I sit quietly in my seat next to Dad.
He doesn’t even look up from his newspaper, and once again, I would like to scream at him,Look at me! Ask me how I’m doing!But I can’t. A wall separates us, as difficult to break through as the steel safes at Fort Knox.
Inconspicuously, as if I had to make myself invisible in addition to being silent, I pour some nut muesli into my bowl, even though I’m not hungry.
Chewing as quietly as possible, I catch my brother watching me over the top of hisPsychology Today. When our eyes meet, he quickly looks away.
Another family member who’s relieved when I barricade myself upstairs in my room, simply because he doesn’t know how to deal with me. James acts like I’m deliberately not talking to him. Everything he says and does somehow seems like a protest against me as a person.
Okay, he’s mad at me because my expensive private school is eating up Dad’s income. That’s why he has to work for the company Wilcox and Sons in the garage, and his psychology studies have to wait.
Whether that’s why he snaps at me or completely ignores me, I can’t say. I used to know what was going on inside him.
That’s the worst thing about remaining silent and not being able to communicate—everything slips away. Not just yourself or the words, but also the people.
I glance from him to Arizona, who’s still listening to music and intentionally ignoring me, then to Dad. He notices, and I quickly look down, feeling the burden on my shoulders grow even heavier.
We’re supposed to be a family, yet here I sit next to them, and they don’t know anything about what I’m going through. They all think my silence is defiance or rejection.
Instinctively, I clench my hand and press my nails into my palm, making the wounds there sting, though the pain is almost relieving.
It’s not like I’ve always been silent. As a child, I was painfully shy, and Arizona was always the chatty twin. She was my mouthpiece to the world, and I managed to get away with it for a long time.
Later, when Mom abruptly disappeared, I stopped speaking to teachers and classmates. At first, it wasn’t even noticeable because Arizona had often spoken for me at school anyway. It wasn’t until middle school that Dad caught on.
He and the principal sent me to the school psychologist, who came up with a diagnosis for this phenomenon: selective mutism—not speaking because of fear or anxiety. And it only occurred during certain situations. Unfortunately, therapy was unsuccessful. I painted and did crafts, but I only continued to talk at home, although I never talked to Dad much. My dad isa serious, intimidating man. He’s tall, with wild black curls and piercing black eyes, and discipline is important to him. Even as a child, I could only whisper in his presence, which often drove him crazy.
Someone who has no problem speaking doesn’t understand what it’s like for me. For me, speaking is much more than simply opening your mouth and saying something. It’s like I’m giving up a part of myself, as if silence has become a part of my character. And the longer the silence lasts, the further I move away from the border between two countries—the land of silence and the land of language. The land of silence is like quicksand: you sink, and if no one pulls you out in time, you disappear into it.
I feel a dull pressure in my chest and push back the feeling of rejection. When I glance at Dad, he’s frowning and looking up from his newspaper. At first, I think he’s trying to say something to me, and my heart skips a beat, but he turns to Arizona.
Naturally!
“I’ve got something here that might interest you,” he calls to her over the noise of the mixer and the music from her headphones.
“What?” Arizona shouts back so loudly that I flinch. She pulls the headphones down around her neck and turns off the smoothie maker. She drinks the bright green contents straight from the blender and grabs a bagel from the kitchen countertop.
“Thanks, I made that for my break at fucking Wilcox,” James remarks dryly.
“Jamesville,” Dad snaps. “Stop it! You’re twenty, not fourteen.”
Arizona blows James a kiss and takes a big bite.
Dad taps the newspaper. “That concert in Minneapolis you wanted to go to this weekend... those Sinners ’N Saints...”
“They’re called Demons’ n’ Saints, Dad! You’re deliberately saying it wrong to annoy me. You know exactly what they’re called. Now, what about it?” Arizona forgets the bagel, her blue eyes almost piercing Dad.
“The concert has been canceled.”
“What?”
Dad is leafing through the newspaper next to me, still pretending I’m not here. Okay, I look like Mom, and there were misunderstandings between us, but that doesn’t give him the right to pretend I don’t exist. Misery creeps even deeper into me. I could be invisible, and my family would live the same way. My existence doesn’t matter at all.
“Demons ’N Saints cancels planned summer tour due to personal illness,” Dad reads aloud, pointing to the headline, underneath which is a photo of the popular lead singer. He’s ensconced in black from head to toe—just like James. His dark hair stands out from his head, and his eyes shine like light-blue ice on his black-and-white made-up face. He looks scary, more like a demon than a saint. I don’t understand why the whole nation loves him when the music is okay. If you like punk rock. Okay, but not good.
“This is punishment for fucking eating...”
“James!”
