Silent to the Bone (11 page)

“Cheated of what?”

“Of their happiness. Seeing other people's happiness always makes us feel cheated.”

I think I felt cheated that day on the bridge when I saw how happy Bran was about Vivian. I asked, “Do you think Branwell fell in love with Vivian . . . that way? The way that Dr. Zamborska loves Tina?”

Margaret did not answer immediately. Then she said, “Yes, Connor, now that you mention it, I think he did.”

“You mean . . . you mean . . . like sex?”

Margaret laughed. “I think the s-word was part of it. I think Vivian enriched his fantasies.” Margaret tilted her head so that her face was level with mine. She read what I was thinking. “Vivian seems to be something of a specialist at that.”

My thoughts of love for the past two days were more like Silly Putty than carved ivory. I wanted to say something that would lead Margaret offtrack, but when I opened my mouth to make some smart remark, nothing came out. I remembered my resolution on the bridge and decided that this was as good a time as any to start leaving my thoughts of Vivian unspoken.

Margaret put her arm across my shoulder. “It's all right, Connor. When I was your age, I had a mad crush on my social studies teacher.”

I didn't like her calling what I was feeling
a mad crush.
It sounded so juvenile.

When Margaret and I split up at the mall so that we could buy presents for each other, I knew that that would be my chance to get to a shop that sold hair
grips. What I got was not exactly a barrette. It was more of a hair ornament. It was shaped like a butterfly, but it had tiny claws to
grip
the hair. It was a milky blue (the clerk called it opalescent) and had a few rhinestones (the clerk said they were in good taste) along the edge. I could hardly wait to give it to her.

When we did hook back up at the mall, Margaret did not (thank goodness) ask me what I had in any of my bags. She did ask me what I had gotten Dad.

“A Hawaiian shirt for dress-down Fridays.”

“Perfect choice,” she replied, “as long as it has long sleeves, a starched collar, and is worn with a necktie.”

“What did you get him?”

“A priority listing on a heart transplant.”

With a sister like Margaret, there is no such thing as a perfect reply, a perfect conversation, or a perfect carving in ivory.

There was little to report when I visited Bran on Sunday.

First, I told him that my father was getting the tape digitized.

Second, I reported on my shopping trip with Margaret. (True to my resolution, I did not mention buying a gift for Vivian.) I told him who I had run into at the mall.

Most of the kids were surprised to see me out and around. They had noticed how I had been ducking all invitations to join them for ice skating at Fivemile Creek Park or for kicking a soccer ball around. It was clear to them that I was a guy on a mission, and they knew what it was.

Most of them had asked about him. Some acted like a bunch of rubberneckers at the scene of an accident and asked a lot of questions.
What has he done? What is wrong with him? Has he lost his mind?
I couldn't give them answers. Because I didn't know what he had done or what was wrong with him or whether he had lost his mind. There were a lot of rumors about him. Almost all of them were not true, but to deny the untrue ones would let everyone know that I had inside information. Not enjoying Branwell's advantage of being struck dumb, the kids expected me to speak. So I did the next best thing. I played only one note. Whether it was a rumor or a question, I gave everyone the same answer: “You'll have to talk to Gretchen Silver. She's in the yellow pages under
mouthpieces.”

Some of the kids asked about him because they care. Kids who are not frightened by differences admire Branwell for his. Because way down deep they know that civilized people have to preserve rare birds.

Third, I talked about school, what he and I call day care. I complained a lot. I enjoy complaining. There are only three weeks of school between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and each one of them is a pain in the neck. By the time you wind down from Thanksgiving,
you have to rev up for Christmas, and between the celebrations and special holiday projects, the teachers feel they have to squeeze in the regular amount of curriculum so that we can get decent scores on the achievement tests. They keep telling us that if we don't look good, they don't look good. They sound like a shampoo commercial.

In-depth complaining is fun only when you have a sympathetic listener. Even though listening was about the best thing that Branwell had been doing lately, he hardly looked at me the whole time I talked. I found it exhausting. It is not easy carrying on both halves of a conversation and having to avoid words that are on the top of your mind. Words like
jumper
and
hair grip
and certain proper nouns like
Vivian.

On Monday, our class used up practically our whole lunch hour practicing for our Holiday Concert. Branwell had been given a solo part in our arrangement of the John Lennon song “Imagine.” (Branwell did love the Beatles.) “We missed you at chorus rehearsal today,” I said. “They decided to eliminate the solo. I'm telling you, Bran, we do a lot better when you're there.” Branwell hardly looked up at me. I waited for some reaction—anything—but he stared at his hands,
which were in his lap. I got up to leave, and he stared at the chair where I had been sitting. It didn't seem to matter whether I was in it or not.

I left without bringing out the flash cards.

I took the city bus home, and the minute I walked into the kitchen, I saw the tape on the table. Dad had put it there—no note or anything. My father is not the kind of person who would write a note. He would expect me to know what it was and why it was there. That was his way of letting me know that—even though he was almost never there when I came home from school—he knew that the kitchen was always my first stop.

I called Margaret.

I can always tell when she has a client in her office. She talks to me as if I am one. “Yes,” she said when I told her the tape had arrived. “Yes, I'll be here at four-thirty.” She paused. I did not say a word. Then she added, “Please bring it with you. We can check on it then.” Another pause. “I look forward to seeing you at four-thirty.” I sometimes think that I am the only male on the planet that she looks forward to seeing.

I grabbed a glass of OJ and snarfed down three Oreos without even sitting down. I had the tape in my pocket and was out the door within three minutes of
hanging up and within a hundred feet of catching the city bus to Old Town.

Margaret was still in her office when I got to Schuyler Place. I jerked my head toward her computer. “How's Nikki doing?”

“They've taken her off the respirator. She's breathing on her own.” Margaret smiled. She knew then that I knew that she was hacking into the hospital records. She also knew that by never saying anything, she would never have to admit or deny it.

“That's wonderful,” I said. “I wish I had known before I went to see Branwell today.”

“Nikki is technically out of a coma now, but she is not really responding yet. She's in a vegetative state.”

“After today's session with Branwell, I'm not sure that Nikki is the only one in a
vegetative state.
How long will this last?”

“No one knows. And that makes it extra hard. It could last a week or a month or a year or forever.”

“Don't say that, Margaret. It sounds scary.”

“It is scary.”

“What does Nikki have to do to get out of it?”

“Do purposeful things.”

“Like what kind of purposeful things can an infant do?”

“She can follow an object with her eyes, for example. Or smile when she recognizes her mother.”

“Every time I go to the Behavioral Center, I look over the list on the sign-in book, and I never see Tina's name. Do you think she's ever gone there to see Branwell?”

“I doubt it.”

“Don't you think it would help Bran out of
his
vegetative state if she did?”

“Probably.”

“Do you think Tina blames Branwell for what happened?”

“In a word, yes. I'm guessing now, but I think she believes that Branwell is stonewalling, that his silence is just a stubborn refusal to talk about what happened.”

“Do you think that?”

“No, Connor, I don't. As a matter of fact, I'm convinced that Branwell was struck dumb because he has a terrible secret of which he dare not speak.”

Margaret shut down her computer, and we moved into the living room to listen to the tape.

In the spot where Branwell brought his clenched fist to his mouth, the part where the operator says that she is transferring the call to Fire and Rescue—the place where Branwell had put his ear to the table—there was a man's voice. It was hard to make out what he was saying, but it sounded like,
What happened, what happened?
There was also Vivian saying,
Go! Go!
I asked Margaret if she knew who that man's voice belonged to. Sadly, she shook her head no. “It's obvious there was someone in the house besides Vivian and Branwell.”

“I think we have a suspect,” I said.

“Or a witness.”

“Either way, there was someone there who can help us get the facts.”

“If we can find out who that is.”

“Do you want to come with me when I take him the tape?”

Margaret said that she did not think it was wise—yet. “It's you he trusts. I'll be there for him when the time is right. And I'll be here for you until then.”

I hugged her.

“Enough mushy stuff,” she said.

The phone rang early. Dad answered because most early morning calls are for him. I heard him say, “It was no trouble, really. . . . I'm glad it worked out. . . . Please don't hesitate to ask if there's anything else I can do. . . . Yes, I'll tell him.” It was Margaret. I knew it was. I was at Dad's side with my hand stretched out for the receiver before he even had a chance to call me to the phone.

“What's up?” I asked.

“I wanted to tell you that I think it's a good idea to mention to Branwell that Nikki is off the respirator but that it's not a good idea to use the term
vegetative state.
”

I started to tell Margaret that I had lately had a lot of
practice in avoiding using certain words in certain conversations, when I realized that that was not why she had called. She had just wanted an excuse to call and thank Dad. “Thanks,” I said, “thanks for reminding me.” Then, cupping the mouthpiece, in something just above a whisper, I said, “Dad is pleased you called.”

“How can you tell?”

“He smiled.”

“Check him out after they remove the sutures.”

“Margaret . . .,” I interrupted before she got really rolling, “Margaret . . .”

“What?”

“Thanks for calling. I've got to get to school now. See you later.”

The first thing I did was tell Branwell that Nikki was off the respirator. I think he already knew, because he didn't look surprised when I told him. Then I put the digitized tape on the table, and if I tell you that his smile was a real genuine grin from ear-to-ear, that still does not tell you what that smile meant to me. It was like a signpost. A signpost that I was on the right road.

Branwell and I listened to the tape together. When the sound of the man's voice came up, he tapped on the table. I rewound and played it again. He leaned
back and squinted his eyes. He made a motion like someone was dealing a deck of cards. So I pulled my flash cards out of my pocket and laid them out on the table. The males I had cards for were Dr. Zamborska and Grandfather Zamborska and The Ancestor. His eyes skirted past all three of them.

He stared at me like a puppy that needs to be let out real bad. He needed me to let him out. I had to find a way. I was not real comfortable being in this position of power. I liked it better when Bran and I were equals.

And then I had a flash. I just had to refine our method of communication. I remembered that the paralyzed author of
The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
had his assistant recite the alphabet—rearranged according to how frequently the letters were used—and the author would blink his left eye when the letter he wanted came up. I wouldn't have to recite the alphabet for Branwell. I could write it.

This is what I did. I turned all of the flash cards over. There were twelve of them, remember. I wrote the letters of the alphabet on the backs—two to a card, except for the last two, which had three each. I had no chance to arrange the letters in any order except the way we had learned them in kindergarten—
alphabetically. Besides, except for the vowels, I hardly knew which were used the most—although, judging from the number of points you get for certain letters in Scrabble, it was an easy guess that X and Q don't come up too often.

I didn't have any extra paper with me except for a Snickers wrapper that I had put in my pocket because I didn't want to litter. It was one of those mini bars that we gave out at Halloween. I opened it up, and it made a neat little square, the inside was white, and even though it was waxy, I found I could write on it.

Using my pencil, I pointed to the letters one at a time and watched for Branwell to blink twice. It was awkward at first. I would look down at the letter to make sure my pencil was positioned all right, and then I would quickly look at Branwell so I wouldn't miss the blink of his eye. But by the time I got to the middle of the alphabet, I had gotten smoother, and we—both of us—were concentrating so hard, I think we generated enough current to connect our brain waves.