Page 27 of Midnight Valentine
I allow him to help me out of the car. When I hand him his coat, he takes it, but instead of putting it on, he settles it over my shoulders. Then, like an old-fashioned suitor, he takes my arm and leads me up the path to the front porch, holding aside a thorny branch from one of the wild rosebushes so I don’t get whacked by it as I pass by.
This is so confusing.
He pauses at the bottom of the porch steps, but this time, I’m not inviting him inside. I slide his jacket off and hand it back to him with a murmured “Thank you,” then turn to go into the house.
Theo stops me with a touch on my elbow. Surprised, I turn back to him. He reaches into his coat. I think he’s going to remove his writing pad, but instead, he takes out a business card. He hands it to me, his ey
es shining like gems in the low light.
“Um. Thanks.” I stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do next, until he points at the card. “Yes, I have your number. I’ll call you Monday, no matter what I decide.”
He shakes his head like I don’t understand what he’s trying to say. Which, naturally, I don’t. “You don’t want me to call you Monday?”
I swear his eye roll is sarcastic.
He pulls his jacket on, takes the card in one hand, and with the other points to his email address on the bottom. He taps it three times.
“You want me to email you instead?”
This time his head shake is a hard jerk. I can tell he’s getting frustrated. He makes a rolling motion of his hand, but I have no idea what he means.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Theo, cut me a break, will you? I suck at charades.”
He gives me back the card, then whips out his little notepad. He scratches something on it and holds it out for me to see.
You can email me before Monday if you want to talk.
When I look up at him, he drops the pad to his side and stares at me. That muscle is jumping in his jaw again. His eyes are unnaturally bright, as if he’s running a fever.
“Do you want to talk?”
He looks away, draws a breath, closes his eyes. Then he looks back at me. He nods—then shakes his head.
“Yes and no.”
He nods again, because I’ve interpreted him correctly.
“Well, hell, Theo,” I say, irritated. “Make up your damn mind.”
His lips curve upward. He covers his mouth with his hand to hide his smile, then clears his throat.
It’s a startling sound, because it’s a sound. I stare at him, breathless, my pulse picking up pace until it’s zooming.
He doesn’t notice my sudden stillness. He just nods—three times, so I can’t mistake his meaning—then turns around and walks back to his car. He gets in and drives away without a backward glance.
I stand on my porch for a long time, Theo’s business card clutched in my hand, the pounding of the surf ringing in my ears. Then I go inside and fire up the computer.
Into Google’s search box I type: Can mute people make sounds?
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According to Wikipedia, mute people can make all kinds of sounds, destroying my rapidly ballooning conspiracy theory that Theo Valentine can talk but just doesn’t want to.
I read aloud from the webpage. “Inability to speak is not the same as inability to make noise. Grunts, groans, yells, etc. don’t require vocal cords as they can be made by forcing air in or out of the lungs. Depending on the severity of damage to the vocal cords, short words such as ‘me’ or ‘you’ may be possible. If vocal cord damage is total, only primal sounds such as screams are possible.”
Then I glimpse the section titled “Selective Mutism.” It includes a list of symptoms that are familiar: social isolation and withdrawal; difficulty maintaining eye contact; reluctance to smile; difficulty expressing feelings; sensitivity to noise and crowds. There are a bunch of other things that should have Theo’s picture next to them, but that condition usually appears in childhood.
Hmm.
