Louder Than Words (13 page)

“That’s a shame, Sasha. But from what you’ve just told me, his decision to leave you was based on his concern for your well-being over the long term. I don’t believe your connection with him has been severed as completely as you think.”

“HE BASICALLY SAID HE WOULD COME BACK IF I STARTED TALKING AGAIN. SOMETHING ABOUT HOW IMPORTANT IT WAS FOR ME TO SAY MY MARRIAGE VOWS OUT LOUD AND SING TO MY CHILDREN.”

“A little melodramatic, perhaps, but I see where he’s coming from. This young man is focusing on the distant future, perhaps because he sees something in you that makes him hope you could have a future together. Have you thought about it that way?”

“IT’S HARD TO THINK ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE, BUT AFTER FOUR YEARS, DON’T I HAVE TO START CONSIDERING THE POSSIBILITY THAT I MIGHT NEVER SAY ANOTHER WORD?”

A few months ago, the thought that I may be permanently mute was enough to send me into a cold sweat, but now I felt oddly in control. That had to be a good sign. Mentally, I felt healthier than I had since this nightmare began, even though Ben was giving me the semi-cold shoulder.

“That’s certainly a very mature attitude, but I don’t think you should ever give up—not after four years, or even fourteen years, if it came to that. But what I think Ben is suggesting, and what I have been trying to say as well, is that your focus should shift toward your future and the potential that lies there, rather than getting lost in the dark corners of your past.”

In fact, Ben had told me just the opposite—that I
should
be spending my time unpacking my emotional steamer trunk, not shoving it overboard unopened. Because Dr. O’Rourke had spent more than four years sometimes pushing me to remember, assuring me that my future would be built on the foundation of my past, and other times saying I could start over right now, I wasn’t sure what to think. But either way, whether I looked backward or forward, nobody was offering any magical cures. If there were drugs to remedy everything from baldness to bubonic plague, why wasn’t there a pill or a potion to fix me?

“I’M BEGINNING TO THINK IT’S JUST GOING TO BE TOTALLY RANDOM IF IT EVER HAPPENS. MAYBE IF I GET HIT ON THE HEAD? YOU COULD WHACK ME OVER THE HEAD WITH ONE OF YOUR PAPERWEIGHTS. WHAT DO YOU THINK?” On a bookshelf in her office was an extensive collection of Venetian glass paperweights—tiny fish swimming through crystal, millefiori, and incredibly realistic flowers encased in glass spheres.

“An unorthodox treatment, for sure, and something I cannot in good conscience do.” Had she considered it briefly? “The Hippocratic oath dictates that I ‘do no harm.’ Giving you a concussion and possibly a subdural hematoma would most certainly violate that promise. But if you’re interested in random approaches, what would you think of taking a Rorschach test?”

“INKBLOTS? I THOUGHT THAT WAS JUST IN THE MOVIES.”

“No, it’s very real. Many people discount its value, but I’ve occasionally gleaned some useful information from it. It’s worth a try, don’t you think? And way safer than hitting you over the head with a hunk of glass.”

“WHY NOT?” Nothing to lose at this point, and we still had thirty minutes to kill.

Dr. O. removed a stack of large cards from a filing cabinet and sat down next to me on the sofa. She handed me the one on top.

“Different people see different things. There are no right or wrong answers. Just tell me what you’re seeing and feeling when you look at each of the cards.”

“THAT’S IT?” I remember reading somewhere that Rorschach inkblots were actually sexually explicit representations of male and female anatomy. Peering at the first picture, I decided that my nonexistent sexual IQ must have affected my ability to see what was in front of me. “IT LOOKS LIKE TWO PIGLETS KISSING.”

“Okay.” Dr. O. jotted that down. I pointed to the pigs’ ears and the place where their snouts met. Was the doctor trying to suppress a smile? What else could it be?

“How about this next one?”

“THAT’S TWO PEOPLE WITH THEIR HANDS PRESSED TOGETHER, ABOUT TO KISS.”

“Anything else?”

“THEY’RE WEARING RED SKI MASKS.”

If I’d known she was going to show me these, I could have looked them up on the Internet to make sure my answers were normal. Now I was just being honest, which in my case probably meant totally deviant.

“Fine, and this one?”

“TWO PEOPLE LOOKING AT EACH OTHER, LIKE THEY’RE ABOUT TO KISS.” Why were they all the same?

After I had evaluated all ten cards, all pictures of people or animals kissing—except for the ninth one, which looked like a man’s torso—Dr. O’Rourke sat back and looked over her notes. “Fascinating. I’m really supposed to engage in an involved and specific evaluation of your responses before I offer an opinion, but off the top of my head, I would have to say that except for your inability to speak, you seem to be a totally normal teenager.”

“REALLY?” I found that hard to believe.

“Absolutely. Your interpretation of the inkblots suggests a preoccupation with male-female relationships, which is what one would expect from someone your age. Sex is a primal urge that manifests during puberty, and although your problem has hampered your social progression, your natural desires are still there. Based on your limited sexual experience, you see people kissing. Pretty textbook stuff. If you were more sexually savvy, you might perceive something more graphic.”

“SO?”

I was in heat, and I’d barely rounded first base—I already knew that—but what to do about it, especially with Ben out of the picture? If there was no pill for my muteness, maybe there was a pill I could take to make that wonderfully awful feeling go away. Without someone to share it with, it was nothing more than an annoying distraction, like an itch in the center of my back that I couldn’t quite reach.

“It’s very simple. You need someone to rock your world.” She smiled indulgently at me.

“IS THAT A MEDICAL TERM, DOCTOR?” Dr. O’Rourke, in her tweed skirts and sensible shoes, didn’t look like someone who had ever had her world nudged, let alone rocked.

“You need a guy, and if Ben isn’t the one, then you’ll find another one. He may be the first boy who’s shown an interest, but he most certainly won’t be the last. With or without your voice, you’re intelligent, beautiful, and funny. Just have faith.”

As much as I wanted to believe her, I knew that Charlotte was paying her a ridiculous amount of money, and that made me question her sincerity. It was her job to bolster my self-esteem, and if she had to tell a boatload of lies to do that, so be it. Telling me I was dull, unattractive, and hopeless wouldn’t serve anyone’s interests, even if it were true.

“EASIER SAID THAN DONE.”

“Nothing worth having is ever easy, my dear. I’m afraid our time is up. See you in a month, Sasha.”

Great. The world famous psychiatrist said I needed someone to rotate my tires. How was I supposed to go about making that happen? Were there escort services for adolescents? Teen gigolos? I would have to check the Internet. Maybe if I told Ben that the doctor had recommended some male companionship as part of her treatment, he might agree to a pity make-out session. Maybe if she wrote me a prescription he would go for it. Something to consider.

That night I dreamt we were back together, and I could talk, and the sky was a ridiculously vivid shade of blue. I woke up disappointed and lonely, but it was still way better than dreaming about screeching brakes and burnt rubber.

A week later, I woke up after dreaming about Ben for the umpteenth time. We were walking on a beach, but it was warm and sunny instead of cold and rainy, and we were talking and laughing, splashing in the shallow water. Just like a commercial for a vacation in the Bahamas.

Suddenly I knew exactly what to do. The house was still—my aunt and uncle worked so hard during the week that they often slept until noon on Saturdays—and I tiptoed out, gently shutting the great slab of a front door behind me. It wasn’t a long way to my destination, but it was too far to walk. Although I had a driver’s license, I avoided getting behind the wheel much as I dodged any activity that involved my behaving like an independent, almost-adult. But this was important.

Ten minutes later, clammy hands gripping the steering wheel, I pulled off the road onto the narrow shoulder separating asphalt from the woods beyond. A deep gash still scarred the tree where the Volvo had crashed into it. Like me, the oak had never fully healed. At the base of the tree were some faded, withered bouquets of flowers and one fresh bunch of white tulips. No brown edges or wilted blooms; they couldn’t have been there for more than a day. When I got closer, I saw a note peeking out of the cellophane. It was a poem.

Fear and betrayal? She burns? Was “she” me? In my hand was a poem written by the person who had taken my family. Was that possible? Or did someone have a very sick sense of humor? Stooping in the dirt, I tore at the plastic wrapping around a bunch of dead flowers. Another poem, typed on pale blue paper, which was now brown and wrinkled from exposure to the weather. I sat down in the dirt, my mouth dry, my heart racing.

There were seven short verses, each one more bizarre than the last. At the top of four of the slips of paper was the anniversary date of the accident, and the rest had the dates of Mom’s, Dad’s, and Liz’s birthdays. Who would do such a thing? What little I knew of the accident was that it had been a single-car crash. The police report was short and to the point: no other cars, no witnesses, cause of accident listed as excessive speed on an icy, snow-covered road. Simple, straightforward—case closed. This made no sense. The Shoreland Police Department was no CSI, but still.

I texted Jules.
I’m at the accident scene, Old Farm Road. Please come ASAP. I need you
.

Although I was sure I had woken her, she texted back almost immediately.
Ten minutes. Stay calm
.

True to her word, Jules pulled up ten minutes later in her bright red Mini Cooper as I sat hyperventilating in the front seat of Charlotte’s car, my forehead resting on the steering wheel. Seeing my best friend was enough to stave off the rising nausea, and I looked up with grateful tears in my eyes. How many times had she ridden to my rescue in the last four years?

“Sasha, what’s going on? What are you doing out here? You refused to come here when Dr. O. suggested it, and now at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning? Are you okay?”

She opened the door, bent down, and wrapped her arms around me. I started to cry, tears coursing down my cheeks, my body shaking with the effort.

After a few more minutes, the tears slowed, and Jules stood up. “Scoot over. Better?”

I nodded and reached for my voice box. “THANK YOU FOR COMING. I’M SORRY I WOKE YOU.”

“Not a problem. But what are you doing here? It’s freezing. What were you thinking?”

I handed her the stack of poems I had collected.

“What are these?” She flipped through the pile. “Where did you get them?”

“THEY WERE INSIDE SOME BOUQUETS OF FLOWERS.”

“Who wrote them?”

“IT SOUNDS LIKE IT WAS THE PERSON WHO CAUSED THE ACCIDENT.”

“What the fuck? But the police said there were no other cars. The Volvo just skidded on the ice and hit the tree.” As Jules described it, my dream of the crash started playing in my head and I ground my fists into my eyes. “I’m sorry, Sash.”

“MY FATHER DIDN’T JUST SLIDE INTO A TREE. THERE WAS ANOTHER CAR.” I shook the squares of paper.

“How could the police miss that?” Jules’s voice was incredulous.

“THE EARLIEST DATE ON THE NOTES IS THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY OF THE CRASH. THE INVESTIGATION WAS LONG OVER BY THEN.”

“I guess that makes sense, but it doesn’t say much for the cops in this town. Weren’t there skid marks from the other car?”

“WHO CARES? DON’T YOU SEE? WHOEVER WROTE THESE POEMS KNOWS WHAT HAPPENED THAT NIGHT.”

Jules got out of the car and went over to the tree, where she rubbed the wounded trunk with her gloved hand. She picked up the bunch of white tulips lying at its base.

“These flowers are perfect. It’s brutal out here, but they’re not frozen yet. This person was just here.”

“THAT MAKES SENSE. MY DAD’S BIRTHDAY WAS YESTERDAY.”

“It’s simple then. When’s the next birthday? We just have to stake out this tree, and we’ll catch him.”

Jules paced back and forth in front of the tree as she spoke. I could practically see the wheels turning as she formulated her grand plan.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS IS HAPPENING.”

“But Sasha, don’t you see? This is good. This is what’s supposed to happen. You’re here, in the middle of it. You’re standing up to your pain, and you’re still upright, you’re still breathing. No lightning bolt has shot from the sky to strike you down where you stand. You’re on your way to getting your voice back, and getting Ben back.” Jules’s glass was always half full.

I opened and closed my mouth. “NOTHING.”

“You can’t expect miracles, you dunce. Give it time. Rome wasn’t built in a day, right?”

“I SUPPOSE.” How long did it take to build Rome? I was in a hurry. “WHAT SHOULD WE DO NOW?”

“First thing, we need to take these notes to the police. They’ll be able to track this person down, figure out what really happened,” Jules said as she stared at the slips of paper.

“NO.” I shook my head violently.

“Why not? What do you have against the police? Don’t you want to know who wrote these?”

“I DO, BUT IF THE POLICE ALREADY DECIDED THERE WASN’T ANOTHER CAR, THEY’RE PROBABLY NOT GOING TO EMBRACE THE THEORY THAT THERE WAS.”

“You think they won’t admit they made a mistake?”

“THEY’RE NOT GOING TO WANT TO PROVE THEMSELVES WRONG. BESIDES, IF THEY START HANGING OUT HERE, THEY’LL SCARE THIS PERSON AWAY AND WE’LL NEVER KNOW.”

“Maybe. So you want to play detective? Do we set up a hidden camera or something, or should we just hide in a tree?” Jules took a few steps into the woods. “Whose birthday is next?”

“LIZ’S IS IN A COUPLE OF WEEKS.”

“You should call Ben and tell him what you found. He’ll be so proud of you for facing your fears, and maybe he can help us find this guy.” Jules nodded encouragingly. She seemed more desperate to get Ben and me back together than I was.

“I DON’T WANT TO SEE HIM NOW. I’M NOT READY.” Once I had figured this out, I could walk proudly up to Ben and tell him, in my own voice, what I’d done, all on my own, for myself.

“All right, you’re the boss.” Jules shivered. “Let’s get out of here. You can buy me breakfast—that’s the price for waking me at dawn on a Saturday.”

“I’LL MEET YOU AT PJ’S. ALL THE PANCAKES YOU CAN EAT. HOW DOES THAT SOUND?”

“And bacon?”

“AND BACON.”

As I drove to the restaurant, my shoulders felt a little less stooped, and the sky looked a little brighter. The clouds were lifting, at least for the moment. Could a few bunches of flowers and some crummy poetry be the light at the end of my tunnel?

PJ’s had been serving breakfast to Shorelanders for more than eighty years, and no matter what the hour, it was always packed with high school kids. For that reason I usually stayed away, but I knew it was Jules’s favorite place. The aroma of maple syrup, coffee, and bacon greeted us before we even got inside. Maybe I should rethink my decision to steer clear of this place—I did love pancakes. But as we made our way to a booth in the back, we passed a few kids who happened to be in my physics class.

“Hey, Professor Hawking, how’re things in detention? Any scientific breakthroughs lately? Loved your special on the Discovery Channel.”

No pancake tasted that good.