Louder Than Words (19 page)

My eyes flew open, and my hair was matted with sweat.

“Are you all right?” Mrs. Fisher put her arms around me, patting my back, rocking back and forth. “It’s okay, I’m here. It’s not really happening. Just a dream.”

I mimed typing and she handed me my Hawkie Talkie.

“I WAS IN A TOY STORE WHEN I WAS SIX, AND I THOUGHT MY MOTHER HAD LEFT ME AND THEN SHE CAME BACK. AND ALL OF A SUDDEN I WAS THIRTEEN BUT STILL IN THE TOY STORE, HOLDING THE SAME DOLL, BUT MY MOTHER WAS GONE.” Exhausted and out of breath, I felt like I’d just swum the English Channel.

“Memories can be messy. It’s very easy to mix up actual events with fears and anxieties. Different time periods can blur together, especially if the emotions underlying the different events are the same. Your panic at being lost as a child is very reminiscent of the anxiety and abandonment issues you probably experienced when your parents died. Fear of abandonment is not an emotion exclusive to small children.”

“WOW. YOU’RE GOOD AT THIS.”

This woman had explained everything I was feeling in such a simple, straightforward way. Being able to relive events from my past and understand them in the context of my life now was so powerful.

“Do you feel better?”

“SO MUCH BETTER. AND IT’S LIKE BEING WITH MY PARENTS AGAIN. IT’S SO REAL. SINCE I NEVER GOT TO SAY GOODBYE TO THEM, IT’S LIKE HAVING A VISIT. THANK YOU SO MUCH.”

Even though it was scary and emotionally wrenching, it felt good to reconnect and realize that my family was still very much alive in my memories, however hidden they were.

“I’m glad, but you look like a limp dishrag, so I think that’s enough for today. Now that we know what works, I think we’re on our way.”

“DID I SAY ANYTHING WHILE I WAS UNDER? HOW LONG HAVE I BEEN OUT?”

It was dark outside, so it had been a couple of hours at least. Maybe Ben would come home soon. I knew I looked like hell, but I was so desperate to see him again that I didn’t care.

“No words, but you did make sounds, like a newborn kitten—you were way down inside yourself. Remember that lava has to travel from middle earth to the surface before it can erupt. It’s a long trip.”

“SO HOW LONG UNTIL I EXPLODE?”

“Hard to say, but I’m confident it will happen. Would you like a cup of regular tea? You look like you could use it, and you can tell me more about what you remembered.” We walked arm in arm back to the kitchen. “How about a cookie to celebrate your accomplishment?”

I gasped. “THAT’S ALMOST EXACTLY WHAT MY MOTHER SAID.”

“Great minds work alike.”

For a second I wondered if my mother had been reincarnated in the body of Ben’s mother, but that was just nuts, wasn’t it?

“IT WAS THE WEIRDEST THING, THOUGH; I WAS SEEING THINGS THROUGH MY OWN EYES, BUT THEN I WAS WATCHING MYSELF FROM A DISTANCE, LIKE MY LIFE WAS A MOVIE. HOW DID THAT HAPPEN?”

“The brain works like that. On the one hand you’re reliving what happened, but you’re also like a third party observer, because you’re seeing something that already happened. It’s strange, but if you think about it, when you dream at night, don’t you sometimes watch yourself as if from the outside?” Reverting to her role as teacher, Mrs. Fisher was a font of fascinating information.

“I GUESS THAT’S TRUE. I NEVER REALLY THOUGHT ABOUT IT.”

I sipped the hot, sweet tea, eager to try it again. As unsettling as hypnosis was, it was exciting.

The back door slammed. “Hey, Annie, I’m home.” Into the kitchen strolled middle-aged Ben, tall and slender with the same wild hair, but tinged with silver. This was clearly his father. Ben would age well. Yet another check in the plus column. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had company. I’m Michael Fisher, Ben’s dad.”

“Hi, babe.” Mrs. Fisher reached up and kissed her husband on the cheek. “This is Sasha Black, Ben’s friend … and the young lady who grew up in this house.”

I stood and reached out to shake hands. But instead Ben’s father put his arms around me in a bear hug. “I knew that. I feel like I know you already. Ben has told me so much about you.” I hoped not everything.

“NICE TO MEET YOU, DR. FISHER.”

Tears lined up under my eyelids, waiting for their marching orders. There was something so emotional about being in my old house with two people about the age my parents would have been if they were still alive, who clearly loved each other, and for whatever reason, seemed to care about me.

“Please call me Michael. Dr. Fisher makes me feel like I’m in class.” Michael pulled up a stool and sat down next to me.

“And you must call me Annie. All this Dr. and Mrs. stuff is way too formal.”

Had I landed in some alternate universe? Here I was sitting in the kitchen with the parents of the boy I loved, but who didn’t want to see me until I sorted myself out, which I was trying to do with the help of said boy’s mother. It was all perfectly comfortable and easy. Maybe it was the house that made me feel that sense of safety and belonging, but maybe it was these extraordinary people. I didn’t ever want to leave, and that made me feel disloyal to Charlotte and Stuart.

“So what have you two ladies been up to this afternoon?” He ran his fingers through his hair and gazed adoringly at his wife.

“We’ve been taking a little stroll down memory lane, courtesy of my special herbal tea.” Annie gestured to one of the many little jars on the shelf next to the stove.

“Ah, I thought it smelled like the inside of a lawn mower in here. Tastes like shit, but it’s good stuff. How’d it work?” Michael looked at me expectantly.

“IT DEFINITELY WORKED.”

“Almost too well, I think.” Annie gave me a peck on the cheek. “A little upsetting to go back when the door’s been closed for so long. I think next time will be easier, don’t you, Sasha?”

I nodded. She seemed to know exactly how I was feeling without me having to say anything. Was that perceptiveness what they called emotional intelligence? Or perhaps I had forgotten what it was like to have a mother figure in my life. As amazing as Charlotte had been the last four years, she wasn’t long on maternal instinct, and I realized I had missed having someone who could understand me without my having to explain myself. Maybe this woman had absorbed my mother’s essence from sleeping in her bed, eating off her dishes, inhabiting her space.

The back door opened, and there he was. For once, I hadn’t been thinking about him. “Hi, I’m home. Oh, sorry. Today’s Wednesday, isn’t it?”

Ben looked at his mother, his father, the stove—everywhere but at me. My fantasy that he would smother me with kisses, unable to control himself, evaporated. Instead it was the classic post-breakup awkward moment. What do you say to someone who a week earlier had gotten his face bashed in trying to rescue you from sexual assault, and before that had almost been sexually assaulted by you? There was no Hallmark card for that. For a moment no one spoke.

“Hey, Sasha, what’s up?”

He acted surprised, but he had to have known I was here. Before he even came through the door, he could hear my thoughts. If he’d really wanted to avoid me, he could have.

“YOUR NOSE LOOKS GOOD. YOU LOOK LIKE YOU AGAIN.” I typed. Thinking at him while his parents were in the room seemed rude.

Tapping the end of his nose, which actually looked a little bigger than it had before, he said, “I’m a quick healer.”

Mrs. Fisher rolled her eyes and said, “A bag of frozen peas is no substitute for a visit to the emergency room, but he finally let me line things up. So it’s not perfect, but at least his nose is back in the middle of his face.”

“It would’ve been fine anyway, Mom.” Ben rolled his eyes at his mother, clearly still embarrassed that he’d been on the wrong end of a well-placed left hook.

“I’m sure, darling. A bumpy, crooked nose gives you character. Don’t you agree, Sasha?”

Ben held up his hand. “Enough. Just leave me alone.” This was a side of Ben I’d never seen. Usually, he was the adult in the room, but now he was all child, and I kind of liked it.

“YOUR PARENTS ARE AMAZING. THANK YOU FOR LETTING ME GET TO KNOW THEM.”

“They’re pretty cool, most of the time.” Ben glared at his mother. “I hope they can help you.”

“IT’S GOOD TO SEE YOU.” I could be mature and gracious and rational, or at least pretend to be all those things.

“You too,” he mumbled. He stood on the far side of the room, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, still avoiding my face. I stared directly at him. My eyes were drawn to his like magnets.

This was painful. I put down my talking box
. I was in my room. Your room, I mean. I hope that was okay
. I left out the fact that I lay down on his/my bed.

“That’s fine. Anything that might help you get better. I do want you to get better, Sasha.”

He came over to me, put his hand on my arm for an instant, and then ran out, his feet pounding up the stairs, the door to his bedroom slamming. Like a phantom pain, the sensation of his fingers on my skin remained even after he’d gone.

Dr. Fisher cleared his throat. “I think I’m going to go for a run before dinner. Sasha, it was a pleasure to meet you. Please come back soon. This will always be your home.” Placing his hands gently on my shoulders, he kissed my forehead. “Everything’s going to work out just fine. Patience,” he whispered in my ear and left the room.

A week later, I returned to 7 Seashell Lane for round two. Excited and nervous, I could almost believe that my day was at hand. Didn’t I deserve a little good karma after all I’d been through? I went around the back and walked into the kitchen, just like I had done my whole life. Ben’s mother was standing in front of the stove, copper teakettle in hand.

“Perfect timing, Sasha. You look ready. Shall we?” she asked as she poured boiling water into an oversized mug. The kitchen immediately began to smell like a garden.

Not even realizing I was doing it, I scanned the adjoining rooms, looking for Ben, and then typed into my machine. “YES, I’M VERY READY.”

“Ben’s not here today. I’m really sorry about last week. He could’ve behaved a bit better, I know, but under all his middle-aged mannerisms, he’s still a seventeen-year-old boy. You two will work it out. I have a good sense of these things, and I think I know my son pretty well.” Annie handed me the tea, picked up her own mug and we tapped them together. “Cheers, darling.”

I nodded and guzzled the wretched potion. There was no point in being timid. I would have drunk gasoline if it meant getting Ben back any sooner. As the vague sense of vertigo began to take hold, I tottered into the living room and curled up in the memory chair, closing my eyes, waiting for Annie to set the scene, launch me into my past with her soothing patter.

“It’s winter, almost Christmas, you’re going to a concert at a church. Can you see it? What are you wearing? Is it snowing?” Mrs. Fisher’s soft, rhythmic voice lulled me back into my dream state within seconds.

Like an old movie coming into focus, the Douglas fir we had just decorated that afternoon, white lights flashing on and off, kissed the ceiling in the corner of the living room. Gifts were piled high underneath. It smelled like winter. Christmas music was playing on the radio.

“Liz, Sasha, let’s all wear our sweaters. It’ll be fun.” My father held up one of the four matching Icelandic sweaters he had bought on the Internet in a fit of holiday enthusiasm.

“It’s bad enough you’re making me go. There’s no way I’m dressing up like some freaky family of folksingers. Everyone’ll think we’re one of the acts.” Liz stomped out of the room and up the stairs, slamming her bedroom door.

“Sash, how about you? Please?” My father batted his eyes, half-joking, half-pleading.

“No way, what if I see someone I know?”

Until Liz had pointed out the dweeb factor, it hadn’t occurred to me that wearing matching sweaters was a bad thing. But in recent months she had been introducing me to the world of perpetual mortification in any activity involving our parents. On the rare occasion that we saw a movie together, she wouldn’t even sit with us, just in case she saw someone from school.

“Oh, Sasha, I’m losing you, too, aren’t I?” My father stood on tiptoe, adjusting the string of lights near the top of the tree.

“Jay, what did you expect? Let them wear what they want. Would
you
have dressed in matching leisure suits with
your
father? Liz is right—we
would
look like some queer Partridge Family redux.” My mother patted my father’s back. “But if it makes you happy, I’ll wear the sweater. I loved the Partridge Family, and at my age, nobody’s looking at me anyway.”

“It won’t be the same, but I suppose you’re right. Where did the time go? Why can’t they just stay little a little longer? You know, when we didn’t embarrass them simply by the fact of our existence. I want to be Daddy, not that loser whose only purpose in life is to open his wallet and hand over the car keys.” Moving the lights back and forth across the same three branches, my father continued to mourn the passing of our childhood. “I’m not ready for it to be over. If they’re getting older, then that means we are, too.”

“Face it, Jay, we
are
old. And this is all just a natural part of the process. If they didn’t feel this way, you’d be worrying that in thirty years they’d still be living in the basement, working in the school cafeteria, having a meaningful relationship with a cat. Is that what you want?” My mother’s voice was earnest. “Stop fiddling with the lights. They’re fine.”