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Back The Infinite Noise Save as PDF
Chapters (70)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  69. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  70. Newsletter Sign-up

“We’ve been trying for two years and … nothing.” She shrugs like “that’s just the way life works sometimes” and I want to shake her. That’s my job. To get knocked down and refuse to get back up. Rebecca Hayes is supposed to fix things.

“I’m going to keep trying,” she insists, seeing the way I deflate, “but I’m getting very frustrated. And he’s—it’s a young man. Not as young as you, but in his twenties. Too young to be trapped in his own body.”

“God,” I breathe, “that must be awful.”

“Yes, I imagine it is,” she agrees grimly.

We stand there, our backs leaned against the counter, drinking our Darjeeling in a bleak silence. I want to ask more questions—know more—but I also want my mom to wrap me in a hug and tell me the world isn’t a scary place where the most brilliant minds I know can’t help a twenty-something in a coma. I also want to put my arms around her and tell her it’s going to be okay, that she doesn’t need to worry about me, that I’ll take care of her. But I don’t do any of that.

I stare straight ahead, pressed shoulder to shoulder with the woman I call Mom, but who is known by most other people as the brilliant Dr. Hayes. There are always things I thought I could count on but, here I am, standing in the kitchen I grew up in with a woman I realize I barely know, and it occurs to me that maybe I don’t know anything about the world at all.

29

CALEB

Wednesday dawns frosty and dark. Well, okay, I guess it doesn’t dawn at all, then. I hate this time of year—waking up in darkness, coming home in darkness—the whole world made small and cold and claustrophobic. The lack of light makes everyone’s feelings press in on me, and most days feel like being trapped in an unlit meat locker with hallucinogenic gas pouring in from the vents instead of air.

It’s been a bad week. And, fuck, it’s only Wednesday.

I’ve been trying to lie low after the whole Sadie Hawkins mess, but any time I stop to think about the weekend—the almost-fight, Caitlin’s butterflies sitting on top of the acid from the dance, her face when I blurted out that I didn’t feel the same way she did, the fight with Adam, the fact that Adam still hasn’t texted—I want to sprint out my front door and run and run and run and never look back.