Minder

OLALLIE  I tried to numb my skin to the screams echoing through my tamed skull. I tell myself it isn’t me. I would never give myself the privilege of acting out in such conditions. To be so exposed, with no refrain. Shaking, startled with no door to hide behind. It’s a stream of witnesses that rush in—nurses, doctors, other patients come to see the deaf girl make noise for the first time. They hear a catatonic holler, not the sweet southern belle I was trained to be. Flashbacks to my young mother, and I shudder against the panda promises she condemned me not to break. Be kind, she would whisper with her fingers. But in those 3 minutes and fifteen seconds, I couldn’t find solitude; I couldn’t find a good bone in my body. Failing her came at a price. Inhale a long breath, blink, Lord Jesus, help me blink through this awful pain. I exhale out to the sound of her voice calling my watery name. Always has the rush of waves in the distance as it mumbled. It’s almost close, and I could practically feel it. Almost alive if I believed enough, the more I edged closer to the imaginary sound. I realized what an awful trick of my mind made me a victim. She never spoke to ears that could hear her. No, Luna Lovett only translated through signed gestures and long hugs. Blink once, leaving them closed. I stop the shouting, which halts the pain traveling up my spine. I don’t feel the needle they jab in my thigh, but I sense I’ve gone too far to be seen again. When I wake, there are some nightmares worth living through. Mine was an extraordinary kiss with time. “Where did you go, pretty angel?” My cellmate lingers near but not too close. I probably heard the rage that broke last night and knows I am a lunatic. There’s pressure behind my ears, where Knox politely improved my odds of hearing. It itches from the stitches since I again ripped out the cochlear implant.   Something he wanted, something he needed. Not understanding me was going to be a struggle for him. But Knox Krause eliminated roadblocks, no matter how many casualties. I didn’t want to hear a world where he demanded simple behavior. I tried to remain muted from the outside. Because if I couldn’t listen, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as bad. “I’m here.” Zailey, I think her name is, sits with me for hours. Not making a noise, just focusing out the same window. Blurred with our privacy. Maybe she says it for comfort or to get good points with the staff. Who knows, but she remains next to me. Not making me believe in compromise or insanity, just regular breath. I’m here. I point to myself; my hands go around to my sides in circles. I’m here. Repeating the signs repeatedly, wondering what the hell that even meant anymore. Nothing but shame filters through their compliments. They can keep them; I have enough guilt. ~ Two days later, I am allowed to leave my room, and if my skin shade had a name, it would be a pale promise. After breakfast, I spent two hours passing back and forth on the 8 feet of the fenced-in lawn we shared with the children patients. Since I was here, I had made one friend; she was the epitome of a rebel if I ever did see one. Zailey Jensen did things her way until the ways she did things turned against her. She had lightning striking hair, tattoos, and pierced dimples. I hope your mind didn’t go to the gutter and think I said n*****s instead of dimples; she is a lady, after all. The few short weeks after I came here, she came up to me and never left my side. We didn’t talk, and she didn’t try to communicate with me like a daft i***t with a speech impediment. No, sir, Zailey sat there like we were both sharing a similar hurt and didn’t know how to express it other than a gentle nod in either’s direction. To tell you the truth, nobody really doesn't know my facts. I hardly do it myself. Or at least I try to avoid them. This is why my biological father thought it might be a good idea if I stayed here for a while. He didn’t give much choice. When I thought I was coming home for break, he held out a duffel bag and told me not to die. Lennox (Knox) Krause was like that, and I assure you nobody expected him to be tender toward any one of his four kids except Leonie. I may have been the only one without matching last names to theirs—all different mothers except the twins who, of course, were cohabiters of the same uterus. First, his high school sweetheart, Rebecca, is 15 and dreaming of forever. After she had Leonie, something changed in her; a dark substance came to the surface and took her life before I was in the presence of the Krauses. Luna always said soft words about her; I remember she often cried when she visited her deceased friend. I think Rebecca was the role model you could never cast any shame on. They are infinite and indestructible in your mind. How would you recover from a loss that monumental? Is there an instruction manual I could pick up at the local bookstore? Something that describes the healing process from such heavy grief you wouldn’t think to fail? I didn’t know those answers; I couldn’t pretend all the time that I did. I only absorbed so much silence before one noise set it exploding, and I would combust. Seeing Luna’s face flat against the pavement. Pools of blood coughed out of her mouth as she wheezed, trying to stay calm for me. While Asher, my mother’s boyfriend, screamed at the top of his lungs, I felt it in the tips of my sandals. He shook the earth with his terror, the phone not even by his ear, calling out commands to emergency response. His lips ran faster than my 9-year-old eyes could keep up. So I didn’t try harder; I shifted my gaze back down to her. When I went to stand up and go to her, Asher shoved out a hand telling me to sit on the curb. I sat back down, reaching out my hand. I put one toe on the sidewalk while I lay on my stomach to touch her outstretched hand. Her blinks were coming slower, and I hesitated to count them. But when the last one continued more than a minute, her grip limp, I crawled closer to her and curled myself underneath the only mother I ever wanted. The only one that mattered to me. Everyone that dies young or old is always gone too soon. But my mother and I, our relationship was over too soon. A lot happened in those two years we were together. Luna took over custody of me after my grandparents passed away. She was always there in the background of dance recitals, piano concerts. My mother was still my hero; my intense spectrum was based on the levels of Luna’s heart and spirit. Now, at 16, I can’t say I’m anything like her. Because weaknesses weren’t in her description. And there is so much suffering I could never understand by how she held her head high through all of it. It wasn’t until the police arrived, the flashing lights of the ambulance, that Asher took me from her warm arms. He tried sitting me down beside him while talking to the officers, but I wouldn’t have it. It must have been the Krause in me, but it was the first time Asher was compassionate and held me tighter. Maybe he realized that we’d both lost our other half. Or perhaps he realized her broken arm with the word metanoia tattooed was still outreaching toward me. Tears didn’t wash down my face. I wish someone would have been there to slap my virgin cheeks and tell me to shed some pity to respect thy mother. Yet, it didn’t occur to me what was happening, why my mother was frozen in time, and the crimson red turned a dried maroon around her lips. The way they tucked her in so she wouldn’t be cold, she was just taking a nap with shining eyes still glistening in our direction. At nine years old, I couldn’t hold back my first word, and though she was couldn’t hear my voice anymore, I looked down at the woman who gave up worlds for me, and I said, “Bye, Momma.”