Page 9 of Unspoken Words
“If I hear that word leave your mouth one more time,” Mum seethed. She stepped up to Chris, her pointed finger cautioning him. “So help me God I will tape your lips shut. Have some respect.”
Their eyes were locked, her brows pinched, his arched taller than the M of a McDonald’s sign. Chris went to say something but decided against it, opting to twirl his ball instead.
“Do you know why Connor is so quiet and withdrawn?” Mum whispered, a snake-like hiss to her words.
Chris shook his head and deliberately kept his focus on the spin of his ball.
“His best friend just died of brain cancer, that’s why.”
The ball stopped spinning and a cool breeze blew through the annex connected to our tent. It also blew with it an eeriness that was so unsettling it made me turn around to find Connor standing within earshot—his smile gone, his eyes hollow once more.
I watched as his lips parted, and I waited for his words, but they never came. Instead, he drooped his head, walked to his tent, and disappeared behind its murky green canvas walls.
*
Connor didn’t re-emergeforthe rest of the night, and I worried that it would remain that way for the next thirteen days. Not even twelve hours into my summer holiday, and his presence had made camping bearable. It wouldn’t be bearable if he stayed in his tent the entire time.
I really hoped he didn’t.
I wanted to talk to him again, to make him laugh and see him smile because, according to Mrs Bourke—when she bailed me up at the toilet block and questioned me with concern and excitement about Connor speaking to me—it was clear he didn’t do those things anymore, which was why I’d come up with the best idea A note, to him—myunspoken words.
“What are you doing? Turn the flashlight off,” Chris grouched.
I shined it directly into his eyes. “Shut up. I’m nearly finished.”
“I’m gonna wake you up by farting on your head.”
My face contorted. “You’re so disgusting.”
“And you’re so annoying. Turn it off!”
“In a minute. I’m just reading it over.”
“No one reads over their diary.”
I shined the light back into his eyes. “It’snotmy diary.”
“Then what is it?”
“I’m writing Connor a note about grief. I’m hoping it will help him feel less sad.”
Chris’s sleeping bag ruffled as he turned over. “So what does it say?”
I knew my brother better than he knew himself, and this was him feeling crappy for thinking bad of Connor. As stupid and as gross as Chris was at times, he had a conscience; a small part of his small brain that was capable of small love and small remorse.
“You really wanna hear it?” I asked, unsure. “It’s kinda lame. I just don’t know what else to say. Apart from losing my Barbie and Ken dolls that time in Queensland, I’ve never lost anyone before. I don’t really know what grief feels like.”
He snort-laughed. “That wassofunny. You were like, 'My Barbie! My Ken!’” Chris pretended to wail like an eight-year-old girl who’d left her two favourite toys under the hotel room bed by accident. “My Baaaaaaarbieeee. My Kennnnnnnn.”
More snorts
More laughing.
“Are you done?” I deadpanned.
“Yes. Please continue. I want to hear it.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
