“We need to find God, and he cannot be found in noise or restlessness. God is the friend of silence. See how nature- trees, flowers, grass grows in silence; see the stars, the moon and the sun and how they move in silence… We need silence to touch souls.” –Mother Theresa
“Hey,” He was breathless, wearing a shiny forehead. ”Did we have any French homework?”
I froze. My muscles tensed. He was talking to me. I opened my mouth, and nothing came out. The nothingness didn’t surprise me. That’s typical. I was just surprised my jaw could still unclench.
“Nah, we just had to finish our essays,” His friend said; staring wordlessly at me. Then he lowered his voice so that it was barely audible.
I relaxed; relieved I didn’t have to answer. What does that say? My jaw clamped once more.
“She’s a borderline mute, man, don’t waste your time.”
I glanced at my sneakers. They were speckled with grass stains and dirt. When I was younger, I was obsessed with keeping my new sneakers sparkling white. Now it doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Shoes aren’t comfortable unless you break them in.
“A shame, she’s a hot little slice.” The first guy said.
He had picked up my pen for me today in French class. It had fallen on the floor, and he had picked it up. His eyes were blue. His name was Mitch. I had known him since fourth grade.
“Won’t fight back.” Mitch’s friend grinned mischievously. They laughed. They nudged each other. They moved on.
Unfortunately, no one remembers that I can hear.
“They’re assholes.” Leah said, gripping my arm. Leah had been alongside me, I had forgotten she was there. She gave my arm a final squeeze, and then strolled away, her brown ringlets bouncing to the rhythm of her footsteps.
I am silent.
My pen is funny, but not my tongue.
My handwriting is grinning, but not my lips.
I can sing, but only you’d know that.
So, shh.
Like me.
I am writing this, so I can be heard.
“Silence is the most powerful scream.” -Anonymous
“Alyssandra.”
Therapy had been my father’s idea. My therapist had this blond hair that was nearly reflective. She had a big nose, but it fit her. She was single, she was bisexual, and she was not afraid.
Except of me sometimes, I suppose.
“Alyssandra?”
Aly. I thought. It’s Aly. You’re my friend, so call me Aly.
“Alyssandra. Can you hear me? Blink if you can hear me.”
My eyes focused on a poster in the corner of her room. I did not blink. My name was Aly.
“I’m trying to help you.”
It went on for the entire session, I think. I hid my head in my hands every time I had to blink, so she wouldn’t see. So she wouldn’t notice I was listening. Eventually, she’d stop pestering, and take out a book and read. I’d take one out too. She had an incredible collection; I’d do just to get my hands on Jane Austen, or Charles Dickens.
“What are you reading?” She’d ask.
I’d press my thumb to the word I left off, and then I’d hold it up so she could see the title. She’d hold her book up, so I could see her title. She was big on Greek Mythology. She’d share some Greek tales with me, reading aloud. I guess she’d hoped for me to read a passage from my own book as well, but I never did.
For me, the Greek creation story was my favorite. For the Greeks, Love was created before anything else, even before light. Or noise.
“So, do you have any questions?”
I froze as she waited for me too shrug, or just walk out the door entirely. My session had ended.
“Aly.” I said suddenly. It was a whisper, my voice harsh from disuse.
“What?” She had asked, startled.
“Aly.” My voice was stronger now, clearer. “My name is Aly. Not Alyssandra.”
Her smile grew. “Mary,” She whispered, pointing to herself.
I ran outside so Saving Mary didn’t have to see me cry.
….
A long time ago, I went to the grocery store with my mother. It’s one of my earliest memories. I was perhaps five at the time, and it was hot that day. I followed my mother duckling-style in a blurry heat haze. Men, women, and children were all sticky and slimy to the touch. Hair frizzed at the slightest sluggish movement. It was Satan’s day, giving us all a taste of hell.
The blissful ten minutes in the air conditioned realms of Stop and Shop were fleeting. My mother was agitated. She pulled me toward the exit forcefully after I knocked over a cookie display.
“Why are we leaving?” I whimpered, hearing the heat bugs buzz before we even reached the doors.
My mother shook her head in response.
“It wasn’t purposefully.” I pouted. “It was a misaccident, Geddit?”
My mother stayed silent.
As we walked toward the exit, my eyes caught a glimpse of a silver handle of the door. My cookie-smelling skin clamped up in excitement. I prepared and braced myself to press my head against the door handle. I knew that cold, silver, metal would keep my forehead cool for even just a few seconds. I reached out, and *beep!* the door (and the handle) disappeared before my eyes.
“Mommy?”
My mother grunted.
“Why does that door have handles if you don’t need to open it?”
“What are you talking about, Aly?” She murmured, distracted by the oncoming traffic and the pool of sweat burrowing behind her ears.
“The door. It has handles. But it opens by itself! It doesn’t need any!” I squealed, writing around, and gripping on her arm.
“The door’s an automatic.” My mother huffed, trying to settle me. “I guess, if the automatic breaks-“
“But HOW can it break? It’s perfect! It’s magic!”
My mother looked at me for a long time. “Nothing is magical, Aly, and everything breaks. And when it does, you have to find a way out.”
“But how? But why? When will it break? Will it stop opening for people? What if, it opens for everyone, except for one person? Then what? What if-“
“Aly,” My mother sighed. She wrapped her damp hand around my mouth. “I wish you didn’t make so much noise.”
I slackened.
That night, my mother went out to get milk that we never got around to purchasing from our Stop and Shop escapade earlier that day.
A truck, in the opposite direction had no AC. The heat drained the driver of all his energy and he drifted off to sleep. Or at least, that’s what I imagine anyway.
What I don’t have to imagine is the force he hit a tiny Subaru as his eyes shut with his foot still firm on the gas. Or that the driver of the Subaru died almost instantly.
No, that’s not pretend.
I’m glad you know my story.
I’m glad I didn’t have to say it.
Because I’m still fulfilling my mother’s final request.
I make no noise.
What do you mean - 'what does that say?'
