Chapter 9

The world had never been so quiet.

There were no clumping shoes on the wooden kitchen floor. No fuzzy television. No drunken snores.

My alarm clock still rang each morning. That one stair still creaked even at the slightest amount of pressure. My bedroom was still a mess. Mail was still being delivered. The refrigerator still hummed with a familiar electric buzz.

But everything was different.

The phone was relentlessly ringing. People on the line gave their condolences. After about the tenth call, I stopped answering.

At school, the silence was excruciating.

People I had never even spoken to, which were most of the students in the senior class, gave me sorrowful nods. Some tried to comfort me in classes or while walking down hallways. Sometimes, they would just stare. Almost no one spoke to me. No one except the teachers, most of whom recommended that I attend therapy, trying to seem like they cared.

Oh, so now they realize I exist.

What was there to talk about? It would just turn into an hour of some crack asking me how I felt about everything until I would flick him off once that mandated torture session was over. I was able to handle everything on my own.

What had pissed me off wasn't my mom or the talk of a funeral or how quiet my house was. What made me seething mad was how everyone decided, just then, to start caring about me. During this time, I received calls from relatives I hadn't spoken to in years who wanted "to rekindle a relationship" with me. People uncharacteristically reached out to speak to me, even if it was about something inane, like the weather or how much homework we had that night.

What sparked that interest? It wasn't because of me.

It was because of pity.

I hated being pitied. I could never accept it, even if it was the death of me.

I was smart. The salutatorian. I was excellent at music and volunteered regularly at my local library. Except for my alcoholic mother, I had seen my life behind rose-tinted glass. Maybe no one else thought that I was happy, but I didn't need, nor had I ever wanted, anyone's pity.

Besides, didn't I have a right to be upset? To be a little distressed? To keep to myself? All I wanted was time alone, but no one would let me have it. All I wanted was time to reflect on what had happened. How everything—

Was my fault. How I had insulted her. How depressed she had become. How I had driven her into a corner.

It was my fault, but everyone told me it wasn't. Who were they to judge me? Who were they to tell me what had happened? Who were they to worry about how I felt? Who were they to judge my mother as a woman who wouldn't do something like that? What did they know?

They didn't know anything.

Even though the world was silent, my mind was filled with a constant, piercing scream.

My mom was buried on a chilly, windy day in March. The guests were old friends, strangers, and distant relatives. Someone had asked me to make a speech, but I had refused, so no one spoke except the priest. As the ceremony ended, we were all surrounded by black limos and black umbrellas. As I stared blankly at my mother's gravestone, long after most of the guests had left, several people stopped by me to apologize.

Every apology made me even sicker.

I traced my fingers along the engraving of her name: TRACY DANAE SCOTT. The date of birth: 4-17-1968. The date of death: 2-26-2013. It was surreal. It was impossible. But the more I grabbed and clawed and squeezed the gravestone, the more reality sunk in.

I glanced at the limo driver as a fierce wind forced everyone to retreat. He was waving to get my attention, signaling for me to return as well, but I wanted one last word. One final goodbye. A sign that maybe my world wasn't crumbling as quickly as it felt like it was.

I heard only silence.

I never realized how important an income was until my electricity suddenly shut off a couple weeks later. Bills flooded the mailbox, but there was no money coming in. If I had gotten a part-time job before this mess, I could have been well-off. However, I soon learned to live without television and a microwave. Eventually, I would learn how to live without a heater. Only a week later, my water was cut off, too.

I don't know why I didn't just leave. I had a car and a motive, but not the audacity. I had lived in this house since my birth. I had taken my first steps here, had my first solid food here, and taken my first steps here. All of my memories with my parents and their friends were engrained onto the floors; they were embedded into the walls. Sometimes, I wondered why there was no one looking for me. Why was there no one trying to help me out of this situation? I was still in high school, so I couldn't work full-time. Regrettably, I was eighteen years old. It wasn't like the Child Protective Services had any obligation to come find me.

Since the cell phone wasn't paid for, I had no way to contact Alex. He might have tried to call my house phone, but I had received too many calls beginning with, "Hello? Is this Silvia? This is _ and I'm sorry for your loss." Since my car had about five miles worth of gas, it wasn't even worth trying to get away. I survived by myself. I bought food at a convenience store just down the street. I lit tens of candles when the sun would set so that I could see during the night. I didn't even cook anymore because there was no point if I was the only one eating it.

One evening, I was prepared to buy some water bottles and Cheetos at the convenience store, so I left my dark house and shuffled to my car. The sun was setting, so the sky was a light pink with an orange outline engulfing huge, puffy clouds. If I wasn't so depressed, I would have thought that it was beautiful. Some of the trees were beginning to bud flowers, but the air was bitingly cold. It was colder than usual for mid-March in coastal Virginia.

I opened Lisa and wasted no time stuffing my key into the ignition. It revved, then cluttered to a stop. Sometimes, it would take a few tries for the engine to start up. She was an old woman after all. However, I was worried after my fourth or fifth attempt to start Lisa was met with nothing but a sputtering and ultimately failing engine. My car was dead.

Too frustrated to curse, I exited the car, slammed the door behind me, and stormed back into the house. I had blown out all of the candles before I left, so I was clambering around in the dark to locate my belongings. I dropped my keys onto the kitchen table and the clang echoed throughout the hollow house. I stuffed fifty dollars into my pocket from a stash I had saved up over years of babysitting and working off the books at a dentist's office since I was fourteen. Mom hadn't made a will, so the placement of her inheritance was still being decided. I knew that he had kept a stash of money locked inside of a safe in her closet, but she had never entrusted me with the combination. I grabbed my gray beanie and a William and Mary sweatshirt to pull over my leather jacket, determined to walk to the store if I couldn't drive.

I left the house and the sun had set even further behind the trees. The wind picked up and I was more conscious of the impending storm. I marched along the sidewalk with my face hidden under my beanie and my hands in my pockets, keeping a tenacious grip on my wallet.

All of the houses in my neighborhood looked the same. Two-story brick houses with huge windows in front and detached garages. This was another reason why I liked the city. Everyone was different, so no one really stood out. I couldn't help but stand out as the poor high school kid with no parents, living in the only house on the block with no lights.

It was third week of March, so I was surprised to hear the incessant chirping of birds getting a head-start on mating season. Only a few of the trees had leaves, unsure what to do during this transition phase between winter and spring. The breeze had become warmer, but the ground crunched with winter frost. This was the kind of weather I liked, so I wasn't going to complain about having to walk in it.

Unfortunately, the breeze grew colder as the sky opened up. I was about half a mile away from Harris Teeter when my sweatshirt was suddenly soaked by hard winter rain. I laughed bitterly to myself.

It hadn't rained since the night my mom died.

I was so useless. I had bragged for years about how much of an adult I was. How much of an awful drunk she was. But I was hopeless without her income. I could do the laundry and the dishes and make myself dinner, but what was the point if there was no electricity, no water, and no gas? Just because I was the responsible one did not mean that I was an adult. What did it even mean to be an adult?

"So, you're right! I can't wait until I'm out of this house and I don't have to worry about you constantly!"

Did I really tell her that?

An adult wouldn't have blown up like that.

I was only a child.

While wallowing in self-deprecation, I heard the familiar purr of a brand spanking new BMW engine. There was only one car on the road and it was trailing behind me. As it pulled up to my side, the passenger window rolled down, revealing the first and last person I wanted to see at that moment. I bit my lip, wishing that he hadn't seen me looking as terrible as I must have: no makeup on, messy hair, wet clothes, muddy shoes, saggy hat covering a worn face.

Alex leaned over the center console, giving me a stern look. "It's pouring. Get in the car. I'll give you a ride." He offered while grinning at me, unknowingly revealing his pain and melancholy through his eyes. I ignored him and tried walking away, but he kept up with my pace.

"Silvie, I'm serious. Get in the car." His voice was louder, trying to sound more forceful. I stopped. So did he. I was uncomfortable and wet and I wanted to pout like a child, but I refused his offer. The store was only a fifteen minute walk away.

"Why?" I asked tartly without looking at him. He probably couldn't hear me over the roaring rain, but if I spoke louder, I anticipated a scratchy and shaky voice following suit.

"I want to help you."

"Yeah? Well, get in line." I faced him with a skeptic and defiant glare. Alex was the person I trusted most in this world; however, this trust burdened him with the role of 'the last person from whom I'd take any bullshit.' "I'm so sick of everyone saying that! And none of them really mean it!"

Alex reacted as though a small knife had been dug into his chest. He must have known that I was only guarding my feelings with cruel words, but that didn't make them any less painful. His bushy eyebrows crinkled in distress, but he let me continue.

The rain covered the ground in thick sheets; I watched them flood the streets while thoughts gathered inside my head. I gripped my hat, hoping that the pain from tugging my hair off my scalp would keep me from bursting. It didn't work. "Every day, it's been the same damn thing! People call every second to see 'how I'm doing' and to 'see if they can help!' Why do people, all of a sudden, care about me?! It's annoying! They weren't here in sixth grade when I broke my arm. Or when I was inducted into the National Honors Society! Yet, they think that they're close enough to me to offer up their food and their warmth and their houses! As if I needed those! I don't need them! I need to be alone!"

My screams echoed over the pounding rain, creating an entirely different storm. After a while, I had become so passionate that the sting of rushing wind and cold droplets on my face had disappeared. I felt the tears welling in my eyes, making me feel frail and ugly. I couldn't let Alex see me like this. I felt vulnerable. Helpless.

So I ran. I sprinted down the sidewalk, fearing that I would break down even further if I continued to look at him. My feet were heavy, but I ran anyway, even though I was slow in the first place. I was also stupid to think that he wouldn't catch up to me. I mean, he was in a car. Even though I heard the engine and the windshield wipers and Alex's voice screaming my name, I didn't look up.

I cut down a side street, hoping that I could scramble into some corner where he couldn't find me. There was no such thing in the suburbs, but I was desperate enough to look. I was desperate enough to the point that I was running away from a car and hiding from my best friend. The whole time, I was contemplating, What the hell is wrong with me?, but it was too late to turn back.

As I slipped and turned the corner onto the next street, Alex's car suddenly sped in front of me and braked, blocking my path. I pulled my beanie to cover my eyes and heard him jump out of his car, slamming the door behind him. I heard expensive boots splash through the mud and puddles in order to reach me, but I still refrained from peeking and possibly showing my swollen eyes. He didn't say anything. He stayed several feet away from me. I knew that his jacket must have been soaked and that his glasses were probably fogging up, but I couldn't face him.

My body was honest. Sometime during my flight, the tears I had been frantic to hide had slid down my cheek and were now clouding my vision of the damp and ill-repaired sidewalk. My face squeezed and contorted; I started making sounds that should have only been heard from a sick and emaciated feline. I attempted to quiet my sobs, but forcing those cries down did nothing but give me the hiccups.

I was pitiful.

"Silvie." I heard him mumble before a familiar set of arms gathered around me. Alex crushed me against him and held me tight to his chest, fearing that I would run away again. "It's okay. I'm here. You're fine." He cooed as his right hand delicately patted the top of dripping wet scalp. I could feel his heartbeat against my cheek and, even though it was fast, it was steady and strong. I closed my eyes, deciding to scold myself later for allowing myself to be seen with such an awful face. I soaked his shirt with new and salty tears.

After what felt like hours, I stepped back to peek at his face. His expression was one I hadn't seen before—a complicated mix of agony and remorse. As if on cue, Alex formed a fake smile, but the view of that distorted face stuck in my hysteric brain.

"Come on. Let's go." Alex led me to the passenger's side of his car. I struggled to enter with my dropping, weak body while he swooped into the driver's seat like a track star. He clicked on the seat warmer and cranked up the heat until I was sweating. Just to be overprotective, he also reached into the backseat and tugged on a blue hoodie with a black zipper. It still smelt like cologne. I didn't put it on; instead, I held to my chest, molding myself with its warmth and filling my lungs with its smell. "Aren't you cold? Your sweatshirt's soaked."

I thanked him silently since my mouth was too stubborn to move.

He didn't say anything. He shifted the car into drive and we headed down the street to his house. The only noises in the car were the patter of rain on the windows and the windshield wipers' rhythmic movements.

I felt horrible for taking out all my anger on Alex. Guilt gnawed on me worse than the vicious cold. Even though I could not gauge for a proper time to declare my apology, I was unspeakably glad that he was here. I wouldn't want anyone else but him.

I caught a glimpse of his face as he was intently watching the road, even with his thick and damp black hair obstructing his view. His gray shirt clung to his chest and, although it was in my peripheral vision, I could clearly see his defined muscles. I watched as his chest moved up and down with his breaths and I thought of how remarkably different female and male physiques are.

Wait, what am I doing? My face was enflamed and I turned away, scolding myself for thinking something so ridiculous and impractical. I grumbled into the window, "I'm sorry for before. For blowing up on you like that." My breath fogged the window and, in the reflection, I saw Alex stiffen.

I thought that he hadn't heard me since he hadn't responded, so I repeated myself. "I'm sorry for be—"

"Please don't apologize." Alex murmured with his jaw set.

"But it was unnecessary and unwarranted—"

"No. You don't understand—"

"But I really shouldn't have done that—"

The car abruptly braked. I bent forward from the momentum and crashed back into the seat. Alex stayed still. "Just stop. Please." He said something after that, but I didn't catch it. I was too embarrassed to ask him to reiterate.

I amused myself for the rest of the awkward car ride by watching the waves of water splashing back and forth across the windshield, trying to imagine something philosophical. Something by Thoreau or Mill or Sartre. Cogito ergo sum or Plato's Cave. Something to make me feel like myself again.

The rain had reduced to a drizzle by the time we pulled into Alex's driveway. The clouds dissipated like steam and the waxing moon shined brightly in the night sky. I wiped my wet cheeks with the back of my hand, confused as to when I had stopped crying. The garage light illuminated the driveway and a single porch light was lit at the end of the stone walkway. After numbly trudging to the door, Alex ran in front of me and began shoving his keys into the keyhole, struggling to find the proper one. Frustrated, I sighed and grabbed his set of keys, finding the correct fit on my first try.

"It's official. I know your house better than you do." I chuckled softly and Alex ignored me, but I knew that he was trying to hold back a smile.

The house was deadly quiet. Almost eerie. The only sounds were Alex's and my shuffling feet and the creaking of the huge door. Most of the lights were off except for a few candelabras lining the hallway and a Victorian lamp in the living room. Even the kitchen lights were off, so I assumed that Alma was currently absent.

"We should be the only ones here." Alex nearly shouted and, simultaneously, we noticed two heads poked up from the living room couch.

Ryan jumped up with a mischievous smirk and bursting enthusiasm. His shirt was unbuttoned. As were his pants. He looked disheveled and absolutely promiscuous. Even though it disturbed me, I couldn't look away. "Well…I wasn't expecting you to get home so early, Lexi-poo."

"Don't call me that."

"Oh. Harsh." Ryan purred while simultaneously buttoning his shirt. "Oh, and you brought your girlfriend too. How adorable."

The other head was flushed red and quickly grabbed a decorative pillow from the other side of the couch. It was the tattooed girl whose name I always forgot. The last time I had seen her, she had blue, not pink, hair and was devoid of a nose ring. She was as skinny as a pole when she stood up and, even though she had a pillow covering her bared breasts, there was not much left to the imagination. She hurriedly wriggled into her bra and I nearly gagged when I noticed that Ryan was watching her with a hungry look. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and sprinted out the front door with only her cell phone and a black t-shirt.

Alex shook his head, clearing that image from his memory. How he had done that so easily, I had no idea. I was still reeling from disbelief and repugnance. "So, mom's not here, right? Have you eaten anything yet? I was about to make something for Silvie."

Ryan took large steps across the wooden floor and leaned precariously on one of the staircase's posts. "I was in the process of 'eating' when you two arrived." He winked.

Gross.

"I can make something." I piped up. "I just need a change of clothes and permission to use your mom's kitchen."

Alex and Ryan looked inquiringly at each other, as if they shared a common suspicion for once. Alex turned to me and muttered uncertainly, "I…I think we're fine. Ryan can just buy take-out or something. You don't need to exert yourself—"

"Give me permission to use your kitchen." I practically growled, wondering if he would understand the message I was trying to convey.

I still wasn't okay. I hadn't cooked in weeks. It was therapy to me.

They both looked at me like I had three heads, but Alex eventually nodded. Once I received that non-verbal 'okay,' I raced to the kitchen and grabbed the closest cast iron pot. I almost made it a whole ten minutes without thinking about why I was here, but the memories flooded back in bulk.

My mom reading Charles Dickens' books to me. Me falling asleep on my mom's lap because she was reading Charles Dickens' books to me. My mom's look of disappointment when I refused to wear a dress she had bought for me. Our campouts during the summertime to the backyard so that we could fall asleep while observing the stars.

But the happy memories deteriorated to those that reminded me of my cruel reality. My first time watching mom down four beers in one sitting. My mom's episodes where she would lock herself in her room for days at a time, refusing to even come out and eat. The first time I received a call from a cop, informing me that I had to pick my mother up from the station because she had had her license revoked after receiving a DUI. Having to clean up her vomit.

I realized that I shouldn't have been as miserable as I was.

My mom had died a long time ago.