THE SPACE BETWEEN SILENCE(8)
1236 Words
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
March 22, 2014
Clara’s eyes fluttered open, and for a moment she wasn’t sure she’d slept at all. The night had stretched on endlessly, her staring at the ceiling, willing herself to drift off, her thoughts refusing to let her. It wasn’t the first time. Lately, sleep had become something she chased but never caught.
What made this morning different was the hour. She was awake before the sun had fully risen. That never happened. Usually, her mother had to drag her out of bed. Yet here she was, restless, her body buzzing with unease.
She sat up, blinking at the pale light filtering through the curtains. Then, almost without thinking, she swung her legs out of bed and began moving through the house. A broom found its way into her hands. She swept the floor, dusted furniture that was already clean, folded blankets that barely needed straightening. Her hands worked, but her mind was elsewhere.
She was waiting. She hated to admit it, but she was. Waiting for a ping, a vibration, anything to tell her, Monica and Annalise had seen her message. She kept telling herself they were busy with training. But how hard was it to send one reply?
As she adjusted the flower vase on the center table, her mother padded into the living room, rubbing her eyes.
“Clara?” Mrs. White’s voice was thick with surprise. She paused at the doorway.
Clara turned, gripping the broom like a lifeline. “Good morning, Mom,” she said lightly.
Her mother raised an eyebrow. “You’re up? At this hour?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Clara answered, forcing a smile.
Mrs. White studied her, concern flickering in her gaze, but finally just sighed. “I’ll start breakfast,” she murmured, heading toward the kitchen.
As soon as she was gone, Clara’s hand shot to her pocket. Her pulse quickened as she unlocked her phone.
Still nothing.
Her stomach twisted. It had been over a day since she sent the message. Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe the training really had them drained. But the excuses rang hollow. Miranda must have told them she was sick. They had to know. And yet, no one had called.
She wanted to brush it off. She wanted not to care. But the silence hurt.
With a sigh, she shoved the phone back into her pocket and drifted toward the dining table, the faint clatter of dishes in the kitchen only making the quiet around her feel heavier.
***
Breakfast was served. Clara sat quietly with a bowl of steaming yam and rich egg sauce. The familiar aroma should have comforted her, but her appetite was thin. She moved the food around with her fork, nibbling here and there, her thoughts elsewhere.
Her father sat at the head of the table, sipping tea as he scrolled through his phone. After a moment, he set it aside and looked at her with a gentle expression.
“Clara, how are you feeling about orientation week? Have you started preparing?”
Clara’s lips curved into a small, nervous smile. “I’m excited… but also a little anxious,” she admitted, her chest tightening with the uncertainty of it.
Her mother reached across to squeeze her hand. “That’s perfectly normal, sweetheart. New beginnings always feel that way. But remember, you’re stronger than you think.”
Her father nodded. “We believe in you. Just take it one step at a time.”
A little of the tension inside her eased. Their support meant more than she could say, though she still found herself stirring the yam absently, letting the sauce go cold.
Her mother’s voice was soft. “You’ve prepared well. And if you need anything, we’ll be here.”
Her father added, “Just stay focused and don’t let distractions weigh you down.”
Clara only nodded. School hadn’t been on her mind at all. She was resuming not because she felt ready, but because staying home, isolated, wasn’t helping either.
“Do you have everything for your clearance?” her mother asked.
“Yes, Mom. Everything’s ready,” Clara replied.
Her father drained his tea and rose, adjusting his shirt. “Good. We’re proud of you.”
She watched him leave.
Her mother lingered, eyes searching Clara’s face. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
Clara forced a smile. “I’m fine, Mom.”
Mrs. White didn’t look convinced, but she let it go. “Alright. Just tell me if you need anything.”
Clara sighed once she was alone, propping her chin on her palm. The untouched yam sat heavy in front of her. Tomorrow. Maybe things will feel normal again.
______
Miranda stirred as the morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across Beyoncé’s bedroom. For the first time in what felt like forever, she had slept soundly, no restless tossing, no gnawing unease. Just rest.
Still drowsy, she reached for her phone. The screen lit up with several missed calls, all from her mother. Her chest tightened.
She stared at the notifications for a long moment. She missed her mom, of course she did. But how could she keep pretending things were normal? How could she ignore the fact that her mother had chosen her husband over her? Some days, Miranda wondered if he was even her father at all.
She set the phone aside with a quiet sigh. There was nothing to say.
Beside her, Beyoncé slept peacefully, dark curls spread across the pillow. The steady rhythm of her breathing filled the room. Miranda turned away, rubbing her arms as if she could shake off the heaviness pressing in. Maybe her mother’s calls weren’t about what she feared. Maybe. But deep down, she doubted it.
Her hand drifted back to the phone. She almost called, almost gave in, before she locked the screen and tossed it onto the nightstand. Not now.
Her eyes wandered around the room instead. Cream-colored walls, the oversized walk-in closet with its careful rows of shoes, the vanity gleaming with designer makeup. It wasn’t so different from her own home, luxury was familiar to her. But what Beyoncé had, what this room radiated, was a sense of taste. Style. The kind of effortless elegance that came from being the daughter of two fashion designers. Miranda couldn’t help admiring it.
She slipped out quietly and padded down the hallway. From below came the faint clinking of dishes. The sweet scent of pancakes drifted up, wrapping the house in warmth. That was what struck her most about the Wesley's, not the beauty of their home, but the atmosphere. They smiled. They laughed. They cared. It made her ache for something she rarely felt in her own house.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Wesley stood at the counter, perfectly composed even in a simple robe. She turned at the sound of Miranda’s steps and smiled.
“Good morning, dear. You’re up early.”
“Yeah, Good morning, Mrs. Wesley,” Miranda said, returning a small smile. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Mrs. Wesley’s knowing look was gentle, not prying. “Tea? Or would you prefer juice?”
“Tea would be nice.”
As the kettle began to hiss, Miranda felt herself loosen. Here, she wasn’t the unwanted daughter, or the girl walking on eggshells around her father. Here, she could simply be Miranda.
And for now, that was enough.
- Writer
