Читать книгу Song of Silence - Cynthia Ruchti - Страница 10

Chapter 4

4

How long had it been since she screamed into a pillow? Decades. Probably when SamWise burst from her loins pre-equipped with colic. Today it only took one muffled scream before she stopped herself. Bad for the vocal cords.

As if it mattered anymore.

The bedroom door clicked open. Lucy sat on the edge of the bed, the pillow in her lap rather than over her face.

“Hey.” Charlie lowered himself to sit beside her. She felt her body tilting toward him and grabbed a hank of the comforter to keep herself upright.

“Hey,” he said again, reaching for her knee. The pillow stopped him. She moved it to the head of the bed, where it belonged.

Don’t make me talk, Charlie. Please don’t make me try to explain what I’m feeling right now.

“Do you want to talk about it? You can’t fix what you don’t acknowledge.” He rubbed her knee as if it were the seat of her emotions. “See?” he said. “I’m a better man for watching Dr. Phil.”

What did it mean when a line she would have found funny any other day smelled as bad as paper mill emissions? She had no sanity comforter to grab to keep her from sliding farther.

Wasn’t that supposed to be one of the perks of faith? Not falling apart when your world does? Blindly assuming it will all turn out fine one of these days? Sanity glue?

“ ‘I will not say, “do not weep,” for not all tears are an evil.’ ”

What language was he talking now?

Charlie lifted his hands, palms up, as if she should have instantly understood him. “Lord of the Rings?”

“I thought you slept through that.”

“Not all of it.” Those gray-green eyes she’d fallen in love with her freshman year at LaCrosse, almost teal today because of the shirt he wore—her favorite, she noted—brushed over her with a penetrating look that said, “I don’t understand any of this, but I want to.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. It’s then she noticed. The bedroom needs paint, too. Lucy didn’t move but scrunched her face against the sting of her own indictment. Random thoughts dribbled over into the spot reserved for rests, like the work of an undisciplined musician. She cleaned up the dribbles and leaned into the act of resting her head on his shoulder. Breathing. Drawing strength from his. Filling the rest-space with what it required—silence.

Silence that didn’t stop counting beats.

She’d made it part of every class’s curriculum—a discussion about rests. Their value. Their weight. Their purpose. “They’re not a vacuum of nothingness,” she’d said. “They have meaning. The music isn’t the same without them. Rests deserve as much attention as the notes you sing or play.”

Without breaks in the sound, she told them, music has no pattern or shape.

“Don’t lose your intensity. Don’t lose your focus. You can’t afford to ignore rests. Honor each rest as a precise note of soundlessness. Active silence.”

She heard her mind rehearsing the instruction she’d given young musicians for almost twenty years. Some listened better than others.

As she rested her head on Charlie’s shoulder, a knot in her neck untangled itself. Slowly. Like air leaking from a balloon. She felt the knot loosen its grip on her bit by bit. Lucy remained as still as she could, fearful of disturbing the fragile peace.

How many minutes, how many heartbeats, how many rests between beats did they remain that way? How many more, if Olivia hadn’t tapped at the door. “Mom? Dad? Sam and I are going to a movie. Want to come?”

Without even asking what was playing, without knowing if it was a movie with any worth at all, Charlie answered for them. “Yes! Great idea. Come on, Lucy. That’s just what you need.”

The knot in her neck hadn’t disappeared. It relocated. To her throat. She couldn’t swallow her own saliva.

Charlie stood now, tugging her to her leaden feet. The door behind him opened. Olivia peeked around her father.

The war raged as real as the Lord of the Rings final battle. Acquiesce? Or say what she really thought? Go along, against her inclination? Or stay, against theirs? “I’m staying home tonight. You go on ahead. Have fun.”

Charlie’s dumbfounded expression was getting a workout. “What? No. Come with us, LucyMyLight.”

“Staying home.” Lucy shook out of his tugging grip and ducked around the end of the bed toward the en suite bathroom. “I think I’ll take a shower, crawl into my jammies, and read a book.” Or something. “But don’t let me stop you three. Enjoy the movie.”

Olivia’s eyes asked if she meant it. Lucy nodded. “Go.” She shut the door to the bathroom before anyone could raise an objection. One of them must have heard when she depressed the lock button, leaned against the door, and slid to the cold tile floor. Probably Olivia. Lucy heard her magnificent daughter steer the boys into the hallway as if it were no big deal that her mother chose to stay home from a family outing, no big deal that she wasn’t handling the simplest things well, no big deal that the woman who normally went along with the crowd without voicing an opinion had turned vocal. A little bit vocal.

***

She stayed in the shower until the hot water heater protested. Towel snugged around her, she fingered volumizing mousse through her hair. Her natural curls behaved themselves well with the new—expensive—mousse Olivia had recommended. “How much longer will you be mine?” she asked the can. “Not sure you’ll work into the budget anymore.”

Lucy wouldn’t start that list tonight. All the things they wouldn’t be able to afford without her full salary. Private, nontraditional school. Nontraditional pension. Not the night to think about that.

In her pajamas, she padded through the empty house to the kitchen, noting along the way that the house breathed again, and it wasn’t just the air conditioner. The closed-in feeling it had sported for days was gone. Doorways resumed their normal width. Hallway walls no longer pulsed closer, closer. Airy, light, a home simple enough to keep the taxes lower than the fancier houses on the block but large enough to meet their needs and then some. With the mortgage paid off—thanks to the nineteen better years with full-time incomes for both of them—they might have to cut some other corners but should be able to keep the house. Charlie couldn’t seriously think they’d need to get rid of her car, though, could he?

We’ll go places together, Lucy. Why would we need two cars?

We can’t be together all the time, Charlie. We can’t.

No. Absolutely can’t.

What time was it? She glanced at the clock on the microwave. Time enough to sit on the deck for a while before the movie crowd dispersed. If the bugs weren’t too bad.

They were. Lucy took her book—a best seller she’d never heard of but Ania recommended—and retired to the kitchen nook so she could still have a view of the backyard, the paths lit by solar-powered patio lights.

The nook felt like a glorified window seat, the wide curve allowing an upholstered bench along the window wall with a round antique table and two chairs opposite the window wall. Charlie hadn’t griped about the feminine décor. His favorite spot was the breakfast bar. Hers was nestled into the blue and white toile with the mix of yellow patterned pillows.

She propped herself with her back against one of the side shelving units—all white, like the cupboards—feet crossed at the ankles on the toile. She reached behind the pillows to retrieve a lightweight quilt. The air-conditioning felt good on her face but cool on her arms and feet. Wrapped and settled, she opened the book and waited for the words to make sense, for her world to make sense.

The words swam on a sea of “How can this be happening?” After several failed attempts at page one, she closed the book and stared into the dark.

Seasonal Affective Disorder. That’s what she had. An inability to function well in a season when thick clouds formed by budget-nervous school boards block out the sun and make life-altering decisions. The medical community could offer no lamp for that kind of S.A.D., no uniquely designed light-emitting apparatus that would make a difference.

Light-emitting apparatus. That’s what she needed.

“Don’t mock me,” she said to the barely visible stepping stone illuminated at the head of the garden path. She couldn’t read the inscription from this distance, but she knew it by heart:

Your word is a lamp before my feet

and a light for my journey.

—Psalm 119:105

“Is it wrong to allow myself to be miserable for a while?”

The words scared her. Two months ago she would never have imagined making a statement like that. The RIF decision had changed her into someone even she wouldn’t want to be around.