Chapter Forty-Nine. Daye
Daye
Morning had already given in to afternoon by the time Rory and Daye stumbled into the kitchen.
“Oh God, coffee. My savior. My friend.” Rory hugged the coffee tin to his chest.
Daye laughed. The sound unfurled in her throat. It felt like the drag of foxtails against her palm, or the brush of dandelion seeds just before they scattered into the air. She couldn’t help but luxuriate in the sensation, even as it made her throat ache in strange new ways.
Rory scooped grounds into his cup, his back to her. She waited for him to turn for one moment, two, hands poised before her. And then came the realization: She didn’t have to. She could catch his attention while he was facing away. She could speak, even if he wasn’t looking.
She had to swallow down another delighted laugh before she could call, “Hey, Rory.”
“What?” He turned, smiling.
The thrill of it—him, turning; her, not really needing him to—almost made her forget what she wanted to ask. “You never told me how you did it. This.” She gestured with her hand at her throat.
“Oh.” He seemed hesitant, almost bashful. He put his cup aside. “The short version is, I realized that the reason you didn’t have a voice was because plants don’t have a voice. So that if I wanted you to talk, I needed to add something else.”
“What did you add?” she asked, curious.
Now Rory seemed strangely reluctant. “Um. Something that can make sounds that are close to the ones people make, and that has longevity—”
‘Wait.’ Daye was too startled to speak out the words. ‘What do you mean, with—’ She paused for a second, looking for the right sign, and then remembered she could speak it. “What do you mean by ‘longevity’?”
Rory was definitely looking everywhere but at her. “I needed something with a long lifespan, so that the syrinx—that’s like a bird’s vocal cords—wouldn’t deteriorate. Like with evergreens—”
“The bird’s?” Daye interrupted him.
“Yeah. You see, a bird was the perfect solution. This breed can mimic human speech perfectly and live up to seventy—so it might be decades before you need a replacement.”
“Rory.” She said his name to make him look at her. Then, with her hands—‘What did you do?’
He took a deep breath. Braced his hands on the counter. “I wove a syrinx—that’s the part of the bird that produces sounds—into your throat.”
‘What?’ It couldn’t be. She must have gotten it wrong.
“I bought a parrot in the city and brought it here. And, well …” Rory trailed off, rubbing his hands together. For the first time, Daye noticed the faint, rust-colored lines under his nails.
‘How could you?’ It felt like something in her was breaking.
“It was the only way I could think of to make you independent—”
‘A bird?’ Daye gestured, but Rory continued like he hadn’t noticed. Maybe he hadn’t. She didn’t want to repeat it out loud. Her voice felt foreign now. A travesty. A violation. Air was pressing on her throat, choking her.
“—and I know you always wanted to be able to talk. I thought you’d be excited.”
‘Why didn’t you ask me?’
“I told you I had a surprise planned for this transition. You were okay with it.”
‘I was okay with a surprise. Not with putting living things in my body without telling me.’ Through the open window, she could hear a chickadee trilling outside.
She couldn’t breathe. Air was coming in and out, she knew it, but it felt like it was getting lodged in the middle.
In the syrinx Rory put there. Into her throat.
“You never cared what I put into the weaving.”
‘Yes, I did. We used to choose it together.’ But it had been seasons—years—since she had taken part in choosing.
More, since the last time he’d asked if there was anything she wanted to change.
At first it was because of Rory’s experiments.
And then because of the experiments’ failure.
And then … and then, she guessed, they just got used to it.
Him not asking. Her not making requests.
‘And it was never a living thing before,’ she continued.
‘Never something that died because of me. You put something that used to live inside me. You killed it, because of me. It’s the same as me killing it myself.
’ Her hand was on her throat, prodding, trying to find that part that was other.
That shouldn’t be there. ‘You know how I feel about birds. How could you?’
“You saw me eating meat almost every night of our lives and never cared. How is that different?”
‘You know it’s different. You know it is.’
“How? You sat beside me while I ate chicken hundreds, no, probably thousands of times. I put the birds inside me, and you never had a problem with that. Hell, there’s a chicken stew in the fridge right now!
” He was getting angry now, too. He turned his back to her, bracing against the sink. Shutting her words out.
“You know how.” The voice whistled between her teeth, birdlike.
Rory turned. A faint echo of the thrill she’d felt earlier—her words, reaching Rory even when his back was turned—shuddered through her, making her lungs tighten even more.
‘You were the one eating it, not me. Never me. I don’t eat like you.
It wasn’t inside me.’ Her hands were faster, more violent now.
And out loud—“There are parts of a bird inside me. It’s dead because of me.
” Her voice broke on the final word, her throat aching in ways she never knew before.
She switched back to her hands. ‘How can you not see how different this is from sitting beside you while you eat?’
“I don’t know. I didn’t think about it like that. I didn’t think it was a big deal.” His shoulders kept creeping up, his hands fisting by his side tighter and tighter.
‘You should have asked me. Rory, why didn’t you ask me before doing this to me?’
“Because you might have said no!” It was halfway to a shout. It rang between them, foreign and unfamiliar. Rory had never shouted at her before. Daye didn’t know what was loudest: Rory’s tone or what he said.
Silence swept through in the wake of his words, rippling outward like rings in water.
‘If you knew I’d say no, why did you do it?’
“Because you need to speak. That’s the only way you won’t be dependent on me. I had no choice.”
‘I don’t care about being dependent on you!’ Her hands slashed wider, faster.
“I do! What if something happened to me? What then? I lie awake at night, imagining what would happen to you if I got hit by a car or had a bad fall in the woods. You know that. You’re there when I wake up screaming. We’ve talked about it a hundred times.”
‘It should have been my choice,’ Daye signed. “It should have been my choice,” she repeated, rusty and halting. “You should have asked me.”
“I’m sorry. I am. You’re right. I should have.” He threaded his fingers through his hair. Took a deep breath. “I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t know you’d care that much. And I promise that next time I’ll ask. But aren’t you glad I did it? Just a little bit?”
“No!” Her voice was broken, frayed, gone.
Her throat so raw she would have cried if she could.
From pain and from heartache and from sheer desperate anger.
She didn’t believe him. She didn’t. It was such a novel thing, not believing Rory, that it came to her in parts: first the anger, then an ephemeral sense of resistance, and last, halting, the notion that Rory could lie.
‘I don’t want it. I won’t use it. I won’t.’
“You don’t mean it.”
‘I do. I want you to take it out.’ Her hands clawed at her throat, suddenly desperate. Spots were dancing before her eyes. ‘Rory, take it out.’
“Shhh, shhh.” Rory’s arms were around her, coaxing and gentling.
“Breathe, Daye. Come on. A deep breath. There—” She could feel his chest expanding against hers as he took a deep breath, then let it out.
Her lungs hesitantly followed. A few more breaths, and the dizziness dissipated, though her hands continued to shake.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Rory kept murmuring in her ear.
“I promise I didn’t know you’d feel this way about it.
Look”—he leaned back so that he could meet her eyes.
“I promise to look into different ways to give you a voice. Maybe a different animal, if you feel so strongly about birds—”
“No,” Daye croaked.
“Okay, okay,” he agreed, placating. “This is supposed to hold for a decade at least, probably more. I promise I’ll try to find another way, a way without birds or animals, before we need to replace it. I’ll fix it. Please. Just don’t be mad.”
And, inexplicably, Daye felt the anger graying, fading into a dull, frayed feeling. Draining from her in slow, unrelenting sips.
“I know you don’t like it, and I’m so sorry I hurt you, but look”—Rory gestured between them—“we are having a conversation. With words. Not with pantomime and hand gestures. I get to hear you laugh. I’ve been waiting for this for ten years.
” He put a hand on her cheek. “I messed up—I know I did. But it’s done now.
Please, don’t be angry at me. I won’t do anything like this again, okay? I love you. Let’s not fight anymore.”
The anger drained away from her. It was like someone had unplugged a drain, and all of it was rushing away. No, she thought, come back. But it was useless. It kept slipping between her fingers, until it was gone.
‘Okay,’ she found herself signing. Found herself smiling a hesitant smile and meaning it. It was terrifying, and then it was disconcerting, and then it simply was. She marshaled the last dregs of her anger, dragging it into word shapes. ‘But you have to ask me next time.’
“I will,” he said.
‘Promise?’
“I do,” he said, earnest. “It wouldn’t be an issue for much longer, anyway. We’re almost there.”
‘I’m not talking only about the transition. I’m talking about deciding for me without asking me. About hiding things from me. Please, Rory—’
“Okay,” he said. “I understand. I promise I won’t.” But his eyes were slipping away from hers.
And, for the first time, Daye thought that Rory might be lying to her.