The River of Silence - short story by Gregory M. Fox

by Gregory M. Fox

It felt like playing hooky to go to the theme park. Light gleamed, noise bombarded me, colors dazzled, and my stomach churned as I raced through thrilling highs of freedom and crushing lows of guilt. My newborn daughter was at home, and I was at Wal-Mart. It was one of my first outings without Imogen since she had been born. Giddy and anxious, I had volunteered pick up the new crib we had ordered and rushed out of the house before Imogen had a chance to notice I was gone.

My time was limited of course. I hadn’t started pumping yet, but I tried to find ways to add some leisure into the trip. For instance, instead of going straight the customer service counter in the back of the store, I took the time to buy a syrupy sweet frappe from the McDonald's at the entrance. My meandering path continued past the jewelry counter, down aisles of shoes, and through the racks of clothing. I kept wondering whether the low prices were worth the low quality. At a bin of $5 movies, I lingered on the grittiest R-rated movies, knowing that I would now watch them only when my daughter was not around, during moments of escape like this one. These were trifles, but they felt indulgent. My typically alert senses could relax and dull, which is probably why it took so long for me to notice the beeping.

"What is that?" someone said. I was at the back of a line in the customer service area, and some woman ahead of me was asking, "What's that noise?" I tried to ignore them, both to maintain my own peace of mind and to keep out of someone else's business, but the voice was loud and insistent. "Can you tell me what's happening? Is there something wrong?"

 "Wrong?" the woman working the customer service desk asked.

"That beeping."

 And now I heard it, even more insistent than the complaints. Every second, another high pitched tone rang out.

 "It ain't me," the clerk said

 "Well something's beeping."

 "It ain't me," she repeated.

 And now a terse white face with slightly buggy eyes was peering back at the rest of us in line. "I'm not trying to be rude," she said, "but I have to say something because I can't even hear myself think. So can whoever's alarm is going off please just do something about it?"

 "Oh, that's me," the woman right in front of me said. "I'm sorry."

 "Well can you make it stop?" the woman at the front of the line snapped

 "It's . . . my chemo pump. Sorry."

The woman’s anger broke itself apart against the immovable monolith of cancer. Still red-faced and pent, she simply said, "Oh," and turned back to the customer service counter.

 And now, for the first time, I actually looked at the woman standing in front of me. She was fairly short with dark hair cut neatly above her shoulders. A wig? I wondered. She carried a box for a handheld vacuum, probably to return. While we waited for the slow progress of the line, I caught a glimpse of her features from the side. Olive skin, a straight nose, and big dark eyes, kind and unassuming. Then there was a flash of memory. I had seen that face before, heard that voice before. I was still getting used to recognizing people around town after moving back, so when the pieces of my memories snapped back into place, the name escaped my lips involuntarily. "Arina?" I said, recalling the quiet, friendly girl I had worked with at the marketing firm.

 That face turned back to me in surprise and then lit up with recognition. "Oh my gosh, Shayla? What are you doing here?"

 The exchange that followed was one I had gotten used to in recent months, repeated each time I bumped into an old acquaintance. And it seemed that no matter how much there was to catch up on in their life, conversation always ended up revolving around me, or more specifically, my baby. First it was my inflated, unwieldy pregnant body that drew in attention, then it was that tiny bundle of life I carried with me. But even now, when I was finally independent of Imogen for even a few hours, I found myself scrolling through the pictures which were rapidly consuming all the memory on my phone.

 Arina followed the script perfectly, congratulating me, laughing or saying "Aw" at all the best pictures, offering the encouragement that she was sure I’m a wonderful mother. But all the while, there was that beeping noise underneath it all. Arina was probably still under thirty and looked as healthy, pretty, and cheerful as ever—and she had always been excessively cheery—so the shrill, monotonous tone was the only real indication that things were not well. I couldn’t shake the sense of a countdown to some imminent disaster. Perhaps for Arina, it was. So why was my chest tightening. Why were my lips going dry. Why was Arina so calm? Since she remained unperturbed, I did my best to act like everything was completely ordinary as well.

 "She's lovely, Shayla," Arina said, handing the phone back to me. "And you two are so precious together."

 "Thank you," I said. The last picture Arina had been looking at was one Alex had taken of me and Imogen right after the delivery. Her tiny face was scrunched up and crying, and mine was drenched in sweat, smiling vaguely with eyes red and hazy like I was only half alive. That picture had been taken a thousand miles away from here, back in Virginia. "My life has certainly been turned upside down lately."

 "I know what that's like," she replied.

 The line moved forward as the woman who had complained about the noise left, her still buggy eyes darting toward Arina as she left. Next, a tall thin man with dark skin and a wiry beard stepped forward. He had a shopping cart full of items to return, and the clerk was moving slowly. We would still be waiting for a while. Arina was still beeping.

 "So, are you still working at Holmes and Bailey?" I asked.

 "No, I left last year," she said. "Now I work at Laswell Engineering as an operations research analyst.

 "Oh, wow. That sounds . . . fancy." I didn't know much about what Laswell Engineering actually did, but I they had manufacturing plants scattered around the metropolitan area and corporate headquarters in an office building downtown. I figured that with a title like operations research analyst, that big building was the one where Arina now worked. "How did that come about?"

 "It's actually the sort of position I've been working toward for a while now. I spent a few years taking classes part time for an MBA."

 "That's . . . really impressive," I said.

 "Thank you," she answered with a big smile. I tried to smile back, knowing it lacked her radiance. All the joy and pride I carried in those pictures suddenly seemed trivial. When Arina and I had worked together at Holmes and Bailey, a local marketing firm, she hadn't done anything more complex than data entry while I had been a program director. But then there was the move to Virginia, the move back, and then the maternity leave. Suddenly I was a stay-at-home mom. It was just temporary – at least that’s what we kept saying. So, I tried to smile. I tried to be happy for Arina’s accomplishments the way she had been happy for me. But I couldn’t meet her eyes—so bright and genuine that it made her whole body radiant. It didn't seem fair that she should have so much beauty to go along with her achievements.

 Up at the front of the line, the man trying to return things was disputing with the clerk. He was leaning over the counter, arguing quietly, but clearly insistently. The woman on the other side of the counter seemed only half engaged as she shook her head repeating, "I can't do that; I'm sorry. I can't do that; I'm sorry." All the while, she was tapping her long, lacquered nails on the counter in a rhythm almost as incessant as Arina's beeping. That sound pierced my thoughts, striating the silence that had settled between us. At least not everything in her life is perfect, I thought, then chastised myself for letting jealousy get the better of me. Nevertheless, I found myself asking, "You mentioned a . . . something about chemo?"

 "Oh, yeah," she said, for once allowing her smile to fade. "It's this thing I have to carry around for a while." With one hand, she lifted the hem of her shirt to reveal the thin tubing that ran from her backpack beneath her clothes. With the other hand, she tugged the collar of her shirt slightly down and to the side to show me a patch of tape where the tubing fed into her body right above her breast.

 "My god. I'm so sorry," I said.

"Oh, it's not so bad," she said, happiness returning to her face. "From what I hear, these pumps aren't too inconvenient—better than having to go in for treatments all the time. And the continuous release is supposed to be more effective anyway."

 It was said so simply I thought that perhaps I had misunderstood. "But . . . it is cancer, right?" I asked.

 "It is."

 "How long have you . . ."

 "There was a tumor a few years ago. I had it removed, but they thought it was benign. I guess not." She spoke almost with a slight chuckle, as though the irony of a misdiagnosis was comedic rather than tragic.

 "I had no idea." The line moved forward. The man who had been arguing walked past with a grim expression on his bony face. His eyes were dark and glassy. There was just one more person in front of Arina—a white woman on the older side of middle age. I wondered if the line was so slow because of the customers or because of the clerk, and I hoped that there would be no difficulties picking up the crib. And my eardrums still jolted with each consecutive beep. I looked at the small pack that was producing the noise. "Does it ever get annoying?" I asked.

 "I actually just started this treatment yesterday, so it's all pretty new."

 "Oh, I guess your hair?"

 "My hair?"

 "It's different. I didn't know if maybe . . ."

 She caught my drift, then caught a lock of hair and tugged. "Nope, all mine."

 "Ah. Well it looks good."

 "Thank you!" she said though a wide, toothy smile. "I'm hoping it sticks around. Apparently, hair loss is pretty rare with this particular chemo."

 "Good, good," I replied. "Actually though, I was asking about that beeping," I said. "All the time, doesn't that get old?"

 "Oh, that just started. It means the pump's battery is low." I searched her expression, trying to interpret whether or not I should be concerned about this announcement. Of course the pump was not a life support system, though I had begun to think of that beeping like the heart monitors you always see in movies. But even if it wasn’t anything quite that dramatic, this device was supposed to save her life, and now it was dying. And yet there she was, smiling calmly, gently even, more composed than most people would be if their phone battery had died. I remembered now why Arina and I had never become particularly close when we worked together. She almost seemed too nice, too sweet, always tranquil and always smiling.

 A man entered the customer service area. By this point, a couple of people had formed a line behind me, but he headed straight toward the front. Of course, jumping ahead in line would do little good since there was currently no one behind the counter. The clerk had disappeared behind a pair of double doors to fetch something for the woman at the font. The man approached the customer and said, "Joan."

 The woman jumped and whipped her head around, eyes wide, face pale. When she saw who had addressed her, she exhaled heavily, and her eyes actually opened even wider. "Jesus, David," she said, "You scared me. I thought you were out in the car."

 "I was, but it was taking a while. Everything alright?"

 "I don't know. Yes, fine—just slow. This woman working seems a bit less than competent, but at least she's getting our order now. I just feel on edge is all."

 The man, David apparently, cocked his head and started looking around. "Do you hear that?" he asked. "Something's beeping. What is that?"

 "David," his wife hissed.

 "Hm?" She muttered something to him glancing tilting her head toward Arina. His eyes widened and his face went pale. He stepped toward us, looking in shock at Arina. "I'm so sorry," he said. "My mother had cancer and . . . God, you know, I just can't imagine someone as young as you having to go through something like that. It's just . . . I don't know. I don't know." He was shaking his head.

 "You're very kind," Arina said. "I'm sorry about your mother. I'm sure she was a wonderful woman."

 "Oh, um, thank you," the man said. He looked at Arina a moment longer, almost like he was trying to figure her out, then with a sigh and an appropriately pitying expression, shook his head wandered back to his wife's side where the clerk had returned with a large package. According to the picture attached to the cardboard, the box contained a bedframe.

 "It seems like everybody knows someone who's had cancer," Arina said. She watched the couple depart and then stepped up to the counter herself. "Sorry for bothering your customers," she said to the clerk.

 "Don't matter to me," the woman answered.

 "It's the goddamn chemicals."

 The voice, rough and biting, had come from behind me. I turned around and saw a middle-aged man with a serious expression. His hair was a salt and pepper gray, including his scruffy beard, and his skin was the dark reddish color of the constantly sunburned. A sour smell emanated from his dingy, faded cloths He was looking straight at me and nodding as if the opinion just expressed was absolute truth. "What was that?" I asked.

 "The chemicals. The fuckin' government puts chemicals into our fuckin' food an' water, an' the shit poisons us.

 "Yeah, I don't think that's true."

 I turned back around, but he stepped up beside me and continued, "It's how they control us. Just like with the NSA and that shit. If we're too fuckin' worried about fuckin' cancer, we're not gonna do anything about their bullshit." I was doing my best to ignore him, which he must have noticed, because he then said, "I bet your lady friend there knows what I'm talkin' about. She's the one that got it. It's the fuckin' chemicals, ain't that right."

 By now, Arina had turned away from the counter and politely answered, "I don't know about any of that. I'm just working on getting better."

 "Doctors can't do shit for you, you know," he answered quickly, almost like he had been waiting for just such a remark. "They're in on it. They gotta keep people sick. Look at you an' that fuckin' machine. It's probably just more chemicals."

 "Okay look," I finally interjected, "why don't you just leave it."

 "Shayla, it's alright," Arina said.

 "Hey, she needs to know," the man said.

 "You really think she needs you harassing her?"

 Shrill beep punctuated each comment, making us raise our voices.

 "I'm just sayin'—"

 "We know what you're saying, now leave it."

 "Shayla, it's fine" Arina spoke up again. Then turning to the stranger, she smiled and said "Sir, you're right. This machine is pumping chemicals into me, but they're for fighting off the cancer so that I'll get better."

 "I'm sure that's what they told you," he answered, "but how do you know that shit won't fuckin' kill you?"

 "Maybe it will," she said, somehow still smiling. "I'll just have to find out for myself, but it's worth a shot." The man was momentarily disarmed by this response. He was silent. Arina's chemo pump was beeping. She turned back to the customer service counter. "Sorry for the interruption," she said.

 "It don't matter to me," the clerk answered.

 Back behind me again, the man muttered, "It's the goddamn chemicals."

 Arina received a gift card from the clerk who took the boxed up vacuum and set it behind the counter. Arina turned to me and said, "It was great to see you, Shayla. We should get together sometime and catch up for real."

 She was smiling brightly. Her pump was chiming as determinedly as ever. I didn't know if she was just being polite, like I was, or if she was actually sincere. "Right," I said. "Maybe that will work out."

 "Next," the clerk called out flatly.

 "Gotta go," I said, with a distracted wave.

 The clerk was working as slowly and dispassionately as ever but once I provided the order number, she ambled through the swinging double doors behind her, and I was left to wait. I felt a bit on edge, and it took me a moment to realize why. It was quiet. Sure, there was the noise of the store, crackling music playing, distant conversations, a crying child, but there was no beeping. The metered tones had left with Arina, and the remaining silence felt like a suspended breath. I could feel myself tense as I waited for the next beep. Someone in the line behind me finally broke the silence with a cough. I exhaled heavily. Apparently, the suspended breath had been my own. I kept expecting the beeps and occasionally thought I heard them drifting in from somewhere in the store. The clerk returned a moment later pushing a shopping cart that contained a long, flat box. "This what you ordered?" she asked.

 Seeing a picture of the crib I had ordered on the side, I affirmed that it was, took my receipt and the cart, and headed back into the store. I tried to reclaim my leisurely attitude as I made my way back to the front of the store, but my mind was distracted. Somewhere among the packed aisles, an infant was crying. The high-pitched wails shook me, and I thought of Imogen. I knew Alex could take care of her just fine, but I still felt momentarily worried. I sent him a text asking how things were going. Unfortunately, that just gave me another distraction. I held the phone in my hand, but still checked it every minute to see if there was a new text. Meanwhile I kept thinking I could hear beeping. I would look around expecting to see Arina and would only find more rows of products covered in labels specifically designed to pull in attention. It made my eyes swim. The tall shelves seemed too close together, too full of items, like they might topple at any moment. And somewhere nearby, the child was now screaming. What was wrong? Why wasn't the child's parent doing something? And what was that beeping?

 It was my phone. I had a message from Alex. It was a picture Imogen in the bathtub. Her wispy strands of hair were soaped up and shaped into a mohawk. There was a ridiculous grin on her tiny face as she splashed around in the water. The picture was adorable. I saved it to my phone with the others, wishing I had been there to see her. Meanwhile, I had absent-mindedly wandered into the toy section. There, the colors here were even brighter and flashier. I passed aisles of blue and black and red that were filled with Legos and action figures and aisles of pink and purple and white with Barbie's and other dolls, until I finally found an aisle with some simple stuffed animals. I picked up a soft fluffy tiger that would purr if you squeezed it. Batteries included. With the toy in my cart, I immediately headed for the register. Relaxation and leisure were unattainable in a place like this. I just wanted to leave.

 At a self-checkout lane, I swiped the stuffed animal across the scanner, and its electric chirp made me jump. It was like the beeping of Arina's chemo pump had scrambled my brain. Once more I imagined I could hear the shrill tone repeating nearby. I tried to put it out of my mind while I finished checking out, but when I turned to go, there was Arina, right in front of me. I actually was hearing her pump. She was seated on one of the hard plastic benches that were spread out along the front of the store. A fresh package of batteries was open on the seat beside her, and she was fiddling with her pack.

 The beeping ceased.

 I started moving quickly, suddenly dreading any further interaction. Arina looked up. We made eye contact. "Shayla!" she called. "Here, I'll walk out with you."

 "Hello again," I said. "Got everything taken care of, then?"

 "Yes. I must have started out with a bad set of batteries. Hopefully it will last a bit longer this time." She dropped a pair of used double A's into the trash where they landed with a definitive thud. "I'll just keep a couple of these with me from now on, just in case."

 "Good thinking." She didn't seem to have been too phased by the awkwardness in line at the customer service counter, but it had clearly troubled everyone else, except maybe the clerk. There had probably been similar incidents as she finished her shopping. Why would you want to call attention to yourself like that? I was looking at the pack, noticing again how the tubing stealthily, but not invisibly, snaked beneath her shirt. Of course, even though the obnoxious sound was gone, the chemo was still there. The cancer was still there.

 "Is this a gift for Imogen?" Arina asked looking at the tiger.

 "Hm? Oh. Yes it is," I said, returning from my absent-minded thoughts.

 "It's precious," she said, her face radiant and cheerful. "I'm sure she'll love it. You know I really would like to meet her. Maybe next weekend—"

 "Doesn't it bother you?" I said suddenly. We stopped short just outside of the automatic exit doors.

 "What?"

 "I'm sorry; I shouldn't have said that."

 "Doesn't what bother me?" Her brow was furrowed with confusion, though she still wore a slight smile.

 "It's just—you smile all the time," I spilled. "You've always been like that. And I know you're an upbeat person, but you can't be that happy all the time. No one can. Especially if they've got cancer, dammit. I mean, don't you get sick of it? Doesn't anything bother you?"

 "I guess I don't dwell on negative thoughts. I'd rather focus on positives. There's a lot out there to be happy about."

 "Are you serious?"

 Arina's composure was shaken. For a moment, she didn't speak. She was so gentle and nice that people usually treated her kindly. I know that I had certainly never spoken to her that harshly or sarcastically. She looked at me with something like pity, but the slight remainders of her smile made it seem like she might also be amused. "Shayla," she said, "I'm alive. Why wouldn't I be happy?"

 "Even now?"

 "Of course now."

 "You have cancer."

 Arina frowned. Her voice cracked as she said. "You think I don't know that?"

I felt guilty for talking to her that way, but seeing her actually react negatively to something compelled me to continue. "Of course, you do," I said. "I know you do. But you're acting like everything's fine even though you're dying."

 Arina spoke in a voice like steel. "We're all dying, Shayla." Her eyes were dark. For the first time, I really looked into them. I thought I might cry.

 A car off in the parking lot started honking. Somewhere nearby, sirens were wailing. A bird chirped just overhead. We both looked up. When I looked back at Arina, she was smiling again. Her eyes glinted with the same friendly light as always. "Look, Shayla, I know a lot of people think I'm oblivious or naive," she said, "but I don't ignore the negatives. I just try to look beyond them." I didn't know how to respond. We stood in silence for a moment until Arina finally said, "Well, I'm sure you have to get home, but it really has been great to see you."

 "Yeah," I said vaguely. "You too."

She had taken out a small pad of paper, and was writing. "This is my number if you want to get together sometime," she said, tearing off the sheet and handing it to me. "Just call or text me if you want to get together sometime."

 "Okay."

 "And Shayla, I'm going to be alright."

 "Right. I guess I'll see you around."

 "I hope so."

 With that, we parted. I loaded the crib and the stuffed tiger into back of the SUV, returned the cart, and got in the front seat. My movements were slow, my limbs dull and distant. The car beeped at me when I started the engine without first putting on my seat belt. Confused at how I could have made such a foolish mistake, I clicked it into place, then checked the back seat to make sure Imogen was secured. But of course, she wasn't in the car. She was home with Alex. I could still hear sirens, a bit closer than before. Tense, anxious, and a little dazed, I pulled out of the parking spot and hurried home.

 It was a relief to finally pull into the driveway of our tidy one story ranch. I left the unwieldy cardboard box for Alex to fetch and went inside. Silence met me. I froze in the doorway as my breaths and pulse quickened. Then I heard a shrill beep from somewhere in the house. Left out on the kitchen counter was a now empty pack of batteries. Another loud chirp. A baby started crying. I hurried into the nursery where Imogen lay on a play-mat, pacifier on the floor beside her. She fought away the momentary stillness with full-bodied cries, flailing clumsily and going red in the face.

 "It's alright, Immi. Mommy's home," I said, scooping her up. She immediately started rooting around, seeking comfort not in my embrace, but in the milk I provided. I didn’t even care. It was the longest I had gone without feeding her so far and was grateful for the relief. I heard another beep cut through the house. "Alex?" I called out.

 "Hey honey," his voice called back. "I'm in the bedroom."

 Imogen had already calmed down, cries replaced by suckling, though she still shuddered with a half sob every few seconds. Shirt hiked up of the nursing bra, carrying Imogen like a football, I finally tracked down my husband. I found Alex perched on top of a chair in the bedroom. of the room. Another high pitched beep pierced my eardrums and elicited fresh tears from Imogen. "What's going on?" I asked.

 "Hey" Alex answered flashing a quick, affectionate smile at my current state. "Just a minute." He held the smoke detector in his hands and was popping out the batteries. "Can you take these?" he asked, holding them out. I took them in my free hand, feeling the weight of those dead pieces of metal. Alex fished two fresh batteries out of his pocket and placed them in the smoke detector. For a moment he held still, waiting to see if there would be another beep. The only sound was Imogen's slowly calming cries. "Alright, that did it." Alex carefully placed the smoke detector back on the ceiling and stepped down from the chair. "Now we're all safe again," he said and kissed my cheek.

 I was looking up at the smoke detector. A little red light was flashing, letting me know that it was working—letting me know how fragile I was.

 We're all dying, she had said.

 "How was the trip?" Alex asked. "Successful?"

 "No…" I whispered.

 "No?"

 "What?" My thoughts sluggishly caught up with the conversation. "No, yes. Yes, I got the crib. It’s still in the car." He smiled again, this one...compassionate? Pitying? Amused. I didn’t know, but he was probably struggling to figure out what I was thinking too.

 While he fetched the new crib, I wandered back to the nursery and looked over the old wooden one it would be replacing It had been a gift from my parents when we moved back to the area—the crib I had slept in when I was a baby. Though the gesture was incredibly sweet, those long years in a musty basement had allowed mold to creep into the corners and crevices of the structure. That discovery had led to the replacement, made of plastic and metal and completely hypoallergenic, which I had retrieved today.

 "This is definitely going to be better than that old death trap," Alex declared, striding in with the new box. He set it down with a thud and set about prying apart the cardboard. I studied the glossy photo of the crib on the side of the box, and suddenly it all felt futile. The new crib, like the old one, looked like a cage. And although it was not home to any dubious mold, how much protection could it ultimately afford?

 We're all dying.

 What would it be that would take my baby? An accident? A long painful battle with disease? The chemicals? Even escaping all these, sooner or later death would claim her anyway. It wasn't fair. She was beautiful and perfect, and still, she would suffer. Even Arina suffered. In her eyes, I had seen sadness, pain, loneliness, and fear. I couldn't protect my daughter from those.

Imogen had finished eating and fallen asleep in my arms. I was holding her tightly, pressing her to my chest, the place where my own sadness, pain, loneliness, and fear lived, where my heart was slowly counting down the number of beats it had left. She had fallen asleep in my arms. Her heartbeats were already counting down too. I could feel them quick and gentle. Her breath was soft against my collar, and her body warm against mine.

We’re all dying.

But I had seen light in her eyes.

"Shayla?" Alex said, voice full of concern.

My voice was shaky. "Can you take her?" I asked. "Just for a minute?" He nodded, held out his arms. I hesitated. Imogen was so fragile, even more fragile than I was. But there was so much life in her. Carefully, I held her out to Alex. His dexterous hands took her gently, and she curled into him comfortably.

"What is it?" he asked.

 There were tears in my eyes. "She's so peaceful," I said. I was smiling.