mute

chapter 5

The following day, Billie woke up with a mix of determination and apprehension. The memory of her meltdown in Finneas’s room was still fresh in her mind, but so was the sense of calm that had followed once she sat at the piano. She knew that homeschooling was going to be a challenge, but she was willing to try again, to find a way to make it work.

After breakfast, Maggie and Patrick gently guided Billie back to her workspace in the living room. The atmosphere was calm, her parents moving with the kind of quiet patience that reassured Billie. They started the day’s lessons with reading, a subject Billie found soothing. The words on the page were like old friends, and she immersed herself in the stories, feeling the anxiety slowly ebb away.

As the day progressed, Billie found herself adjusting bit by bit. The predictability of the home environment helped, and having her parents and Finneas close by made her feel safe. She learned at her own pace, and whenever she felt overwhelmed, they allowed her to take breaks, letting her move between subjects as she needed.

But despite the small victories, the challenges remained. Billie’s Tourette’s and autism still complicated even the simplest tasks, and some subjects were harder to navigate than others.

When they reached math, a subject that had always been difficult for Billie, her anxiety began to spike. The numbers and formulas swirled in her mind, refusing to make sense. The pressure to understand, combined with the frustration of not being able to, triggered her tics almost immediately.

Her mother noticed the change, the way Billie’s hands began to twitch, her shoulders jerking with involuntary movements. Maggie tried to help, speaking softly, but Billie couldn’t focus. The tics intensified, each jerk and twitch growing more violent as the anxiety built.

“Let’s take a break, Billie,” Maggie suggested, but Billie shook her head, her frustration boiling over. She wanted to understand, wanted to make sense of the numbers in front of her, but the harder she tried, the worse the tics became.

Suddenly, a particularly severe tic caused Billie’s arm to jerk violently to the side, knocking over the books and sending her chair tipping backward. She tried to catch herself, but another tic pulled her hand in the opposite direction, and she fell hard to the floor.

There was a sickening crack as she hit the ground, and Billie cried out, clutching her arm in pain. Maggie was at her side in an instant, her face pale with fear as she gently cradled Billie’s arm.

“Patrick! Finneas!” Maggie called out, her voice filled with panic. Patrick came running, followed closely by Finneas, and the sight of Billie on the floor, her face twisted in pain, sent a bolt of fear through them both.

“I think her arm’s broken,” Maggie said, her voice trembling as she tried to keep calm. Billie’s face was pale, her eyes wide with shock as she clutched her arm, the pain making it hard to think, hard to breathe.

“We need to get her to the hospital,” Patrick said, his voice steady even as worry lined his face. He carefully helped Billie to her feet, being mindful of her injured arm. Finneas hovered close by, his heart pounding in his chest as he watched his sister wince in pain.

They rushed her to the hospital, the car ride a blur of pain and fear. Billie tried to focus on her breathing, on anything other than the throbbing in her arm, but it was no use. The pain was overwhelming, and the tics only made it worse. Every small movement sent a fresh wave of agony through her body, making her want to scream.

At the hospital, the doctors confirmed what Maggie had feared—Billie had indeed broken her arm. They set the bone, wrapped it in a cast, and prescribed pain medication to help with the discomfort. The doctors were kind, but the experience left Billie shaken. The combination of her Tourette’s and autism made the entire ordeal even more traumatic, the bright lights and noise of the hospital overwhelming her senses.

When they finally returned home, Billie was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. The pain in her arm had dulled to a steady ache, but the fear and anxiety from the day’s events lingered. She lay on the couch, her casted arm resting on a pillow, while her family hovered nearby, offering comfort in whatever way they could.

Finneas sat beside her, his presence a steady anchor as he carefully adjusted the pillow under her arm. “You’re going to be okay, Billie,” he signed, his movements slow and reassuring.

Billie nodded, but her thoughts were elsewhere. The fear of what had happened, the realization that even simple things like math could trigger such severe reactions, weighed heavily on her mind. She didn’t want to be afraid of learning, but the events of the day had shaken her confidence.

As the days passed, Billie slowly began to adjust to life with her broken arm. Her parents were gentle with her, understanding the need to go at her own pace, especially after such a traumatic experience. They temporarily avoided math lessons, focusing instead on subjects that didn’t trigger her tics as severely.

But Billie’s struggle wasn’t just with the physical pain of her injury. The change in routine, the constant presence of her cast, the limitations it placed on her, all added to the anxiety that seemed to lurk just beneath the surface. The frustration of not being able to do things as easily as before gnawed at her, making her tics flare up more frequently.

Despite everything, Billie still had moments of clarity, moments where she could find peace in the things she loved. Music became even more important to her during this time, a way to escape the chaos of her mind and body. Finneas often found her at the piano, playing with one hand, the music a soothing balm for her frayed nerves.

It was during one of these quiet moments at the piano that Billie first mentioned something that had been on her mind for a while.

“I want to learn how to dance,” she signed to Finneas, her expression thoughtful.

Finneas looked at her with surprise. “Dance?” he signed back, curious.

Billie nodded, her eyes distant as she thought about it. “I’ve always loved watching dancers, the way they move, so free and graceful. I want to be able to do that, to express myself with my body in a way that doesn’t feel like it’s betraying me.”

Finneas smiled, understanding what she was trying to say. “That sounds amazing, Billie. We can find a way to make it happen.”

Billie’s face lit up at his words, a small spark of excitement cutting through the cloud of anxiety that had been hanging over her. The idea of learning to dance gave her something to look forward to, something that wasn’t tied to the stress of school or the fear of her tics. It was something just for her, something that could bring her joy.

In the weeks that followed, Billie began to explore the world of dance in her own way. With her arm in a cast, she couldn’t do much physically, but she watched videos of dancers, studied their movements, and imagined herself moving with the same grace and fluidity. It became a new kind of therapy for her, a way to connect with her body on her own terms.

Even though the road was still full of challenges—her autism and Tourette’s still making every day a struggle—Billie found solace in these new passions. The journey was far from easy, and there would be more difficult days ahead, but with her family’s support and her own determination, she began to carve out a path that was uniquely her own.

And in those quiet moments, with the music filling the room and the thought of dancing in her mind, Billie felt a sense of hope that maybe, just maybe, she could find her own way to thrive, despite everything.