The Language of Silence (23 page)

Three Years Later

Ed
:

I haven’t been home in five years. So, to say I am a little nervous as I walk up toward the house is a bit of an understatement. It’s not like I haven’t seen my mother in five years. I made it a point to meet up with my mom at least twice a year.

Just never in Wendall.

That place, like it or not, was home. I wasn’t ready to go back, even for a visit. I would only go back when I felt alright—alright with everything that happened and everything I did.

My mom had a kid three years back. I have a brother. It’s a little unreal. I hope he can forgive me for missing so much of his childhood. I’m ready to be a brother now.

I’m ready.

I haven’t actually talked to Brett or seen her since the bus station. I sent her a couple postcards. When I worked on the farm in Iowa, I sent her a card. That was two years ago, and the first time I felt comfortable contacting her. I didn’t write a novel or anything. I told her I was doing better. I told her I liked working with my hands. I told her I missed her.

Maybe it wasn’t fair of me to contact her. She didn’t write anything back. Instead, she sent me a used copy of
The Fountainhead
.

I know
Mom works till seven, so I reach for the spare key. I like the idea of getting used to the house again before she comes home with Lincoln. My brother.

Wow.

I have a brother.

I set my duffle bag down by the door. I close my eyes and inhale. It still smells the same. The house is the same. I’m the one who is different.

I’m happy.

I’m ok.

I decide to relax a little and watch TV before checking out my former room.  One step at a time, let myself reconnect with this place.

But then
I see her.

Brett.

She’s curled up on the couch with my little brother snuggled protectively in her arms. They’re both asleep. Their faces are flushed from the Georgia summer heat.

I still think she’s the most beautiful girl in the world. Just the sight of her causes my knees to buckle a little. I figured, or hoped, I would get to see Brett sometime soon. I just didn’t expect it to be this soon.

My little brother shifts and his eyes open. He stares at me. I’ve met him, and I know my mom has shown him pictures, but he’s staring like he’s trying to decide my future. Is he going to let me into his life? He snuggles closer to Brett and her arms automatically tighten around him. He pulls on her hair.

“Go back to sleep, Link,” she mumbles.
He pulls again. “You hungry?” she asks, still keeping her eyes closed.

I take a seat in the chair opposite them. I want to watch. I want her to teach me how to be a sibling.

“You know you have to take a bath, right? And I don’t want any yelling. Your brother comes home tonight.”

She opens her eyes.
The smallest of gasps escapes from her lips. Her eyes widen. Her shield is only down for a second, but I see her. And God, I missed her.

Lincoln
—Link looks from me to her to me and back to her. She’s the judge. She’s the one he trusts. I am thankful she has been here for him. Mom told me Brett sometimes babysat. I can see it’s more than that. She loves my brother. She wants to keep him safe.

He loves her too.

I love her even more. I didn’t think that was possible.

Brett
sits up and pulls Link closer to her. She stage whispers into his ear, “What do you think about this strange man, Link?”

Link giggles. “He not strange man. He my brother.” Link jumps off her lap and runs to me, throwing his arms open for a
hug. I kiss the top of his head and look up at Brett. I can’t stop looking at her. It’s always been a physical need. Chemical. She offers me the brightest smile I have seen in years.

I walk Brett to her car when my m
om gets home. My mom asks her to stay for dinner, but she declines.

Brett leans against
Tristan’s beat up car. “You’re looking good, Edward.”

“I
s it cliché for me to say you’re looking good too?”

She laughs. “Not any more cliché than me saying it first.”

It feels weird for things to be so easygoing. Not weird. Just….

“Hey. What are you doing tomorrow night?” she asks me suddenly.

I shrug.

“Want to come over? I can make dinner. Well, I can make a frozen pizza.”

“Um. Yeah. Sounds great.”

She flashes that brilliant smile at me once more, and I am left breathless.

****

The Jensen household is different than I remember. Brett tells me her father and mother are separated. Well, secretly separated. Her father has his own apartment. Her mom travels all the time. They still take a family Christmas photo.

Her mother isn’t home now.

Traveling.

I can see from the pictures on the mantle that Brett often travels with her mom. I like this. I like to think of the world knowing Brett Jensen.

The second level of the house has become her own apartment. After dinner, she gives me the tour of upstairs. Her room is totally changed. The décor reflects her age
—twenty one. Wow, she’s twenty-one.

I want her to tell me about everything I missed.

So many unfamiliar objects scattered in her room. Each one a story, a time I missed in her life. But there’s some of her old life there as well. I see the postcards I sent her tacked onto her mirror, right next to a picture of her and Tristan.

She leads me to what use
d to be her brother’s room. There is a giant writing desk sitting in the middle of the room, and the walls are covered with pages upon pages of her latest manuscript. She’s a writer. She’s had some success with her first book and is starting her second.

I open a can of beer. I brought a six pack
with me thinking I probably needed some liquid encouragement. I have some things to say to her. I offer Brett a can.

“No thanks. I don’t drink,” she says, taking a seat on the floor of her writing room
—Tristan’s old room. I sit on the floor across from her. We stare at each other.

She slowly smiles. “What you thinking about, Ed?”

One of those darn questions. I laugh. “God, I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

“So, you never left Wendall? Never went to college?” I ask, leaning back on my elbows and staring up at the girl who changed my life.

Brett shakes her head. “I had some stuff to take care of here first. Mom and I started therapy. Was actually pretty helpful. And I didn’t want to leave. I like my home. I didn’t want to go to college, so I didn’t. I wanted to be here, and I wanted to write. I’m pretty good at it, actually. Not that I’m not interested in your travels. Not all of us tried the
On the Road
therapy. How’d that go for you?”

“Good. I feel good.”
I take a deep breath. And I start talking. I pull a napkin out of my wallet. Brett raises her eyebrow. “Remember that night when you asked me about losing my virginity?”

“Yes.”

I wait to see a look of accusation or hurt, but there is none.

“Remember what you told me when I dropped you off?”

She nods.

“I get it now. And I want to say something to you. I don’t expect anything from this. I just need to say it. I went through my whole life not saying the things I wanted to say, afraid of what would happen when I did. Traveling the road, being with myself, I had a lot of time to think. You meet so many different people, so many happy people, and you begin to ask yourself
, what would make you happy? There are so many different versions of happiness out there, Brett, it’s just crazy.” I take a deep breath. “I bought a farm right outside of Wendall. Isn’t that crazy? I’m gonna try and run it. It might backfire on me, but who cares? I gotta try for it.”

“Wow. Ed chas
ing the American Dream. I like,” she says, kicking my foot with her foot. She bites on her bottom lip, and it takes everything in me not to reach for her.

I swallow. And now
, for the hard part. “I want to tell you I remembered you. I want to tell you I believe every word you said to me as if they are my own.” I toss the napkin—where I’d written down Brett’s words five years ago—across the room. I know these words by heart:
“I’ll always remember you. I’ll remember you every time I kiss someone. I’ll remember you every time I’m brave enough to enter into a new relationship. I will remember you on my wedding day. You are the first person I loved.”

Brett is quiet for a long time. Maybe I should leave. I don’t expect anything from her.
I just needed her to know.

Brett clears her throat. “You forgot the last part.”

“What?”

She grabs m
y hand. “Maybe we will work out. Maybe we won’t. Either way, you’ll always be part of me. And there is nothing you can do to change that.” She leans over and kisses me lightly on the lips. It’s a start. It’s more than I hoped for. Who knows what will happen next month or next year? I remember the book Brett sent me.

You can’t love anyone unless you love yourself. And sometimes
, loving yourself feels damn near impossible.

Maybe we will work out, and maybe we won’t. Either way
, I’m not running.

The End

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