Vow of Silence

“I buried Molly.”

 I said in a low, dejected whisper as I fiddled with my fingers and the seatbelt simultaneously. I was bundled up in a large coat and winter clothes so I was speaking into the red scarf that covered my mouth.  My words were muffled. I didn’t care though because I said it more as a way to grasp what I was feeling than to evoke a response. I was scared of her death but I was more afraid of its implications. My mother didn’t do much to ease my fears. 

“I was thinking about getting your brother a game for his birthday …a video game…Do you know any, sweetie? I’m not even sure when I can go because I have that meeting with my boss later today and tomorrow I have to work late. And your dad is always working so it’s not like he’s much help” 

She was basically talking to herself but her head occasionally turned over to me in order to make it seem like she was actually talking to me, which would in turn make her feel better about having spent quality time with her daughter. She was rambling on in a state of manic multitasking while driving me off to school, even though I usually just walked with my brother because I was late. I took too long to eat my cereal. After this, she still had to drop my baby sister off at my grandma’s house and then race off to work in an hour. She’d then head to some work event after. It was a busier day than usual for her. 

“Molly died yesterday. I buried her in the backyard,” I said while still speaking into my scarf. I proceeded to stare down at my lap.

“Hmm?  Do you know what game would be good, sweetie? I really don’t have time to go searching for one.”

She continued on without recognizing that I was speaking. Anything I was saying was grossly irrelevant to the urgency of my mom’s many tasks.  

I was eight at the time. How many important things does an eight-year-old have to say? I wasn’t privy to my irrelevance in the world yet. At this point, I still maintained some false hope that everything I said was important enough to be heard. 

“What is with people? No one knows how to drive anymore!” she said as she took a sip of coffee from her travel mug and then swerved to avoid a collision with a car from the other side of the lane; proving that her driving skills left about as much to be desired as her listening skills. 

 I kept talking about Molly without responding to anything my mother was saying. Neither of us was interested in what the other had to say.  

“I know that Molly was just a gerbil but I think she spoke to me. She didn’t use any human words but she spoke to me and I heard everything she had to say and sometimes I think she heard me too. I miss her.” I spoke into my lap. 

At that point, I was speaking in a barely audible whisper trying to come to terms with my understanding of the world while waiting for my mother to react and reassure me, in light of my newfound fear. Ever since Molly the gerbil died I had become obsessed with the idea of silence. I also didn’t understand death. So somehow in my mind the two became inexorably tied together. In trying to make sense of the death of my pet, I became obsessed with the idea that no one was paying attention to her. I thought no one cared about her because they only saw her as a dumb animal that didn’t have anything to say. I thought because she couldn’t say actual words, then she didn’t matter to anyone. I wondered if people were like that. It made me fear silence. I was afraid that if you weren’t heard then you would die.   

I looked up and out the window, making sure to avoid eye contact with her. My mother remained distracted.

“ That reminds me, I’ve gotta make sure to call everyone to let them know about the party! New Years is a week away and your brothers’ birthday is just a couple of days after that. I can’t believe I haven’t planned anything yet.” 

My mom and I weren’t so different. She was lost in her own thoughts the way I was lost in mine. But I didn’t know that. I just wanted to understand why no one cared about Molly. I wanted my mom to hear me so I could feel better.

I’m not sure what made me more upset; the fact that she could hear what I was saying and was not responding or the fact that I was an eight-year-old whose words wouldn’t mean anything anyway.  

I was my gerbil, Molly. 

No one thought I had anything to say. 

I was dead. 

“Nobody cares that she died. How come nobody cares?” I whispered, while I still spoke to my reflection in the closed car window.

“Maybe it’s because she didn’t speak like us but I think that if you listened, you could hear her. You know why?” I said, now turning to look at my mom.

“OK, sweetie. Now go and have a good day at school” My mom finally made eye contact with me. She tightened my scarf and made sure my zipper was zipped. She placed my hood firmly over my head. She checked to see that my gloves were on securely. She wanted to ensure that I would be able to brave the 30-second walk from the car into the school building.  She looked at me for a second, gave me a peck on the cheek, and pushed me out of the car. Then her face lit up and she grabbed my little hand. I hoped that she would say something, anything, relating to Molly:

 “What game do you think your brother would like?”

 “She spoke without words,” I muttered, letting go of her hand in anger and using my arms to finish pushing my way out of the car while completing the thought I had started earlier and definitely not answering her question. 

 “Oh ok.” She smiled, oblivious to her daughter completely. “Thanks, honey, don’t tell your brother! Oh and don’t forget your gloves or scarf at school! Bye, I love you! Hurry!”

I marched my way to the school building, trudging my feet through the snow-covered ground. My scarf covered most of my pale skin with the exception of my big, brown eyes.  My coat was white and I was short, so I was a barely recognizable figure amongst the blanket of snow. I was now exactly like my gerbil. I could barely be seen on top of the fact that I was barely being heard. 

I thought about Molly’s death for a few more days before New Year’s Eve arrived. When you’re that young, your mind has little else to worry about. I was trying to figure out why nobody cared about things that don’t speak. Animals mostly. But also everything. Plants. Inanimate objects. To name a few. I couldn’t find the answers I was searching for and became more frustrated with each passing day. I couldn’t understand why no one was listening so I stopped trying to make them.   

One night with my family was all I needed for everything to make sense. Everyone was gathered in the house in anticipation of watching the ball drop in Times Square on TV. It was a relatively low-key celebration. While most of us were seated in the living room, the adults taking swigs of various types of alcoholic beverages and the kids dancing away to the music blaring in the background while stuffing our faces with all kinds of junk food, my mom started a mundane conversation— if one can call it that— that would change my life for the immediate and not so immediate future. 

“What New Year’s resolution you planning on breaking this year, Miguel?” My mom asked my uncle, from her seat at the table, while sipping wine.

“I was thinking about …” Before he could finish his thought, I could see my mother’s eyes light up thinking about her own resolution. She wasn’t remotely interested in what my uncle had to say, she was using her question for him as an excuse to tell everyone her resolution.

“You wanna hear mine?” She interjected. She waved her hand in front of him and practically knocked over her wine glass.

“Lifting weights, getting strong,” my uncle said, taking a sip of beer and patting on his protruding belly, without noticing he’d been cut off. 

“I wanna join the gym!” My mom exclaimed, putting her hands on her hips.

“I’m going to try that new Zumba class.” my grandmother chimed in while waving her cane in the air and taking a sip of her sparkling cider.  She made sure her voice was heard over all others, not caring what had been said by anyone else.”I want to feel sexy again!” She laughed.

“I’m going to do some cardio!” My father hollered shortly thereafter from the kitchen. 

“I wanna be like Thor!” My brother yelled in his best adult impersonation, flexing his non-existent muscles.

 No one noticed. 

They were all too busy saying the same thing. 

 Soon the living room became as loud as a street in mid-Manhattan. The scene was a hectic one.  My brother was waving his arms violently in the air while jumping up and down, for no apparent reason. Everyone was yelling over everyone else while they explained their reasoning for working out.  Indiscernible music played in the background. People were having conversations with other people who had no idea that they were in a conversation, to begin with. My baby sister was crying, screaming for attention from her very own prison (her playpen). I was screaming for attention from my very own prison too (my mind). Though, I wasn’t saying a word.

 Everyone in the room became a caricature; so over the top and cartoonish that it would have been funny had it not upset me so much. It was a room full of rambling lunatics wearing party hats holding noisemakers and confetti. I was at the center of the madness, standing all alone in the middle of it all, watching everyone with equal parts horror and confusion.

 I placed a strand of my curly brown hair behind my ear and took it all in.  I decided to take a shot at jumping into the madness. So, I raised my hand at no one in particular. After a few minutes with my hand raised, I spoke.   

“Mom?” I yelled aloud, with my hand still raised.

“Yes honey?” she yelled back, plugging one of her fingers into her right ear to avoid hearing my grandmother’s high-pitched screaming next to her. My grandmother was yelling something about how handsome Dick Clark was when he was younger.

“You wanna hear mine?” I continued, hand still raised. 

“Sure, sweetie,” she said, once again using her loudest voice so that I could make out what she was saying. I wanted to use this opportunity to tell her about my plan to stop talking. I was going to say that I would try it out for a few days then if I could manage, I’d do it the whole year. I wanted to do it for Molly. I was curious to know how she would react.

“I’m gonna stop…” I began before being faced with a familiar circumstance. 

“Look everyone, it’s Dick Clark!” my grandma bellowed. She pointed at the 80’ screen with Dick Clark standing in the midst of Times Square pandemonium and soon the living room was silent. Everyone stopped mid-sentence. They became transfixed by the ageless wonder that was now on the television screen.  I was left standing there with my hand in the air staring at everyone, who stared at Dick Clark. The clock hit midnight. My family cheered. America cheered. Dick Clark cheered. All was well with the world and I was now silent. 

I went years after that day without uttering a word to my family or anyone else. I experienced puberty, friendships, school drama, and unrequited love, all without saying a word. It wasn’t initially as hard as you’d imagine. I created my own niche in society. And since everyone is weird during that time anyway, I fit right in. I became the quiet girl who walked around with a notebook. I carried it so I could communicate with people when I needed to. People heard my words when I wrote in a way they would never hear my voice. Those notebooks were my life; my chance to be heard. Over the years, I accumulated a collection in the hundreds. 

It’s easy to make friends when you’ve got nothing to argue or disagree about; their interests become your interests.  But, not speaking did not mean I had no personality. I laughed. I cried. I enjoyed everything a girl my age should have. I recognized people who were like me. Nice sneakers, is what I wrote in my notebook to my best friend the day we first met. Cool shirt 😉 Wanna sit with me at lunch? she wrote back.

Crushes were easy too.  I wrote letters to show my romantic interest in the initial stages. It’s easy to write honestly but not as easy to speak honestly. Dear ___, you’ve got a great smile…and beautiful eyes.  If I got over my crush, I stopped writing them. It always took them a while before they got the hint.  

I did pretty well in school. My teachers adored me. It’s amazing how much a teacher will like you when you just sit and listen to everything they say and never question it. I don’t speak, is what I always wrote to them on the first day of class. Why? they would usually ask. It doesn’t matter, I would write back. There were lots of parent-teacher conferences and meetings with counselors to make sense of it all. But I didn’t budge.

I broke my arm and made sure to never once complain about it. I fell off my bike. My arm hurts, is how I told my mom it happened. She lost her mind when I did that.

The situation was a little hard on my family. It took them almost an entire month to realize that I hadn’t spoken. When they did, they panicked. My mom wanted me to go to a therapist, she was convinced I was going through a crisis. My dad wanted to put me in a dance school where I could “learn the social skills that I was lacking.” Everyone thought I was nuts. Admittedly, I grew tired of my silence and actually tried to speak a few more times but my family never changed their ways. During the other attempts I made, I was interrupted by what was playing on the news, a change in weather, or the sudden need to make coffee. Each time reaffirmed my belief that there was no need for me to speak. I wanted to be sure that I was going to be heard and no one could ever guarantee that to me. Not my friends and certainly not my family.

The hypocrisy of my silence wasn’t lost on me. I wasn’t going to listen to their rationale, in the same way, I felt that they weren’t going to listen to mine. 

After a while, it made no sense to stay quiet. I knew that. 

My silence didn’t make anything better. I knew that too.

But if for nothing more than stubborn loyalty to my gerbil, childish insistence, and sheer stubbornness, I continued on.

Sometimes I missed the sound of my own voice.

One thing that I had not considered was the effect my silence would have on my relationships with my brother and sister. My brother and I still somehow managed to communicate and connect with each other. Boys don’t say much anyway. And he was never insensitive the way you would figure an older brother would be. Actually, he was quite the opposite. He was my defender. He accepted my silence and rarely if ever questioned it. It was what it was and that was ok with him. 

 My sister was the one I worried about. She was years younger than me. So she only knew me as a silent person. My sister reminded me a lot of myself when I was eight. She was quiet, thoughtful, and introspective. I took note of these similarities, but never gave them much thought until the fateful day I picked her up from school to drive her home. 

“I know you won’t say it,” she began, “but nobody ever told me. How come you don’t talk?” She twiddled her fingers as she spoke.

I should have anticipated the question.

 I had years to prepare for it but I hadn’t. Instead, I continued looking ahead at the road. 

“I know that you won’t answer me.” Her dark brown eyes looked up from her hands and stared at me with curiosity. 

I nodded slowly, feeling guilt in my heart. It was no fault of my sister that I was quiet. She had nothing to do with my silence and yet, at this moment, she was feeling its effects. Maybe she was feeling it for longer than this moment. 

“Can you listen to me?” she asked, her eyes remaining wide as she looked down again to think about her words.

I nodded again, curious as to where this conversation was headed. The car was still for a moment as we stopped at a red light and she thought of what she was going to say. I clenched the steering wheel tight as I drove, holding the emotion of the moment in my hands.    

“I wanna do it too.” I took my eyes off the road to glance at her for a second. I hoped she was kidding.

“I think that you’re strong. When I grow up, I want to be just like you. I want to be pretty like you and smart like you too. I’ll be like that, right?” She asked in a soft, quiet voice begging for reassurance. I wasn’t sure how to respond, not that I was going to anyway. So I let her continue while I drove.

“You don’t talk but I think I can hear you and I know you don’t use any words but you speak. I hear everything you say and I know you hear me too.” She paused to reflect on what she was saying. 

“Mom told me that she doesn’t know why you do this. But I know. Maybe you’re scared to talk. Sometimes I get scared to talk too, like in class. But you don’t have to be scared of me. I love you.” she finished while turning her head to look out the window.

I slowed the car down while continuing to look straight ahead beyond the windshield. With my hands still firmly grasping the steering wheel, I began to take notice of my surroundings. I was in the same car I had been in eight years prior. This time in the driver’s seat. 

The seats were the same ugly tan cloth they had always been. A rosary still hung from the rearview mirror. The back seat sides were still covered with stickers my brother and I had stuck on during our rides home from school. But there was something else that was strangely familiar about what my little sister said to me.

I pulled the car over to the side of the small street and shifted the gear to park. I moved my focus away from the road in front of me and to my sister, while she looked out the window. I stared at her intensely, furrowing my eyebrows. I looked a little harder and didn’t see my sister anymore. I saw myself. 

She was me. 

I looked at my reflection in the rearview mirror and I saw Molly, my gerbil. 

I turned back to look at her for a long moment unsure of what to do next. 

So, I did what came instinctively. I said nothing and started driving again.

Finally, we reached home. I parked the car then she looked over at me, waiting for me to say anything. I gave her a small smile and leaned over to kiss her head. She then wiggled her little body out of the car to go inside the house, unaffected by what had transpired. So much of that situation mirrored the past with one notable exception: I never got the chance to hear my gerbil speak to me. 

She did.