Silent Echo (6 page)

As her emotions were fueled by the feel of his warm skin in her hands, she felt the tickle in her throat come back and tried desperately to hold back her cough for fear of interrupting the moment. But when she began to feel the constriction of her windpipe come back, she broke the pose, hoping to calm herself down and ward off another coughing fit.

What the hell is my problem? It’s like I’m incapable of having an emotion without bringing on whooping cough…

As the symptoms relented, she decided to try to lighten things up a bit by diverting the topic.

“So are you exclusively a strummer?” she wrote on the whiteboard.

Max looked over at her. “No, not exclusively,” he said while sounding off a chord or two. “I enjoy tickling the ivories as well as exercising my vocals.” He offered a dramatic flourish with his hand and a mock post-performance bow. She could tell that he was trying to deflect attention from his mention of his voice.

It was too late, though. She was dying to hear him sing. In fact, since yesterday she had wanted nothing more than to hear him sing the song he had written for her.

“So how ’bout charming a voiceless girl with some crooning?” she wrote.

“Another time, maybe.”

Accustomed to people feeling uncomfortable around her about vocal matters, Portia understood his hesitation.

“Come on,” she wrote. “I wanna know what Performing Arts is missing out on.”

Max assessed her sincerity, and she flashed him her most eager face.

“Well, I don’t know what kind of music you’re into. I mean, besides Derek Delacroix. And I haven’t yet fully worked out the music to what I wrote for you yesterday…”

He started strumming the guitar, his reference to yesterday’s romantic gesture floating around them.

“Surprise me,” Portia challenged. She added a smiley face at the end of the words to try to keep the mood light.

He smiled back. “Well, I’ve actually been working on something new. You’d be the first to hear it. But you have to promise to be honest with me, OK? If it’s bloody awful, you can’t try to spare my feelings.”

She nodded her consent and crossed her heart for extra measure.

“OK, so it goes something like:

Will I ever know another place?

The comfort of a room,

A tender woman’s touch,

The safety of the womb?
”

His singing voice was just as she’d imagined it would be—melodic and raspy. It was sweet cotton candy wrapping itself around a paper cone, building up layer by billowy layer.

“You see, the sun was shining bright

The day I learned of pain.

And now I swear when I wake up,

I pray that it will rain.

Oh God, just let it rain.”

Max closed his eyes, surrendering himself to the song.

“The images we found in clouds

While the earth did slowly spin,

Her voice so sweet and silky,

The perfume of her skin.

The sun would illustrate,

As morals she’d explain.

And now I see the sun shine bright

And pray to God for rain…”

He looked up at Portia to try to gauge her reaction, and she coaxed him on with a smile.

“One day I’d love another,

She’d say with an embrace.

I wondered at her words,

At her face that was my face…

But then the sun came out,

From life no more to gain.

Do you hear me, God? I’m screaming out

Please, just let it rain…

Oh, please, just let it rain…”

Max strummed the last chord and looked expectantly into Portia’s eyes, which had welled up with tears.

“Was I that bad?” he tried breaking the awkward silence.

“Would it be too ironic for me to say that I’m speechless?” she texted out on her phone. A brief chuckle escaped his lips and then more silence.

“It was amazing,” she added, though the compliment didn’t begin to do justice to what she had just heard.

“Yeah, well, you probably think everybody’s voice is amazing.”

The words pierced her like arrows before they even finished stumbling out of his mouth, her face crumpling.

“Oh, God, no. I didn’t mean it like that, Portia—” He dropped the guitar on the floor and stood up, nervously wringing his hands. “I just meant—well, I don’t know what I—”

But she had begun texting at super-human speed.

“What, you think just cuz I don’t have a voice, I go nuts for anyone who does? Anyone who’s willing to show the handicapped girl some extra attention?”

“No, Portia, I swear. I was just trying to dodge your compliment, play the modesty card. I promise—”

But before he could finish, she was racing out of the room, the door slamming hard in her wake.

♪

Portia’s blood was boiling when she took her seat in History. How could she have been so stupid? She didn’t need anyone’s goddamned pity.

Why did she have to swoon like that over his singing? Could she have been more obvious about the impact he was having on her?!

An enormous sense of relief flooded through her when Felix walked into the room. When he sat next to her, it was like she shifted planes. His presence brought her back to the familiar, back to a world where Max Hunter and his insulting remarks didn’t exist.

“How’d the Literary Journal meeting go?” he signed.

It took her a minute to figure out what he was talking about.

“Oh. Same old, same old,” she signed back, avoiding his eyes.

She inched her desk a little closer to his, comforted by his proximity, the familiarity of the scent that was so uniquely his. Why hadn’t she just been up-front with him about Max in the first place? His shoulder looked so inviting—she wished she could rest her head on it and have a good cry.

“You look upset,” he quickly signed, though class had already begun. This below-the-radar mode of communication was a cherished perk of the Portia–Felix relationship.

“Just something someone said to me,” she gestured back. “It’s nothing.”

Just then the door to the classroom swung open and Max Hunter walked in. Portia squirmed in her seat as Max feebly excused his tardiness and grabbed an empty desk at the front of the room.

Please don’t look back at me. Please. Not now
.

But the telepathic plea didn’t work. Max turned around to look at her, to openly stare, in fact. She could feel her cheeks flushing red, and she tried ignoring Felix as he gently kicked her under the desk. Finally, she turned to him.

“What?” she signed impatiently.

“Is this Mr. ‘Literary Journal’?” he signed back.

“Let it go, Felix,” and then she added the special sign they had invented when they were kids to represent the exclamation point. After that she kept her eyes glued to her textbook, feigning an intense fascination with the Battle of Bunker Hill.

The bell rang after an eternity, and Portia hurriedly collected her books, hoping to execute a seamless exit. To her horror, though, as she looked up, Max was walking over to hers and Felix’s desks.

Felix stepped directly to Portia’s side, standing taut.

“Hi there. Felix Fein.” He presented Max with an imposing hand. They shared a brief handshake, backed by some pretty intense eye contact. “I suspect you might already know Portia.” He gestured back to Portia, whose eyes were shooting him daggers of warning.

“Yeah, we have a few other classes together. They put me in the wrong History class originally. So, um, here I am,” Max said. Portia noticed that he was enunciating his words very deliberately.

“Yeah, here you are. Oh, and no need to speak like that, dude,” Felix assured him. “I can read lips with my eyes closed.”

“Oh—sorry. Didn’t mean to offend.”

An attempt at casual banter ensued. Felix had apparently noticed Max playing basketball in gym that morning and offered him a reluctant compliment on his hoop skills.

“I’m more of a hockey kind of a guy. Must be the Canadian roots, ay?”

“Must be,” acknowledged Max. He was trying to make eye contact with Portia, who continued to avert his gaze. She just didn’t want to get into it in front of Felix.

As the tension mounted, the now-familiar pain in her upper back returned. She absentmindedly reached her hand back to rub out the knots.

“Is your back starting to hurt again?” Felix asked. The look of concern on his face reminded her of yesterday’s health episode, which had become something of a distant memory since her encounters with Max.

She gave him a subtle nod but was taken aback when Felix placed his hand over hers, easing hers aside and applying pressure onto her sore muscles.

Max abruptly excused himself and walked out of the room.

The instant he was out the door, Portia pried herself out from under Felix’s hand. “What’s with all the touchy-feely stuff?” she signed angrily.

“Just trying to help out,” he replied. The innocence of his smile was betrayed by the look of mischief in his eyes.

“You don’t own me, Felix.” She mouthed out the harsh words deliberately, momentarily satisfied by the look of hurt on his face. She herself was surprised by her own malice, knowing that Felix was only trying to help her. But before she could retract the sting of her words, she turned and walked away.

Hurrying down the hall at breakneck speed, Portia finally indulged in the tears that had been welling up inside her since Max had so carelessly insulted her. She needed something to ease the pain of the blow. Something to assure her that she wouldn’t be plagued by her “differentness” for the rest of her life.

She needed something that felt, well—that felt as natural as Felix’s damned hand on her neck.

As the day wore on, Portia’s chills grew worse and her aches and pains became more pronounced. She had been coughing intermittently and was sure that by tomorrow she would have a full-blown flu.

When she went to her locker to pack up her bag at the end of the day, she was surprised to see a bunch of messages scrawled out on her whiteboard.

The top one was from Felix—she’d recognize his chicken scratch a mile away.

“Hey – sorry if I overstepped my bounds today. I’ll I.M. you later…” No signature—none needed.

The next note was from Max. “It was performance anxiety. I promise it won’t happen again.” Despite herself, she half smiled at his wit.

The third note was written out in a bold calligraphic hand. “Portia – Please come and see me if you feel that your condition is worsening. – Ms. Leucosia.”

She reread the message just to make sure she had it right. How did Ms. Leucosia know that her condition had worsened? Maybe something was going around school.

She slung her bag over her shoulder and headed out for the bus, taking a seat in the back and strategically plopping her backpack down next to her, hoping to ward off any unwanted company. As the usual kids made their way onto the bus, she pumped up her iPod.

She had recently downloaded an App of different birdcalls and often enjoyed challenging herself to identify which species was singing which song. But right now she was feeling so lousy that instead she just allowed herself to get lost in the harmonious chirping.

Hers being one of the last stops, Portia watched with relief as one by one the kids got off in front of their houses. She was counting the minutes, the seconds, until she could take refuge in the solitude of her room.

As the route continued, though, her symptoms worsened dramatically. The pain in her back became razor sharp and was emanating forward into her chest and throat. Her breathing had grown shallow and labored and when she looked out the window, she was overcome with panic when she realized that they were still a good few houses away from her own.

I need help
.

The coughing started again but quickly segued into a desperate wheezing, followed by another terrifying constriction of her windpipe. She felt as though her head was spinning as thick beads of sweat fell into her eyes, clouding her vision.

Struggling to draw new breath, any breath, into her lungs, she tried massaging her throat, hoping to encourage her windpipe open, but there was no air to be had.

Desperately Portia looked out of the window, trying to gauge whose house was next on the route.

I’ve got to get off this bus.

There was no rationale to her thought. Just fear. She was sure she would suffocate to death on the bus if she didn’t get off and find help.

In the recesses of her panicked mind, she registered that the bus was at the shared stop of the Nelsons and the Trotters. The Nelson house was perched at the top of a ridiculously steep driveway that there was no way she’d be able to climb in her current condition. Groping the seats, she half crawled up the aisle, pushing past Alexander Nelson, who was saying good-bye to his buddies.

“Hey, what gives, Griffin? This isn’t even your stop…”

But Portia hardly heard the recrimination as she headed for the open door.

I’m going to die! Please, oh, please let me get to Charlotte’s house without dying.

She repeated the mantra to herself with every desperate step she took toward the imposing oak door of the restored farmhouse. As she got closer, she suddenly felt a smooth relief spread through her windpipe. It was as if she had been choking on a block of ice, which had warmed suddenly, coating her throat with a cool trickle.

Gulping in gigantic breaths of air, Portia thought about turning around and heading home. She knew that she needed to fess up to Helena about these reoccurring health incidents, even if it did mean a visit to Dr. Loring. But a sudden barrier between her actions and logic had sprouted up out of nowhere, and so she continued toward the Trotter house, despite the easing of her symptoms. As she drew nearer, she began to feel like a trespasser in her own body. She was not so much walking as floating—her body following the instructions of a mind that belonged to someone else.

Portia couldn’t decide what was scarier: the attack on the bus or her sudden inability to control her own movements. But before she could follow this thought through to its end, a thunderous voice penetrated the haze that had settled upon her.

“Do you see the goddamned ring you made on this wood, Janie?! Allow me to give you a closer view. Have you never heard of a little invention called a coaster?!”

“I’m sorry, Harold, I’ll get it out –”

Janie Trotter’s voice was shrill, and Portia heard a solid thud followed by a shriek of pain.

“YOU’RE GODDAMNED RIGHT YOU’LL GET IT OUT!”

Portia wanted to run. She had to run. Only her feet wouldn’t move. Instead she watched in horror as her hand started rapping on the faceted glass of the front bay window.

Her inner voice kept screaming at her to get away as fast she could, but as she peered through the window, that voice became a whisper. She could hear a quiet sobbing coming from inside, and her hair stood on end at the chilling aura that seeped from every perfect architectural detail of the Trotters’ home.

Suddenly Charlotte’s face appeared in the window, her lifeless black eyes meeting Portia’s, silencing that inner voice completely. Charlotte shook her head and motioned for Portia to go away. But Portia was floating further and further away from any rational thought as the magnet of her neighbor’s eyes drew her closer.

“Let me in, Charlotte. Let me help you.” She mouthed the words, hoping that her eyes reinforced her plea, though she was still unsure what exactly she was going to do to get Harold Trotter to back the hell away from his wife and daughter.

Charlotte, her affect as flat as ever, shook her head and again motioned for Portia to go away. Portia responded with the most earnest gaze she could muster.

“Charlotte, get over here and clean your mother up. She’s getting blood all over everything…”

Charlotte moved away from the window, and Portia was both terrified and relieved when suddenly she heard the door unlock. Her neighbor stood in the doorway trembling, her limbs exposed in her T-shirt and shorts and covered in a melee of bruises.

“What are you doing here?” asked the battered ghost of a child that Portia had once considered her close friend.

Portia pushed past Charlotte and entered the rambling foyer with its vaulted ceiling and knotted wooden beams. The house was beautiful, its decor the perfect blend of modern and traditional. If not for the red streak of blood on the dining table where Mr. Trotter had smashed in Mrs. Trotter’s face, Portia would have thought the place had been prepped for a photo shoot.

“What the hell do you want?!” Mr. Trotter’s hand was still gripping his sobbing wife’s hair. “Oh, wait—you’re that mute Griffin girl, right?” A twisted smile was the highlight to his callous use of the word ‘mute.’ “Well, I guess I won’t have to warn you about saying anything. Now get the fuck out of my house…”

He let go of Mrs. Trotter, making a move toward Portia. But she stood her ground and glared at him with a fearlessness that could only be explained by her increasing detachment from reality. She was there, in the moment, this horrible tragic moment, but half of her was somewhere else. And in that other place, she was invincible.

Mr. Trotter was a few feet away from her when suddenly he stopped dead in his tracks, plagued by an inexplicable inertia.

“What the…?” His words sounded small as he tried to make sense of his sudden paralysis. “Janie, get her the hell out of here.”

The ease with which he shot out this order to his wife only furthered Portia’s fury. A tremor sparked in her throat, a steady vibration that was more soothing than painful.

“Portia, please go.” Mrs. Trotter’s voice was so detached it could have been computer generated.

Portia ignored her and looked at Charlotte. Her desperation to speak was painful, pitiable. She feared she would explode with questions.

Her hands began signing all the thoughts, the questions that were racing through her head.

“How long has he been doing this? Why didn’t you ever tell anyone? Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

The strain in Harold Trotter’s face grew worse as he tried, to no avail, to charge the unwelcome visitor. But the most he was able to manage was a threatening gesticulation toward his wife. “Janie,” his voice was calm and manipulative. “If you don’t get this freak out of my house in the next ten seconds, I swear to God you will live to regret it.”

Portia kept signing, the monster’s threats slipping away into oblivion.

“Is this why you’re always so covered up? To hide the bruises?”

Charlotte stared at her uncomprehendingly. “I don’t sign, Portia.”

Mrs. Trotter’s voice came at her again. “Portia, you need to leave—”

The vibration in Portia’s throat grew stronger, a steady drumbeat, a percussion that began snaking its way throughout her body. Her hands kept signing, running on autopilot. There was no forethought to what she was asking, no fear of crossing the line.

“JANIE!”

Portia leveled her eyes with Charlotte. She could feel herself slipping further and further away. A bizarre vision of being nestled among a flock of birds, soaring away into the furthest depths of the sky, began to cloud her mind. Her hands were signing at a fevered pace. Even Felix would have had to tell her to slow down.

“I can’t understand you, Portia. I can’t…” Charlotte’s face was crumbling.

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF THIS HOUSE!” The words boomed out of Janie Trotter’s bruised lips and, just as suddenly, Portia’s hands stopped moving. She looked down at them in wonder and watched as her two index fingers interlaced, offering Charlotte one final word.

Friend.

She looked back up at her suffering neighbor. Charlotte didn’t have to know sign language to understand the connection that Portia was offering her. A slight nod of her head came. An acquiescence that meant that both of their lives were about to change.

Portia’s whole body began to quake. She couldn’t think or see straight, and the outside world had completely disappeared. The only thing that existed now was the pain endured by Charlotte and Janie Trotter.

She opened her mouth to scream, forgetting for a moment that the effort was wasted. The pain between her shoulders reemerged, and the vibration in her throat had grown so strong that she wondered if they could hear it, too, this jackhammer that was breaking through the asphalt that encased her larynx.

With an obscene sense of calm, she suddenly knew what would happen—that the abused forms of Charlotte and her mother had proven to be the elusive key to her locked-up voice box.

After a final glance into Charlotte’s eyes, what emerged from Portia’s lips was so blissful, so otherworldly, that anyone present would not have been surprised to see the face of God revealed in that very moment.

“On black wings secrets float into a blazing sky,

No longer stumbling, living a lie.

No choice but to soar higher and higher,

Just pray not to be consumed by the fire…”

It was the most mesmerizing sound that any of them, including Portia, had ever heard. Any shock they felt at this bizarre unfolding of events was instantly overshadowed by the sheer beauty of her voice.

“Can you know, my friend, that I feel as you do?

Each blow landing upon both me and you?

And no longer will fear and pain pave your path,

Stopping at stop signs, containing your wrath…”

Entranced by her own voice, Portia continued to run on autopilot, not knowing where the words or melody came from. Slowly, instinctively, she made her way over to the far corner of the room where Harold Trotter was standing, his mouth agape.

Holding Charlotte’s gaze, Portia extended her hand toward Mr. Trotter, the strings of her voice guiding him like a puppet. He had no choice but to take it as she directed him toward the front door of the house.

Charlotte and Mrs. Trotter remained silent as they took in the actions of Portia the Puppeteer.

“For we are warriors, both you and I,

White wings fly. White wings fly.”

Her voice was a curious combination of pain and pleasure. A fabric woven of silk and sisal.

“A skeleton melting inside of yourself,

A winning ticket but never the wealth,

A child who had to stop being a child,

A spirit that could never dare to be wild.”

Portia’s singing resonated off of every beam in the house, drenching every square inch of the cavernous room with the thick beauty of her voice.

Mr. Trotter continued to be led by her hand out onto the cobblestone path, entranced and terrified by Portia’s voice.

Charlotte and Janie Trotter followed closely behind. The blood on Mrs. Trotter’s face was starting to congeal, frozen lava trapped in the ridges of her swollen skin.

“I am here for you now—I feel the wind blowing.

Can you feel it, my friend? Take joy in the knowing?”

Propelled by a force beyond her control, Portia guided Mr. Trotter up the path in the direction of the old stone well. The sound of flapping wings all around her grew louder, fortifying her, feeding her.

She continued to stare hard into Charlotte’s eyes as she and Mr. Trotter approached the well.

“The touch you now feel is my gentle hands,

Your travels traverse you to glorious lands…”

Her ethereal voice grew stronger as she placed his bloodied hands on the rim of the well. His eyes were terrified as he pivoted himself and slowly began to lower his body into the dark abyss. His voice trembled across desperate objections to unwittingly bringing on his own death.