Louder Than Words (8 page)

A month had passed since Dr. O’Rourke had told me that I was a do-it-yourself project. Now I was checking in. I think she wanted to make sure that I hadn’t come unglued, or more unglued, after stopping years of regular therapy. Ironically, for the first time in forever I was feeling slightly more connected, and all because of some stranger who should be wearing a turban and massaging a crystal ball at a carnival sideshow.

“So tell me more about this young man you met. What have you told him about your situation?”

Our hour, or more precisely, our fifty minutes, had only just begun, and Dr. O. was diving right into the deep end of the pool. My smorgasbord of recent issues would more than fill our session. But I had already decided that she didn’t need to know everything about Ben. If I told her he was a mind reader, she would never believe me anyway—she would just call my aunt, prescribe some heavy-duty antipsychotics, or maybe even shock therapy, and increase the frequency of my appointments. If I told her that I had met him when he rescued me from a scrimmage with the Shoreland High School offensive line, she would insist on telling the police—assuming she didn’t think I was simply delusional, which she might—especially if I paired that story with the mind reader information. And finally, she didn’t need to know that Ben had moved into my old house. She and Charlotte had decided early on that my psyche was too fragile to deal with memories of the old homestead, and I didn’t want her to stop me from exploring my past by playing with my old toys or digging through the junk in my old basement, if at some point I decided to do so.

“I MET BEN AT THE LIBRARY. HE JUST MOVED TO TOWN AND SEEMS REALLY NICE. I TOLD HIM ABOUT THE ACCIDENT AND THAT I DON’T REMEMBER MUCH. IT DOESN’T SEEM TO BOTHER HIM THAT I CAN’T COMMUNICATE LIKE NORMAL PEOPLE. IN FACT, HE HANDLES IT SO WELL THAT WE DON’T EVEN NOTICE THAT I CAN’T TALK MOST OF THE TIME.” Well, that was absolutely true.

Dr. O. was scribbling furiously in her notebook. Perhaps the good doctor could provide some advice on guys, since thus far she hadn’t been useful for much else. Mute and motherless, I was ill equipped to navigate the murky waters of boy-girl relationships, but it had never mattered before Ben plopped down on my sofa. A product of parochial schools and repressive parents, my mom had never gotten around to demystifying the male gender before she died. And while I loved Charlotte to pieces, she was kind of a geek, and I couldn’t imagine her instructing me on the finer points of getting to know a boy. Her courtship with Stuart had involved lots of chess matches and museum lectures, and what I needed to know was how to flirt without looking like an idiot and what to do with a guy in the back seat of a car, assuming I was ever lucky enough to land there. Jules’s Monday-morning reports of her Saturday night adventures were always interesting, but her suggestions all involved me actually talking to a boy—not helpful. My birthday book was good, but it didn’t explain the part that came before actual penetration, the getting-to-know-one-another messing around and the emotional stuff that went with all the groping. Thanks to Dr. Reuben, I was an expert on dozens of exotic sexual positions, but I wanted to know how to have a relationship, how the falling in love thing happened.

“That’s excellent news, Sasha. He sounds like a very special young man.” She didn’t know the half of it. “By turning outward and developing new connections, you can begin to engage in life. Maybe your level of comfort with this boy is indicative of your readiness to make a recovery. What do you think?”

Dr. O. looked at me encouragingly, as if she could will me into mental health with her bright-eyed enthusiasm. Sometimes I wondered about the doctor’s qualifications, in spite of her incredible reputation. Really, if it were that simple, I wouldn’t still be sitting here, the impression of my ass permanently imprinted in her camelback leather sofa.

“MAYBE. I HOPE SO. CAN I ASK YOU SOMETHING ELSE?” She nodded again, her pen poised. I rarely asked her any questions, and she was clearly pleased with my newfound interest in therapy. It must have been a nice change from my usual pouting passivity. “WHY CAN’T I REMEMBER ANYTHING FROM MY LIFE BEFORE? I HAVE VAGUE FLASHES, BUT IT’S ALMOST LIKE I’M REMEMBERING SCENES FROM A MOVIE. AND WHEN I TRY TO FORCE MYSELF TO GO BACK, I GET A HEADACHE. WILL I HAVE TO GET MY MEMORIES BACK IF I WANT TO GET MY VOICE BACK?”

Since meeting Ben, I had become much more interested in getting to know myself, with the hope that I might become better girlfriend material, if by some remote chance he wanted to be more than my comic book superhero. And although I was still reluctant to rifle through my emotional closet for fear of what I might find there, I was at least a little bit curious about who I’d been before my world came crashing down. It was hard to imagine that Ben would stick around for very long unless I got my act together. He wasn’t the kind of guy who had to settle for a fixer-upper.

“With you, Sasha, I’m afraid that speaking in terms of what has worked for other patients doesn’t apply. For many people, remembering the events that led up to the traumatic episode triggers a flood of memories, and once the patient remembers, she can address the issues that have caused the particular psychic trauma, and the symptoms of the trauma—in your case, muteness—disappear. It’s hard to say, as hysterical mutism is a very rare condition, and when it does occur, it doesn’t usually last very long. Many people experience tragedies, but very few people lose their ability to speak as a result. Four years of silence is practically unheard of.”

“SO I’M CRAZY AND WEIRD. IS THAT WHAT YOU’RE SAYING?”

“Not at all, Sasha. It’s just that your reaction to the accident reflects the unique characteristics of your brain. While memory recovery may be the most common way to bring everything to the surface, I can’t say that it’s the only way. If you’re unable to remember, perhaps you should try looking at this as an opportunity to start over. I firmly believe that you can speak again, even if your amnesia is never cured. You will simply travel a different road, but what difference does it make, as long as it gets you where you want to go?”

“SO TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF MY LIFE?”

“I know that sounds like something out of a drug rehab brochure, but at this point, I honestly feel you are, in a way, addicted to your silence. You use it to hide out from the world, to avoid dealing with problems and people. That’s exactly what substance abusers do.” Dr. O. put down her pen and paper and leaned forward, seemingly intrigued by her new theory. “Even though terrible things sometimes happen, the world is not such a terrible place. You’re strong enough to handle anything that life throws at you, Sasha. Don’t sell yourself short.”

I had actually been feeling pretty good when I arrived, but now I was a junkie. Silence was my heroin.

“THAT SOUNDS BAD.”

“Don’t be upset. It’s actually good news. Once you’re willing to acknowledge that you’re an addict, you’re well on your way to recovery.”

I didn’t know quite how to take this revelation. Was Dr. O. going to send me to a twelve-step program to trade sad stories with fellow addicts in a church basement? I’d do it. Thoughts of Ben’s arms wrapped around me for reasons other than protecting me from bad guys made me eager to try just about anything.

She glanced at her watch. “I’m afraid our time is up. Check back in a month, but feel free to call if you need me sooner. I think you’re doing very well on your own, Sasha. And be good to this boy—he sounds like a keeper.”

“I’LL DO MY BEST. BUT WE’RE JUST FRIENDS.”

“That’s how the best relationships begin, as friendships.”

Dr. O. smiled and let me out the back door. I stood outside for a minute, trying to picture what kind of whack job would be sitting in my spot on the couch for the next hour, how loose my screws were in comparison with those of her other patients.

I hadn’t gotten to ask her any questions about boys in general, although based on the fact that she hadn’t helped me speak in four years, maybe I was better off learning about love, sex, and boys on my own. That and the fact that with her Coke bottle glasses and schoolteacher bun, she didn’t look like she was getting any more action than I was. But wasn’t there an old saying that those who can’t, teach? There was always next month.

I had never attended a single Shoreland High School sporting event. What would be the point? Watching normal, well-adjusted teenagers talking, laughing, and having fun didn’t rank high on my list of favorite activities. As if I needed to be reminded about what I was missing. But now things were different, a little bit. Ben was running in some regional indoor track meet at a nearby college, and I almost felt like I belonged among the spectators. That, and I wanted to see him in his little running shorts. Jules and I climbed the bleachers, searching the crowd.

“Maybe now you’ll come to a basketball game and watch me cheer. What do you think? Could you handle it?”

Jules had been incredibly understanding of my steadfast refusals to go to any games. Yet another example of how good a friend she was, letting me be selfish, knowing I wasn’t capable of any better.

“MAYBE. WE’LL SEE HOW THIS GOES.” Baby steps.

“There he is,” Jules said, pointing to the center of the track. “Next to the supermodel.”

Ben was standing beside a willowy girl with her hair pulled back in a thick ponytail, listening carefully to whatever she was saying to him. This chick belonged in high heels, traipsing down a runway with a spotlight trained on her golden mane, not surrounded by a bunch of sweaty teenagers in clunky sneakers and tank tops with numbers on them. Straight out of the pages of
Seventeen
, she had impossibly long legs, a Hawaii tan even though it was the middle of winter, and, apparently, plenty to say to Ben. And although I had no right to be jealous—our relationship was purely platonic—I felt a certain possessiveness toward him to which I knew I was not entitled. But I couldn’t help it. The truth was that if Ben could read my mind as well as he said he could, he must know that I wanted him bad, and he was choosing to ignore my almost uncontrollable desire to wrestle him to the floor and stick my tongue down his throat. Even a social half-wit like me could take a hint, so I tried to hide my true feelings, with limited success, whenever he was nearby. If he thought about me as anything more than a charity case, he needed to be the one to make the first move. I was pretty desperate, but I wasn’t quite ready to throw myself at him.

Did he even know I was here at the track meet? So far, my mind-reading friend hadn’t looked up other than to stare into the eyes of the track star/lingerie model he was talking to. I decided to try an experiment.
If you can hear me, look up in the stands. I’m in the B section, about halfway up, black sweatshirt
. If he looked at me, I would know he hadn’t tuned me out, made me part of the white noise that hovered on the edges of his consciousness. I leaned forward. Nothing. Then, with that exasperating smile on his face, he looked straight at me and nodded. What a tease he was. I felt like a fish being reeled in, but just as I reached the surface, my fate in clear view, the angler let out the line, sending me back into the muddy water, swimming aimlessly, not sure where I was going, desperate to see the sun again. Damn him. He looked away, still smiling, and the hook lodged even more firmly in my mouth.

After the meet, I wanted to rush onto the field, slip my arms around him, stake my claim, make sure that Miss Teen America knew she had some competition—not that I could really compete with her in the looks department, or probably any other way—but as usual I chickened out. Doing nothing was weak, but over the past four years, inertia had become a way of life.

“WE CAN GO. I’VE SEEN WHAT I’VE BEEN MISSING.”

“It’s not so terrible, is it? Are you finally ready to rejoin the living?” Jules asked.

She seemed to think that if I acted the part, everything would fall into place. Fake it till you make it isn’t a bad philosophy, but I was a coward, and lazy to boot. Pretending I was having fun, pretending I felt like I belonged, required a tremendous amount of effort, and up until now I hadn’t been motivated. Maybe Ben was my catalyst. Maybe I was ready to pretend to be normal so he would like me, and if Jules’s reasoning was correct, I would magically
become
normal. The simplicity of her theory annoyed the hell out of me.

“I DON’T KNOW. IT’S NOT TERRIBLE. BUT I FEEL LIKE I’M A WHOLE DIFFERENT SPECIES FROM THESE PEOPLE. EVEN IF I PRETEND, I KNOW I’LL NEVER FIT IN.”

Why was everything so hard for me? Why did I have to scrutinize every word, every look, and always find myself wanting? Maybe if I didn’t think so much, I would be a happier person. Maybe I needed to stop living inside my head, but how?

“I think you’d feel that way even if you could talk. You’re just different … and I mean that in a good way.”

“THANKS. I GUESS.”

“That’s what I love about you—you’re an old soul, as my mother would say. It’s like you’re past this garbage already. I know it’s shallow and stupid to spend so much time looking in the mirror and wondering if some boy likes me. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to do it, but I get how you feel. High school is just too, well, high school for someone like you.”

If Jules only knew how much time I’d been spending in front of the mirror lately, analyzing my body parts—was my nose too big, were my breasts too small, were my eyes too close together, were my hips too wide—and wondering if a boy liked me. Unfortunately, on top of all my other difficulties, I had turned into the stereotypical high school girl, heavy on the angst.

Every day he was waiting for me when school let out. This had to be more than a charity project masquerading as friendship, didn’t it? Jules thought so, but she admitted it was tough to be sure—boys were unpredictable—and assuming something that wasn’t true could be embarrassing if I started to buy into my own fairy tale. After instant messaging about it every night for two weeks, rehashing every word that Ben said to me, we still couldn’t figure it out. Was he dense (impossible!) or just a tease?

As usual, Jules’s advice lacked subtlety.
Maybe you should just attack him and see what he does. Then at least you’ll know
.

I wasn’t sure I was ready to take that kind of risk.
But if he doesn’t reciprocate, then I’ve lost a really cool friend and made a total fool of myself
.

If I manned up and kissed him, and he didn’t kiss me back, I would probably drop dead on the spot. It wasn’t like I could pretend I was going to whisper something in his ear and accidentally landed on his lips instead. The risk was monumental.

My dad says it’s impossible for boys and girls to be just friends
.

So far I’m proving him wrong
.

Not really—you’re only being Ben’s friend because you’re chickenshit. You want more, Sash
.

But if he doesn’t want more, what I want doesn’t matter, does it?

And so far, he was making it very clear he didn’t want more. He knew exactly what I thought about him, and still he did nothing. Throwing myself under the Ben bus just to appease Jules and test her father’s theory was not a strategy that appealed to me.

IDK
.

So what would you do, Jules?

Maybe you need to drop a couple of hints. You could try dressing a little girlier. You look like a rain cloud
.

Thanks
. I was very defensive about my gray sweats.

Really. You have a great body, and we know B thinks so. Maybe you need to remind him what he’s missing. He’s already seen your tits. Show him some more
.

Nice, J. I’ll think about it. But sweatpants make me feel invisible and safe
.

Not that safe—not enough to stop your jock friends from trying to score a touchdown in the park
.

But that’s about power, not sex
.

It’s about both, S. Anyway, back to B. If you want him to notice you, give him something to notice. And if all else fails, be bold. Nothing ventured, nothing gained
.

Food for thought. GTG. See you tomorrow
.

I went to bed and dreamt about running naked through the hallways of Shoreland High School; probably not the kind of bold Jules had in mind.

The next afternoon Ben was waiting for me in front of the school. “I don’t want to go to the library today. Let’s go for a walk at the beach. I feel like being outside.” He took my backpack and led me over to his car. “You look nice, by the way.”

Thanks
.

Not having any better ideas, I’d taken Jules’s advice and abandoned grey fleece for jeans. My sweater, although still grey, was at least not two sizes too big. They were part of my “just in case” wardrobe, purchased by Charlotte just in case I ever decided to dress like a girl. Thank goodness for her naive optimism. Well-outfitted, I was on the make, as much as I was capable. I was like a nun with a weekend pass from the convent.

The beach? But it’s cold outside. And it looks like it might rain, or snow
.

Why was I being such a baby, when being alone with him was what I wanted, more than anything? But he knew that already.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep you warm.”

There went those eyebrows. My heart skipped a couple of beats. Maybe this was it.

Oh yeah?

We had been flirting this way practically since we’d met, but nothing else was happening. We were stalled in the bantering stage. Despite Jules’s suggestion that I take the initiative, under no circumstances would I ever make the first move, although sometimes I thought if I could do it just once, he might run with it. Unfortunately, way easier said than done. My fear of failure trumped my fresh-off-the-boat horniness.

“Yeah, I have an extra scarf and a really warm, ugly hat in my car. You’ll be toasty.”

Thanks
.
You bastard
.

If he weren’t so jaw-droppingly cute, I would hate him for teasing me when he had to know exactly what I wanted him to say and do to me.

“Tsk, tsk. Language, young lady. Not very becoming.”

He shook his head as he opened the car door for me. His manners were from another century, and I found this old-world gentility totally hot. Dr. O’Rourke was right—he was a keeper—but did he feel the same way about me? Why couldn’t he just let me in on the secret? How could I get him to lay his cards on the table—or on me—already? Every cell in my body was running out of patience.

I let off a string of internal profanities, just to assert my independence.
Shit, fuck, fuck, fuck, damn …
My naughty vocabulary was limited.

“That’s pathetic. It’s like listening to a baby trying out her first words.” He laughed as we drove into the deserted beach parking lot. “Not a popular spot in February, I guess. I wouldn’t recommend that you come here alone.”

Don’t worry, it would never occur to me
.

We sat silently for a minute, watching the waves pound the beach, listening to the chain clank against the pole as the wind whipped the American flag. It reminded me of the chain on Ben’s nunchucks, and I tried to push the memories of that evening down deeper. I didn’t want to ruin the afternoon, which I was hoping would lead to something more than just a frigid walk and frozen fingers.

So, as long as I’m putting on this really attractive headgear, should we walk?
I opened the car door, but the wind was so strong it felt as if someone were pushing it shut from the other side.
A little windy. Are you sure this is a good idea?

Ben got out of the car and came around to open my door. When he reached in to help me out, I shook my head.

“What’s the matter? You don’t want me to touch you?” The way he said it, he knew that was definitely not the case.

I don’t understand. What Jane Austen novel did you crawl out of? Opening doors, carrying my backpack, helping me out of the car. I know my memory is short, but I’ve never met anyone like you before. And does all this chivalry mean you like me
–
like me, or are you just pathologically polite?

Shit. I’d sworn I wouldn’t beg, and yet here I was, practically on my knees.

Ignoring the last question, Ben said, “Don’t you like having doors opened for you? I’m just doing what my mother taught me. Are good manners a bad thing?”

As we walked, he hooked his arm through mine, escorting me along the rocky beach path. I was grateful, as I felt like the wind might knock me over.

No, I like it. It’s just different, I guess. You’re like this with everybody, I suppose
.

Didn’t he see where I was headed with this? Did I have to hit him over the head with a club? Why was he torturing me? I wanted to be special, needed him to tell me that. But of course he saw everything, heard everything; he was just playing me like a violin, or he wasn’t interested. Neither one was good.

“Don’t think too much. Just enjoy the moment for a change.” And with those words of wisdom, he stopped walking, put both his arms around me and held me close, my cheek resting against his chest. “I wanted to make you wait a little bit, just to be sure it’s what you really wanted. You have so much going on inside your head all at once, I sometimes get mixed signals.”

Is this enough of a signal?

I reached up—he was much taller—and wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him down so our lips met. Jules gave excellent advice. Bold felt good. Go big or go home.

My first kiss was everything I had imagined and more. His lips were warm and soft, his hands on either side of my face, his thumbs stroking my cheeks, his whole body pressed up against mine.

We stopped to take a breath.

“So, how was your first kiss?”

There aren’t words. I barely exist in most people’s eyes, and no one has ever thought about me like this, ever
.

I reached for his hand and kissed each of his precious fingers. Was this really happening to me? Had Jules’s wardrobe advice been the tipping point? Was it really as simple as wearing clothes that fit?

“Well,
I
think about you like that. And tell Jules it wasn’t the tight jeans that made the difference. You could’ve been wearing a garbage bag or a suit of armor—today was the day.”

It’s a good day
.

“Was it okay for your first? Maybe I should’ve gone for some tongue to make it a little more memorable.”

No, it was just right. Definitely has a place on my highlight reel. Maybe you can show me a few of your more exotic moves for my second kiss. And my third …

“Pushy. I like it.”

We stared into each other’s eyes for a few seconds, and I could feel myself getting lost in the intensity of his gaze. Then he kissed me again … with tongue.