The Silence
*
The trauma of being alone.
The field school set up some dorms for them to stay the night before heading to camp.
In the nine years we had been together, we had never been apart longer than a few days. Even when that did happen, we talked the entire time, either through text or phone.
About two hours outside of Wyoming, his phone service got fuzzy. Then, when he arrived at the campus, he had no service, and the Wi-Fi passwords weren’t shared.
The first few hours were brutal. By the next day, it was unbearable. Then came the storm.
I received a text message from him, which included a picture of his car and the message.
There was hail. It’s a bit of damage.
It looked like a golf ball.
A bit?!? Are you okay?
There was silence until eight that night, when he drove an hour in his beat-up car to use public Wi-Fi in a park, of all places, to contact me.
“Hey, Bree, I can’t talk for too long.”
I nodded to myself. “No, that makes sense. How is it?”
He scoffed, and his voice tightened. “I fucking hate this.”
I took a deep breath. This was silly. We were grown adults. We could do ten days.
“I know, but just think, when it’s over, you can work anywhere.”
Robert hesitated. The silence waned until I spoke. “Are you still there?”
“Yeah, sorry. I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
He cleared his throat. “It’s not important. I’ve got to drive back to camp for dinner. I’m sorry we can’t talk longer.”
I frowned. “It’s okay. I’ll put in the claim for the car insurance.”
“Thanks. We’ll see if they can fix it when I return home in ten days.”
I smiled weakly. “I can’t wait. I love you.”
He let out a deep exhale. “I love you too.”
That’s how it went for the next ten days. A barrage of text messages about the cliffs, fields, and dig sites. His tent, his terrible farmer’s tan. Sent before a five-minute call.
It felt like telegrams.
While he was gone, I tried to focus on the rest of our lives.
The University of York sent its welcome packet, and we received our visa paperwork. Our entry date was August 18th.
If he were picked for presentations, he’d stay until August 13th, cutting our prep time down to just five days before we had to move.
Sitting at the dining room table, I lifted my phone and saw a collection of notifications.
Louie-Lou (15 messages)
“Jesus fucking Christ, Louisa,” I muttered as I started reading the novels she’d texted over.
She lived with my parents at Renee’s with her four children. The youngest, Libby Anne, was the easy one—just seven months old and still tethered to Louisa like a shadow… The rest?
It was pure chaos of screaming, towheaded monsters. Clara Edith, Walter Clark, and Lenora Celeste were all separated by barely a year, as if my sister wanted to win the race for our mother’s love.
It left her tired, sick, and with health issues from the complications. All the while, her husband, Clark, was as helpful as a wet towel.
He was a mirror of a man. Louisa wanted to be a mother. He wanted Louisa. She wanted to be a stay-at-home mom, so he agreed to do whatever job she gave him.
Every day, it became increasingly clear that she wanted to shatter that mirror, but I don’t think she knew how. Our mother ensured that.
Louie-Lou (3 messages)
My pulse climbed with every ding as if each message were adding another brick to my chest.
“What the actual fuck. Just stop!” I yelled, furiously typing.
I’m not reading all of that. What’s up?
Please tell me you are coming over today.
I sighed. I knew this would happen. I knew Louisa would self-sacrifice, knowing she didn’t have the bandwidth.
Without reading the messages, I knew that Jean was there, arguing with her, and that Jason and his wife, Lily, were texting Louisa for updates.
All the while, her children were driving her insane.
I stared at the ceiling, taking a deep breath.
I knew I should say no. I should say, “You guys didn’t want me, remember?”
However, my pathetic, weak side wanted to run to her and be helpful, to be something to them, so they would remember to send me a Christmas card.
Bree, please do not ignore me.
…
The buzzing and chimes wouldn’t stop. I needed to say something. Finally, I took a deep breath as the haptics guided me to a reply.
Why did you post that I was selfish after I said I was moving?
…
Those three dots appeared and disappeared for hours. I gathered high-level movers’ quotes, set up tour times, and made myself an obscene amount of vegetarian Alfredo pasta.
I sat on the couch with two laundry baskets, ready to fold, turning on Buffy the Vampire Slayer , when I heard a frantic knock at the door.
I stood up and hesitated.
I was suddenly faced with a thought I’d never had. I was too short to look into the peephole.
Robert, in his rightful paranoia from abuse, had constantly answered the door when someone knocked so he could look first. We didn’t open the door if we hadn’t invited anyone over or if he didn’t recognize the person.
Now, I was faced with a dilemma.
My stomach churned as I looked down the hallway, prepared to hide on the sofa, when I heard a voice I’d heard since the day I was born.
“Bree, open the damn door.”
I released the breath I was holding. Fucking Louisa. I opened the door, already regretting it.
I couldn’t determine if I was lonely or missed having someone to fight with.
Either way, I knew this wouldn’t be a quiet visit.