Tainted: Listening to the Silence

Oliver “I know this last interview wasn’t really great but don’t let that get you down, alright? Someone will adopt you soon. I promise. Oliver? Are you listening to me?” Mrs. Croxton said. She was the woman in charge of the orphanage where I had lived for the last nine years and five months. I just nodded. To be sincere, I hadn’t been listening to her. I don’t remember how many interviews for adoption I’ve had, never mind the times I’ve heard her say the same thing over and over again in the same fake cheerful tone. She’d pulled me aside after this last disastrous interview. Another thing she always does. And I already knew what she was going to say. “Oliver, look, I know it’s been hard on you. I know you haven’t had it easy. It’s true that what happened was simply awful. But you need to go on living. You need to change the way you see things, you need to move on, talk to people, relate, or else…” No would ever adopt me. I realized that a long time ago. And still I didn’t change. Don’t take me wrong. It’s not like I wanted to be stuck here for the rest of my life. But it’s just that people didn’t seem to like me, my issues, or my past. For the first year or so I had actually been hopeful that someone would adopt me. After all this time I’d learned it’d be best to count the days until I turned eighteen. So what difference would changing make? Why did I have to change for people to like me? Shouldn’t I change because I wanted to like me? I liked me just fine this way, thank you. “You just need to let go of the past and start living in the present Oliver. Do you understand what I’m telling you?” I nodded again and she sighed. I didn’t think she was mad at me for not talking. I liked to think she was just frustrated. This particular habit of mine was probably the reason why no one ever wanted to adopt me. I used to think so too. And maybe if I spoke, I’d already be living somewhere else with a family. But time stopped for no one. I was going to turn eighteen this year. No one ever wanted to adopt kids that were that old. They would enjoy the adoption money for just a few little months. And then they’d be left with a legal adult they had to pay for. Maybe not all the families that came in were after the monthly checks. But most of them were. Mrs. Croxton left me in my room. I sighed as I sat in front of my piano. I just kind of felt the keys without playing anything. I have always loved music. Since I was in my mom’s belly till now. Music has always been a part of my life. It’s hard to explain the connection I feel with music. It’s like music is just a part of me. A part of my life. Of every single second of it. You see, I’m what you could call a prodigy. My parents told me that when I was very small, I would always make music with something. They decided it would be good if I put all that talent to use. They wanted me to play the violin, because you know, violinist have some sort of prestige. I think. I never got the chance to ask them why they chose the violin. But I never liked the instrument. Instead, I would gaze at the piano longingly. I daydreamed of sitting on the bench and playing in a concert. I watched the other kids playing the piano and it looked… amazing. Wonderful. Melodious. Better, than the screeching violin. I loved it. When classes were arranged, I decided to play the piano instead of the violin. My parents got mad at me for going against them. In the end, we made a deal: they let me play the piano if I played the violin too. I broke my end of the deal though. I haven’t played the violin correctly in quite a while. Nine years and five months and thirteen days to be exact. My eyes focused back on my piano. It’s the only thing I had decided to take to the orphanage with me. The rest of the stuff was in a storage somewhere and someone was paying it with the money I had inherited. I probably needed to know that type of information since I’d soon have to take care of it myself. But I just… wasn’t ready. I had a hard time with just my own memories, if I saw all the stuff it would just be worse. I grabbed the stave paper that held the last melody I’d been working on and started to play it from the start. It was a particularly sad piece, I noticed when I played it again. Well, everything I composed lately sounded sad. I expressed my feelings through music and lately all I felt was sadness. No words for me. No literal ones. The piano always spoke for me, he was much better at it. I continued playing until I ran out of partitures to follow. My mind made a pause and wondered what to do. Then the music came to me and I continued playing. The falter lasted so little it sounded as if the notes were already on the stave paper. The music always flowed through me. I took pauses to write what I added to the song but in general the music came easily. Mom used to tell me I played the piano so well that someday I’d be a famous pianist. I believed her back then. Slowly, gently, unwanted memories came just as easily as the music had before. They invaded my mind. The music stuttered, tried to regain my focus. Like the beach’s waves, that began quietly and grew into a deafening roar, Vivaldi’s winter started to resound in my head. I hit a wrong key. Focus, Oliver. Focus. They died years ago, get over it. I tried it again, Vivaldi’s winter gaining volume and power. I hit a wrong key again. If only they’d listened. Another wrong key, and another one after that one. Everything sounded horrible, cacophonous instead of harmonious like it was supposed to be. Nothing had been right since the moment they left. I tried again but got the same result. Why couldn’t I ever find the right notes? The right chords? Why did everything seem good one second and wrong the next? Why couldn’t I compose anymore goddammit?! I grabbed the stave paper and threw it with all my force. The sheets gently fell to the ground around me. I yelled trying to release the anger inside me. It was always the same. I could never finish a song. I couldn’t compose. My entire life was reduced to the fact that I couldn’t seem to ever find the right notes. The music almost always flowed through me. Maybe I should try G sharp, I thought the next day. The teacher droned on about something or other but my mind was on the music. I played the melody mentally. But G sharp sounded wrong as well. I sighed. Let’s start fresh. Forget the old song and start a new one. It was my curse, forever beginning songs. School was easy. It didn’t require much, just studying and writing. Composing was never easy but for some time now it was impossible. All my free time was spent thinking of how to change this song or that one and make it better. In class, in recess, in the boss, as I walked from one place to the other, I was always playing the notes with my fingers and hearing them in my mind. My life had turned into a single ever-changing song. Just when I thought I would finish it, I came back to Vivaldi’s winter. About three weeks later after Mrs. Croxton talked to me, I was playing the piano in my room. The song had changed yet again and now everything was going, well, perfect. I was furiously jutting the notes and chords down. I would finally be able to finish the song. The end was near, I could feel it, I could sense it. The final note neared. I could taste it. There was a knock on my door and my focus shattered. The final note escaped yet again. I was left with just a vague feeling of what it could’ve been but that helped nothing. There was no way to bring it back now. It was lost and forgotten. I still tried. What was it? Was it a note? A chord? A silence? What was it? What did the song need? Talk to me, I urged. But the music was quiet. My frustration grew as I fruitlessly tried to cajole the music into flowing again. I was finally about to finish the song, everything seemed right and then it was gone, gone because of that f*****g knock on the door. “Oliver?” Mrs. Croxton said. Stupid woman. Stupid woman that never knew when to quit. Stupid woman that never left me alone. Yet another person that didn’t listen to me. “What?!” I yelled. More like roared. My throat hurt but the anger calmed down and I could breathe. I focused on my heart beat, willing it to go a little slower, waiting for her to talk but she never did. When I felt like a civilized human again, I turned to look at her. She seemed surprised, petrified by the door. I wondered what could make her like that and found the answer pretty soon. About nine years ago I stopped talking almost completely. I only did so when there was no other option. Then when puberty hit, and my voice changed to this low raspy tone that I hated with all my might. After that I just stopped talking all together. I was pretty sure Mrs. Croxton had never heard my voice. Her reaction made me roll my eyes –yeah, I can talk, get over it. I arched an inquisitive eyebrow at her and waited. “U-umm… There is couple here to see you,” she said, seeming to snap out of it. I nodded and got off the bench. I made my way to the only interview room in this place. Another couple who would to say they’d think about it and be back later. “Oh! Hello, you must be Oliver,” a woman said when I entered the room. There were three chairs in the room. Two on one side and one on the other. She was sitting on the side with two, so I guessed there was a husband somewhere. The woman was pretty, with long straight black hair, and pale skin. I nodded at her and sat across from her, the empty chair beside her. I looked at it with curiosity. Could I be wrong? Could she be a single mother? “I’m Ally Andel,” she said with a smile directed right at me. “My husband Jerry is in the bathroom. He’ll be here soon.” I blinked, wondering how she knew what I’d been about to ask. I pondered what she’d said but I didn’t have anything to say to that. Not that I would’ve said it if I had. I nodded and I just sat there looking at her. All the while her good mood never seemed to falter. Why did she want to adopt me? Could it be she didn’t know I’d turn eighteen soon? “So I hear you’re going to turn eighteen this year?” I nodded. My face betrayed nothing but I was very confused. How did she do that? Ally smiled. I noticed that she looked older when she smiled, the wrinkles in her eyes and in the corners of her mouth firmly marked. “Wow, that’s great! Aren’t you excited?” I just shrugged, it wasn’t all that important to me really. Birthdays weren’t a big deal here. There wasn’t enough money to celebrate everyone’s birthday. Plus, age progression wasn’t something to celebrate for us. She just nodded like she understood everything my shrug meant. Ally kept smiling at me. The silence extended longer and longer. Yeah, this interview was going great. She seemed like a nice woman but she would never adopt a kid that didn’t talk. Why couldn’t people understand that music was better than words? I wish I could hold interviews in my room. Maybe if I played for people, they’d hear what the piano said for me. “So, do you have any type of hobbies?” I nodded again. I decided this woman was telepathic. Ally smiled looking excited. I got confused. Who got excited about hobbies? Everyone had them, right? “Oh really? What do you do?” She asked. She could barely be still. Strange woman. I met Mrs. Croxton’s eyes and she nodded encouragingly at me. Did that mean I could take them to my room and play them some songs on my piano? If so, I thought, did I want to show them? “So what do you do?” She asked again, my pause somehow making her practically vibrate. Right then a guy entered the room and I couldn’t help but gasp. He had a huge scar in his face. It was a sort of big, healed gash on his forehead, nose and cheek, but the skin around his eye was just a mess of thick gnarly scar tissue, like a sort of whirlpool. The scar seemed like it was swallowing his face, his left eye right in the middle of it. I knew it was rude, but I just couldn’t take my eyes off him. “Oh! Jerry! Look this is Oliver.” Mrs. Andel’s face changed when she saw her husband. She seemed to be filled with warmness, which changed the smile she directed towards me. That warm smile brought something back, something from a long time ago. My mother, she used to smile at me and dad like that. It was love, deep heartfelt love. I turned to look somewhere else, pushing the memories to the back of my mind. Focus. “Hey, Oliver! I’m Jerry, nice to meet you, son!” Mr. Andel said, offering his hand. I was taken aback. I didn’t normally touch people. I took his hand a bit slowly, it was immediately swallowed up in his huge hands. “So Oliver, you said you had a hobby?” Mrs. Andel asked. Jesus, the woman had a one-track mind. Mr. Andel seemed to calm her down a little. She didn’t look like she’d start jumping from happiness anymore. If I showed them, would they understand? “He does? That’s great! Are you good at it?” He asked looking at me with a smile. I nodded again, looking down at my hands. Somehow smiling just made his scar look even worse, a hundred times more horrible. What was up with these people? What was exciting about a hobby? They didn’t even know what it was. I could’ve been dedicated to collect boogers for all they knew. Did I want to show them? “Well, what do you do?” Mr. Andel insisted. So pushy. Well, if they wanted to know so badly, I guess I’d show them. I got up, signaling them to follow me. I looked at Mrs. Croxton and she smiled. It was alright to show them my piano. I lead them back to my room and sat on the bench. They wanted to know. I wanted to show them. I wasn’t mute, the music spoke for me. It was the only thing I was good at, used to be good at… whatever. Suddenly nerves assaulted me. Would they listen? “You play the piano?” Mrs. Andel asked, distracting me from my mind. She sounded more than pleasantly surprised. I thought she’d have the first happy heart attack in history. I nodded and turned back to the piano. The music tried to lure me but I didn’t want to play something new. Not yet. I didn’t know if they’d listen. I pondered song and finally decided to play one of my old songs. I composed it the first time I missed a piano recital due to having a violin one on the same day. I got swallowed by the song, reliving that memory and playing it with the same sentiment I had composed it with back then. The pain felt fresh, the wound gaping open and bleeding. When the song ended, I took a moment to compose myself. Everything remained silent until I heard someone whimper. I had almost forgotten Mr. and Mrs. Andel were in the room with me. I turned and saw that Mrs. Andel was crying and that Mr. Andel had teary eyes. “That was great Oliver. Who composed that?” Mr. Andel asked. I pointed at myself and he seemed surprised, before he smiled. “You compose too?” I just shrugged, not wanting to explain the whole complicated situation with my composing. Dark clouds seemed to loom over me but I pushed them away. “Oh, it’s not that often, is it? I know what you mean, composing is really hard.” I looked at him. How did he know what I meant? I mean, Ally could read minds, but could he do it too? He just smiled at me, his eyes sympathetic. This couple seemed so cool about the fact that I didn’t talk. They just seemed to take it in their stride, like it was nothing. Other couples had become frustrated and angry at me. “I used to play myself. I preferred the violin though, but I had an accident that damaged my hands and well, I stopped playing,” he said, smiling a little ruefully as he showed me his hands. Both were a mess of scars like his face. I observed him, taking in the amount of scar tissue, wondering what could’ve happened. How he could talk about something like that so lightly? “Look, son, I think you should know. We’ve heard about you from Emily. We’ve known her for quite a while.” Emily? Emily… Oh! Mrs. Croxton. She’d talked to them about me? I didn’t react but from the corner of my eye I watched Mrs. Croxton. She just kept on smiling. “Anyways, when she told us about you, we wanted to meet you immediately. And well now that we’ve met you, we want to ask you something. Do you want to come and live with us?” He asked, pulling Mrs. Andel with him, who was nodding all the time. They were the first couple to actually ask me what I wanted. They talked to me as if I were a normal kid, as if I were answering all their questions and offering funny comments. What had he said? I didn’t know. I couldn’t focus. All I heard was him calling me son. It had been such a long time since someone had called me son, not just out of habit, but because he really meant it. Mr. Andel seemed to mean it at least. When my father was still alive, he called me son all the time. “We would love to adopt you Oliver, you’re such a great kid. I don’t know about you, but I felt a connection the instant I saw you,” Ally Andel said smiling. That’s what they’d been trying to tell me: They wanted to adopt me. Even though I didn’t talk, even though I was turning eighteen soon, even though Mrs. Croxton had probably told them about my past and my issues. They wanted me even though I was broken. It seemed like a dream. “So what do you say Ollie? Do you want to come with us?” Mrs. Andel asked. Nobody ever called me Ollie anymore. And she said it with such love. They looked at me with such love. Could they already love me? Without really knowing me? Maybe not. But they already cared about me an awful lot. I felt so warm and happy, and it felt a little odd. It had been a long time since the last time I was truly happy about something. Mrs. Andel talked about a connection. I don’t know if I felt it, but I wanted to try. I wanted to stay with them. I wanted to see those caring smiles more often. So, I did what I did best and nodded. I looked right at them and gave them a very small smile. I couldn’t remember the last time I smiled.