Years of Silence

CHAPTER SEVEN

A fractured rib. A concussion. A broken wrist for the second time in the last three years. Bastien was definitely down for the count, and thus my father and I were too. Not that we weren't somewhat usually. But people filtered in and out of the room as time passed, people waiting for my brother to wake up, people wanting to talk to me, or my dad, people wanting to do something for us. People wanting to help. Even one of the Carlton football players came, bringing flowers for me and a card for Bastien.

I felt like time passed by in a blur, and I could barely tell what was happening. I felt ready to break, ready for this blur to end, ready for it to be over.

Bastien didn't wake up. After the two months I've been here, eating gross hospital food and watching people feel sorry for us, my father and I decided to go home, get some clothes, and work on getting our lives together.

I walked into the house, and it sounded different. Felt different. The vibrations, I could almost feel them, but they weren't there. I felt when my dad walked past me into the living room, and I felt the stairs move as I slowly made my way up them. But as I glanced over into my brother's room, I wished I could feel the strum of those guitar strings or him running around his room, or him eating pancakes and watching Netflix.

I glanced down, and let my eyes rest on a sweatshirt, laying on the floor in the hallway. I picked it up and walked to my room. The remote to my old TV was laying on my bed, next to the box from my mother. I flopped on the bed next to them with the sweatshirt, and I fell asleep, with my brother's sweatshirt, thinking of my mother and what she would have given me.

I woke up hours later on my bed with my brother's sweatshirt tightly wrapped into a ball under my head. I could feel the moisture still left my tears that had happened most likely hours ago. I glanced up and saw my old ukulele sitting on my beanbag chair. I hadn't played it in years.

My mom had given it to me when I was seven, right after she realized I wanted one. She got Bastien a guitar that same year. He still plays his all the time, and mine has been left unplayed since the crash. I refuse to play it because playing it reminds me that she's gone, just like everything else.

I glanced up, and there was the box, still laying next to my head, wrapped in shining blue paper. Maybe I'd open it sometime, and maybe I'd play that ukulele someday, but today, it wasn't going to happen. I walked back down the stairs, now wearing the sweatshirt, and found my dad moping on the couch, like usual.

"I'm headed back to the hospital." I signed, walking toward the door. I flung it open, prepared to be struck by the sunrise, but it was dark. Not dark because it was early, darkened by a shape. I looked up and saw dark hair and purple eyes. "Can we talk?" He signed. I glanced down but nodded. "I'm walking to the hospital right now." I motioned for him to follow, and I closed the door behind me, walking east on the beat up sidewalk.

He walked next to me, and I could see him in my peripheral, glancing over at me occasionally. I stopped in my tracks, turning to him. "Why do you want to talk?" I whispered slowly, making sure I had the right words.

His eyebrows shot up within seconds. "So I see you have the same problem as me. Suddenly, after last night, I could hear everything. I don't know why, but I think it has something to do with you. And I wanted to talk to you about what happened after the game. I looked up, and all I saw was fear on your face, and I thought I had upset you. I didn't realize at the time that maybe you could hear me." He enunciated his words, talking slowly at first and speeding up as his soliloquy went on.

I felt the corners of my mouth rise a little, for the first time since Bastien was injured. As we walked, we talked more and more about why and what we'd do with this knowledge. At one point he stopped in his tracks. "Do you think other people can hear us? Like Bastien? Or our parents?" I nodded a bit. "Maybe. We should test it."