Free Silence by Deborah Lytton

tears.
    I leave my homework and find Emerson. We watch subtitled reality television. We sit on the sofa and share a bowl of sliced bananas. I know Emerson would rather be having our usual—popcorn doused with salt, but the salt and the popcorn would hurt my throat. So we both have bananas instead. I feel better when I am with Emerson. She treats me as she always has. No different.
    Later I get another text from Hayden.
    I think I know what your problem is.
    I angrily reply. You don’t know me at all.
    What if I do? Let’s make a bet—and if I’m right, you have to say yes.
    A bet for what?
    If you lose, you’ll go somewhere with me.
    Do I want to go somewhere with him? Like this? Probably not. But I can’t resist the idea of learning what he thinks is wrong with me. I want to see if he’s right. Somehow, he has tapped into my competitive streak—the one thing that can overcome my pity party. And that’s what makes me answer. Ok.
    You can’t imagine how to be a different you.
    I read it over three times to be sure. It’s not a very nice thing to say to someone. What makes you say that? I write it as a defense, and I know it. He’s onto me. Someone I barely know. He knows my secret.
    And I don’t like that. Another text comes in.
    I see you.
    And another.
    Am I right? Be honest.
    He is. He is right.
    I hate to admit it. But he does see me.
    And I felt that right away the first time I saw him.
    Maybe, I say.
    See you tomorrow at 2.

Seeing the unseen
     
    —  Hayden  —
     
     
    I like working in the nursery, watering plants and helping them grow. I think about Stella. Maybe I can help her too.
    I took a big chance calling her out. It was risky, and I might have lost her right then. She might never have wanted to see me again. But she is depressed. I can sense it. I want to help her, help her to be happy.
    Maybe that is the reason I was at the party that night. Maybe that is the reason we are connected. Because I can help her. Because I can see what no one else can. Being silent for so long left me as an observer of life rather than a participant. So I see things, know things. Sometimes before they happen.
    I see Stella, and I know what is happening to her. The silence is closing her in, and she is giving in to it—drifting into the darkness. I can help her. I can bring her out of the darkness. But to do that, I have to be honest with her—and she has to be honest with herself.
    She may never hear again.
    She needs to learn that there is more to life than what she has always thought. There is a world without sound. I want to show her all of the things she can still do. All of the things that make life worth living.
    I turn off the hose and coil it back into its holder. I turn the gardenias so their blooms face out. I line up the containers of basil, oregano, and thyme. Another thing I like about working at the nursery: you don’t have to talk to plants. You just have to water them and give them sun.
    “Hayden, give me a hand with those empty flats, will you?” my boss, Jeremiah, calls from the counter.
    “N-n-o pro-blem.” I cringe at my voice. I hate it. The stutter and stammer. It sounds like it doesn’t want to come out—and for eight years, it didn’t.
    From seven to fifteen, I was silent. After eight years, my voice forgot how to work. Now, every time I hear myself speak, I am reminded of the silence, and the reason for the silence. It takes me right back there, to the place I want to forget. I call back the words as they come out, pulling and pushing them at the same time.
    That is why my voice sounds like a train chugging up a hill, pulling and pushing. Never knowing if it will ever reach its destination.
    I collect the empty flats. Stack them neatly, fitting each one into another. I enjoy the mindless work. I carry the pile to Jeremiah. He points to a spot near the door.
    “That’s great. Just leave ’em there.”
    I set the flats down.
    “Can you give the indoor plants a drink before you