Speaking With Tongues

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine, In Which My Ears Fill With Tears, Again

You should’ve seen my family standing there in my room, all seven of them. I woke up several hours later, but they were all still in their sparkly church clothes and high heels (well, my mom anyway). I couldn’t really talk or anything because my jaw and mouth felt sore as hell, but as soon as they saw my eyes open, my mom did a cartwheel and raced to my side, grabbing my hand and weeping all over me. I moaned, because I didn’t want her to touch me and move my body, but moaning wasn’t such a good idea, because it made her weep even harder and shake me like a Quaker. My brothers all stood by the window, looking sort of relieved that I had woken up, and James even smiled at me. He smiled at me like he was watching me play my violin or something, not like I was in a hospital bed with every bone in my body, broken. My dad came to my other side and kept stroking my head with one hand and holding my hand withthe other.

I suddenly remembered what had happened (not the accident, but what happened with my pastor and all), and I wanted everyone to get the hell out of the room. But not only did that not happen, but something worse, much worse, suddenly happened. The pastor walked into the room. The church had this habit of calling the pastor to every hospital emergency to have him pray for whoever was sick or in danger of dying, but seeing how I was very neurotic from medication and feeling pretty emotional, I forgot about all that and I had this idea that the pastor was there to ask for my forgiveness or something. I obviously wasn’t thinking right, but I didn’t know it; all I knew was that I couldn’t talk but I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs and claw my fingers in his eyes. No...I don’t want that, I realized. I wanted to get my vengeance by having a response that he would never expect. Silence. I would never speak to him again, I would be cold and unbendingly distant, and, I wouldn’t even tell anyone why. I wouldn’t tell anyone what happened, but I would act as if something did happen. Like this big mystery. Not that I needed to find some justification, because what he did was pretty bad, in my opinion, but because it seemed all the worse if I chose not to tell anyone what he did and just treated him like the lowest human being ever. It just made it worse for him, so that’s what I wanted to do.

Anyway, since I couldn’t speak or be responsive at all, and I sure as hell didn’t feel like it anyway, I sort of rolled my eyes and pretended to pass out again. I don’t think anyone saw me though, because they seemed to think I was just sleeping. My mom was filling the pastor in on my injuries, while trying hard not to sob, but she eventually broke once she finished. So hysterical. I was going to be ok and everyone knew it, but she still acted crazy. It was always very unsettling to me, her emotional insanity, and it seemed even worse now, in room 971, with stupid pink and turquoise walls and cold tile floors and a vase with fake white magnolias. 971...it couldn’t have been a worse number. If you want to know the truth, I’m o.c.d about odd numbers: I hate them.

I really did want to pass out, but I ended up having to listen to my pastor praying over my body while touching my bruises. Even my parents poked me all over the place, and everyone in the room started praying with the pastor. He was crying (I’ve always wondered how pastors could do that- cry when it’s so convenient. They should really try out for the thespians.) and swaying, sporadically standing on his tippy- toes, going up, going down; he used his hand on my body as a lever, unavoidably poking my bruises. I couldn’t hate him more than then. My heart was swelling with anger and hatred, and it all somehow came out as hot tears slipping from the corners of my eyes and down into my ears.