Louder Than Words Page 2

  Twenty minutes later, it was all over. Three hunchbacked men in black raincoats and rubber boots lowered the caskets into the holes with some cranking device. Charlotte, Stuart, and I stood like a tiny receiving line at a vampire wedding, while people said horrible, well-meaning things. “We’re so sorry.” “If there’s anything we can do …” “Are you all right?” “How do you feel?” Stupid, obvious, unanswerable questions. And then, as they walked away, I could still hear them, talking about me instead of to me. “How will she survive?” “Did you hear that she may never be able to speak again?” “She looks terrible.”

  “Come on, sweetie, let’s get you home,” Stuart said, wrapping his arm protectively around my shoulders. “You’re frozen solid.”

  I nodded and leaned against him, comforted by the feel of his rough wool coat against my face. His other arm was around Charlotte. If not for Stuart, we would probably both keel over.

  “Honey, are you all right? You don’t have to go to the reception, either.”

  Charlotte sniffled. “I have to go.”

  “There is no such thing as ‘have to’ in this situation.”

  “No, I want to go. I won’t stay long.” We stopped in front of the black Lincoln Town Car that had brought us to the cemetery. “I’ll see you at home.” The three of us stood with our arms around each other for a long minute.

  My life was at the bottom of three holes in the Riverside Cemetery, but I had to keep on living. How was I supposed to do that?

  Chapter 2

  Dr. O’Rourke specialized in the treatment of posttraumatic stress. But after four years, I was still mute, and my memory was still murky—mild retrograde amnesia she called it. Maybe my tragedy was too mainstream for her. Girls my age who had been raped and beaten, or soldiers who had seen their entire units blown up before their eyes—these were the tough cases, the seriously damaged psyches that the doctor was accustomed to cobbling back together. My family was dead, but it was nobody’s fault. No one had purposefully hurt me. There was no evil in my life. I was just the victim of bad luck and black ice, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  In the beginning, once a week, and then later twice a month, I visited Dr. O’Rourke. I listened to her talk, did the homework assignments she gave me, unsuccessfully tried hypnosis, swallowed all kinds of colorful pills, meditated, kept a dream journal. But nothing helped. The books on her shelf spoke to her expertise. Lost and Found: Rediscovering Yourself after Experiencing Tragedy; Why Not Me?—Navigating Survivor Guilt; Now What?—Reconnecting with Life after a Near-Death Experience; and my personal favorite title, Climax: Healing Your Psyche with Sex. Reading her books, except the last one, had been part of my homework over the last few years, and as educational as they were, they did nothing for my voice, or for my dreams, for that matter. She was a very nice lady, and she had helped plenty of other people, but I think I could have saved Charlotte and Stuart thousands of dollars and been in exactly the same place: plagued by a really bad nightmare and dependent on a computer or pad of paper to communicate.

  Approaching the four-year anniversary of the accident, Dr. O’Rourke had scheduled an extra session. She did that every year, probably in the hopes that some major psychological breakthrough would coincide with the date my family died. So far it hadn’t, and the idea sounded a little bit too much like a Lifetime TV movie, but after four years of silence, I was willing to try anything, no matter how hokey it sounded or how miserably it had failed in the past. Maybe this would be the year when all my stars would be in alignment, and I would emerge from my silence like a songbird from its shell, fully formed, with a sweet, clear voice. Who was I kidding?

  “For the thousandth time, there is nothing wrong with you physically. It’s called somatoform conversion disorder.” Her voice betrayed her growing frustration. A doctor’s failure to cure a patient was like Charlotte or Stuart losing a lawsuit, and I knew my aunt and uncle took such defeats very personally. “There is no physiological reason you cannot speak. Your mind is controlling your body.” Dr. O’Rourke flipped through my chart, which had grown thick in the last four years.

  For the umpteenth time I nodded my head. This speech was a regular part of Dr. O’Rourke’s repertoire. She hauled it out when she was feeling discouraged by my lack of progress, which usually happened around this time of year—as predictable as Christmas carols and fruitcake. But if she truly understood my disorder, then why was she acting as if I had some conscious control over this? Didn’t she believe me when I told her that more than anything on this earth I wanted to be able to talk again? Didn’t she realize how hard, and lonely, my life had become in the last four years? But she was the doctor, so she must have a good reason for rehashing my diagnosis and berating me again.

  Obediently, I opened my mouth, straining to make a sound, but nothing came out except a puff of air as I exhaled. Dr. O’Rourke’s irritation was obvious in her furrowed brow and the way she chewed on her pencil. This was our 168th session, and I was no closer to making a sound than I had been at the first. In truth, I hated to disappoint the doctor as much as I hated not being able to speak. She really seemed to care about me as a person, not just a customer who paid three hundred dollars an hour to stretch out on her couch.

  “I’m not sure what we should do with you. I don’t want to diminish the horrible thing that has happened to you, but it happened, and now you have to choose whether or not you are forever going to let that experience dominate and define your life.”

  Ah, her tough love, hard choices sermon. As earnest and compassionate as Dr. O’Rourke was, I was as lost four years later as I had been in the months after the accident. Swimming in circles in my kiddie pool of self-pity, hopelessness, and rage, I couldn’t seem to find the ladder. There was no breakthrough looming on my horizon, at least not this year.

  Writing everything on a pad of paper was inefficient and exhausting, so I used a voice-synthesizing device that spoke whatever I typed into it. Everything came out sounding like I was channeling Stephen Hawking, the famous English physicist who had lost his voice to ALS and used a similar device. I called it the Hawkie Talkie. A variety of voices and accents was available, from “female, English, mid-twenties” to “male, Midwestern, child.” But the default voice, the robotic monotone with which it spoke my words, perfectly reflected the emptiness I felt. The kids at school found this incredibly entertaining, no matter how many times they heard it. As a result, I didn’t tend to contribute much in class, furthering my metaphorical solitary confinement. Changing the voice setting to something more normal would be a no-brainer for most people. Why not make life a little easier? But stupid and stubborn, I refused to alter it. If I tried to fit in and still didn’t, I would feel worse than I did having made no effort at all. By shutting myself off before anyone could slam the door in my face, I naively thought I was protecting myself. A classic “cut off your noise to spite your face” philosophy of life—not a recipe for success—just proof of what a total loser I was.

  “BUT HOW CAN IT NOT INFLUENCE MY LIFE? MY FAMILY IS GONE, MY MEMORIES OF EVERYTHING THAT CAME BEFORE ARE HAZY. I HARDLY KNOW WHO I AM SOMETIMES.”

  “Well, as we’ve talked about before, over time your memory may improve. I had hoped hypnotherapy would have helped with that, but you are apparently immune to hypnosis. The most we can do is try again in a few months. I’ve usually had incredible luck putting my patients under. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “IS HYPNOSIS MY ONLY HOPE?”

  “It may just take time, or maybe some random event will trigger something in your mind, but the human brain is still very much a mystery, even to us so-called experts. The one thing I do know is that you were at a pivotal point in your development when this happened, so it may take longer. And please understand, I’m not saying that you can be who you were before. Everyone is influenced by experiences, so you will never be the person you would have become had you not lost your family, but you can become an equally wonderful person. And ultimately, you don�
�t need to recover all your memories in order to recover. That is a key point. You can’t lose sight of that.”

  “IS THERE A POSSIBILITY I’LL NEVER GET MY VOICE BACK?”

  It was the first time I had expressed this concern to anyone, but after so long, I was beginning to realize that I could be stuck like this forever. My heart started to race.

  “Don’t think that. At the end of the day, you hold the power to heal your voice.” Dr. O. reached across and put her hand over my heart. “It’s hard for me to say this, but my methods have failed you, and now I think it’s up to you. Only you can give yourself the permission to move on. I’m still here for you, but I think the time has come for you to explore your own inner strength. Your recovery rests inside of you.” Folding her hands in her lap and leaning back against a cushion, Dr. O. said, “I’m afraid our time is up, but I’ll see you in a month, just to check in. Introspection—that’s my new prescription for you.”

  Chapter 3

  “Does anyone want to add anything about the commercial uses of spectroscopy?” asked Mr. Ashton. Crickets. “Stephen … I mean, Sasha?”

  Someone in the back row said, “Yes, Dr. Hawking, you must have something to say. Physics is your field of expertise. Maybe you could explain time travel to us, or aliens.”

  “FUCK YOU.” The snickers were replaced by a chorus of “ooh.”

  Before I could be dismissed, I packed my books away and skulked out of the classroom as Mr. Ashton picked up the telephone on his desk. My bravado tended to come in brief spurts. Was he calling the principal or the school psychologist this time? It was not my first trip to the office. I knew the drill.

  Sitting in my usual chair, I counted the linoleum floor tiles until the school gnome/secretary spoke. “The principal will see you now.”

  Balding and rumpled, with tiny reading glasses perched on the end of his bulbous nose, Mr. Carson was your stereotypical high school principal. “Good morning, Sasha. You’ve had a good run. It’s been a whole week since you were last here.”

  I stared at the spot on the bridge of his nose where his eyebrows met.

  “Such language is unbecoming. Your aunt and uncle are so well mannered. I just don’t understand it. Should I wash your mouth out with soap? Maybe that would curb your sarcasm.” Mr. Carson leaned forward, elbows on his cluttered desk.

  “IF YOU WANT TO BE PRECISE, YOU SHOULD PROBABLY WASH MY HANDS, NOT MY MOUTH.” I wiggled my fingers at him when I finished typing.

  “What are we going to do with you, young lady? I’m sure Mr. Ashton just misspoke. Stephen and Sasha both start with the letter s. Don’t you think you may have overreacted?” Mr. Carson looked beseechingly at me. Talk about leading the witness. Maybe he would let me off this time. Five visits to the principal, get one free.

  “SO IF I CALLED MR. ASHTON MR. ASSHOLE, YOU WOULD CONSIDER THAT A SLIP OF THE TONGUE, PRINCIPAL CARSON, BECAUSE BOTH START WITH THE LETTER A?”

  “I can see you’re not in a very receptive mood this morning, Sasha. Perhaps an afternoon in detention will help you think more clearly.” Sighing histrionically, the principal signed what must have been my hundredth pink slip and handed it across the desk. “We really have to stop meeting like this.”

  “D-I-L-L-I-G-A-S.” Do I look like I give a shit, Principal Carson?

  “I think you’re very lucky I don’t know what that means.”

  “T-Y-A-F-Y-S.” Thank you and fuck you, sir.

  “Well, you’re welcome, I think. Go back to class, and try to have a better day … please. We’re both getting too old for this.” Mr. Carson flapped his hands in my general direction and turned back to his computer.

  After-school detention was filled with the all the usual suspects, like a casting call from a 1980s teen rebellion movie, minus the mullets and Madonna bracelets. I took my seat by the window—regulars like me had “reserved” desks, like customers who frequented a neighborhood diner.

  “Good afternoon, Sasha,” said Mrs. Goodman, math teacher from eight to three, warden from three to five. With her closely cropped hair and a clutch of keys jangling on a retractable key ring hooked to her belt, she was straight out of a women’s prison movie.

  Leaning over my desk, she whispered, “Heard about your run-in with Mr. Ashton. Can’t say I blame you. He can be a real jerk sometimes.”

  “THANKS, MA’AM.”

  Her breath reeked of cigarettes and black licorice, but I appreciated the support. She nodded knowingly. Apparently we were sisters in some mysterious sorority.

  “Hey, Sash, what up? You look hot in your sweats.” Jeff—or maybe Jed, I could never remember which—howled at his own lame attempt at humor.

  “Come sit over here. It’s lonely in the back.” Paul patted the seat next to his.

  Detention was primarily populated by jocks and hoods, kids with short fuses and minimal ambition—no National Honor Society officers or debate team standouts here. With their “fuck the system” attitudes, these degenerates were local heroes. Jeff/Jed and Paul, stars on the football and lacrosse teams and regulars at Mrs. Goodman’s afternoon tea parties, definitely fell into this category. They wallowed in their roles as bad boys, lapping up the attention from their less daring classmates. Unlike most of the girls at Shoreland, I found their swagger repugnant and studiously ignored them, now burying my nose in my history book, pretending to be totally absorbed in the finer points of the First Amendment. What was so sexy about stupidity?

  “Too good for us, huh?” Paul hissed, but I kept my eyes glued to the page. “You don’t know what you’re missing.” He moaned and made kissing noises.

  “You shootin’ for a ticket to detention tomorrow, Welch?” Mrs. Goodman waddled down the aisle and stood, arms akimbo, in front of Paul’s desk. I was grateful that she had distracted him.

  “No, ma’am.” Paul sat up and stared straight ahead.

  “’Cause you know I’ll be here, and there’s nothing I’d like better than to spend another afternoon with my favorite juvenile delinquent.” She leaned over his desk and batted her eyelashes. “Maybe you have a little crush, and you’re just lookin’ for an excuse to spend more time with me. Mmm? A little cougar action?”

  Mrs. Goodman ran her tongue seductively over her lips, reminding me of a cow chewing its cud. Eighteen of the twenty after school detainees burst out laughing. Only Paul, his face crimson, and I were silent. Mrs. Goodman was the best.

  Chapter 4

  As part of my therapy, I kept a journal, writing down my thoughts, my feelings, my dreams … or rather, my one dream. For my seventeenth birthday, Charlotte and Stuart gave me a new journal, inscribing it: Here’s to lucky seventeen! This is your year, darling. Don’t give up. We love you more than words can say. C & S. By this time, even though I had been as silent as a cloistered monk for more than four years, we were able to joke about it, a little bit. I blew out the candles on the pale pink birthday cake with marzipan ribbons. It was far too pretty for such a melancholy occasion. We were sitting in front of the blazing fireplace, the mercury glass ornaments on the Christmas tree reflecting the dancing flames. Everything looked so perfect from the outside, but just under the surface, I was frustrated, damaged, and angry. I needed to pull myself together before my head exploded.

  “Happy birthday, Sasha.”

  Charlotte and Stuart did their best to make it feel special and festive, but birthdays would always be bittersweet. It was bad enough that my family had died, but the fact that the anniversary of their death coincided so closely with my special day made a happy birthday a contradiction in terms. Stuart handed me a small blue Tiffany bag. In it was a gold necklace from which hung a tiny gold key. Were they sending me a not-so-subtle message that I alone held the key to my recovery, or was I being overly sensitive?

  “What do you think? Very trendy, apparently. If you don’t like it, we can take it back.” Stuart was always practical.

  “IT’S BEAUTIFUL. I LOVE IT. THANK YOU.”

  “We love you so much, and we
’ll always be here for you. Dr. O’Rourke called me yesterday and told me that she thought you needed a little break from therapy, a little time to yourself. So remember, if you need to talk, Stuart and I are always here to listen.”

  Charlotte held out her arms to me and I crawled into her lap, burying my face in her red cashmere sweater, trying to pretend that I wasn’t a mute seventeen-year-old with no parents, only one friend, and a giant chip on my shoulder.

  Stuart sat down next to us and rested his hand on my back. “It’s going to be okay, Sash, I promise. You just have to give it some more time.”

  I nodded into Charlotte’s sweater, even though I thought he was totally wrong. Stuart was a really good guy. He and Charlotte had been together since their first week of law school. They were a perfect match. They both loved being lawyers, felt totally fulfilled by their professions, and agreed that children wouldn’t fit into their busy lives. But when I landed on their doorstep, barely a teenager, loaded down with more baggage than the Titanic, he had welcomed me with open arms and never looked back. While Charlotte had no choice to accept me—she was my flesh and blood—Stuart had no such connection. Despite that, he had quickly redefined his vision of his family and his future, finding a place for me in his home and his heart. In the middle of a sea of shit, Stuart and Charlotte had pulled me into their lifeboat, and I would always be grateful.