Silence (7 page)

We are not alone. A woman and a man sit across the room on a matching sofa—blue with gray dots. They have a little girl with them. She is tiny and frail. Maybe five years old. And completely bald. Her heart-shaped face houses two giant green eyes. So bright and large, they are like spotlights turned on me. She smiles. A beautiful, wide, happy smile. A smile of hope.

I return the smile, sending her good wishes with my eyes. Because in that split second—the amount of time it takes to receive and give a smile—a rainbow of emotions spreads through me. Guilt, regret, and embarrassment take on shades of green, purple and blue. Resolve is orange. Hope is pink. And love is red. I have been spending so much time feeling sorry for myself. With bitterness coloring my world gray.

This little girl is ringed in golden light. I remember Lily telling me about auras. This little girl’s aura is one of faith. I wonder what my aura looks like. I imagine it is quite the opposite. This shames me. Causes me to break contact, study my fingernails.

I have been cloaking myself in misery. Wearing it. My situation is nothing like hers. I bite my lip as I think about my pity parties. In that moment, I make a silent promise to myself and to her. I will find my happiness again. I will make myself whole.

With my hearing.

Or without it.

I stand and move toward the little girl. She smiles as though she knows what I am going to do. As though she has been waiting for it. I smile at her parents. And then I sit next to her. I wait with her.

My mother watches me from across the room. A soft expression of wonder plays across her features. Smoothing them. Making her look younger somehow.

When the nurse comes to get the little girl, she leans over and wraps her arms around me. She hugs me tight, resting her tiny head against my chest. She is so slight, but the weight of her hug is tremendous. It takes my breath away.

And then she is gone.

For the first time since my parents’ split, I find myself praying. I close my eyes and pray for her.

When it is my turn, my mother touches my shoulder. I open my eyes to see a nurse waiting for us. We follow her to a small room. There I change into a gown decorated with a swirly blue and green pattern. The touch of the scratchy fabric on my skin triggers my nerves again. By the time the nurse gives me medicine to relax me, my heart is beating so fast that I can almost hear it. My hands and neck are sweating even though it’s freezing cold in here.

I climb into the bed. Mom in the brown plastic chair next to me. She has brushed her hair today, pulled it off her face. Dark circles are around her eyes. Has she slept since the accident? Probably not.

Mom doesn’t read a magazine or play with her phone. She just fixes a pleasant expression on her face. And watches me. While I watch her.

We wait. I think of the little girl. So brave and hopeful. Then I think of Hayden. Of his white daisies of hope. The touch of his fingers on my face. I start to get drowsy—the medicine is working after all.

The doctor comes in to see me. He writes everything down on a piece of paper. He uses really simple sentences. Here’s how I interpret what he tells me:

I will go to sleep. He will cut into my skull and implant a transmitter in there. Then I will wake up dizzy. After a few weeks, I will get programmed. And I will hear again.

It sounds so simple. So easy.

The doctor is suntanned, as if he spends his afternoons on a boat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. He has that confident look all doctors seem to have, like everything is going to be alright because they say so. For a split second, his confidence touches me. So when he gives me a thumbs-up and then waits for my response, I hold up my own thumb.

This is going to work. I am going to hear again.

When I open my eyes a few hours later, I’m not so sure.

I can’t hear anything. And now my eyes don’t work either. The room is spinning, and I feel seasick. My throat feels like someone has scraped it with a fork. I can barely swallow. I taste something bitter, like metal. All I can smell is antiseptic. I remember being wheeled into the operating room and counting backwards. I remember seeing Hayden’s face in the blackness. That’s the last thing I remember. I try to remember more, but I can’t.

A nurse comes in and smiles when she sees I’m awake. She brings my mother into the room. Another smiling face. She writes me a note.

I can’t read it. I shake my head, but that just makes me dizzier.

I close my eyes and go back to sleep. Back to the same dream I keep having over and over.

A dream of him.

When I open my eyes again, I have no idea if I’ve been sleeping for ten minutes or ten hours. But I do feel better. My stomach isn’t churning anymore. And I can see clearly. Now I can read the note.

You did great. In a few weeks, you’ll meet with an audiologist, and she’ll help you with the next step. Soon you’ll be able to hear again.

I wish I could say that I believe her. I wish I could say I am excited about it.

But I’m not. All I am is tired. And I want to go home.

Mom helps me into my clothes because I am still dizzy. The floor moves up and down like a fun house at the carnival.

Somehow, Mom gets me home.

I just want to sleep.

HIDE

— 
Stella
 —

I feel the morning sun snake through my shutters, slithering across my pale blue walls, tempting me to join the living. I’m still dizzy, but I climb out of bed anyway. I stumble to the mirror to see how I look. A new bandage is attached to the side of my head, behind my ear. Otherwise, I look the same—like a train wreck.

I look at the calendar hanging on my wall. I flip the page to April and use my marker to circle April tenth, the day I meet with the audiologist. The day she programs my ears. The day I can maybe, possibly, hear again. Twenty days to go. I let the page drop back to March. That date seems as faraway as if it were a year.

I swallow a lump that is about to overflow into tears. As if pushing it into the rest of my body will somehow camouflage the feeling.

It doesn’t.

I take a deep breath. My throat is still raw, but my stomach feels better. And I’m hungry. Really hungry. I manage to creep down the hall to the kitchen. Every step or two, I have to grab the wall to steady myself. Sweat runs down the back of my neck, and by the time I reach the end of the hallway, I am panting.

Emerson sits at the kitchen table, finishing last night’s homework and munching on a bagel. She grins at me and scribbles a note on the side of her folder.

You look good. How are you feeling?

My sister has apparently adopted the party line: Stella is going to be fine. Em matches my mother in Positive Attitude 101. They are twin Pollyannas. It’s like a bad dream. Everywhere I look are little yellow happy faces smiling at me and telling me to look on the bright side. I want to run from the room screaming. Instead, I grimace at her.

“Liar. How do I look like I’m feeling?”

At least you don’t have to go to school,
she writes.
Lucky you.

That’s looking on the bright side, I guess. Lucky me.

My younger sister has always wanted whatever I have. It’s a given, ever since we were little. If I have it, she wants it. She has masses of auburn curls and melting brown eyes, a gorgeous combination, but she’d trade them in a second for my long, dark hair and tawny eyes. She’s an amazing dancer, but she’d rather have my voice.

Just thinking about my voice makes me want to weep giant, bloodred tears.

I swallow them and force a smile at Emerson.

“I’m going back to school. As soon as I can stand up without toppling over.”

Emerson’s almond eyes widen at my words. Her mouth drops open, and I can see chewed bagel on her tongue. She writes in giant letters.
WHAT?

“I’m going back to school,” I say, as if repeating it will make the idea more palatable.

Because the truth is, the thought makes me sick to my stomach. But I know that going back will make me feel like it’s all going to be okay. Staying home will make me feel like I have lost everything—even my academic success. No, I will just have to figure out how to get better in a day or two so I can get back to class.

Emerson frowns at me. Her slender face scrunches up, and she looks like a pug. I laugh. She writes another note.

This is your chance to stay home every day. That’s what homeschooling is for! I’d do it if I could. Spend all day at dance class. No homework . . .

I laugh. “You wish.” It feels good to talk to Emerson. It feels normal.

She writes again.

You should check your texts. Some people have been asking for your number. A certain person, actually, which my friends thought was really cool. This whole thing has been really good for my social status, you know. :)

She’s teasing, of course. That’s Emerson—always trying to make me laugh. I smile at her. “I’m really happy it’s worked out so well for you,” I retort.

She throws her head back. I can tell she is laughing even if I can’t hear it. I imagine the sound, like tiny fairy bells. Emerson gets out of her chair and puts her arms around me—and almost knocks me over. But I steady myself and lean into her. It feels good to let her hold me. Tears prick the backs of my eyes. I blink them away quickly. Breathe deep.

When Emerson lets go, she helps me into a chair. Then she makes me a toasted bagel with butter, my favorite. I try to eat it. I take one bite. Chew slowly, willing the nausea to calm down. I try to swallow, but the bread claws at my throat. Almost chokes me. I grab the glass of milk Emerson has just poured. And I drink the entire glass. I look up to see Emerson watching me. She stands and heads to the fridge. Comes back with vanilla yogurt instead. I take the spoon she offers, dip it into the shiny, whitish mass in the cup. The yogurt slides down my throat. Soothing it. Cooling it. I nod. Then I smile. “Much better.”

Emerson grins and munches her bagel. We eat together. It feels peaceful. Normal.

After breakfast, I make my way back to my room. I am less nauseated now but still gripping the wall. But better, definitely better. I lie down on my bed. Close my eyes. Breathe.

I can get through this, I tell myself. I know I can.

Mom comes in to check on me. She writes a note to say that she has to take Emerson to school and then she is working at home so she can keep an eye on me. I nod and smile, pretending to feel much better than I really do. Mom kisses the top of my head.

I close my eyes, will my body to rest. To heal. So I can get back to normal. This time, I don’t dream of Hayden. I dream of bees flying into my ears, blocking them. I try to swat them away, but they keep coming until I can no longer hear anything but their buzzing. Then the bees swarm my throat, choking me. Stinging me. They make my throat swell up. I can no longer speak. Or sing. My head is filled with buzzing. I try to scream, but nothing comes out.

When I wake up, it’s afternoon. The clock on my bedside table reads 3:30
.
I can still hear the bees in my ears. Feel them in my throat. I am disoriented. Confused. My head aches. The phone glows in the shadowed room, daring me to touch it. I am treading water in this sea of darkness, but a teeny tiny part of me fights for survival. For the light of hope. That part reaches for the phone. For a connection to the world outside.

I click to read the text messages. The first one is from my mom.

Just wanted to tell you how much I love you. I am so proud of you.

Not much to be proud of. But I save it anyway. The next is from Lily.

Stella, I’m so sorry. I would do anything to change what happened. If you need anything, please let me know. You’re my BFF.

Another is from Kace.

I hope you get better soon. Drama isn’t the same without you.

Then there are messages from people I don’t even know. They say
Feel better soon!
and
We miss you!
They’re like Hallmark texts. Lots of happy faces and exclamation points. I wonder if Emerson passed out my phone number on flyers.

My dad has sent me one as well.

Hope the surgery went well. See you later today. Love you.

A couple more from Mom checking on me from the car when she’s gone dropping Emerson off and then later, picking her up from school.

I come to the last one.

How are you?

It’s from Hayden.

I don’t know how long I sit staring at the message.

Then I answer.
Better. I’m going to be ok.
I don’t hit
send
though. To anyone else—to Lily, Kace, Emerson, even to my mom—this is my response. But for some reason I can’t begin to understand, I don’t want to pretend with Hayden.

I erase the message. I type a different answer. An honest one.

Afraid.

Afraid of not being brave enough. Afraid of losing hope. Afraid of never hearing again. Afraid of life without Someday Broadway. Just afraid.

Send
.

I stare at the phone. As though anyone would actually respond to that message. I want to call it back, erase it.

But it’s too late.

I sigh and leave the phone on my bedside table.

In the bathroom, I leave the light off while I brush my teeth. Better not to see myself in the mirror. If I don’t remind myself of what happened, I can keep living inside this bubble of silence.

I climb back into bed. The warmth of the tears on my cheeks comforts me in an odd way. I hide my face in the neck of my T-shirt and wrap my arms over my head. I bury myself there as though I can block it all out. As though this time will be different, and I won’t dream about it.

I do anyway.

Hours, or even days, later, for all I care, my door opens. It’s Dad. Strange to see him here in my room like this. He stretches his face into what might pass for some as a smile. He hands me a large frozen yogurt. Then he sits on the edge of my bed. His brown eyes take it all in. His hair is perfectly combed. His blue dress shirt hasn’t got a crease in it. I smirk.