I Can't Lie in the Silence

Warning; Story contains themes of infant loss, infertilitly, death and dying, and afterlife.

There is a portal that only I can see. It hides in plain sight of the darkness behind my eyelids. As a child, I questioned my mother about the window inside my mind that only opened when my eyes were shut, and when the world was quiet.

“My dear, you have the gift.” She said. “I have the gift of sound, while you have the gift of sight. Your grandmother had both. You must be very careful with this gift. For while it may seem desirable in times of great grief to open that window and search for those you’ve lost, you are opening the window for beings of unspeakable evil to invade your soul, and they will take it from you if you allow it.”

“Mama, you’re scaring me,” I replied.

“I’m sorry my little Rowan, I had hoped it would not be for you as it was for me. But, tell me more of your window, and I will guide you as best I can, as Nana guided me. When does it appear?”

“I am not asleep, but I am near sleep. It is mostly at night, when I close my eyes to find the hole within my mind, shining a light that draws me in. It is as though, beneath my eyes it is a black curtain, and within the curtain, is a circular hole where a movie on a cinema screen is playing on the other side. Sometimes, it reminds me of the porthole on daddy’s old sailboat. I stare through the hole to a silent movie of passersby. It is always in black and white, like an old-time movie, like the ones daddy used to watch. Some are dressed in their Sunday best, some only in pajamas. Some are young, some are old. Some look rather lost, while others appear to be enjoying a stroll. Some notice me in the window, they tip their hat, or wave with a smirk or a wink. Some look familiar, while some of them look as strange as wandering about a foreign country. They are of all shapes and sizes, and walks of life. The setting is always different though. Sometimes it’s a home, or a country path. But behind them, on nights where the picture is most clear, are butterflies that dance about them. The butterflies often land on the people, and they seem to love that. Some are not people at all, but only balls of light, but I feel their warmth and energy through the window, as though it’s our kitchen window on the first warm day of spring. You know that feeling, Mama? Where you can smell new life in the warm energy of the sun? But, then, some Mama, some are only shadows. The shadows appear on the horizon and slowly creep near, they try to reach through my window. I know I am not dreaming because when they reach for me, I simply open my eyes and grip my blankets as though it will ground me to my world.”

“Do they speak to you Rowan? Can you hear them at all?”

“Never. It is as silent as the night we spent with no power. Remember that night, when daddy built a fire? And the silence itself seemed loud? In fact, it seems the more silent the night, the better I can see them. But no, I have never heard them speak. Though, sometimes they move their mouths as though they are speaking to me, I cannot hear their words. Who are they, Mama?”

“They are the souls of the past Rowan. They no longer walk on this side, they have passed on to the next realm. But within that realm there are beings who have never walked the Earth. They were never born, and they can never die. The bright orbs Rowan, are your guardian angels and they will always do their best to protect you from the shadows.”

“What are the shadows, Mama?” I asked bravely, although I could sense I knew the answer.

“They are demons, Rowan. They are evil, and they exist only to spread evil. Unfortunately, like the gift of life, this gift you were given, is both cruel and unfair, yet extraordinary all in one.”

“Why is it unfair and cruel, Mama?”

“One day, you will lose someone you love more than anything in this world. And while you’ll do your best to ignore this window, as I caution you to do, Rowan; You must do your best to always steer clear of that window and ignore it. You must treat it as you would a hornets’ nest, leave them alone, and they will leave you alone. But one day, the grief in your heart will be unbearable, and you will open that window to seek someone if only for a glimpse, for one more moment of connection. But I warn you, who you seek and who you find, though they may be identical within the window, may not be the same person you believe them to be. It may even be ME that you search for someday. And when your heart is hurting beyond all comprehension, you may go searching for me, and when you find me, when we catch eyes, there will be no way of knowing until it is too late, if it is truly me, or a demon in my form taking advantage of your heartbreak. Please Rowan, listen to me. Never search for anyone in that window.”

“How do you know this, Mama? How do you know all this if you can’t see what I see?”

“I do not see spirits, Rowan. But I hear them. Before you were born, there were two people who I loved beyond measure, Nana and Pa. When Pa had passed, Nana warned me not to seek the silence for a message, to know that he is at peace and to be at peace with that. But I didn’t listen. I was young, and needed my father so unbearably much, that I disobeyed Nana and snuck out my bedroom window shortly after he passed. I climbed onto the roof above our farmer’s porch in the dead of night, shrouded in my bedspread. It was a bitterly cold night at the start of a snowstorm that would turn into a blizzard. Have you ever looked up to the sky at night during a snowfall, Rowan? When the world is asleep, and the sound of the snowfall adds to the beauty of the silence?”

I nodded in anticipation.

“I cried out to Pa. I begged him to speak to me. I told him how much I loved him and how much I missed him, and couldn’t bear to live another day without him.”

“Did he answer you, Mama?” I asked with tears in my eyes remembering my own father’s death.

“He did. His voice softly and warmly whispered in my ear, as though he was inside my blanket-hood. He said, ‘Maggie, I love you, and I am always with you.’ But it wasn’t enough for me. I needed to know, was it really him or was it a shapeshifter as Nana had warned me about? I pleaded, how do I know it’s you, Dad? How do I know it’s really you?’

“Tomorrow a gift will arrive for you, an unexpected gift, but something you’ve always wanted that I was too stubborn to allow. Wait for the gift Maggie, and then you’ll know." He replied.

“So what happened the next day? Did you find the gift?”

“No, the gift found me. The next day, Uncle Matt came home from plowing with something wrapped in his arms. He placed it in front of me and said he had found it on the side of the road, in a snow-covered box, abandoned in the middle of nowhere. It was a puppy, it was my puppy.”

“The one you named Chief, Mama?”

“Chief, my puppy for sixteen years, named after your Pa, Chief Robinson.”

“But Mama, that’s a great story! Why should I be so afraid to find my loved ones after that story?” I asked.

“Because I kept my promise to Nana after that night. For fifteen additional years, I didn’t seek out another voice, or attempt to contact Pa again. Until it was Nana’s turn. She warned me from her deathbed, and still I disobeyed her. I cried in agony in the silence of my room for one last goodbye. There is a special pain, Rowan, that comes from losing your mother. From the silence, a voice pierced my ear. It was her voice, with its perfect cadence and Irish accent that often broke with a hint of a more nasal, coastal New England tone, born from half a life in Ireland to half a life in Boston. It spoke within my mind as clear as a church bell at noon standing beneath the steeple.

“Maggie, sweetheart,” she said, just as she always had. “I warned ya about this, ya know? But, it’s so good to hear your voice, and feel your love. It warms me, Maggie. Please Maggie, tell me more, how have you been since I’ve left ya?”

I should have known she’d have never asked me for more if it was really her. But her voice, her voice was so convincingly accurate, that I spoke of all that had happened in the days since she'd left. I spoke of you, Rowan, missing her so. I spoke of Pa, and asked almost greedily, would I ever see them again?”

“It wasn’t Nana, was it, Mama? How did you find out?”

Mama stared at me, looking me up and down as though internally questioning herself on whether I was ready for what she was about to say.

“I know, Rowan,” she hesitated. “I know, because the next day, Daddy died so unexpectedly. I’ve never forgiven myself. But I hope you’ll find a way to forgive me.”

I wrapped my arms around her, and buried my head into her waist and cried a cry like I hadn’t wept since the day of his burial; when Uncle Matt and Mama had to pick me up and carry me to the car because I refused to leave him.

“A demon didn’t take Daddy, Mama. I know it didn’t, because I’ve seen him. I’ve seen him in the window, Mama. I didn’t tell you because I thought I was crazy. I thought you would think I was crazy! He never comes close, he just shows me he’s happy and peaceful, and he walks off into the distance, but he’s always smiling Mama, honest he is.”

“But, this is why I warn you, Rowan! You must never trust that is your true father. You must never search for him.”

“I know it’s daddy Mama! Because he knows never to cross that line, he knows the danger in reaching out to me. Your mistakes haven’t made his existence Hell, Mama. How he got there no longer matters, I promise Mama, he’s at peace, and you'll be with him again someday too.”

I felt her shoulders release a tension that felt as though it had been bearing down on her for a million years. The relief I felt in her embrace was all I needed to feel, to know that I would never disobey her, that I would never want that burden to live with, wondering if I had caused pain to someone I loved only for a moment’s relief of my own.

“Mama?” I asked. “What are the butterflies? What are the butterflies I see, did Nana ever speak of those?”

“As a matter of fact she did. She said that when she saw a butterfly, she knew it was a baby who died before they ever got a name. And they follow their parents forever-more.”

Twenty years have passed since that day. Mama has passed on, and I said goodbye to her mortal soul while her lungs were still hard at work. I never searched for something more.

When I married my husband, and we would go to bed at night, he was bothered by my need for noise. Why must I always have the music playing, the television on, the sound machine?

“Can’t we just try a silent night, for once? For me?” He pleaded.

“If you love me, you’ll understand. I can’t lie in the silence.”

He’d smile and nod, and off we’d drift to sounds of late night shows and infomercials, classical music, or distant rain storms.

We’d been trying to conceive a child for eight year; eight years, three rounds of IVF, and 4 miscarriages. My desire for a child of my own was the deepest grief I had ever experienced. I was mourning a soul more, that I’d never met, than anyone I’d ever known. I became convinced that somehow before I knew the danger, I had let a demon into my world to torture me forever. I began to suffer horrible insomnia. The weight of the financial burden of IVF treatments, the strain on our marriage, the emptiness I felt, brought me to a level of depression I thought I could never break free from, not without the chance to be somebody’s mom. It was the only thing I truly remembered wanting in life, having come from a long line of incredible women. It almost made me wish I had never known my mom, and the love she gave to me. Had I never experienced that level of love, maybe I could live a life free from the desire to be that for someone else? I was beginning to feel hopeless. This life was no longer worth it for me, so why should I care if anyone, alive or dead would want to destroy it?

Early one morning after my husband had left for work, I laid in bed with the television blaring. It was the morning after our fifth miscarriage. I waited for the door to close, and opened my eyes. I had pretended to be asleep, as I didn’t even have the energy to pretend any longer that I was happy for another day. I stood up and walked around the bed and shut off the television. The hum of the ceiling fan still broke the silence. I clicked it off and stood beside my bed. I was ready. I was ready for whatever the silence would bring. I laid my head down and closed my eyes. I searched the darkness, my eyes darting within my sockets. Where is it? Is my window still available, or was it closed off forever? A tiny light appeared to my upper left line of vision, and within it, something was darting back and forth, kind of lackadaisical within the rays of light beaming from my old familiar window. A sense of peace fell over me, as I focused closer, realizing with a skip of my heartbeat it was a butterfly fluttering about in the rays of my window. But it was on my side! It fluttered about with beautiful yellow wings on my side of the window; in my world. I gripped the sheets within my hands, but squeezed my eyes even tighter. This was not a dream! I stared at this beautiful butterfly dancing in my window’s light, and when the light caught its wings, they glowed like pure gold in the sunshine cast upon the Earth. Suddenly, as though a vacuum was held to the other side, it was sucked through the hole, my porthole, my portal. I chased it, and tried to climb through and catch it, but my mortal body felt too big, too heavy, and too solid to squeeze through the hole I had feared for so long. Now, I would give anything to step through. Bring me there, bring me to all the ones I loved so much, but have left me behind! I felt tears forming and rolling down my cheeks. So, I rested myself at eye level and stared at the view I was too terrified to witness since I was a child in my mother’s arms. But now, it was black, an infinite void. My heart sank, just as I had expected.

But, suddenly movement, as though on the cinema screen, someone picked up the camera and turned it around to themself. I saw my mother’s face. She held up her pointer finger to her lips, as though telling me to be quiet, and then pointed down. My view expanded, as though she drew the camera back and I saw she was reclined in a chair and on her chest, lay a sleeping baby. For the first time in over twenty years I heard my mother’s voice whisper,

“Soon Rowan, my love, soon.”

The camera panned across the back of her chair, and down each arm, and all around her lay five beautiful butterflies, fluttering their wings while the most beautiful baby I’d ever laid eyes upon, slept peacefully on my mother’s chest. The entire scene was in black and white, except for each butterflies’ wings glowing a different brilliant shade of the rainbow.

I know it was my mother because a year later we welcomed our beautiful baby girl Juliette Maggie. She was exactly the baby in my window. When Juliette was ten, we drove to a restaurant on the far side of town. As we pulled into a parking spot, I announced we’d arrived and turned to see Juliette, shaking, her eyes filled with tears.

“Juliette what’s wrong? Are you alright? Are you sick?”

“Someone died in that street.” She said, pointing to the busy road beyond the parking lot.

I nodded, “Can you see them? Or hear them?” I asked.

“Neither,” she said. “I feel them…”

My husband stared at me with wide and frightened eyes.

“I guess it’s time we have a chat.” I replied.