The Silence by Maggie Nerz Iribarne

Not Close

In every old photo Therese is drenched in shimmering light. My sister is always happy, either tap dancing or popping out of a cartwheel or hugging Grandma. In all images of me, I am looking down, or away, caught in a lack of expression, my lips frozen for time in a straight line.

“Celeste is the quiet one,” our parents said, offering an acknowledgement as a kind of apology. I never knew why my personality had to be excused. I always thought of my silence as solitude, strength. Even my teachers were uncomfortable with me. Good grades. Too quiet, the comments often read. Therese always did the things everyone liked - dance and debate and swim. On weekends, we followed Therese’s activity schedule. I didn’t even know how to swim. I sat sweating on the bleachers at her meets, staring at the water, imagining dolphins popping their noses out of the water.

Therese and I were never close.

Miscarriage

“I-I need you to come,” she said, a desperate sob, hospital noises in the background, beeps and loudspeakers. I turned off my computer and went to my sister.

“There was no-no heartbeat,” she wailed into my shoulder minutes after my arrival.

My mind had to catch up:

1. My sister was pregnant and

2. My sister was pregnant with a not-alive baby.

She caught her breath and attempted to tell me what needed to be done, how this would play out, how she would leave the hospital with no baby inside her.

“Where’s Jim?” I asked, referring to my sister’s mysterious husband. I often joked that the last Jim sighting was at their wedding, not far from the truth.

“He was negotiating a contract. It was too important.”

Anger came first, then shock. Shock that her husband would think a contract was more important than this and, selfishly, shocked she called me, not Mom, not her best friend, me. My bright star sister clung to my shoulder, her tears soaking through my shirt, dampening my skin. Overcoming extreme shyness and discomfort, I reached for her head, moving one sweat-soaked strand from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear.

Closer

“I’m having coffee with Therese,” I told Noah, pulling a tee shirt over my head. My husband was lingering in bed, his Saturday morning routine.

“What happened to your morose individualism?” he teased.

“She needed me, and, I guess I liked that.”

I did like it. Therese and I found we actually enjoyed one another’s company. We met for coffee and lunch and glasses of wine. We laughed about annoying things our parents did. We complained about our jobs, talked about weight loss and exercise. I never had a girlfriend like this before. I never talked this much before. Drinking cappuccinos on Express-Oh’s sunny patio, my sister shined, and now I shined too. That day, her words brought darkness. She broached the subject gently, her lowered voice hard to hear amongst the car horns and sirens of the street.

“So, how’s the fertility stuff going?” she asked.

I let my guard down, unloaded the depth of my disappointment and grief, how much I wanted this, this baby.

Grudge

I thought I’d been invited to a surprise birthday party for Therese. The cake came out as we all sang off-key. The lights on top sputtered and spat. After each sparkler burned, a curious question mark of a candle still flamed. Therese closed her eyes and blew. Jim shushed us all. “I’m about to cut into this monstrosity. If your slice is pink, we’re having a girl, and if it’s blue, well-”

The room burst into laughter and clapping. Our mother shrieked and ran to Therese’s limp arms. Noah’s hand gripped mine as I swallowed hard holding back the emotions that were coming like a train. Therese pushed our mother away and ran to me. “Celeste, I didn’t know about this. We got the genetic testing and just found out-I was going to tell you - not this way.” She glared at Jim. “This is not-”

She kept talking. I bolted for the door, with Noah close at my heals.

***

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned,” I began my confession to Fr. Jerry. He sat across from me in jeans and a golf shirt, wearing his purple stole. My father’s brother baptized me, gave me my first communion, confirmed me, and officiated at my wedding. Now he listened to me spill my selfish guts. “I just can’t get over it. I want to, but I can’t,” I told him.

I hadn’t seen Therese for months. I skipped her baby shower. My mother accused me of spoiling her day and I was destroying the family. “You and Noah-you’ll have your own baby soon. I promise.”

He gave me my penance: three Hail Marys, join him for ice cream, and call Therese. “You can fix this, honey.”

I said my Hail Marys and had ice cream with Fr. Jerry, but I didn’t call my sister.

Rescue

Everyone is always celebrating, I thought as I surveyed the bonfire wood piled high in a mound on the beach. People threw sticks and branches on the heap, plunging tiki torches in the sand. I liked running in circles, alone, moving into the trails, the darkness and silence, away from the laughter, the fading light of the beach. I ran until the bright green presence of the second, hidden lake asserted itself. I stopped, as I always did, stood at the tip of the round lake. I walked toward the water, gazing down through its emerald surface, looked for life, seeing only weeds, roots, petrified wood protruding from prehistoric layers. The wind rustled.

I stared as a glow in the water rose and grew, a baby’s face emerged from the water’s depths, a button nose, rosebud lips poked through the surface. It gasped and cried out. What? Was it drowning? Or just born? As if being pulled by a hand somewhere below, the baby jerked from exposure, receded into the water. My hands reached, my breath came in short, sick gulps, my chest heaved. I turned, hoping someone would be there to help.

No. No. No. No. No.

I ran back into the woods, back onto the trail, but of course, of course, no, I was alone in this, in all of this, in everything, always. I stumbled back to the water. The rings from the baby’s appearance still reverberated. Summoning my last bits of dizzy energy, I dove toward the spot of light, the baby, my baby. The shock of the cold water, the depth of the silence, came as a comfort, a cool, bottomless relief.

Maggie Nerz Iribarne

Maggie Nerz Iribarne is 53, living her writing dream in a yellow house in Syracuse, New York. She writes about teenagers, witches, the very old, bats, cats, priests/nuns, cleaning ladies, runaways, struggling teachers, and neighborhood ghosts, among many other things. She keeps a portfolio of her published work at https://www.maggienerziribarne.com.