She loves to rediscover things: letters in the folds of old books, money in winter pockets, the playbill from the circus in the bottom of a drawer. She wills herself to forget the details of the photographs in the album of her parents’ wedding, or the contents of books in the locked bookcase in the hall. She takes more pleasure in rediscovery than in discovery itself, the mixture of newness and familiarity that rediscovery affords. Someday, she thinks, she will rediscover her voice. She thinks of the winter before, where she left her voice, and how some days the prospect of waiting for even only an hour to pass seemed like a lifetime, and how she started to feel better once she’d resigned herself to silence, once she’d made a game of it. It was one thing that she could control; it was one thing that was hers. That first day had been February 29, 286 days ago. It wasn’t a real day, anyway, she’d figured, a day not to get out of bed, to eat, to drink, to speak. And that silence—it had given her something to live for, became an addiction. What she should have done, she thinks now, is set a limit for it. She should have allowed herself a day of silence only, maybe two, three, or four, or allowed herself only one day of silence a week. But she hadn’t, and the longer the silence has gone on, the greater an issue it has become. She can’t bear to think of the attention words would bring her, the looks exchanged at words coming from the silent girl’s mouth. Yes, in trying to withdraw, she has called too much attention to herself; no one is going to ignore the fact of her silence. Hello used to be so easy, and part of her longs for that time when it was. She should get it over with, just speak before the days between her old self and the self she has become are too many to overcome; the problem is that she’s afraid it might be too late. It is too late. She can’t even bring herself to speak aloud anymore when no one is there to listen.

She stands and goes to the window. It is windy, and small flakes of snow whirl in the air. She can see her father and Maggie at the edge of the park, waiting in the pool of light from a streetlamp to cross the street toward home, Maggie’s head pointing into the wind, her father in a hat and flapping scarf, his shoulders tight against the cold. The light changes, and their shadows grow before them as they pass out of the streetlamp’s glow, coming closer to the building until she cannot see them anymore.

CHAPTER THREE

THREE

Wednesday

I