Silence

by Deborah Lytton

  The countdown to April tenth has changed from being the countdown to something I anticipated—the return of my hearing—to something I fear—the end of Hayden’s commitment to me. Will he disappear once he has fulfilled his promise to me?

  At five to six, Mom opens the front door. Hayden steps through. Wearing a crisp white shirt tucked into dark jeans. Hair loose, like it was the first day I saw him leaning against the lockers. Watching me.

  He turns to me. His eyes reach me first. I can read him now. So I view the myriad of emotions that cross his face like a poem.

  Cautious optimism

  Barely contained

  Overflowing at the edges

  Wanting so much

  Yet still unsure

  Questions unanswered

  Words unspoken

  Emotion colliding with reason

  Waiting so long

  Always waiting

  “You look just like the butterfly,” he says as he closes the distance between us in three smooth strides.

  I know exactly what he means. The butterfly on our walk through nature. The one in my photo. My continual reminder of the rewards of patience. It seems fitting that I should be one with the butterfly.

  Hayden’s gaze drops to the present in my hands. He cocks his head to the side, asking the question without words.

  I glance down. Then back at him. “It’s for you. For later,” I tell him.

  A small grin touches his face. And his hand reaches for mine. As we move toward the front door, I see Mom and Emerson standing side by side. Smiling. Watching. Being happy for me.

  “Nine thirty,” Mom reminds me. I nod. I would agree to anything she asks as long as she lets me walk out the door with Hayden.

  “Where are we going?” I ask. The truck rolls along. The silver knot swinging back and forth.

  “It’s a surprise,” Hayden answers. He can’t hide the joy on his face. And I can’t hide mine, either. This feels like a celebration.

  I don’t try to figure out where we are going. I don’t want to know. I want to be surprised. To relish the delight of someone caring enough to surprise me. To plan something just for me.

  I watch the houses we pass. Let my mind drift. Flow.

  Hayden’s hands wrap around the steering wheel. Eyes on the road ahead of him. At a stoplight, he reaches out. Runs his hand down my arm. Ending with my fingers. Tracing them one by one. As though he is drawing a handprint on a piece of paper. As though he is memorizing it.

  Then the light changes. And he lifts his fingers from mine.

  Hayden pulls into a driveway, climbs out of the truck. Opens a metal gate. Then he drives through. Plants overflow into the driveway. Trees with pink flowers. Beds of flowers. Statues. Fountains. I read the sign, “Flores’ Nursery.”

  “It looks closed,” I tell Hayden.

  Hayden nods, a knowing grin lighting his features. “It is closed.”

  I don’t understand. But I don’t have time for more questions, because he has jumped out of the truck again and is already walking around to my side.

  Hayden opens the door. I step out. My feet hit the ground closer to him than I planned. So as I stand, he brushes against me. Tiny bells ring inside of me.

  I take the package in my right hand as Hayden grasps my left. “This is where I work.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I say.

  “Sometimes, working here is like escaping. Plants are forgiving like that. They don’t ask questions.”

  Like a rosebud reaching for the sun, Hayden is opening to me.

  But it makes me wonder. In my silence, speech is the least important of my abilities. Conversation is at a minimum. Has this been the secret of my appeal? It is a sobering thought. One that clouds my view and dims the brightness of the flowers in front of me.

  As if he understands, Hayden stops. Turns to me. “You can ask me any question you want. And I will answer anything you ask. But only you.”

  And just like that, the cloud is lifted. I am certain I have never been this happy.

  Hayden gives me a tour of the garden. Flats of flowers give way to herb gardens in rectangular boxes. Then to shrubs cut into shapes of diamonds and circles. Beyond are fruit trees. Groves of palm trees in containers.

  Nestled in the middle of the rose bushes are an iron table and two chairs. The table has been covered with a red-and-white-checkered cloth. Two place settings.

  Candles are scattered on pillars surrounding the table. The sun is setting as the two of us sit down to dinner. Hayden has a picnic basket filled with chicken, Caesar salad, strawberries, and French bread. Chilled sparkling water.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say as Hayden pulls out a chair for me. “Did you do this all by yourself?”

  Hayden moves around the table to sit across from me. “I had some help. Turns out my boss is quite the romantic.”

  I laugh, loving the idea that Hayden and his boss have talked about me. Made these plans for me.

  “Now, whenever I come to work, you will be here with me,” Hayden says as he offers me a glass of water.

  “Is this what you want to do, work with plants?” I ask. “You said I could ask any question I want and you would answer.”

  Hayden’s eyes crinkle at the edges. I can tell he is laughing. Then he answers me. “This is just for now, just until college. I want to be a social worker.”

  I didn’t expect this. Musician. Marine biologist. Something else. Not a social worker.

  “That’s really specific. You know that already?”

  He nods. “So many kids out there grow up in homes they shouldn’t be in. I want to do something about it. I may end up going to law school to be a child advocate. Whatever lets me help the most.”

  I speak my first thought aloud. “There’s no one like you,” I say. “You inspire me.”

  “We inspire each other.” He reaches for my hand across the table.

  “All I’ve ever thought about is being able to connect with people through my voice,” I say. “Now, of course, it’s different.” I fall silent.

  Hayden shakes his head, not willing to let the subject drop as I would like. “You can still sing. You did it the other day. And after tomorrow, who knows?”

  I tilt my head. Watch him. The way his eyelashes curl at the ends. The dimple in his cheek. “Even if I can sing again, I can never go back. Not to the way it was before.” I pause. “I’m different now. You taught me to be different, to imagine being a different me. I never thought I would write. And poetry? I didn’t even read poetry before. Even if I had wanted to write, I’m not sure I could have without losing part of myself first. In losing myself, I found myself. Does that make sense?”

  Hayden doesn’t answer me in words. Instead, he turns my hand over, palm facing up. He traces my lifeline. “You can do anything, Stella.”

  I’m not sure I believed that before this moment. But right now, in the flickering light of the candles, breathing in the aroma of lavender, roses, orange blossoms, and jasmine, it’s in this quiet moment that I know. I know something for the first time since the accident.

  I am going to be okay.

  Whatever happens, I will be okay. Because I’m stronger than I thought I was—and I can do anything. I didn’t know that before. But I know it now. And that knowledge fills me with a sense of peace like nothing I’ve ever known. Like I am drifting on a cloud. And even if that cloud collides with a thunderstorm, I will survive. I know I will.

  I reach for Hayden’s wrapped gift. “For you,” I tell him.

  The soft smile plays on his face again. And I understand it now. Hayden hasn’t received many gifts in his life. This means more to him than I realized. He studies it. Doesn’t tear the paper. Just holds it. As though he is savoring the moment. Holding it close before he lets it go. His eyes meet mine.

  I nod. “Open it.”

  And he does, gently running his finger underneath the tape on the edge to release the paper. Then turning the package to do the same on the other sid
e. Folding it back. Carefully. As though the paper itself is the gift.

  Inside is a book of poetry. Poems by Whitman, Dickinson, Wordsworth, Blake, Poe. The book is an old volume. Leather bound with gold-tipped pages. Hayden opens it. His smile broadens. He looks through the pages as if looking for old friends. And perhaps some new ones. Then he comes to a marker I tucked inside, a small, ivory card marking the place. He takes the note in his hand. Reads my words.

  He looks back at me. Says nothing but stands and moves around the table. Lifts me to my feet.

  My face tilts to meet his. Drawing together, our lips seek each other. Meet in a kiss.

  His arms close around my waist as I reach to his shoulders. My hands clasp behind his neck, pulling him into me. Closer. Our kiss deepens. Reaches into my soul. Where he has always been. Where he will always be.

  When we pull apart, I have broken through the surface of the water. No longer treading. I’m floating.

  Hayden doesn’t release me right away. He keeps me locked against him. When he is sure I will not move, his hands take my face. Bring me closer to him. He kisses me again. Once. Softly.

  Then we stroll through the garden again. Marvel at the peacefulness of the flowers in the moonlight. Darkness blankets us. We sit on a small bench near a fountain. I cannot hear the water trickle into the basin decorated with stone birds. But I can imagine it. I rest my head against Hayden’s shoulder.

  “I don’t want this to end,” I tell him. I don’t want to go home.

  In the shadows, I can’t read Hayden’s lips. So I don’t even try. I just thread my fingers through his. Close my eyes. And make a wish.

  Speech of the heart

  — Hayden —

  I don’t want this to end either, and that’s what I want to tell her—but I don’t.

  I take her home, walk her to the door, and wait until she is inside.

  When I get home, I sit outside on the porch, not ready to go in. The book of poetry is open, my eyes scanning lines I remember from long ago. Sentences memorized to practice my speech, the speech that was the destruction of me.

  That same speech allowed Stella to read my lips. Brought us together in a world where only we can connect. Poetry isn’t afraid of emotions. It isn’t afraid to challenge, to question, and sometimes, to admit.

  The cat rubs against my legs, purring. Kittens weave around my shoes, trying to get my attention. The littlest one, an orange tabby, separates from the rest and moves to the center of the porch. She sings to me, meows turning into a melody. I reach down to pet her, then scoop her up and set her in my lap. The others look on enviously.

  I pick up the card from Stella, which marks a poem she wanted me to read by Robert Frost: “The Road Not Taken.” I read his words, think about my life. About the roads I have and have not taken.

  I chose to save her from drowning, and then I chose to save her from herself. Life would have been simpler if I had walked away, never allowed myself to get close. But then I wouldn’t have known her—I wouldn’t have held her hand, shared poetry with her, walked with her by my side. I wouldn’t have kissed her. I wouldn’t be the same without her. Just as she wouldn’t be the same without me.

  I turn the card over and over in my hand, looking at it for the hundredth time tonight. There, in her rounded handwriting, are the words I have memorized.

  Words I could have written to her.

  If I had dared.

  You have given me the gift of myself. I owe you my life.

  And my soul.

  Always,

  Stella

  Her words stop my heart every time. Because she tells me something I already know but have been too afraid to admit.

  The connection between us has grown as strong as the roots of a hundred-year-old tree grounded in the earth—unbreakable. Capable of standing against hurricanes, tornados, and earthquakes. I will have to sever it to free her, to let her go.

  But a small voice in my head poses a question. The question that I have been hearing for the past few days but have been afraid to answer.

  What if I don’t let her go?

  1

  — Stella —

  Today is the last day.

  The last day I will live in the unknown.

  Wondering.

  Waiting.

  Silent.

  Tomorrow morning I will receive my processor. I already know it may not work on the first day, or even the day after that. It takes time to get used to the implants, time for my brain to adjust. But because my hearing has been lost for only a short time, the doctors say I am a good candidate. Some people can even hear music again.

  I sit at the kitchen table. Work on homework. I have a test Wednesday on Hamlet. And a geometry quiz. And at some point, I have to do something for my drama class, though I have no idea what.

  Wisps of last night float through my thoughts, disrupting my focus. Bringing a smile to my face. Now I understand what all of those romantic movies are about. I understand how my mother fell for my father. And even why Lily was willing to give up everything for Connor.

  Because in those moments of deepest connection, everything else disappears. All you know is the beat of your heart. The touch of his hand. The incredible sense that you both feel the same way. And for that one split second, you are not making this journey alone. You have someone by your side.

  Hayden promised me seventeen days. And in those seventeen days, he showed me so many things I could do even if I could never hear again. The beach, painting, eating junk food, helping others, baking, playing board games, writing poetry, making friends, experiencing music, enjoying nature, hiking, dancing in the rain, even kissing. Most importantly, he showed me that I can love. With my whole heart.

  I meant what I wrote on the card; he did save my life. He also saved my soul. No matter what happens tomorrow, I am a better person today than I was before the accident. I wouldn’t change a moment of this journey.

  I am still sitting there, lost in daydreams, when Emerson taps my shoulder. Waking me. I blink. She writes on the top of my homework page.

  H is at the door.

  I look at her in confusion. We didn’t have plans for today. Not that I know of.

  I am still in my pajamas. Pink-and-white-checkered pants with a white Eiffel Tower tank. My hair is in two ponytails knotted into little buns. Hayden may not notice, but I don’t want him to see me like this.

  I point to my clothes. Wide-eyed, Emerson nods. Our silent communication at its finest, she dashes into the laundry room. Returns with a slightly damp, turquoise floral tank and a pair of pale blue jean shorts. Emerson must have been doing her laundry. In seconds, I am dressed.

  “I owe you,” I say as I kiss Emerson’s cheek and head for the front door.

  Hayden sits on the front step. His back to me. I step close. Sit down beside him.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi, yourself.” Our favorite greeting. But he doesn’t meet my eyes.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask. Has his mother returned? Did something happen?

  No answer.

  His eyes finally meet mine. And I see it.

  The curtain has dropped. He’s looking at me, and he may be able to see me. But I can no longer see him. His feelings are hidden from me behind the curtain.

  My heart plummets to my stomach. Fills me with dread.

  “Brought you something.” A forced smile parts his lips. The same lips that were kissing me just last night.

  Was it just last night?

  How could so much change so fast?

  “Something you can do while you’re adjusting to your hearing.” Hayden has said the unspoken words.

  This is the last day. The last day of his promise to me.

  The end.

  “You’ve done so much for me already.” I remember my first thoughts about why he was helping me. The stray-puppy scenario. “You don’t have to do anything else.”

  I want to scream. To shake him. To find out why he is acting this wa
y.

  Instead, I sit there, clown smile pasted on my face. Every second an eternity.

  Hayden walks to his truck. I watch as he opens the passenger door. Removes a small basket. He returns to sit beside me once more. Sets the basket on my knees. I open the top.

  Inside is a small orange kitten.

  My eyes seek him. For a split second, he drops the façade. For a split second, I think he is here with me right now because he wants to be here. Not because of a promise.

  “We have this tabby cat. Sleeps on our porch. It’s one of her kittens.”

  I scoop the kitten into my arms. Cradle it. Stroke its tiny head. The kitten looks up at me. With bright blue eyes.

  What will my mom say? We don’t have any pets. Not that there’s a specific rule against them, per se. But Dad took our dog with him. And ever since, the subject’s never really come up.

  As if he reads my mind, Hayden speaks. “I already asked your mom. She said it would be okay.”

  “Really?” I’m not sure what I am responding to. The fact that my mom agreed to let me have a kitten, or the fact that Hayden asked her permission.

  Hayden shrugs. “I asked her the other night at the gallery. She was so happy. I figured that once she met Christophe, she’d have said yes to a pet elephant.”

  I laugh. Marvel at how easy it is to be with him. How comfortable I am speaking to him like this. The ebb and flow of conversation is so natural. Free.

  “She has a date with him tonight,” I say. “Weird to think of my mom going out with someone. Weird in a good way.”

  “He’s been alone a long time. It’s good for both of them.”