Free The Language of Silence by Tiffany Truitt Page B

him to be…”
    “Shut the hell up.”
    I turn to see Ed glaring at my mother. I barely heard him say the words. His face is red. His hand moves from the doorknob and it’s shaking.
    “Like I could control him,” my mother continues, ignoring both Ed and me. She doesn’t care who she tells. She just has to tell someone that she shouldn’t be blamed for who Tristan was.
    “You didn’t even know him,” I charge, a hardness slipping out between my words.
    “Stop being so dramatic, Brett,” she yells, pointing her finger into my face. “Everyone knew what he was, and it made your father sick. He always blamed me. Told me I made him into that —”
    “Stop!” I beg.
    “I could see it every time I touched your father,” she continues. “I would reach for him and he would cringe. Like it was some disease I gave Tristan. I really think your father thought I encouraged it. I was his mother. You really think any mother wants that for her son?”
    “No,” I say, shaking my head. “You weren’t his mother. You were just the thing that gave birth to him. You were never a mother.”
    She slaps me. I almost want to laugh. It’s in this moment I see my mother for who she really is. I see how much she has always resented having children. I see how much she blames us for her pathetic life.
    But I can’t laugh. I caress my cheek with my fingers.
    “You don’t even miss him,” I say softly. It’s the most painful thing I have said in my entire life. She throws up her hands in an attempt to dismiss my statement, and begins to walk back to the kitchen. She probably wants another gin and tonic.
    But I can’t let her leave. I still have to protect him.
    “No,” I shout. I can’t remember the last time I yelled at anyone, at least not like this. “I’m not done with you!” I follow her into the kitchen. I can sense Ed following behind us. Somewhere in the back of my head , I hear my guidance counselor’s speech on the different stages of grief. I wonder what stage telling off your mother belongs to.
    She pretends to ignore me and grabs a glass. I snatch the glass from her hand and throw it against the wall. “You think because you know one thing about Tristan, one little thing, that you know him? You never knew him. And you don’t know me. And as for your husband, you don’t have a clue. You’re merely a girl he had sex with and got pregnant. But I know you. I know you have struggled with a way to make yourself feel better about hating your children since the day they were born.”
    She falls back against the counter.
    “How come you didn’t ask more questions, Mom? Just because you’re a drunk doesn’t mean he was. How come you didn’t ask more questions?”
    “Brett.” His voice stops me. I feel his hand wrap gently around my wrist. He’s touching me. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, tugging on my arm.
    I look up at him, and I want to cry.
    “Are you sure?” I ask.
    “No. But let’s go anyway.”
     
     

 
    Chapter Fifteen
     
    Ed :
     
    I can’t stop myself from glancing over at Brett as I drive. She keeps her eyes on the passing scenery. She bites on her lip. One hand is trapped under her knee while the other rests gently against the window—halfway between wanting to be anywhere but in this car with me and knowing she has nowhere else to go.
    As we pass the McDonalds, I know we are in my world. Streets away from the gilded mansion she is used to living in. When Tristan was alive, we all pretended such boundaries didn’t exist. Now that he’s gone, it feels like it’s impossible to pretend anymore. We come from different worlds. And while I am having my fun fucking around in hers, I won’t be able to stay. Nothing is permanent except the lines that separate her place and mine. I’m being reckless bringing her into my world, testing my self-restraint.
    Am I strong enough?
    What the hell am I doing?
    It was stupid to ask her to leave with me.              
    But I