Silence by Anna May

Silence

by Anna May

My eyes were squeezed shut against the blinding light of the overhead lamp, and my hands clenched, gripping at the  arms of the slick plastic dentist’s chair. Pain radiated down my body, each muscle taut, but I couldn’t cry out, my mouth wrenched open to admit the thin metal tools. I had hated the dentist’s office since I was a child, but never more than at that moment. A whimper escaped my throat; the whirring stopped. I think Dr. Yang asked if I was alright, but I don’t remember, because as soon as he stopped, I was shaking, squeaking, my small jaw still propped open by a hard square of rubber.

I remember soft words, then more pain, more whirring, then silence, broken by the radio. Strings, Puccini- O Mio Babbino Caro. Then Dad was there, talking in low tones with Dr. Yang, as I pulled my legs up to my chest, hunched over, rocking. I felt hollow inside, a great void stretching within me from my throbbing mouth down to the pit of my stomach. Words swirled with the room and violin, too soft, too harsh. “Temporary filling,” the dentist said. “ Too deep, too small. Trauma.”

Dad touched my shoulder, and I flinched. Time to go, I understood, still rocking. I slid to the side of the chair, reached out to the tile with one black shoe, then the other. My legs buckled as I stood, knees trembling. Someone helped me steady myself, and I walked slowly, palms cupping my elbows in a furtive hug, down the corridor.

Twenty minutes later, the car pulled up in front of my high school, wide glass doors open as students streamed in, hurrying to get to their first class- it was Monday, a late start day. I shook my head, but Dad wasn’t having any of it. 

“Go. We picked today so you wouldn’t miss school. You’re fine.” 

I nodded, then uncurled myself, stuffed my feet back into worn shoes and clutched my bookbag, heavy, to my chest. 

11th grade Math class, already a terrible, hellish, confusing nightmare, was worse than ever before. I sat, feet tucked beneath me on the chair, a blank paper and capped pen on the graffitied desk. Ceilidh, my desk partner and friend looked up from her ink spattered paper. I didn’t hear what she said, trapped in my own world of pain and numbness. She poked me once, and I fell from the chair, curled tightly into myself, rocking.

Ceilidh helped me to the heath center, and soon I was staring mutely at the phone. I opened my mouth to speak, to say, “Mom, Dad, help.” Bad move. I cried out, which only caused my poor abused jaw more agony. The nurse took the phone, spoke quickly, and made me lie on the cot. 

Mom rescued me from school, and I spent the rest of the day and evening tucked into the corner of my bed, a mug of broth on the window sill, the familiar voice of Tamora Pierce reading “Wild Magic” filling the room. I woke every time my jaw settled, a tooth scraping the raw gum or the fresh, temporary, filling in my back molar. It was the longest night of my 16 years.

I was groggy and absolutely starving when my alarm went off at quarter to six. I downed a mug of lukewarm hot chocolate- all I could manage, and watched my brother climb onto his old street bike. I didn’t want to leave the house at all, much less go to my early morning religion class, but I didn’t have a fever, wasn’t throwing up, and had already missed a day. By May family rules, I was going to school.

I managed religion, pointing at my face, shaking my head, and waiting for Thomas, my twin brother, to explain to classmates and teachers to explain that I couldn’t talk. He did so, and I scribbled my answers to questions on scraps of notecards in thin red pencil. The room, lit only by a chandelier, with dark wood walls and high backed chairs, was a comfort to me- small and enclosed, just what I needed. My high school classrooms were not.

Math class was another living nightmare. I was exposed, too exposed, the window that looked out on empty sky and a three story drop was too close, too wide, filing the room with a bold beam of golden light that was thick with dust motes. I wanted to ask to move, but I could not speak for the pain, and my shaking hands kept dropping my pen.

“If I can just get through this,” I thought, “ everything will be fine.” I had Drama next, in the best possible place- the blackbox theatre, a small room without windows save a pane of glass in the door. But Ceilidh, also in that class, took my arm.

“No, Anna. We’re outside today.”

I followed her, eyes darting from one side of the crowded hall to the other. I normally hated the mass of people, but it was better than being in the open.

We were some of the last to arrive at Freshman Hill, a mound of grass outside the English building where lower classmen often ate lunch. My drama classmates milled around, holding scripts, muttering.

I went up to our teacher, Mr. Winer, holding out the note my mother had written, at my request- hand signaled and written out, of course, since I was effectively mute.

“To Anna’s teachers,” it read on floral stationery, “Yesterday, Anna had a filling done. However, the cavity was too deep to fill normally, and damaged some nerves. Speaking gives her considerable pain.

Patrice May.”

He looked up at me, my back curved and arms tucked into the sleeves of my brown, fuzzy coat despite the unseasonable warmth.

“You were talking fine Friday. Grab a script.”

I shook my head, pointing at my left cheek and gesturing frantically at the note.

“Look, if you don’t want to participate, you shouldn’t be in this class. You had your surgery two weeks ago.”

I frowned, then turned to Ceilidh, eyes pleading. I’d never been trapped like this, so unable to communicate. In this space, and without a flat surface to write on, I was utterly helpless.

She explained as best she could, looking over at me often for confirmation. I’d scribbled a little of what had happened on math worksheets before we’d been told to stop, to focus on the numbers.

“She’s only just recovered from the surgery, Mr. Winer. And yesterday she wasn’t here, ‘cause she had to go home after a dentist appointment- the drugs wore off partway through the drilling- right?” I nodded. “And the filling was really deep. So she can’t talk.”

Mr. Winer scowled, but let me sit out. I crouched on the grass, fingers knotted in the loose roots. My jaw ached fiercely, but I tried my best to ignore it. I suffered through the rest of the day, in silence, scribbling notes on scraps of paper, repeatedly pointing to  the note my mother’d written.  Most of my teachers were understanding, but I felt lost and left out. Sitting with my back to a wall in any class I could, still not quite free from my quaking, I followed conversations and longed to join in, but by the time I’d gotten my thoughts scribbled down and had the attention of a nearby classmate, the topic had changed. Again, I felt useless and trapped within my own head. I considered myself a wordsmith, a speaker, and now I was lost. Throughout my classes, students asked me what was wrong- hadn’t I been better last week? Was it a protest?-, and I’d hunt through my notes until I found my explanation.

School ended, and I made my way home, lapsing into another fit of rocking, unable to see or tell what was around me until the bus driver reminded me I was at my stop. Thanking him with a nodded head and clasped hands, I walked the half mile to my home, dug out my key, and, weak with hunger, promptly made myself a mug of beef broth.

That night, I dug out a small whiteboard and marker and tucked them into my bag. They would have to be my voice for the next day, and longer after that. I may have been unable to speak, I may have been silent, but at least I could say my piece.