Page 23 of The Sound in Silence

Scowling, I lay the phone to the side, screen down, and focus on Carlotta silently working. She’s heating the waffle maker presently while rapidly stirring the batter. I focus on the noise of her task, but still, it doesn’t block the phone’s next buzz.

Erico

Sleep well?

If I answer, maybe he’ll stop bothering me. After all, he’s taking the time out of his busy schedule to check on his new wife, but all I hear in my head is his declaration of how this marriage will go, and the last thing I want—need—is hope. To start clinging to a concept that’ll never happen. There’s little point in these niceties if his plan is to ignore me afterwards.

There’s a lot I’ve dealt with and a lot I’m willing to take on, to put my head down and ignore. But the specific experience Irefuseto live through is any emotional back and forth.

Not wanting me—fine. Typical. Used to it.

Acting like he cares to ignore me another time—even my own misery has that limitation.

Erico

Hope the room was to your liking. Enjoy your day.

That sounds very final, and I close my phone, aiming to ignore it for good.

“Two more minutes,” Carlotta suddenly murmurs, pulling a plate from the cupboard over her head. She digs out maple syrup, which I sincerely hope is the authentic Canadian stuff and not some cheap knockoff. Living with Nico and his family was when Itrulyexperienced the best quality maple syrup, rather than the low-cost stuff from my childhood. When Carlotta rests the bottle on the counter, I catch the label, and breathe, thankful for this place being stocked well.

Another vibration from my phone and a longer message fills the screen, irritation filling every word.

Erico

Stop being childish and ignoring me. I know you’re on your phone.

Only one way he would. I glance behind me, toward where Sebastian last was. I don’t see him, but I’m sure he’s watching me. As polite as he might be, he ultimately works for my husband, which means every little move I make can be reported back.

But Erico’s message is yet another reminder.Thisis the true Erico. Maybe I am being childish, but what does he care? I almost message him that too before opting to flip over my cell and make my point very obvious through actions.

Carlotta slides a plate over with two homemade, fluffy waffles stacked on top of one another, a pile of whip cream, and a drizzle of maple syrup that makes everything instantly better. The pile is framed by sliced strawberries. When did I last eat? Yesterday morning? Under the watchful eyes of both Della and Aurora.

The moment I stick a fork into the pile, Carlotta says, “Enjoy, Mrs. Rossi. I have a few things to do but message if you need anything.” She walks by me before I can comment on her using that moniker. People must stop doing that.

Eating becomes awkward then, as I sit in a kitchen I’ve never been to before ten minutes ago, in a house that’s supposedly mine now. Not a house bought with my partner of choice. Rather, one I forced myself onto, who already declared where and how the household would run.

The food becomes stale in my throat, flavour dissipating for disappointment.

Fuck.The car accident did a lot to my brain apparently. Made me lose it entirely.

As I finish eating, steps return to the kitchen. They’re louder than Carlotta’s, telling me they’re likely Sebastian. Sure enough, he stops by the counter, his hands coming to rest on top. I focus on those hands, inches away from my own. My eyes travel the length of his arm, which is clothed in a leather jacket, and finally up to his handsome face. He has a boyish charm.

“Mrs. Rossi.” He tips his head. “Carlotta’s food is delicious, isn’t it?”

Without responding to that question, I bring my phone closer, swiping away the messaging app last open in favour of the notepad app I use so frequently now. Being mute isn’t without its challenges, and I’d do anything tonotbe. But every time I try to speak, I get choked up again. The final words I spoke to Mom arise in my head and clog my throat, making it impossible to speak through. Sometimes, I don’t bother even trying.

I used to write on whiteboards and notebooks in the medical centre, but once Nico got me out, he and Della bought me a cell, and it’s been more convenient to talk over text messages or through the notepad app.

Please stop calling me Mrs. Rossi. My name is Ariella.

His dark eyes study my screen before flicking toward me. “It is your name though. But if you insist, then Ariella is it.”

Thank you,I mouth and his attention falls right to my lips. My skin heats—I hadn’t meant to do that. But instead of interest, he seems curious. His head tips slightly to the side, his eyes narrowing on my mouth and then dropping to my hands.

“Do you know sign language?”

I do because the speech and language pathologist at the medical centre taught me. While the doctors and psychologists were focused on my trauma healing, mental health, and speaking again, other professions came in to give me alternate solutions. Learning American Sign Language was one of them, except then I realized how utterly useless it is when no one in my life knows it.

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