Silence and Solitude

Not many people know who I am. I live a life of solitude and silence. I'm the man in the background, the one no one notices, the one who sees all the details. I haven't spoken a word in years. I used to be completely different. I used to be the life of the party. I used to be happy. I had everything I could ask for: a great job, two beautiful daughters, and an amazing wife. My life was perfect. And then came the day of the accident.

I was meeting with a client one Thursday morning at about 8:00. I remember hearing sirens pass in front of the coffee shop we were in, but like any other person I simply ignored them. My client was firing off question after question about my company and our policies, and I was doing my best to answer them all honestly. I didn't have time to let myself get distracted. It wasn't until about an hour later that I learned what was happening. My cell phone rang just as my client began asking yet another question. I apologized and excused myself before stepping outside to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Mr. Jeffery Fahr?” an unfamiliar man's voice asked.

“Yes, this is he. Can I help you?” I figured it was a work call.

“I am Officer Carter of the Cecil County police department. I'm sorry, but I have some bad news.”
“What is it?” My mind jumped to my ailing mother; my alcoholic step-father.

“Your wife and daughters were in a fatal car accident about an hour ago. It involved three cars, all going over 45 miles per hour. There were no survivors.”

My world came crashing down around me. “No... No, you must have the wrong man. It couldn't have been my family.” My head was spinning, my vision was blurring.

“I'm terribly sorry for your loss, sir...” He may have said more, but the phone fell from my hands.

I couldn't bring myself to go back to my client. The shock and disbelief was taking over me. I couldn't think. I couldn't cry. I couldn't walk. I couldn't even stand. I sank to the ground where I was, leaning against the brick wall of the coffee shop. I tried to wrap my head around what I had just been told. I knew I wasn't imagining it, but my mind just wouldn't accept it.

That night, I didn't go home. I couldn't bring myself to walk into that house full of memories and pain. Actually, I never went back to that house. I transferred the money out of the bank account, quit my job, and left. I know, stupid right? I couldn't stand to have anything remind me of them. I didn't talk to anyone, didn't tell anyone where I was going... I even changed my phone number. The last thing I did was send a text message to my brother-in-law, summing up the situation and telling him I was leaving; that the situation and all of our old possessions were in his hands. That's the last time I had any sort of communication with anyone.

I left Maryland and headed due West. Where else was I supposed to go? I drove for days. Stopping only for food when I was hungry, to sleep when I was tired, to fill up on gas when the tank was empty. When I got to Kentucky I figured I'd stop and rest for a few days, but that ended up being where I would stay. I rented a small apartment, just big enough for what I needed. I got a job as a janitor in a nearby office building working from 6:00PM to 2:00AM. I avoided going out in public, and when I did I made sure I looked unapproachable. I drowned myself in my loss, I succumbed to my sorrows.

I lived that way for about a year, when they hired a new guy at work who happened to work the same shift as me. I took an instant distaste for the new guy. He was always laughing and seemed too cheery for the situation. The rest of the janitors liked him a lot, he was easy to talk to and fun to be around... That's exactly why I didn't like him. He reminded me too much of who I used to be.

“Hey man,” he said to me on his first day. “I’m Chris, what’s your name?”

I looked up and made eye contact with him for a second, then went back to mopping the floor.

“That’s Jeff,” one of the other janitors said. “He doesn’t talk, so don’t waste your breath.”

The other workers didn’t like me. I guess they didn’t like the way I deliberately ignored them, but there was no reason for me to try and start a friendship with any of them. I didn’t want any kind of bond with anyone. They didn’t know how to react to my silence and solitude, so they shunned me. Chris was different though. He didn’t stop trying to talk to me. He took every opportunity he got to work in the same areas as me. He must’ve known I’d never answer him, but he didn’t stop talking. He told me stories about his friends and family. The happy but painful memories they stirred up brought me to tears, but I never let him see. He would talk about anything and everything, from politics to sports to a new trick he taught his dog. At first it annoyed me, but I soon grew used to it, and work seemed too quiet if he wasn’t there.

Chris wasn’t the only thing in my monotonous life that suddenly changed. His cheerful, pointless stories brightened my days, and staying home alone in the dark all the time was no longer pleasing to me. I began to go on walks, but I only went once a week, on Thursdays, when I had off work. In the evening I would put on my coat and hat and walk to the town square. There were quaint little restaurants and coffee shops and souvenir shops. It was a nice little place, but it was always busy with people. After a while I found a little tea shop I liked. I would get a cup of tea and sit outside at one of the picnic tables, observing people. I quickly began to learn about everyone in the town. The Mallard family had five kids ranging in age from four to nineteen. Greg Braxton had recently proposed to his girlfriend of three years. Valerie Richards had just been accepted at Harvard. Max Grant’s girlfriend was moving in with him, but her parents were furious at the idea. I learned all of this just by watching; listening. No one realized I was there. No one pays attention to the man who never speaks.

And that’s what I thought: that I observed people almost anonymously. But one day I realized that I was being watched as well. Across the street from my tea shop I began seeing this woman. At first glance, she looked exactly like my wife, that’s why she caught my attention. But of course, she couldn’t be, and her hair was too light anyway. The first day I saw her, she was sitting in front of a pizza parlor with a laptop on the table in front of her. She was typing furiously and glancing around as though she was paranoid of someone reading over her shoulder. Every now and then she would glance my way; I guessed she could feel me watching her.

Over the next few weeks I saw her more and more. And she got closer and closer. Her glances towards me became more frequent, and now, around her neck, she wore a professional-looking camera. She would take pictures of the people and the stores. A journalist, I guessed, or simply a photographer. I saw her take pictures of me. At first I pushed it off, but over time I noticed her taking less pictures of other things and more of just me. What was this strange woman up to? I wondered, but I’d never ask. I hadn’t spoken in over a year, and I wouldn’t speak now. I was so used to my silence; I almost forgot that I could speak at all.

Even as weird as it was that this strange woman observed me with such interest, things began to get weirder. After about three months of seeing this woman, I got a note. Not in the mail, or even at work, but when I went to buy my usual cup of tea the cashier handed me a note along with it. I shot him a confused look, but he just shrugged and waved me on. Sitting down at my usual table, I fiddled with the note, contemplating who it could possibly be from. I had just concluded that it must be from Chris when I unfolded it and saw unfamiliar, feminine handwriting. Handwriting that certainly didn’t belong to Chris.

Dear Mr. Fahr,

I should probably start off by saying that you don’t know me. I know you’ve seen me though, on the street, taking pictures. Yes, I’m the woman with the camera. I’ve heard about you, from Bug. You recognize the name, right? She works in the same building as you. I know you don’t talk, but I wondered if you’d write, so I decided to try writing you this letter. Maybe I should tell you what this is all about…

I’m a writer. I write mostly mysteries and tragedies. Lately though I’ve had writer’s block. Lately as in the past year. When Bug told me about you I was curious. Is there really a man who never talks? Why would someone choose to do that? Or maybe it’s an illness, is he capable of talking? I wanted to know more, but no one had the answers I was looking for. You see, Mr. Fahr, you inspired an idea for a new book, but I’d like to know more about you first. And of course, I’d like your permission to write this story. Please feel free to contact me any time.

Sincerely,

Johanna Mason

Her email, address, and phone number were printed neatly at the bottom of the page. I don’t know what did it, or what suddenly changed in me, but I wanted to answer her questions. Her interest and openness intrigued me. I decided to email her.

That night when I got home I went straight to my computer. Carefully entering her email address, I began typing:

Dear Johanna,

Thank you for your note. You have my permission to write the story about me, and I will try to answer any questions you have.

-Jeffery Fahr

(p.s.) Please, call me Jeff.

Short, sweet, to the point. I kind of felt bad for not giving her any more to go off of, but after a year of not talking to anyone, it's hard to find what you want to say. I sighed and pushed away from the computer to go make myself dinner, but before I could get to the kitchen I heard the computer beep. A notification for a new email popped up onto the screen. Did Johanna reply that quickly?

Jeff,
Thank you for your reply! If you would like to meet in person we can arrange something whenever, or if you'd rather stick to email we can do that too. Again, thank you!
-Johanna Mason

A week later I was sitting inside my tea shop waiting for her. I caught myself wringing my hands a few times, and I forced myself to sit still. Why was I nervous? We were just going to talk, right? Talking isn't a big deal... Except when you haven't heard your own voice in over a year.

I saw Johanna walk into the shop. My hands immediately turned cold and clammy, my heartbeat sped and I broke out in a cold sweat. What was the matter with me? I tried to calm myself down, but my deep breaths quickly turned to shallow gasps. Panic was seizing me. The quiet little cafe was quickly becoming claustrophobic. I stood up and rushed past Johanna and out the door. I kept my head down, unable to face the look of disappointment that I knew would decorate her eyes. Out on the sidewalk, I pulled my sunglasses from my pocket and put them on. It wasn't bright out, but I didn't want anyone to see the foolish tears filling my eyes.

The week after that I returned to my normal routine. I went for a walk and bought a cup of tea each Thursday night, and I would sit and absorb the suburban bustle around me. I never emailed Johanna again, though she emailed me once. I never opened it. I couldn't bring myself to face her in any way, shape, or form. I didn't see her for a couple of weeks after I ran out of the tea shop, but soon she was back. Her camera was still around her neck and every now and then she had her laptop with her, typing furiously just like that first day. She still watched me and took pictures of me, but again, I never acknowledged her. She probably decided to just make up some kind of story about me, and I sort of hoped she had. I felt horrible for running out on her, and I wanted her to have something to take away from the whole situation.

It was a few months later when my weekly ritual turned horribly perverse. I was walking along my usual route on the way to town when I came to the spot where I usually cross the road. Nothing was different than usual, everything was going exactly as it always did, but just before I got to the other side of the road, a car came flying around the curve ahead. The speed limit along this road was only 30 miles per hour; I remember thinking this guy must've been going at least 60. Before I could react I was hit. Devastating pain exploded throughout my entire body, and I vaguely remember hitting the blacktop hard. I blacked out, I don't know for how long, but I heard sirens at some point and felt myself being lifted off the ground. I couldn't open my eyes, I couldn't move, I couldn't remember what had happened or where I was.

The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital room, looking up at my mother and brother-in-law. Machines surrounding me were beeping and several IV's were inserted in my arms. I realized I was on life support. How long had I been here?

“Jeff!” My mother exclaimed when she saw my eyes open. “Oh! He's awake! Bryan, get the doctor!” My brother-in-law rushed from the room while my mother came and leaned over me. Smiling uncontrollably. “Jeff!” She said again. I could barely focus on her. My head was spinning and I felt so weak. My eyes were fighting to close again, but I tried to keep them open. “Jeff? Jeff, honey, can you hear me? Can you see me?” I wanted to answer, but I couldn't find my voice. I couldn't even feel my body to give her any sort of signal. A doctor came into the room then, followed by Bryan. My mother ignored them and continued talking to me. “They told us you wouldn't make it, Jeff. They told us you would never wake up. But... But they were wrong! Because you're awake. Now, you're here, you opened your eyes. It's going to be okay,” she was crying now. “Everything is going to be fine now.” I think she was trying to convince herself more than me.

After a moment the doctor pulled her aside. “Mrs. Fahr... I'm sorry...”

“What? Sorry for what. He's awake! He's okay!” but the certainty was fading from her eyes.

“No, Mrs. Fahr. He's not. I'm terribly sorry, but he's still unresponsive. He's not going to make it, and there's nothing else we can do.” The doctor tried to console her, but she broke into tears and collapsed into a chair.

“But... But his.. His eyes. He opened his eyes!” She managed to stutter.

“Sometimes that happens Mrs. Fahr. It doesn't always mean anything. He's not going to come back from this, I'm sorry.” The doctor walked out of the room, leaving Bryan to comfort my mother.

“Mom, it's best this way. If he came out of the coma he'd be living a life of constant pain and hardship. We have to let him go. It's better for him this way. He's been hooked up to these machines for three years. It's time to move on.” Bryan soothed gently.

Three years? How had it been three years? There's no way I had been in a coma for that long. It felt like maybe a few days, at most.

“I know.” I heard my mother say. “If only that stupid car accident hadn't happened. If only Krystin and the girls hadn't been in that crash, he wouldn't have been leaving and he wouldn't have gotten in that accident...” She broke down again before she could go on.

Hearing my wife's name sent knives through my heart. But what was she talking about? Car accident? I was hit, but I wasn't in an accident...

“I lost my whole family in a day,” my mother sobbed. “I have nothing left. Where was he going anyway? What was he doing in Western Maryland?”

“He was leaving,” Bryan explained, and I remember that text message I had sent him. “He was running from his pain. I guess he never made it though.”

It was beginning to click now. I had never made it to Kentucky. I was in a car accident on the way there. Everything after that had been some sort of dream. Chris, Johanna, everything was just a dream.

As I realized this the doctor came back in a spoke softly to Bryan and my mom. I was slipping back into the blackness, and I couldn't hear what they said. Somehow it registered that they were discussing whether they should let me go. I knew that they would decide it was time. I let myself slip back into unconsciousness; my life had been over now for 3 years, now it would be official. It was easy to accept that.

I deliberately pulled up memories of my family for the first time in months; in years. I let the end wash over me as I basked in the happy memories.

I hadn't spoken a word in years. I lived a life of silence and solitude. Not many people know who I am.