The Color of Silence

by Liane Shaw

  I’ve seen maybe fifty people go inside today. Not hundreds, but still more than I expected.

  “Hi Alex. Are you coming inside?” Patrick is suddenly standing beside me. I’m still on the sidewalk, staring at the balloons. He looks at them too.

  “I don’t know if she liked balloons or not, but they seem…

  I don’t know, somehow right for her today. Light, colorful. Like her.” He smiles a little. I look at him. He looks different without his bright nursing scrubs. He’s in a blue suit, with a white shirt. His tie is bright pink, though, and I can suddenly imagine Joanie laughing at the sight of it.

  The thought makes me smile and sniff at the same time.

  “I forgot. I spoke to Kathleen and to Joanie’s case worker, and we all agreed that this should go to you.” He reaches in his pocket and takes out the necklace that used to hang over Joanie’s bed.

  Her rainbow.

  “No, I don’t…I can’t…I mean, I barely knew her. You all knew her a lot longer than I did.”

  “Not really. She’s moved around a lot, poor kid.”

  “But there must be someone closer to her than me to give this to.” My hands are in my pockets. I don’t want Joanie’s rain…necklace. I don’t deserve it.

  “You’re her friend. I think she would want it to be with you.” He’s holding it out to me. The sun is shining through the stones, lighting them up until they sparkle. It really looks like an upside-down stone rainbow.

  I think about Joanie’s eyes the day I finally figured out what it meant to her. How excited she looked to be sharing it with me.

  And then suddenly I’m crying. Not just delicate little tears like the actresses in all of those movies Cali loved to hate.

  Real crying—my eyes pouring out useless tears as my nose starts to run. I try to stop, squeezing my eyes tightly shut to try to hold the tears back and dry myself up. But it’s no use. They’ve been waiting too long to be let loose, and they just come out in a big flood, washing away my self-control.

  Sobbing and gulping and sniffing and snorting, making a total mess of myself. Crying so hard I can barely breathe. Standing here making a complete fool of myself out in public where any random stranger can see me.

  “Hey, it’s OK. Everything’s going to be OK.” Patrick puts his hand on my shoulder. I’m pretty sure I scared him. I shake my head at him.

  “I’m all right. Sorry. Thank you.” The words come out in gulps, each one forced by a sob. “Go ahead in. I’ll be OK.”

  I’m still sniffling, but I’ve managed to stop crying for the moment. I take the necklace from him and put it carefully into my pocket. Patrick nods and gives my shoulder another squeeze. Then he turns away and heads up the steps and into the room where lots of people who don’t know anything about rainbows are saying good-bye to someone who probably knew more about them…about everything…than we’ll ever understand.

  I know I should go in.

  After all, I’m the one with the rainbow in my pocket.

  But I’m afraid if I go in and listen to everyone say good-bye, I’ll start crying again.

  If I start crying again, I might never stop.

  Chapter 44

  “I’m a coward.”

  “What?” Dad looks up from where he’s watching TV.

  He didn’t even see me come in. I thought of sneaking back out before he noticed me, but the words came out on their own before I could stop them.

  I seem to be losing control over everything.

  “A coward.” It comes out louder than either of us expected.

  “Why do you think that?” He uses the remote to turn the TV off and turns his full attention on me. I don’t want his full attention. I want to end the conversation. So why do I keep on talking?

  “Because I let a friend down. Again.” He nods a little.

  “Joanie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you think you let her down?” He pats the couch beside him so that I’ll sit down, but I shake my head no.

  “I tried to go to her funeral, but I couldn’t go in. I just stood outside and cried.”

  “Oh, Alex! I wish you had told me about it. I would have gone with you. I know how hard this is for you.”

  For a second I feel like running over and sitting in his lap like I used to when I was a little girl and needed to feel safe. But I don’t. My father looks at me with soft eyes.

  “Tell me what happened, honey.”

  “I went to the church. But I couldn’t go in there and watch all of those people crying about her and talking about how short her life was and how she was gone too soon and how tragic it was and how awful it was and how it should never have happened.

  I couldn’t sit there and watch them watching me, knowing it was my fault that she died. Knowing her parents wish it was me up there in the box instead of their daughter.” I take a deep, sobbing breath, trying to get control, but it doesn’t work. I feel like everything inside of me has liquefied and is coming out my tear ducts.

  “Joanie’s parents?” He says it gently, like he’s afraid his voice might make me actually melt into a puddle on our nice living-room rug.

  “What? No! What do you mean? Joanie doesn’t have parents.” What’s he talking about?

  “You said her parents wished you were in the box. Whose parents?”

  I look at him. He’s blurred by saltwater, but I can still see him looking at me intently.

  “Cali’s parents. I got the two funerals mixed up for a second, I guess. I’m just tired.”

  “But you didn’t even try to go to Cali’s funeral.”

  “No! Of course not. How could I go there and face everyone?”

  “But you did go to Joanie’s.”

  “I tried to go. But I couldn’t even do that one thing for her.”

  “Going to the funeral was for her?”

  “Who else would it be for?”

  “I don’t know. I always thought funerals were for the living. I’m not so sure the dead are as interested in them as we are.” Dad pauses for a minute, then looks at me. “Do you think she was there?”

  “Who? Joanie? At her funeral? I don’t know. I don’t know where people go after. If anywhere. Do you? Do you really know where Mom is? Do you really know that she isn’t just…gone.”

  I throw the last question at him like a challenge.

  “I know what I believe. I believe that your mom is with us every day. I think she watches over both of us, loving us and wanting us to be happy. But that’s me. You’ll have to figure out what you believe.”

  I look at him through murky almost-tears and actually start to laugh.

  “Sounds like a bumper sticker.”

  “I get some of my best material off bumper stickers. I see a lot of them at work.”

  “It’s not really a very helpful answer.”

  “It’s the best one I have. How about a question instead? What if Cali was at her own funeral?”

  “What if Cali was at her own funeral?” I sound like a parrot, but it’s such a strange question, I can’t help it.

  I try to imagine Cali standing there watching all those people sitting around listening to someone talking about her through a microphone and loud speaker. I heard that the choir sang and everyone cried. What would Cali have done?

  Probably laughed. And joined in with the choir. Sung about watermelons.

  The thought makes me smile, just a little bit. I try to wipe it off before Dad sees it.

  “She would have hated every second. Well, except for the loudspeakers. She liked loud. And maybe the singing.”

  “What about Joanie?”

  “Joanie?”

  “Yes, what if Joanie was at her own funeral?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I feel like she migh
t have enjoyed it, listening to people say nice things about her. It’s strange. I feel like I knew her, but all she ever really said to me was ‘blue’ and ‘hi’…oh, and ‘yes’ and ‘no.’ That’s pretty much it.”

  And rainbow.

  I don’t say that one out loud because it feels like it might be a secret just between us.

  “The computer you mentioned.”

  “Yeah. She loved it. It’s not fair that she never got to really talk with it. She had so much to say. We were just getting started, and it all just…ended.”

  Everything just ended.

  “How do you know she loved it? Did she tell you?”

  “No, not with words. Sometimes I could tell what she was feeling. At least I thought I could.”

  “Did she feel anything about you?”

  “Maybe. Probably. She liked me, I guess.” My hand sneaks into my pocket to hold onto the polished stones.

  “Would she be upset if you didn’t go to her funeral?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not. She seemed…nice…understanding…kind.”

  “How do you know if she never spoke to you?”

  “I don’t know. I just did. I don’t even know if I’m right.”

  “Do you think Cali would be angry at you for not going to her funeral last year?”

  “Definitely not. She hated funerals!”

  “Do you think Cali would be angry with you for letting her drive the car that night?”

  I didn’t see that one coming. Dad is getting sneaky. Or daring. Or both.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe you need to figure that out.”

  “Maybe. If I knew how.”

  “Maybe you should ask her.”

  I look at him to see if he’s trying to be funny. He’s smiling, but his eyes look tired and a little sad, like they always do. I smile back, even though I feel tired and sad too.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” I whisper it as I come onto the couch and curl up on his lap. He doesn’t ask me what I’m sorry for. He just wraps his arms around me, pulling all of me together into one piece and holding on tightly so I don’t fall apart again.

  But I do anyway.

  I start to cry, burying my face in my father’s shirt. Sobbing like a baby while my daddy tells me I’m going to be OK, to go ahead and cry.

  Everyone says that crying can make you feel better. But I don’t think so. Every tear just brings another one. It makes your nose run and your stomach hurt. And when you’re finished, all you feel is tired and sore. But not better. Not less sad.

  How can I ever feel better?

  How can anyone ever feel better when someone dies?

  Except that, right in this moment, just for this moment, sitting here messing up my father’s shirt, I do feel just a little bit better.

  Just for this moment.

  Chapter 45

  I feel like I’m standing inside one of those paintings I used to make when I was little—the kind that my dad would stick to the fridge so everyone could see what a genius I was. A bright blue sky with a brilliant yellow sun shining down on glowing green grass—kindergarten colors in big old messy brush strokes that fill the paper with energy and life.

  But I’m a long way from kindergarten.

  I’m standing in a graveyard.

  I can’t really believe I’m doing this. Cali would laugh at me if she knew.

  If she could still know and could still laugh.

  Do dead people laugh? Do they sing about watermelons and make fun of nerdy best friends who walk around in graveyards probably talking to no one?

  I already stopped by my mother’s gray stone.

  Alone and flowerless.

  I should have brought her flowers.

  I didn’t stay long, even though I have lots to tell her.

  Too many people to visit in one place.

  Joanie’s stone is small and white. I don’t know who bought it, because as far as I know there’s no family to do it. It doesn’t have a picture on it. Just words that don’t say much—her name and dates and a quote from some poem I remember reading in school.

  Joanie Watson

  1995–2012

  “Remember what peace there may be in silence…”

  Searching for enough words to tell us who she was. Maybe no one knew enough about her to find them.

  “What peace there may be in silence.” My silence has been dark and stormy and painful. Anything but peaceful.

  Was Joanie’s silence peaceful? Was her mind calm and filled with happy thoughts? Or was she angry at life, frustrated by the body she was forced to live in?

  I always got the feeling that she was pretty peaceful—that she had things figured out. But I don’t really know.

  Maybe whoever picked that poem did know her and did find the words to tell us who she was after all.

  Maybe.

  I wonder if anyone ever read poetry to her. Did she like poems? Did she have her own poetry inside of her mind?

  If things had turned out differently, would a robot have read them to me some day?

  Someone left a small basket of flowers on top of the stone. No one has watered them, so they’re wilted and losing their colors.

  I should have brought her fresh flowers. I never remember flowers.

  I did bring her rainbow. I pull it out of my pocket and hold it out in front of me with both hands. The stones catch little pieces of sunlight, trapping them inside until the colors start to glow.

  I wonder what Joanie thought when she looked up and saw them hanging from her ceiling day after day. Did she wish she could wear them around her neck? Or did she like to just look at them and watch the way the light makes them sparkle? Did she think about the person who gave them to her? Who did give them to her? What did they mean to her?

  Would she really have wanted me to have them?

  So many questions that I didn’t get a chance to ask her.

  I stand staring at them for another moment or two, thinking about Joanie and her big eyes that held so much. Thinking about the word blue and how much it meant to her that she could actually say it for the first time. I really never knew that one word could be so important or exciting.

  I think about missing her.

  I wonder if she misses her life and the people in it or if she’s found something new and different where she is now that fills her days with something more than colored stones.

  Should I leave her rainbow here for her?

  Cali would tell me not to. She would tell me that someone would just steal it or it would get all rusty in the rain or something practical like that.

  She would probably be right.

  I hold it up again so the sun can catch its colors.

  Just in case Joanie can see.

  “I’ll keep it safe for you, OK?” I touch her gravestone for a second and then tuck the rainbow safely back into my pocket.

  Cali would approve. Maybe Joanie would too. I hope so.

  I start looking for Cali’s stone even though I’m pretty sure she would tell me to go home and find her somewhere else, because she wouldn’t be caught dead in a grave.

  I accidentally smile for a second.

  It doesn’t take me long to find her.

  Not her, I guess. Her stone.

  It’s big, pink, and shiny. There’s a teddy bear engraved on it.

  Cali liked pink. And teddy bears.

  But not gravestones.

  Calliope Prescott

  1995–2011

  Beloved daughter

  We love you forever

  Love You Forever. Robert Munsch. Cali’s favorite book. She read it to me once, which was weird because we were fifteen at the time and it’s a little-kid book, b
ut she loved it so much, she just had to share. I had heard it before, of course, but it sounded different when she read it. Her voice was full of music even when she wasn’t singing. She could have been an actress someday. The great Calliope Prescott, daughter of the gods.

  Except she isn’t going to have a someday.

  Her voice is trapped in a box under a pink stone with a teddy bear on it.

  Maybe.

  “I don’t know why I’m here. I know you would tell me that you’re not even in there and I’m just talking to myself, but I don’t know what else to do. It’s just…well…I need to talk to someone, and you’re my best friend, you know? No one understands me but you. And I’m not even sure you totally get me. Got me. Whatever.”

  My throat hurts. Too many words. “Remember all those movies we watched where people died? You said you hated those scenes in the graveyard—when the leftover people talk to a stone and tell it that they miss the person rotting underneath it in the ground. You always told me that there wasn’t anything in the ground but a box full of bones that was polluting the earth—that the person had gone away. But you never told me where you thought the box-people ended up. Are they floating around like ghosts, watching us? Or are they up in some heaven or down in some hell or somewhere in between? Where do we go? My dad says my mom is still somewhere around, watching over me.

  Are you still here somewhere, too?”

  I look around, as if she might be standing behind me watching with a big grin on her face, shaking her head at how nuts

  I sound. There’s nothing there, of course. I’m standing alone, talking to a stone. Maybe I should direct my comments to the teddy bear. At least he looks interested.

  “They wanted me to see a shrink. At the beginning, right after you…Did you know that? Bet you think that’s funny. You always said I was nuts so…I guess I am. I don’t talk to people anymore, at least not much. My dad—I even stopped talking to him for a while, but I couldn’t keep it up. He kind of broke me down. Which wasn’t hard because I was already pretty broken. He’s a good dad, though. You always used to tell me that.”

  There are flowers on top of the pink stone. I reach over and touch them. Silk I guess. I wonder what happens to them in the rain.