Silence (6 page)

“I’ll be okay.” I move my mouth to say the words. I want Connor and his mother to go away, to stop staring at me as if their feeling bad about me being here will make me better. It won’t. I force my mouth into a smile again. I look at my mother. Beg her with my eyes.

End my misery. Make them go away.

Mercifully, she understands. She lifts the cupcake box from my arms. Takes the rose and sets it next to the bed. Then ushers them out of the room.

Connor doesn’t even look back. I am sure I am forgotten the moment he steps across the threshold. Maybe even before.

The daisies are dead now. I can’t keep them anymore. My mother brings me wax paper and shows me how to press one of the flowers. I choose my favorite daisy. We fold the wax paper around it. I press it between the pages of one of the books people have sent to me—a book of poetry. I think it is symbolic. My mother hands the rest of the flowers to the nurse. I watch as she carries them out the door. Away from me.

The sunlight is gone now. Darkness sets in.

I am in the shadows when the cast comes to visit. Mr. Preston leads them in. Like a final bow, they stand shoulder to shoulder around the bed. Kace and Quinn and all the rest of them. They have brought me a poster of the show, signed by everyone. The poster is a photo of me dressed as Maria, standing with Kace dressed as Tony. We hold hands and look at the camera. A sharp pain pierces my stomach. I use one hand and hold it there to keep the pain from spreading, from infecting the rest of me with its poison.

Mr. Preston takes one look at me and his eyes fill with tears. He reaches for my hand. Holds it gently and says something very moving to me—I am sure of it. If I could hear him, I would be touched.

I smile back, say my standard line. “I’ll be okay.”

Kace steps closer and gives me a half-hearted smile. His eyes look at me but there’s no sparkling today. Ribbons of gray run through the green. Like snow melting in the mountains. I think he feels bad for me. I manage a small smile for him. He touches the top of my head softly, like a blessing. “You can do it,” he seems to be telling me. Then he steps back to join the others.

Quinn looks in my direction but not actually at me. She wrings the sides of her dress in her hands, twisting the fabric tightly. Her shoulders are hunched. A sheen of sweat covers her forehead. She is the one who feels my loss most profoundly. Of course she would. My tragedy was her triumph.

They hand me gifts: candy and stuffed animals, books and magazines. I wish I could be happy to get them, wish I could feel grateful for their caring. But seeing these people around me is like ripping a fresh scab off a wound. I am bleeding again. And the pain is searing. Blinding. Tears burn my eyes, making the room swim in front of me. The faces blur and blend together.

I close my eyes for an instant as I struggle to gain control. I breathe deep, tasting the colognes and perfumes in my mouth. Tasting sympathy. I hate it. I hate being the center of attention for something that happened to me. If I had earned something, I’d be happy to receive accolades, applause.

This feels like being a caged eagle at the zoo. Chained at the leg. Restrained from flying. Watching with resignation as people stare. Gawk. Point. Knowing they will all talk about you later. Behind your back. This isn’t the me I want people to notice.

But this is the me I am.

When I open my eyes again, they are all gone. But the poster remains to remind me of who I used to be.

Fading into
the shadows

— 
Hayden
 —

I have visited her twice, but she didn’t see me. The first time, I waited for two hours, but she didn’t wake up. Didn’t open her eyes.

She looked like a painting of Ophelia floating on water. For a moment, I thought she might never wake up. I wanted to kiss her to see if she would wake for me. But I didn’t. I didn’t leave a note or anything either, so she will never even know I was there. But I will know.

The second time, Connor Williams was walking down the hallway with his mother, carrying a box of cupcakes. I wanted to grab the box and throw it away. Tell him he has no right to see her, let alone speak to her. He caused her accident. I know it, he knows it, and she knows it. I blame him. Anger welled up in me, so strong I had to walk away. Or say something I would regret. Or do something I might regret. I have to remain in control—always. I can never let anger take over. Not like my mother—she can’t control it. I can.

So I walked away. I didn’t see Stella that time. I went for a run instead. Pushed myself to sprint harder and faster. Ran until each breath burned my lungs—and the anger had drained away.

My days are tedious, long. It’s like someone has closed the shutters. I can see the sunlight streaking through the slats, reminding me of what is outside, but I can’t touch it. I am closed inside the shadows until I can see her again.

DARKNESS

— 
Stella
 —

It may be hours or minutes that go by. I don’t know. Mom comes to my room with a pair of sweats and a tank top. She helps me out of bed. I get dressed. I slip my feet into flip-flops. Sit down in the gray-blue wheelchair. And Emerson wheels me out of the hospital. The nurses wave good-bye, as if leaving this place is a good thing. As if I am healed.

It takes forever for my dad to load all of the flowers and balloons and stuffed animals into the trunk. I know it should make me feel good that so many people care.

It doesn’t.

I sit in the car and stare out the window. For once, I am glad I can’t hear. It’s weird to be in a car with Dad driving and Mom riding shotgun, with Emerson and me in the backseat. It’s like we are a family again. Something we haven’t been for two years.

The conversation will be about all the things we can do when I get home. How I will be back to normal in no time. Only it’s all a lie. In my silent world, I don’t have to pretend otherwise. I can just shut them all out. And no one can blame me for ignoring them.

When we get home, I walk right into the house and straight to my bedroom. I close the door and turn to the mirror. It’s not the first time I have looked in a mirror; there was a little one in the bathroom at the hospital. But it’s different looking in my full-length mirror. Last time I looked at myself like this, I was on my way to a party. I was thinking about dress rehearsal. About Hayden.

Today is a new day. A different me. I study my reflection.

A white bandage clings to the side of my head, a white flag to remind me. As if I could forget. My hair has been shaved on one side. That doesn’t even matter. The rest of my dark-brown hair looks greasy and tangled. My usually rosy cheeks are pale, which makes the purple and green bruises look even worse than they are. Amber eyes peer over gray circles, like a lamp that has been turned off. Dark and empty.

After all the sleeping I’ve done lately, it seems strange that I look so tired. I’m only fifteen but look forty. The aged remnant of the girl who used to be.

I don’t look like myself. I look like someone else.

I
am
someone else.

I climb under my blue and white comforter. It feels soft compared to the sandpaper sheets at the hospital. I breathe in the smell of our detergent. And I pull the covers up over my head. Fresh lavender surrounds me.

Someday Broadway. The thought flutters in the darkness. A golden butterfly seeking escape. It frees itself. Flies away. I watch
Someday Broadway
disappear.

And I close my eyes.

I wake in darkness. Still fully clothed, wearing my flip-flops in bed. I have no idea how long I’ve been sleeping or even what day it is. I sit up and feel the emptiness in my stomach. I need to eat something.

I climb out of bed and open my door. The house is dark and quiet. Then I remember, the world will always be quiet for me now. I head for the kitchen, flip on the light, and open the fridge. A wrapped turkey sandwich sits on a plate. Mom surely left it for me. It makes me feel bad, in a way. She is still trying to take care of me, and I have shut her out. But the truth is, I have no choice. I have no idea how to communicate now. And I have no interest in learning. I think about that movie about Helen Keller I saw years ago. It all seemed so inspiring then. When I wasn’t her.

I sit at the table to eat my sandwich. For a split second, I think about turning on the small television in the corner. Then I remember. So I eat in silence.

The thing about not hearing is that it gives you a lot of time to think. Too much time to think. My brain keeps reliving the accident, over and over again.

I see myself standing near the edge of the pool. Falling. The water coming closer and closer. Then blackness. Silence.

NORMAL

— 
Stella
 —

I wake up to see bright sunlight streaming through my shutters. It illuminates the posters on my wall.
Wicked, West Side Story, The Phantom of the Opera, Les Misérables, Chicago.

Someday Broadway.

There is no Someday Broadway now. Without singing, I am invisible. A nobody. The girl with the voice is dead. Nothing can fix that. I lie there looking at the posters. Not moving, barely breathing.

Mom comes into my room. Her eyes fill with sympathy when she sees me staring at the posters. She comes to the bed and sits on the edge, wrapping me in her arms. She holds me tight. She’s trying to tell me it will all be okay. When I was little and hurt myself on the swings at the park or by falling down at school, her embrace worked.

It doesn’t anymore.

Because I’m not that girl anymore.

Mom hands me a small box wrapped in pink and white paper.

I tear off the paper, open the box, and there it is—the phone I have been coveting for three years. It is finally mine. I take it carefully out of the box. Run my fingers gently over the touch screen. It lights up. I glance at Mom. She is smiling. I can see tears glistening in her eyes.

Then she pushes the button for texting. And I realize. I can text. A message is waiting. I open it.

Your surgery is scheduled for Monday. It will only take a couple of hours, and then you can come right home. After a few weeks, they will program your implant, and you will be able to hear again. You can even go back to school.

“Thank you, Mom,” I say. I don’t know how loud or soft my voice is. I don’t know what it sounds like at all. “This was a really good idea.” I mean it. About the phone. It will make things seem almost normal. Almost.

I don’t want her to know that the idea of returning to school terrifies me. That I am afraid I will never want to climb out of this bed. Afraid that the shadows of grief will suck me into blackness and never let me go.

So I pretend. I am a better actor than I thought. I force a smile and say, “Everything will be okay. I know it will” to make her feel better. I don’t want pity or sympathy. I want to be treated just like before. So I do the only thing I can think of: pretend I am fine.

Even though I’m not.

I’m empty inside.

Locked in this cell of silence, time passes slowly for me. I am stuck with myself and my own mind.

Which can’t think of anything good to say.

Turns out, the phone can hear for me. Mom has downloaded an app that turns speech into words I can read. She says something to me, and I can read it on the screen. Much better than writing things on paper. Much faster too. Sometimes the phone gets the words wrong, though.

Mom comes into my room and asks me about lunch. The phone transcribes the words. According to the phone, she wants to know if I want “grilled seas and tomato shoes for lunch.”

I smile and say, “Yes. I would love grilled seas and tomato shoes.” Mom doesn’t get it. It’s an inside joke between me and my new best friend, my phone.

Emerson resets the televisions for closed captioning. Now we can watch our favorite reality shows together because I can read what is happening in the white words on the bottom of the screen. It’s like reading subtitles in a foreign film. Reading reality TV isn’t nearly as much fun as hearing it. You can’t exactly read the level of emotion in someone’s voice. But it’s better than not watching at all.

Dad tries to help by dropping off a stack of books from the library—mysteries and science fiction. Too bad he has absolutely no idea what kinds of stories I like. As Emerson and I look through them, we play a game. She holds up each book, making a pretend serious face as she does. We read the title together. And then we burst out laughing. Each one makes us laugh a little bit harder. The truth is, there is nothing funny about the titles. Or about the fact that Dad tried to do something thoughtful by bringing the books. We just need to laugh, and this is the first thing that has seemed amusing. So we laugh until our stomachs ache. We lie on the floor of the living room, side by side. And then Em reaches out and takes my hand in hers. She holds it tight. We stay like that. For once, my little sister is trying to take care of me. And for once, I let her.

Three days later, as promised, Mom takes me to the hospital. When she pulls into the parking lot, I shiver. The last thing I want is to be back here again. Mom parks and gets out of the car to open my door for me. She takes me by the elbow, like I am blind instead of deaf. We walk slowly through the parking lot. She leads me through the automatic doors. The smell hits me instantly. My reaction to it is so strong that I stagger. Stumble. Only Mom’s grip keeps me from tumbling to the ground into the fetal position. She holds me tighter and nods at me.

We will get through this, I tell myself. And I move forward. Breathing through my mouth.

We take the elevator to a different floor. I am an out-patient this time. When we get to the waiting room, we sit on a small blue sofa with gray dots. Mom reaches for her purse and turns off her cell phone. I just look around the room.