It’s nestled into the ordered chaos as though it’s part of the garden. There, I pull him down beside me and finally speak two words.

  “Tell me.”

  Hayden twines his fingers through mine, looking at our hands rather than into my eyes. I watch his mouth. Read his words.

  “She was there when I woke up. I haven’t seen her since she showed up with airport presents when I was twelve. Today, she showed up with a new boyfriend and a pack of cigarettes.” His mouth closes in a line. Jaw clenching. He seems far away. No longer right beside me, but somewhere else. Someplace else.

  Then he speaks again. “It was like I was seven again. I didn’t say a word. Not one. Like I was still silent.” His eyes raise to mine. Beseeching me to understand.

  I can see how much he is hurting. I just want to be here for him, to help somehow. I place my other hand on top of our two hands. Run my fingers across the back of his. Letting him know that even if I can’t hear him, I am listening.

  He hesitates, then speaks. “She beat me. All those years ago.”

  I pull in a breath. Hold tighter to his hand.

  “When she drank—and even when she didn’t, she screamed at me. Blamed me for her failures, for her pathetic life. She wanted to be a famous singer and ran away from home at seventeen to join a band. Instead of a record deal, she ended up with me. I think my grandparents must have given her money to settle down so she wouldn’t drag me around the country chasing her dream. But it made her so angry. She used to throw things. Bottles, cans, shoes. Anything within reach. Sometimes, she beat me with them.” He breaks off for a moment as the torment catches up with him. He’s unable to continue.

  My heart is breaking. Tears slip down my cheeks as I imagine Hayden battered and pummeled. Punished for his very existence. I ache for the little boy inside of him who has been so damaged. His eyes are far away when he speaks again.

  “One time, I was huddled behind a kitchen chair in a pile of broken glass. She picked up a broken bottle. Slashed it across my face. Said she wished I had never been born. I remember there was blood everywhere. How much it hurt. But I’m not sure now if the pain was coming from the wound.”

  The scar on Hayden’s chin is so deep, it extends all the way to his heart. Now I understand why he flinched when I touched it. It represents her. And what she did to him.

  “I called my grandfather and he took me to the hospital. Long sleeves and a story about a baseball couldn’t hide what she had done. This time people started asking questions. And I didn’t want to answer them. I’m not sure who I was protecting—my grandfather, my mother or me. But I stopped talking that day. I never talked about what happened. Not to her or anyone. Hours turned into days. Then months. The more she yelled at me to speak, the more I refused to. Silence became my only power. By then, I’d realized that I could become invisible. When you don’t speak, people pay attention. Sometimes the absence of sound is louder than sound itself. But then, after a while, they give up on you. So months turned into years, and I disappeared.”

  Tears blur my vision. I wonder how he found the strength to go on. The courage to keep fighting. To believe in himself. It would have been so much easier to give up.

  “Is that when your grandparents took you in?” I venture.

  Hayden shakes his head. “Not then. It wasn’t until three years later, when I was ten.”

  My throat tightens and I forget to breathe. There is more. More he hasn’t told me.

  “It was another hospital visit that did it. This time with broken bones. Bones heal, but this”—he gestures to his scar—“is a constant reminder. She wishes I had never been born.”

  He wraps both of his hands around mine, looking at me. “And that’s what I wished, too. Until I saw you for the first time—that day at school. Then I didn’t want to be invisible anymore. I wanted to be seen. By you.”

  I can’t breathe as he gazes at me. His heart is in his eyes.

  “I’ve never told anybody,” he says. “What happened that day with my mother. Until now.”

  Sharing his story with me is a sign of trust. He hasn’t shared what happened with anyone, not even his grandfather. But he shared it with me. This is the moment I have been waiting for. The butterfly has come to me. Now I need to be gentle. Not scare him away.

  The expression on his face shows pain, disappointment, and something else. In the set of his jaw, the lowering of his eyes. Guilt. There is something else. Something he needs to say.

  “I can’t forgive her.”

  That’s what is tearing him up inside—he can’t forgive her.

  “Has she asked for your forgiveness?” I ask gently. “Has she ever apologized?”

  He doesn’t speak. Only shakes his head. Tears shine in his eyes, but he does not release them. I don’t know how so many tears can pool in his eyes and not be shed. But he contains them. Holds them inside. The effect turns his eyes a pale blue, almost white. Blinding.

  I lean into him. Look at the scar on his chin. The scar I now know is much deeper than the surface of his skin. It defines how he sees himself. A symbol of his worth. I wish I could erase his pain. Show him what he means to me. Before I realize what I am doing, I press my lips to his chin. I kiss his wound, trying to heal it. Heal him.

  He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t push me away. When I draw back, his eyes are wide with surprise. But he lets me see him. He doesn’t pull back.

  “I don’t forgive her either,” I say. “And one more thing.”

  He listens. Watches me.

  “She can’t hurt you anymore.”

  “She can’t?”

  I shake my head. “I won’t let her.” A beat. And then I finish. “Ever. Again.”

  That’s when the sun shines on me. Because for the first time that day, Hayden smiles. “I believe you.” One tear falls.

  When Hayden leaves for work, I join Mom in her office. Offer to help with her work again. I need to immerse myself in mundane activities. My emotions need a respite. I spend the re
st of my day assembling folders and stuffing envelopes. Making copies.

  Mom doesn’t ask for details, and Hayden’s secrets aren’t mine to reveal. I tuck them into my heart where they will stay safe.

  I do thank her, though. For breaking her own rules—or Dad’s rules, anyway. For letting me see Hayden. I tell her it meant a lot to him to be able to talk to me about it. “I was happy to be able to help him for once. He’s helped me so much.”

  Mom nods and smiles. She writes me a note. “Hayden is lucky to have someone care about him the way you do. I think you’ve helped each other.”

  I grin at her. She just might understand, just a little bit.

  Emerson needs a ride to dance class. Today, I offer to go along with Mom. I want to watch my sister dance.

  I sit in the waiting room with all the dance moms, glad I can’t listen to the gossip. My eyes are glued to the window between the studio and the waiting room. I proudly watch my sister leap and spin across the floor.

  On the way home, we stop for pizza. The three of us share a pepperoni and olive jumbo. In the booth at the restaurant, I look at my mother as she smiles at Emerson. My mother, who has never blamed me for anything. Never raised a hand to me. Never abandoned me. Never done anything but love me.

  She looks at me quizzically. I don’t usually stare at her this way.

  I try to explain. “You’re a really wonderful mom. I love you.” I turn to Emerson. “I love you too, you know.”

  Emerson leaps up, wraps her arms around us both. Kisses us on the cheeks. A wet pepperoni and olive kiss.

  After we get home, I take up my favorite position on the sofa. Open up another Jane Austen favorite: Sense and Sensibility. I have finished the first twenty pages when I receive a text message.

  All I knew this morning was that I needed you. I don’t even remember driving to your house. But when I saw you, I could breathe. I will always remember.

  My stomach flutters at his last sentence. Will I ever get used to Hayden’s interest in me? Or will it always stir me this way?

  A second message from him arrives.