Not A Sound

The bland sitcom I’m watching goes to a commercial and a breaking news banner fills the screen. The newscasters’ faces are serious and I’m sure the story is going to be about Gwen. The closed caption ribbon scrolls across the bottom of the screen. Though I try to focus on the speakers’ faces I still have to rely heavily on the captioning.

“A woman paddle boarding on the Five Mines River with her dog made a grisly discovery this Halloween morning,” the newscaster begins. “We take you now to KFMI reporter Mallory Richmond at the Five Mines Marina for a live update on this very disturbing situation.”

“That’s right,” the reporter says as she looks intently into the camera, “early this morning, a deaf woman and her service dog were paddle boarding just a few miles south of this very location when they stumbled upon the dead body of a yet to be identified woman floating in Five Mines.” Behind her an American flag, illuminated by floodlights, whips wildly in the wind but somehow her perfectly straight blond hair remains in place. The screen flips to a video of an ambulance parked as close to the dock as possible, its back doors open wide.

Eagerly, I read the words crawling across the television screen. “Police spent the better part of the day at the actual crime scene collecting evidence. Officials aren’t saying much but did confirm that the woman’s remains were transported by a Department of Natural Resources boat and transferred to this awaiting ambulance, as you can see in the video.” I watch as the DNR boat appears on screen and slowly makes its way to the dock.

As the boat comes closer I immediately recognize Jake with his broad shoulders and sandy hair. The DNR officer who was the first to arrive on the scene is steering the boat. His eyes widen when he realizes that a television camera is pointing directly at them. Jake, as calm as ever, simply ignores the reporters and busies himself with grabbing onto the dock to help guide the boat as close to the shore and ambulance as possible. Two EMTs dressed in their navy blue uniforms emerge from the ambulance, pull a stretcher from the rear, unfold the wheels and roll it down the dock.

The camera switches back to the reporter, who nods grimly into the camera, and I focus on her lips. “Police Detective Jake Schroeder, whom you saw in this video, had no comment, but sources close to the investigation have told me that the police department is looking at all missing person’s cases.”

The reporter signed off and the newscaster in the studio was speaking again. “Join us tonight for the ten o’clock news with more updates on this story along with the disturbing 9-1-1 call made by the woman who discovered the victim’s body.”

I groan, causing Stitch to heave himself from the couch and come and investigate. Even if they bleep out my name, if the news station plays the recording of the 9-1-1 tape all my friends and former colleagues will know it was me who made the call. I think it’s safe to say that I’m the only deaf woman who owns a dog, paddle boards and lives on the banks of Five Mines. Stitch’s ears perk up and he nudges my leg with his nose. I turn to look at what has caught his attention. The light on the phone is flashing and I hope it’s Jake to tell me they caught the person who killed Gwen.

I reach for the receiver. “Hello,” I say and watch the telephone display in anticipation.

“I just saw the news.”

“Jake?” I ask.

“No, it’s David. I just saw the news. You found her? The dead woman? Jesus, Amelia. Do they know who she is?”

I hesitate. I know I’m not supposed to say anything just yet. “I can’t...” But this is David I’m talking to. How can I keep this from him? David knew Gwen too—she worked at the same hospital, she filled in on the ob-gyn floor from time to time. “It’s Gwen Locke, David, she was just identified, but it’s not released to the public yet.”

The screen is still for a moment. “That’s horrible. Are they sure it’s Gwen?”

“Yeah, I found her. It was awful.” Tears creep into the corners of my eyes and I angrily swipe them away. I’ve cried too many times to David, begging him to forgive me, to take me back, only to be rejected over and over. I hate appearing weak in front of him.

“Jesus, Amelia, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I’m surprised, touched even, that David would think to ask how I’m doing. He hasn’t done that in a very long time. I try to remember his voice, the warm timbre that greeted me each day when he came home from the hospital, his soft laugh that made me laugh too. Suddenly I’m almost unbearably homesick for the old house. So much so that I almost tell David that I’m terrified of staying here in this house by myself even though that’s not exactly the truth.

I miss the sunny kitchen where Nora and I would make cinnamon rolls and monkey bread for Sunday morning breakfasts. I miss the front porch where on summer afternoons I would sit on the wooden swing reading books and drinking iced tea while Nora colored and sipped lemonade. I miss waking up in my old bed, my limbs entwined with my husband’s. “I’m fine,” I repeat, more for my benefit than for David’s.

“Do they know who did it?” he asks.

“No, not yet. But there was a boat, right around the time I found her.”

“You saw it?” David asks. “Amelia, what if they saw you?”

“No, no,” I hurry to explain. “I didn’t see it, I just felt it. The wake knocked me down.”

“Thank God for that,” David says, and again I’m pleasantly surprised with David’s concern for me but there’s no way I’m going to let him know I care.

“Is Nora around?” I change the subject. “Can I talk to her?”

“She’s here. You can talk to her. Just don’t say anything about...you know. She doesn’t know about any of this and I don’t want to upset her.”

“Of course I won’t say anything.” I’m indignant. Why in the world would I tell a seven-year-old about a corpse that I discovered? I wait impatiently for Nora to get on the line. Talking to her is the highlight of my days. Our conversations are never frequent or long enough.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Nora,” I say. “How was trick-or-treating?”

Nora goes on to tell me about her Frida Kahlo costume. “Daddy helped me find the perfect outfit and his friend helped me put real flowers in my hair.”

I feel like someone has sucker punched me in the gut. “What friend?” I try to ask casually but I can barely choke out the words.

“Helen,” Nora says but rushes on. “But I had to tell everyone who I was, except some old lady. She knew exactly who I was dressed up as. She said my unibrow looked real.” Nora loves art and would check out piles of books about artists from the library. That, and she had a magnificent art teacher in school who made sure that even the youngest of students were exposed to the great artists.

“Did Helen go trick-or-treating with you?” I ask.

“No, she had to go to work. She’s a nurse like you.” Way to mix things up, David, I think. David could date any woman in Mathias and he has to pick another nurse. I scan my memory for any nurses named Helen that I might know, but come up blank.

Nora goes on to describe her day at school. How she loves her homeroom teacher but that her music teacher is kind of grouchy. She talks about the new boy in her class that makes fun of her freckles and she mentions the math test that she missed four questions on.

Sometimes I hate this phone and wonder if I’d be better off not having it at all. All I have are the printed words of the conversation—I can’t hear the emotion in her voice. I have no context. I don’t know if Nora is pleased that the new boy teases her—maybe he likes her. I don’t know if missing four questions on the math test is a good or bad thing. So I have to ask her and pretty soon the conversation has stalled and Nora is ready to hang up because, I think to myself, shouldn’t a mom know these things—just be able to know how her daughter is feeling?

“Bye, Mom. Love you.”

My eyes fill with tears again. “I love you too, Nora. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I wait for a moment before hanging up in case David wants to speak to me again but no new words sweep across the screen so I replace the receiver. I think about what Nora said about David’s friend Helen. Could he really have a girlfriend? We’ve been apart for a long time. It still shocks me that David hasn’t had divorce papers delivered to my house for me to sign.

For the next two hours I sit in front of the television and watch some old movie but all the while I keep thinking of Gwen. We were good friends once. But that was before I got hit by the car, before I lost my hearing and abandoned my family and friends for alcohol. Gwen and I both grew up in Mathias, though I’m several years older. Our paths didn’t cross until we were both nurses at Queen of Peace. She’s what is called a floater nurse. She goes to wherever the action is in the hospital. If the emergency room is overflowing or maternity is bursting at the seams, she’s there to assist. She was bubbly and a bit irreverent in the break room but the minute she stepped out on to the floor she became no-nonsense and unflappable.

We went through the sexual assault nurse examiner training together. During the workshops we learned how to assess and evaluate the injuries of sexual assault. We were also trained in the collection and packaging of forensic evidence from the crimes.

We bonded during the breaks and chatted about our lives. We had daughters the same age—Nora and Lane. We talked about our husbands and how challenging it could be balancing home life and nursing. During the first domestic violence case that we worked together, I was the on-call SANE nurse and was summoned to the Queen of Peace to collect the evidence. Gwen was also there, covering a shift in the emergency room. The victim, a thirty-year-old mother of two, was so distraught, striking and lashing out at the EMTs who brought her in that she managed to kick one of them squarely in the face, causing a fountain of blood to erupt from his nose. Gwen somehow managed to calm the badly beaten woman with her low, soothing voice while I collected the evidence.

Our friendship was sealed that night. Though after the fact the injured woman insisted that she fell down the steps, the evidence I was able to gather clearly showed that she was beaten with a leather belt, sending the husband to jail at least for a few days. Gwen and I talked every day after that. We met for coffee once a week, set up playdates for our girls. Then I was injured, started drinking and lost touch with just about everybody. About six months ago, though, Gwen had left me a phone message. When I read the transcript I found it to be just a regular, run-of-the-mill, “how’re you doing, we haven’t talked in a while” message. I hadn’t bothered to call her back.

I have so many regrets. If only I hadn’t taken that first drink to deaden the pain of being plunged into sudden silence. Which sounds so selfish now. It wasn’t just losing my hearing, it was the loneliness that came with it, the sense of always being separate, apart from everyone I loved. What I wouldn’t give to go back in time and make different choices.

Once the movie credits start, Stitch moves to the door and looks at me expectantly. My cue that he needs to go outside. I go through the whole rigmarole of opening the curtains, removing the wooden stick and sliding open the glass door. Stitch dashes outside and spends an inordinately long time doing his business. The air is heavy with the scent of oncoming rain. Rainstorms in the fall have a scent that is uniquely their own. A fetid, moldy, earthen smell. As if their sole purpose is to urge the remaining flora and fauna that it’s time to rest, covering them in a soggy blanket and tamping them down close to the earth, which is ready to claim them for the winter.

I consider staying up to watch the ten o’clock news and see if they actually air my 9-1-1 call, but I really don’t want to see my frantic words emblazoned across the screen. I turn off the television and toss a few more pieces of wood into the stove before I call Stitch back in. Despite my long nap and even though it’s only a little bit after eight, I’m exhausted. I switch off the main floor lights, and Stitch and I head upstairs. I slip under the covers and Stitch takes his usual spot at the foot of the bed.

As conflicted as I am about how I feel about David, I miss turning over at night and finding his solid, comforting form right next to me. When David and Nora came into my life, I was the one who willingly, without question, opened my arms to them when they were at their lowest point. I was more of a mom to Nora in the last six years than her biological mother ever was and though legally David doesn’t have to, he still lets me see her. Supervised of course. I miss, no matter how late we’d get home from the hospital, how David and I always made sure to kiss the other good-night and say I love you. Our little ritual.

I try to shake away the past. It does no good to mourn what was. All I have is the here and now, no matter how meager. But in the here and now, I hate nighttime. The absence of sound combined with the absence of light is terrifying. Now, just like I do every night before I go to sleep, I make sure my flashlight is in my bedside table drawer where it should be and I make sure my cell phone is fully charged and within hand’s reach. My little ritual. Only now, with lights blazing and Stitch nearby am I able to close my eyes and rest.

5 (#u69a603ba-3f92-530e-a628-d4b25c96beeb)

I wake to Stitch’s paw raking down my back. I roll over to my side. My bedside lamp is still burning and the clock reads twelve thirty. The sliver of black sky that I see between a gap in the blinds lets me know it’s still the middle of the night. I squint up at Stitch who, for good measure, paws at me one more time, leaps from the bed and waits for me in the doorway.

Based on Stitch’s training, I’m pretty confident that one of four things could have caused him to rouse me from a dead sleep: the phone is ringing, someone is at the door, the house is on fire or Stitch really has to go to the bathroom. I rarely get visitors or phone calls during the day, let alone at night, and I don’t smell smoke, so I’m guessing that Stitch needs to go outside.