Mary Without Sound

9. Are You Listening?

Justin and Lindsay drive me home from the airport.

They pull up in front of my apartment, asking if I want to hang out.

I know they just want to see how Mary is, but I’m tired and maybe a little selfish.

I enter the apartment, thoroughly exhausted and happy to be home.

I set my suitcases down and slip out of my jacket and shoes, immediately feeling more comfortable and relaxed.

“Hello?” I call, not expecting an answer.

I hang up my jacket, leave the suitcases at the door, and head to the kitchen.

I nearly jump in surprise; she’s sitting calmly at the kitchen table.

“Hi,” I smile. She gives the slightest of nods and a half-smile in return. “How’ve you been?”

I know, it’s stupid of me.

Thinking I can get her to talk, just like that.

She looks at the ceiling thoughtfully in response, and I take it to mean she’s okay, not good, not bad.

But she looks better than the last time I saw her.

Healthier, at any rate. She not so skin-and-bones anymore, and her eyes and hair look like they have more color and spark. Aside from the fact that she’s dyed over the turquoise in her hair and cut it slightly shorter than she had it before I left.

I don’t mention it though, since I don’t know how she’d take it.

Suddenly, she pushes a pile towards me across the table.

My face burns as I realize what it is.

I chew on my lip as I stare dumbly at the pile of my letters I half-wish I never sent.

Over a month’s worth of letters sitting on the table in front of her, and her wearing an expression I can’t read at all.

I shoot her brief glances to check her reaction, but I can’t tell what’s going through her mind for the life of me.

And here I thought I’d had most of her expressions figured out by now.

She doesn’t look smug, or annoyed, or anything.

She’s just so…Mary.

I don’t say anything about the letters.

I can’t.

I stand there, frozen and awkward before I can pull some cohesive thoughts from my head.

“I’m kind of in the mood for pasta…” I begin, hoping she likes spaghetti.

I turn back to the cabinets, looking for the right pots to start cooking.

“Who’s Casey?”

I freeze.