I don’t know why Mama doesn’t like to talk. I think that old people don’t like to talk so much and I don’t want to be like that when I get old. I just want to say everything to all the people that I know and even strangers, except Mama says not to talk to strangers. That’s another thing I don’t get. I don’t know why I can’t talk to strangers because they’d probably be nice to talk to when I don’t want to talk to only my family anymore or to Daniel. I’d only pick the nice ones anyway who wanted to listen and would talk back.
Mama
You’re always so sweet for asking about the kids, Ellie. Nobody else seems to ask about the kids. But they’re all doing great– especially Janie. She’s away at school now and we don’t get to talk very much; she has so little time. It’s so funny because Janie talked so much back in grade school. By high school, though, she’d tapered her word count. But of course you noticed, you always seem to notice these things. Anyway, it was strange getting used to such a quiet house. Now that she’s left, it’s even stranger. I’ve noticed how creaky the steps are. Everyone thinks that the sound of creaky steps is homey, but I don’t like it.
Ellie, I need to say something that’s been bothering me. I know it’s such a random thing, but...I think that I was unfair to Janie when she was young. Actually, I know I was. It was when she reached high school and grew quieter that I finally noticed– that I had never taken the time to listen. And I’ve come to understand that I was a bad mother, in this regard. I don’t know why I never made time to listen and to respond. Maybe I was afraid of her honesty. I don’t know. That is my one regret with my children. And it might be unfair to say that I don’t regret things with Liza and Liam. But I did give them love and I gave them support in every way that they seemed to need it. But with Janie, I didn’t. And now that she’s at college, I’ve missed my chance. And I realize what I’ve done to us. I don’t know how to apologize for something like that.
Ellie– I’m sorry if I don’t ask about your kids as much as I should. I ought to check in more. I’m just learning.
Part One
Janie
Sometimes my mama yells at me. But when she yells it’s because I did something stupid, she says. Like one time I tried climbing a tree. And I fell and hurt myself. I had to get a cast and when I asked her to sign it she said no because I shouldn’t have broken my arm in the first place. She said that if I had listened to her I wouldn’t have cost her so much in hospital bills.
This time I only forgot to put the Legos back in the box. It’s not really my fault I think, because she was calling me for dinner. But then she saw them on the floor and yelled and said that what if Liza came over and got one? She’s not even one and could eat it and choke. But Liza was in her Packyplay thing and couldn’t have gotten them anyway.
Sometimes I get yelled at for talking, too. I talk a lot. Out of all the kids, I talk the most. There’s Liza, Liam, and me- Janie. Mama says that I talk three thousand more words a day than Liza and Liam. Liza doesn’t even talk yet so really I just talk more than Liam. But that’s OK with me because I have a lot of things in my head, and I like to tell other people about them. Like that the grass is so green I want to grow it out of my head instead of just my brown hair. Or like how in the spring I lay on the playground during recess so I can hold the sun. My body gets so warm and I want to be that warm forever. I try to catch it all in me before the bell rings and I have to go back to class. And I get up with woodchips all over my back and in my hair. My friend Daniel tries to pull them out before we go inside.
At home in the summer Mama is still at work during the day. She is a nurse at the hospital and I bet that she is really good at it. When she isn’t yelling she is so nice that I want to hug her and tell her that I love her all the time. But when Mama comes home from work she says it’s been a long day and doesn’t want to talk. Daddy isn’t home so much because he stays at the office all day and sometimes doesn’t come home at all. Like one time he was gone for a whole week and didn’t come home once. Liam cried and that made Liza cry but I didn’t because I kept trying to ask Mama where Daddy was. But she didn’t want to talk and told me to shush every time. She yelled at me after Daddy had been gone for five days already and I asked her why again. That’s when I started to cry with Liza and Liam instead of asking.
Part Two
Janie
I’m so uncomfortable that I want to topple the table and run under the cover of chaos. Why do I go on dates? I’m watching this boy struggle to find words and thinking how tired I am of initiating conversations that peter out. I know that’s so mean of me to say, I’m sure that he’s nervous. But I’ve been on three first dates in the past month and they’ve all started and ended like this. And there haven’t been any second or third dates because they’ve all been clams. I keep hoping that I’ll find a new boy that won’t be so closed up. At least this one picked a nice restaurant. And it’s just off campus so I can get home quickly and get to sleep.
He’s trying to talk now and I should listen. I don’t want to become my mother, Christ. He’s saying something about his economics class, about money. I don’t like dealing with money or counting. I’m such a bitch. He’s trying, Janie.
The waitress came with our food. I stare at my plate of gnocchi until he says that it looks great, and I look up to smile and nod. He has nice eyes. They’re hazel and gentle looking.
While we eat, I try again to make conversation. I don’t like small talk at all, even though it’s a necessary part of getting to know someone. It just takes up so much time. There are so many things that I want to say and hear and humans have such a limited amount of years to get all their words out. Don’t ask me about my hobbies, ask me what I want to learn or what I want to understand. Ask me whether I like the dimmed lights in this restaurant, or if I prefer spaces more illuminated. Oh lord. Someone stop me, I need to become a better member of society and do what other people do.
I think that the silence as we try to think of something new to say is not uncomfortable. Well, it’s not uncomfortable for me. It’s just that I can see his discomfort, and that’s what makes me feel awkward. It’s like an awkward loop from hell, a snake eating its tail. I so want people to feel comfortable around me, and I don’t know how to reconcile that with the natural discomfort of others. Maybe that’s my purpose in life, to help people find comfort within themselves. Christ, college is really warping me into a nut, if I think I have that power. I should just drop out and open up a talk shop. Anyone can come talk to me about anything. I’d probably need to do background checks to make sure that I don’t get assaulted. That’s mean Janie, shut up. Shut up and listen to this nice boy in front of you who is trying.
Boy
Doug, it was terrifying. There it is, that’s the answer. All I could think was how is this girl so calm? I was over there with sweaty palms, trying to find something interesting to say to her. I could tell that she was bored, pushing her gnocchi around the dish. Damnit Doug, I make people so uncomfortable. I hate first dates. It has become fact. Why can’t we just talk about something important, you in know?
Don’t look at me like that, it makes me feel like an asshole. I doubt that you ever feel awkward, you’re smooth as hell. And you know what, it’s not my fault that I don’t have that God-given gift. Anyway, if you’re so smart, so knowledgeable on the subject, why don’t you give me a few pointers instead of watching me struggle? I’m sure it’s really funny for you, that you’re having a grand time. But guess what– I’m not. So why don’t you teach me? Show me how you handle silence.
Man
I don’t know how to describe it, Teddy. You shouldn’t ask me to describe something like that. I’m not a poet.
Well if I have to describe it, I’ll have to steal some words from shrewder people. What’s that quote from Vonnegut? Something like, “Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment, there is no why”. The Tralfamadorians get it. Those aliens just allow things to be, no following cause and effect. Janie introduced me to Vonnegut. But anyway, that’s the truth. Janie and I are trapped in the amber of the moment. And I don’t want to explain that, I just want to hold on to her.
Part Three
Janie
This man. He’s just woken up and carried the edge of his mouth into a grin. I’m still unsure if this is all real. If I’ve really found a love like this.
I’m cloaked by his arms, finally a warmth like that playground sun. When I say I’m in love, I mean that I’m in love with more than just his being. Like our silence. I’m in love with our silence. It spreads like a tide up the shore, coats us in calm. And this is new for me, this quiet mouth. This quiet mind. I’m not thinking about anything except for how lovely his green-grey irises are, how the left one is not totally centered.
Of course, things are difficult sometimes. Not always so elegant. Sometimes we fight; we spit words, and then we ignore each other. Maybe he was late from work and we didn’t have time for our dinner date. For the third time this month. Maybe I forgot that his parents were coming over on a Monday night. Honestly, I forget what our arguments are over half of the time. But afterwards we move around the kitchen together and apart, and this is a silence that burns.
Taking time in our own minds- alone- is necessary and useful. And it is awful. Cracks between us become much clearer on days like that. They don’t open enough to send us plummeting into the core of the earth. Or, they haven’t yet. But they are plenty wide to prevent our reaching each other. We cannot talk over them. We can only wait until they re-seal themselves.
But right now, we are exquisite. He is not uncomfortable, and neither am I. On the contrary, I have never felt more at peace without my words.
This makes me sound old. But I am, and a lot of what I’ve heard about being old is true. I used to think that it was too tacky, that I would never taste the nostalgia of aging. But here I am. Old and meditative as ever. I let my mind take me where it wants to go.
When the sun sets I sometimes want to cry. It’s been setting before me for sixty-three years and I’ve only just started to understand it. I’ve only just started to love it as I should. It’s beautiful and overwhelming, and that makes me sound even more sentimental, which sometimes causes my children some discomfort. They’re embarrassed and don’t know how to handle some of the things that I say. I wouldn’t have been able to handle it at their age, so I hold onto the words. It’s easy and I don’t mind
Husband
Honestly Don, I don’t know how to handle it. Janie hasn’t been remembering things lately. She gets confused a lot, and I can tell how much she hates it. I want to bring it up to her on one of our walks, when it’s just the two of us. But their silence is so sweet– I’m afraid to fracture the stillness between us.
Don’t look at me like that. You don’t know what this is like, to be afraid like this. You don’t have a wife to be afraid of losing! Don– Don I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.
Listen, I’m consulting with a doctor tomorrow, okay? I called him, I made an appointment, I’m going while Janie is at Greg’s. I have it all under control. Anyway, I have to run back to the house and make sure that she’s alright. Again, I’m sorry for what I said, I really am. And thank you for hearing me out. I had to say something to someone or I’d have gone crazy.
Part Four
Janie
Age used to scare me. I was afraid that I’d reach my sixties and only talk about the weather. I worried for a long time, and then it didn’t happen. Instead, I came to the understanding– around forty– that I don’t need to talk if I don’t have something meaningful to say. Which is something that I must have first heard in Kindergarten. But I’ve only recently learned to sit in the middle of conversations and listen.
Of course, Maria was at my porch earlier trying to talk to me about the weather. It is a glorious day, a warm day animated by flitting leaves. But talk of weather is a filler, and I don’t like filler. Naturally, I didn’t offer much conversation, and after five minutes or so Maria left with the excuse that she had to let her Weimaraner out. I feel guilty– I wish that I was more easy-going and able to speak in fluff. But I just can’t.
My husband understands this best. There are less things to say to him the longer that I’m with him. It’s not that we don’t want to talk to each other, or that we don’t have anything to share. The difference is that we’re so comfortable in silence. We like to submerge ourselves in it on our walks. It reminds me of scuba diving, when there is only your breath. How poetic, when it’s all just so simple.
However, it’s when I’m alone that I feel the true depth of silence. Yesterday, I was ambling along one of the trails near our home. I wanted to rest in the wildflowers off of the dirt path– they’ll only be in bloom for a few more weeks. But I knew that if I did, I wouldn’t get up. I’d fall into a trance, like I do on the porch when I’m listening to the thrushes. In the wildflowers, I’d feel the ground and want to hold it and look at the horizon until I start to see it bend around the globe.
I find this quiet everywhere, though. Especially, with all the kids gone. Greg and Andrew are working already and Jackie is just finishing up graduate school. I recently noticed how dark her hair was and wondered if it’d been like that all along. Or if she’d dyed it and I hadn’t realized. It’s such a deep brown and reminds me of the bare maple tree outback after it rains. I suppose I’ve started to see so many more things around me–things that have always been there.
Last Tuesday I stopped by the house before work and heard shouting from the driveway. When I got inside, Dad was holding Mom by her shoulders. She was sobbing and shaking while Dad pleaded with her. He wanted her to remember who he was. He was begging her to. But Mom couldn’t.
I got Dad to let her go and brought Mom upstairs. I told her that I was a nurse so that I could get her into bed. While I pulled the covers up, she stared at the ceiling. I waited next to her bed for a little bit, but she wouldn’t stop staring. I don’t know if she saw something up there or if she just didn’t want to talk. So I left.
Downstairs, Dad was still standing where I left him. I hugged him and he cried. He sobbed into my shoulder, even though I’m half a foot shorter than him. I brought him to the couch and we sat there, next to each other. We just sat for half an hour, and then I gave him a kiss and left for work. It ached and I don’t think that it will ever stop aching. There is nothing to do.
In the car, I played with the radio tuner. I flipped past opera, pop, jazz– I couldn’t find a good station. You quickly get tired of trying to find the right music when it’s only ten in the morning and you’ve already stopped by your parents’ house to pull them apart. When you’ve shuttled your mom up to bed without a word and watched your dad weep. So I flicked off the radio and focused again on the road, both of my hands on the steering wheel.
Part Five
Janie
It’s quiet now. The man downstairs was so angry with me before and I couldn’t get him to let go of me. He was shaking me as if to move all of my bones around and change my shape. I just wanted him to let go so that I could stop being so frightened for one minute of everything in my life. Then the young lady came and got him to let go. She is so lovely.
Sometimes my mind is all noise, but not right now. I’ve been getting lost a lot this week, and I never remember how, but I feel safe now. I feel safe now so that man doesn’t matter.
There are only some faces that I remember. One is that man’s face. Only I can never figure out where he’s from. I just know that he can be mean and sometimes cries when he looks at me. The other is the young lady’s face. The one who got the man to let go before. She has hair like maple trees. She’s my favorite because she doesn’t ask me questions. She knows that I don’t want to talk.
It’s safe, but it’s too quiet maybe. I want to say something but I also don’t. My voice feels weird when I try it out. And if I try it out people always want to talk to me and I don’t want to talk to anyone. So I choose silence.
Jackie
Mom is resting finally, but she looks so odd on the couch. We don’t want her in hospice, but she just looks so odd. It’s the same leather couch that we’ve been using for twenty-four years, the one the color of the maple tree outback. Mom matches the cracked bark. I’m ashamed, but I have to avert my eyes. It’s just too much.
She forgets things. It happened so quickly and made everyone so disoriented. I think that things started eight years ago, but the worst parts happened in the last few months. I tried watching Still Alice because I couldn’t read any more blogs written by Alzheimer’s patients. It made me want to smash all of the plates in my cabinets. The movie was an attempt, but that soundtrack and that script- too poetic. It’s not a poetic end, not gentle or elegant.
“All the rest is silence
On the other side of the wall;
And the silence ripeness,
And the ripeness all.”
-W.H. Auden
