A Quiet Kind of Thunder(89)

Clark liked to talk, Rhys prompts.

‘Oh, right. Yeah. So I was thinking about Clark, and how he used to tell me that it was OK if I wasn’t a big talker like him. And that made me think about how I haven’t really talked about him much with you, and why that is, and how my parents don’t really like to talk about him much, and how that’s because it’s hard, and painful, still. And all that made me think about talking in general, and how there are actually loads of different reasons why someone might not talk.

‘Like, me not talking about Clark much to you isn’t the same as me not talking to the receptionist at the Edinburgh hotel. And you not talking on Arthur’s Seat isn’t the same as either of those things.’ I can see I’ve confused him, but I carry on. ‘I think I’ve been thinking of them all as the same thing. Because talking or not talking is such a big part of my life. Or it was, until you. But now I see the differences. So you see – our problems don’t make us different, they make us the same. It’s all about communication.’

So . . . we’re the same because we can’t communicate?

‘Because we can,’ I insist. ‘Just differently. And so long as we know that about each other it’s not a problem. Rhys, all relationships have barriers. All people have problems. These are just ours. What if you could hear but you couldn’t walk? Or if I wasn’t anxious but I had . . . I don’t know . . . chronic asthma? Imagine us trying to climb Arthur’s Seat like that! Do you see what I’m saying?’

He laughs. Yes, I literally see what you’re saying. He points from my face to his eyes and grins hopefully at me.

‘You don’t have to depend on me,’ I say. ‘And I don’t have to depend on you. But we can still lean on each other when we need to. That’s still OK.’ I have never spoken this much in one go in my entire life. My mouth actually feels dry from talking. But there’s still more. ‘It’s not up to you to make my world smaller or bigger,’ I say. ‘That’s up to me. But I want you to be in it. And I want to be in yours.’ I reach out and touch his hand. ‘Is that what you want too?’

Rhys takes my hand, lifts it to his lips and kisses my fingers. He releases it to speak. Yes. That’s what I want. But I’m worried.

Worried about what?

That I’ll let you down.

Why?

He doesn’t answer, just shakes his head a little.

‘No,’ I say, signing as I go. ‘No, don’t just clam up on me. Tell me what you’re thinking.’ I realize in this instant that this is exactly what my therapist meant when she told me about dialogue being a two-way street. ‘I can’t read your mind, Rhys. You need to tell me.’

You need someone who can look after you, he begins.

I stop him, one hand up. ‘No. That’s not true. I have my own problems, but they’re not for you to fix. Just like I’m not here to fix you being deaf. That would be stupid. So don’t make this about that. If you think you need to take care of me, that’s on you, not me.’

My God, my therapist would be so proud of me right now. I should have brought a Dictaphone.

‘Try again,’ I say. ‘This time without the “need” bit.’

He smiles a little. OK. You want me to be honest. I’m scared to be honest.

Why?

Because I might say something you don’t want to hear.

I almost laugh. Story of my life, Gold. Story of my selective mutism.

A lot of the time I don’t say what I’m thinking, he admits. It’s really easy not to, because I get to think about everything before I say it. And so I just . . . he hesitates. It’s like I censor myself. I don’t say the bad stuff.

I think about this. I try to remember a time Rhys said a single bad thing about anyone, or to me. Has he ever told me he’s annoyed with me? Or anyone? No. Did I think that, just because he never said it, he didn’t feel it?

But most of all I’m thinking about how it could be me saying all this. We really do share the same problem.

And so when things get really bad, like they did in Scotland, it’s like there’s so much to say I can’t say anything. I feel like I can’t talk at all.

And then you get grumpy, I say, nodding. Grumpy like other people get when they’re hungry.

He laughs. Is that what it’s like?

I nod. ‘Totally.’

Well, that’s no good, is it?

Maybe you just need practice, I say, chancing a smile. Maybe we both do.

Maybe. His eyes meet mine and he smiles. Maybe we can practise together.

I smile back. Maybe we can. I take another breath. You can say anything to me. Even the bad stuff. It doesn’t matter how you tell me. Sign it, or write it down, or say it out loud. I’m here for all of it.

Sometimes, he signs, then stops. He makes a face.

Go on, I urge. Tell me.

He bites his lip. Sometimes I don’t feel strong enough for this world.

‘Oh God,’ I say, smiling. Neither do I. But we can be soft together. Anyway, soft is more . . . ‘huggable.’

He grins. You are very . . . ‘huggable.’ Among other things.

I like that. Among other things. I can be more than one thing.

Sometimes I feel like I’m in two worlds, he continues. The hearing world and the deaf world. But I’m not sure which one I belong in.