The Language of Silence (21 page)

Chapter Forty-Seven

Brett:

I run into Ed’s mom at the grocery store. My mom has run out of shampoo.  I haven’t seen her since the night of the ill-fated dance. There’s this little part of me, the little girl part who begged her mom to be a Girl Scout leader for months before her mom bought all the patches, sewed them on a sash, and told her to drop it, that wishes she would ask me again what was wrong. She thought back then that I was seeking acknowledgement and awards. She didn’t see that I was just seeking her.

Maybe I could talk to her now. It’s not like I have anyone else to talk to anymore. I want to tell her about Tristan’s note and what has happened with Ed. I want to tell someone that I still love him.  I don’t completely blame him for what happened. He kept telling me how messed up he was, and how he was afraid of hurting me. I think maybe I pushed us into something neither of us was really ready for. I need to tell someone these things. Isn’t a mother the one you’re supposed to tell them to?

Shampoo. She left a note telling me that she needed shampoo. That’s the only communication we have shared. And so I go, run, try and please her. I get rewarded with running into my ex-boyfriend’s mom in the produce aisle.

When I see Ed’s mom
, something in me wants to run to her and fall into her arms. She offers me a weak wave. I wave back and try and turn my cart back down the aisle I just came down. I’m in such a hurry my cart crashes against hers. Some old lady molesting a tomato gives me a dirty look.

“Sorry.”
I mumble, scrunching down, trying to disappear inside the sweatshirt I threw on this morning.

“It’s alright, Brett.”

I eye her shopping cart. It’s filled with a large amount of men’s toiletries. I recognize Ed’s favorite toothpaste and the deodorant I can still smell on his Clash t-shirt. The one I still have. Ed’s mom notices me staring. The small smile she managed to put on falters. She gives a curt nod to the tomato perv who is still staring us down. She comes around her cart and walks close to me. “He’s leaving,” she says quietly. Her voice hitches at the end.

My stomach drops. All the way down to the pits of hell where the reverend preached passive-aggressively on holy days where people like my brother would end up. Someone should tell him walking the earth can be pretty bad sometimes too.
“What?” I choke out.

“Sunday.”

I feel my mouth go dry. “Leaving? Where? He still hasn’t finished school. He has like two months left before he graduates.”

“I don’t know where he’s going, b
ut I guess I can take some comfort in the fact he told me before he left.” Ed’s mom reaches absentmindedly for the toothpaste.

He didn’t tell me.
Didn’t I at least deserve to be told?

She reaches out her hand and places it on mine. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have,” I reply. My voice is hard and empty.

I leave my cart right in the middle of the grocery store and walk out.

Chapte
r Forty-Eight

Ed:

Brett’s sitting in her brother’s old car outside of my house. She’s been sitting in there for ten minutes. It suddenly dawns on me that she turned sixteen last week.

Damn.

Tristan had made a deal with her that she got his car the moment she turned sixteen. He said he would be going off to college and he didn’t need it. Besides, he usually made me drive us everywhere anyways. Figures Brett would wait till the moment she turned sixteen to actually drive the thing.

I’m surprised the thing’s still drivable.
The front end is smashed in like it was on the wrong side of a Hulk confrontation. Someone, most likely Brett, has made an attempt to tape the bumper back on with duct tape. Almost destroyed, but not quite. Still running, but nothing to brag about. With all the money the Jensens have, you would think they would have just written it off. I wonder who went through the trouble of saving it.

The door to her car opens and I can’t breathe.
I stumble away from the window, hoping she hasn’t seen me, knowing she won’t just go away. I’m such a coward. Mom told me she ran into Brett earlier in the week and told her about my departure. I hadn’t heard from her, and assumed she didn’t care.

I was selfish enough to take comfort in that.

I trudged down the stairs. I try to pull myself together. I feel like I have drank a billion cups of coffee flavored with Red Bull. With a defeated sigh, I open the front door because I know she won’t go away till we have this discussion.

Brett enters without being asked. She kicks the door shut and crosses her arms over her chest. For a second, she just sits there fuming at me. It’s hard to keep eye contact with her because it makes me feel so ashamed. So dirty. So useless. But I owe it to her.

She gives the slightest shake of her head, but doesn’t say a word. She just marches up the stairs to my room. I follow behind her. When we reach the door, she stops and waits. She lets me walk into my room first. A small, subtle sign we aren’t dating anymore.

This is no longer our shared space.

Once in my room, I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know if I should sit or stand. I don’t know where to put my hands. I just want to disappear or fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness. I know she doesn’t want either from me. Not her style.

Brett rolls her eyes. Her cheeks flash red
. It’s the only signal that she is just as uncomfortable as me. She pulls something out of her purse and tosses it to me. It’s my Clash t-shirt. I catch it, and I swear it feels like it weighs a billion pounds. I don’t want this back. I want her to have it, but it would be the worse consolation prize ever.
Sorry, I’m the shittiest boyfriend of all time. Will you keep this Clash t-shirt to remember me by?

Brett’s hands move to her hips. She narrows her eyes and
stares me down. I don’t know what she wants me to say. Sorry just won’t solve anything. She offers a short laugh and shakes her head. “Was it worth it?” she asks.

No. It wasn’t. I never wanted to hurt you. I always knew I would. I just wanted you
. These are the things she deserves to hear, but I can’t say them. I’ve never been able to tell her the things she needs to hear. I’ve been afraid of these ugly truths since the day I met her. So instead, I simply shake my head.

She turns around. She’s going to leave it like this.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

But she doesn’t leave. She locks the door to my room.
One click. One little noise, and I don’t know a damn thing about the world anymore. Brett slowly turns around and faces me. She seems less determined and pissed than before. She looks scared. Her trembling hands move to her shirt. She begins to unbutton it. I’m so caught off guard by this that I can’t move.

I watch as her shirt slides off her shoulders to reveal her white bra.

Something in me snaps back into place.

“What…what are you doing?”

“What I want to do.” Her voice is so strong and sure. This was the girl I fell in love with. The girl who marched into Tristan’s room years ago and demanded to be introduced.

She no longer looks nervous. She’s the brave, self-assured Brett I have loved for years. Her hand
s reach behind her back to unhook her bra clasp. I rush to her and hold her wrists in place. I’m breathing like a dying man again.

“Stop this,” I whisper.
I beg.

She shakes her head. She presses her lips forcefully against mine. I stumble back. I release her wrists and hold onto her waist. The touch of her skin ignites me in a
way I thought was lost forever. Her hands move down to her jeans. She’s pulling them off.

“Stop, Brett.”
I pant.

She shakes her head again.

She’s pulling off my shirt. She’s standing in nothing but her bra and underwear, and she’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. White, delicate skin. Dark, black, wild, tempting hair. Always tempting. She presses her lips against mine again. There is no hesitation in the way her lips move against mine.

Everything lights up inside me like a fucking firework in a mailbox.

She has no fear.

I’
m trembling.

I’
m crying.

My
hands reach up to her face. I’m kissing her back. I can feel my tears spill against her flushed cheeks.

I
’m near sobbing.

She still doesn’
t stop.

I don’t want her to stop.

Somehow, we end up in my bed, neither one dressed. I’m not sure how it happens. It’s all a haze of flesh and limbs, tears and sweat. I make sure to put on a condom.

I push against her.

And push.

I push through.

I hear her cry out.

It kills something inside me.

She’s clutching onto my back with her nails.

I ask her if she wants me to stop.

She shakes her head. She’s crying now too.

I tell her I love her. I tell her over and over again.

When it’s over, I stay with her for a few moments. As one. Neither one moving. Just being there. Together. I press my sweaty forehead against hers. We’re both still breathing heavily. I lift a hand to wipe away her tears. She reaches up a hand and wipes away mine.

She was right. I do feel different.

Anyone can have sex.

Not everyone can experience that.
It exists. This feeling that musicians and poets write about. I just never thought a schmuck like me would ever feel it. I feel the enormity of my mistakes. I see the truth in her words. I gave myself away to all the wrong people. I didn’t have to give anything away to Brett. With her, it didn’t feel forced or wrong.

When she comes out of the bathroom
, I want to kiss her. I want to ask her to come with me. Instead, I simply tell her I love her.

She nods. “I know.”

She walks to the door. She’s leaving. Before she goes, she looks back at me. “Who was Tristan seeing? Someone in town?”

“Officer Daniels,” I tell her. I wish I would have told her sooner.

“I feel different,” she replies.

Then she’s gone.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Brett
:

I’m soaking in the bath, letting the water wash over every touched part of me. I feel sore and tired, but I don’t feel used. I don’t feel regret. I did what I wanted to do. I was ready.

I am glad it was with Ed. It’s the only thing I can be certain about from this whole crazy year. I’m no fool. I know what happened with Ed doesn’t change anything. He will still leave, and I’ll still stay here. Neither of us is ready to be in a relationship. We both are a bit broken. Maybe we are crazy for doing what we did, but I just don’t care.

I wanted something for myself.

I wanted something for him too. I wanted him to know what real intimacy could be like.  What I imagined it was like.

I can hear the television in my mom’s room. I’m not done wanting things. I pull on my pajamas. I don’t feel ashamed they have little cartoon turtles on them. I don’t feel I’m too mature or experienced to wear such a thing.

I
’m glad.

I do feel different
, but it’s more inside. I feel calm, comforted. I feel strong. I didn’t choose to have sex to keep the guy around. I chose to have sex because it was what I wanted. I was safe. I thought it through. I controlled the situation.

I don’t knock before
entering my mother’s room. She’s my mom. I have a right to be here. Life doesn’t change the fact that we’re family. I can tell instantly that my mom is uncomfortable with me being in her sacred space. She sits straight up on her bed and begins to rearrange the pillows, trying in vain to make it look perfect. Once she has fixed the pillows, she moves to tame her hair. A tight smile appears on her face.

She is looking better
, though maybe a little pale. She’s dressed. That’s something. I worried she was up here rotting in her nightgown.  She even has her hair done and makeup on. I can tell she’s feeling a little more herself.

So am I.

We are making progress.

I take
a seat next to her on the bed, and she goes stiff.

“Are you going to yell at me?”
she asks nervously. The tears well up in her eyes.

I shake my head, and s
he lets out a sigh of relief. “I’m just here to talk. Is that alright?”

She contemplates the idea for a moment and then nods her head.
The problem is now that I have my mother’s full attention, I don’t know what to say to her. I bite on my bottom lip and furrow my brow, willing the words to come out. They stay hidden, buried. As always. I begin to trace patterns on her comforter with my fingers.

My mother clears her throat and my hand freezes. “Brett? Did you take your brother’s car out today?”

I swallow. I wonder if my mother is going to use the first conversation we have had in years to admonish me for taking my dead brother’s car. I grit my teeth and nod, bracing for her words.

“Your father thinks I’m an idiot for salvaging it,” she says softly. “How did it drive?”

I look up at the woman who bore me, and I know my face shows it all—my complete and utter shock. “I wondered how the car got back in the garage and who taped it up.”

My mother shrugs. “It is rather silly. I know that. Surprisingly, the car wasn’t totaled. Isn’t that the oddest thing? I mean
, he died in that car, but it wasn’t destroyed. Your father wanted to get rid of it. It was a clunker anyway. But I demanded that the engine be fixed. I didn’t want them to do much to the outside. Just tape it up, I told them. It’s the way…” Her voice trails off, and she starts to sniffle.

“The way Tristan would have wanted it,” I finish.
Suddenly, I’m crying. I am sobbing. I need my mother. I feel a strength in me, but it doesn’t mean I’m healed completely.

Maybe my strength is what allows me to reach for my mother.

I bury my face into her lap and cry until I cannot cry anymore. Somewhere during my crying, my mother’s arms find their way around me.

When I can talk, I tell her everything. I tell her about Tristan’s affair with Officer Daniels. I tell her about his suicide note. I tell her about kissing Sophia and the fight. I tell her about what it was like having her gone, and how I realized I never gave her the respect she deserved.
I tell her how much we needed her and how much I need her still. I tell her about my experience with vodka. I tell her about Ed, how I love him and how he’s leaving.

I don’t tell her about the sex.

That is something between Ed and me.

Something I need no one to touch.

When I’m done talking, my mother starts crying full-out. It’s my turn to comfort her. She tells me how she always suspected Tristan was gay. She admits that she didn’t think it was alright. She wonders if Tristan could tell that she didn’t approve. She said she tried to feel differently, she just didn’t know how to. She tells me she wishes she could leave my father.

When we are both cried out, I make us some coffee. I convince my mom to come downstairs. We stay up all night watching reruns on Nick at Nite.

We are not healed. We are not perfect.

It’s just a start.

Sometime between
I Love Lucy
and
The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air,
I begin to realize something. I think about my brother’s poem. I’ll never be sure what he meant by leaving it. I can only create my own meaning.

Maybe he meant it to be like this.

I decide on something else, though. I’m writing my story from here on out. Starting with my own exposition. Starting with my brother’s death.

It’s just a start