Silence and the Word (3 page)

“Well.” My voice is shaking. I take a deep
breath. “Peter has been complaining that I start sounding like you
when I’ve been talking to you a lot. Maybe we shouldn’t be
surprised.”

“I don’t think being near me is going to be a
solution.” He sounds relieved.

“No.” What if it had been my head that faded
out, to be replaced by his? Or even my heart… . “Still, if I could
figure out how to control this, to do that again, the
possibilities… .”

“Do you think you can?” He has an unfortunate
predisposition for asking difficult questions.

“Well. No. Probably not.”

“You don’t want to just disappear bit by bit,
and you don’t want to turn into me. I think you should at least try
going away. Away from everyone.”

“But the project… .”

“Will survive without you for a few
days.”

He’s right, of course. Maybe that’s why he so
rarely gives advice—so that when he does, he can be right.

I borrow some camping gear from the
housemates, send out e-mail to the appropriate people, change the
message on the machine: “Gone fishing; back Wednesday”. I take out
some money, buy groceries, pack the laptop, try to remember what
I’ve forgotten, grab my medicine, and finally head out. Peter drops
me off at the trailhead. I promise I’ll call every night and let
him know that I’m okay. He’s not much of a woods person; I think he
thinks I’ll be eaten by bears. There are no bears around here.

By the time I hike in and wrestle with the
tent and gather wood, I’m so exhausted that I don’t even worry
about being able to see the fire through my hands. It’s kind of a
pretty effect, actually: flickering reds and golds glowing under my
brown skin. I feel a little guilty about not having written
anything, but console myself with the fact that I only have three
two-hour batteries for the laptop. If I don’t type tonight, then I
can stay another day. I curl up in my blanket and go to sleep.

Third day. I didn’t type anything yesterday.
I didn’t flicker either. Skin’s opaque this morning, and the lake
is beautiful, if cold. I swam naked at noon yesterday. I think I’ll
go in a little earlier today. I could swim for hours here; days.
When I finish, there’s a meadow nearby, and my blanket makes a
perfect place to curl up and bask in the sun. I’ve got a lot of bug
bites, but it doesn’t seem to matter. I’ve run out of books, too. I
could always write my own—when I run out of paper, there’s bark,
right? I could learn how to make ink out of something. Bug-blood,
maybe, or fish guts. Of course, I’d have to catch a fish for
that.

That’s a bit of a problem, actually. I didn’t
really bring enough food to stay past tomorrow afternoon. When I
hike back out this evening to call Peter, I could ask him to bring
more food. Maybe I’ll do that. It’s nice here. Quiet.

Peter looks worried.

“You sure you want to stay longer? Do you
have enough batteries?”

“Plenty—don’t worry.” It’s not as if I’m
using them.

“This should last you a few more days.
You—you do look better. Healthier.”

“Glad to hear it. I’ll see you Saturday,
then?”

“Umm…okay. Guess that’s it, then.”

“Yup. Listen, it seems a little silly to call
every night. I’m fine out here. I’ll call if there’s a problem,
okay?”

“Well, okay.”

“Bye, then.” I heft the now-heavy pack onto
my back and turn away. He leans over to kiss my cheek before I’m
out of range. I let him, and smile.

“Bye,” he says, as I walk away.

the sun is so warm and the insects buzz above
the grass tickles as the breeze blows it against my damp skin the
sky is a thousand shades of blue and i will count and name them all
before sunfall before night because when night comes then i will
have to count the stars and there are so many this is my one two
three day of naming blue

icicle blue

Mark’s eyes blue

computer screen blue

atlantic blue

my favorite jeans blue

esthely blue

i made that last one up entirely esthely the
color where midnight runs into deep sea lit with sunlight blues
esthely esthely esthely

Peter finds me. Peter finds me and cleans me
up and takes me home and holds me until I am myself again. He tells
me that my skin had turned green. Not transparent or translucent;
very there—oh, definitely there.
There,
like a tree is
there, a tree reaching up into the esthely sky, alone in the night
but solid and rooted in the earth.

I don’t think I was meant to root quite so
deep.

I don’t have an answer to the questions, but
I have a plan to keep me whole. This is the plan.

1. Schedule time for Mark and Peter. Schedule
time for work. Schedule time for friends. Schedule time for
play.

2. When I start feeling a bit translucent,
drag someone with me to the woods. Don’t talk to them, or at least
not much, but make sure they bring me out again before I take
root.

3. Repeat as necessary.

3a. If this doesn’t work: panic.

The first issue is coming out on time, it
looks like. Or only a few hours late, at any rate. Katherine is
engaged. Huzzah—that should keep things calmer. Tomorrow I go to
visit Mark, thank the gods. And my housemates have made dinner for
me, which is nice. My toes are tingling a little—that’s the first
sign, I’ve learned. It’s okay, though…it’ll be a couple of hours
before anything actually disappears, and I’ll have time to take a
long walk first and count the stars. That should hold it off for a
while. It’s just like remembering to take my meds.

This isn’t quite how I expected things to go.
But I don’t know if that matters.

I’m not giving up, not yet.

If I hadn’t come this way, I’d never have
found my shade of blue.

Note: this was written as hypertext for the
web; the sections can be read in any sequence, or repeated

Frost

Rosa. Rosa in the afternoon, sitting in the
window with her hair falling down, hair so pale, so fair, a white
waterfall cascading down and down and he loses himself in it, in
this girl sitting in the window, reading a book with her eyes
half-closed and her legs pulled up and the light behind her so she
is only a shape at dusk, in the town library, a curving shape with
white water falling behind.

He opens the door, picks up a book from the
cart by the door, a good book, a big, thick book, and walks a long
circle of the small room, pausing at each compass point
instinctively, despite the lack of arrows. He looks up, he looks
down, he looks anywhere but at her, and finally he happens to be
beside her, he happens to sit across an expanse of cushions in the
broad window nook, he happens to be gazing at his book and not at
her, oh no, and he is biting his lip raw. He is biting his lip and
staring at the book and the clock is ticking and she has not looked
up.

Five o’clock, six o’clock, seven and perhaps
he should speak and the library closes at eight on Monday summer
nights in August of that year but he has done as much as he is able
in walking the room, in coming to this southwest compass point, in
sitting here, where the breeze from the quiet vent carries with it
her slightly musky scent mixed with the dust of old books. He has
done all he can and turns the pages without ever noticing that the
book is in Spanish and talks of
un corazón
that has
shattered into a thousand pieces.

Seven fifteen. Thirty. Thirty-eight.
Forty-seven, and the dry librarian calls out that it is time to
check out books, that the library is closing, that it is over over
over. And he does not move, he has stopped turning pages, and his
lip is bleeding, just a little. Rosa looks up then, she looks up
and smiles and asks, “
Café
?” and when he only clutches his
book harder and stares at her she laughs. “Coffee, then.” He laughs
too, only half-comprehending, but they walk out the narrow white
library doors together, leaving the books forgotten behind.

Forest

Patrick writes poetry. He does not show it to
her, but every word is of her, every touch of pen to paper, every
scrap stuffed into pockets as she walks up, lifts on tiptoes,
kisses him on the cheek. She doesn’t say hello, she only smiles and
loops her arm around his waist, curls a finger into his belt loop
and they begin to walk, he with his head tilted down, loving the
easy familiarity of her. Patrick whistles and walks and this is
what he writes:

the ivy curls around the oak, stretching up
into the sun

and her legs are two strong trunks, her arms
spreading

branches, a multitude of branches, a
multitude of trees

and even in the dark, the tips reach up to
the light, they

stretch, and moonlight streaks the green,
sunlight

catches the twisting leaves and the ivy
reaches up,

though it will never stretch quite as high…
.

Patrick takes her to the woods. She had never
seen them before him. She had grown up in the city, the big bad
city with a moderately middle-class life; she had walked its
streets barefoot, heedless of glass, and now she lets go of his
waist, she runs in the woods, she disappears among the trees, his
heart thumps and for a moment he cannot breathe, he cannot think,
and then he sees the white banner of her hair, shouting surrender
in the dark woods, shouting come and get me and he chases her,
running her down, hunter to the fleet deer, but he catches her, he
catches her up against a tree, and then he pauses, uncertain.

He pauses, and it is she who kisses him then,
who pulls him down into the slightly dank undergrowth, the soft
mosses, who peels their clothes away, like curling apple skins,
until they are shivering in the morning woods, until their skin is
wet with the remaining dew, until they are shivering with desire,
until their skin is wet with touching, burning, rolling and rutting
there under the tall trees, under the spreading branches reaching
for the growing light.

Cobalt

“Will you make me some tea, dear?”

Kitchen putterings. Kettle whistlings.
Pouring just as the water boils, the water that is fresh, filtered.
Pouring over the loose tea leaves, swirling them up in the cobalt
blue mug, watching them catch the light. Waiting, just staring into
the hot water, the tea leaves, not reading the future, just
waiting. One minute, two minutes, three and then pouring the tea
into a serviceable white mug, straining it carefully, and not a
leaf falls through, so carefully is it done. Then poured back
again, dark unleafy tea, and one sugar and a little milk and the
silver spoon that Patrick found for fifty cents at a city rummage
sale and brought home and polished until it shone. And the tea is
ready, silver stirring in the deep cobalt blue, and carried over to
the table, to the computer humming, whirring, the keys clicking
clicking clicking and ah,

reach up,

kiss a thank you,

smile,

and then back to the clicking keys pausing
only for long, slow sippings of the hot tea, of the not quite
scalding, perfect temperature, perfectly prepared with love and
care, dark Ceylon tea.

Rust

Not tonight.

I hurt. You hurt me.

Last night.

Fine, not last night. Two nights ago, then. I
still hurt.

Where do you think?

Just leave it alone, dammit!

I don’t want to talk.

I said, I don’t want to talk.

I don’t want to hug, I don’t want to kiss, I
definitely don’t want to fuck!

Yeah, sure. I know how your mind works. You
were thinking about it.

Don’t even start. I know you.

Look, I’m going to go sleep on the couch.

Fine, you sleep there. Just as long as you
let me sleep.

Roses

Can you watch love die? Can you chart its
course in the absences? The fewer words spoken. The fewer gentle
touches. The shirts unwashed, the dishes undone. The heavy shouting
silences. Is it present in the additions? The proliferation of
stumbling attempts to make conversation. The sudden passion for
sit-ups, for crisp clothes, in the half-formed urges toward
self-improvement.

Patrick unlocks their door, fumble-fingered.
He walks in, sets down his heavy briefcase, listens for and hears
Rosa in the bedroom, chattering. He has time, and so takes his
paper-wrapped package into the kitchen. There he pokes and prods,
pulls out a few dead leaves, a malformed bud, and shifts until the
dark purple roses bloom like bruises from the green heart of ferns.
Only then does he take them to her, walks in the bedroom door and
sees her there, lying sprawled on their bed with one hand between
her thighs, in the dark robe he bought her for their anniversary,
the dark silk robe caressing her skin, her hair loose for once and
shockingly bright against it, her fingers slipping against the
silk, against her skin. She does not see him at first—he slipped
off his shoes as he entered, he has learned to move on cat feet.
Rosa purrs into the phone for an endless moment, and then looks up,
sees him, falls silent. He walks into the room. He offers the
flowers. She mouths the words, “Thank you.” She nods towards the
kitchen, and he nods in return. Patrick walks out of the room,
closing the door behind him, and steps into the kitchen. He pulls
down a vase and prepares the fragile blooms for cutting. He
carefully does not hear what noises leak through the edges of the
door.