Sounds Of Silence

---

Sounds Of Silence - book excerpt

Chapter 1

End of June

I was sick and didn't know it. By the time I did, it was already too late.

Patrick and I tossed a baseball back and forth in the backyard. He stood by the tree at one end of the yard. I aligned myself with a fern my mother had planted. We knew it was about the right distance from a pitcher to the catcher because we had practiced out here lots of times before.

We took it easy since we had a Little League game the next day and didn’t want to wear ourselves out. Ever since T-ball days we’ve managed to be on the same team. How lucky is that?

He is the catcher for the team. I’m one of the pitchers. I guess Batavia Little League coaches didn’t like to split up a pitcher-catcher pair. It could be devastating, like separating twins, or something.

“Hey, Mark? Did you get that new baseball video game?” Patrick asked.

I knew what he was talking about. The game was the latest, hottest on the market. “Yeah, I got it. It cost me a few weeks worth of allowance, but it was worth it, I think. It’s so real, it’s like being at an actual game. Get this, you can even make the players spit!”

“No way.”

“Oh yeah. It’s awesome,” I said. He threw the ball high, a simulated pop fly. I ran to get under it and caught it.

Had to close my eyes a second. My head hurt a little.

“You okay?”

I nodded. “The graphics are wild. The players look so real, it’s like you’re really playing in an actual ball game. The ump calls balls and strikes. There’s an organ player charging up the audience between pitches and after the top and bottom of each inning. Players grunt when they’re sliding into home. What can I say, it’s awesome.”

“That’s what I figured.” His eyes were wide and his tongue practically dangled from the corner of his mouth. I knew what he wanted.

“Want to go play it?” I took in a deep breath, held it, and blew it out. Maybe I needed to rest. A video game would be easier than playing catch.

“Definitely. Let’s go.” He took off his mitt.

“Hey guys!” It was Jordan and Tyrone, two guys from Patrick’s and my sixth grade class. They leaned on the chain link fence set around the backyard. For the first time, Tyrone was on the same baseball team as Patrick and me. He usually played first or second base.

Jordan’s team was the coveted Joe’s Collision Shop. The owner, Joe, chose to buy shirts with his cool car wreck logo on the back for the rivals.

Sally’s House of Hair wound up sponsoring my team. Our logo was nothing more fancy than a pair of scissors instead of a “Y” in the name Sally. Yuck! Thank goodness we didn’t have to wear something like pink jerseys.

But it wasn’t only the cool name and jerseys that made Joe’s team seem better—it was their batting and fielding stats. They were a solid team, year after year. When we talked about ourselves, we dropped the Sally.

Patrick and I strolled to the fence and shook hands with Jordan and Tyrone. I wanted to get inside, get on the couch, rest my head. It looked like the video game would have to wait. “What’s up?”

“Not much,” Tyrone said. “Jordan’s Dad took us took us to the batting cages.”

I tried not to look at Tyrone like he was some kind of traitor for hanging with Jordan the night before our big game. The last thing our team needed was Tyrone, our second basemen, telling Jordan, our opposition, our strengths and weaknesses.

Sure, he and Jordan were good friends. They always hung out together. Maybe it wasn’t such a big deal. How could I blame Tyrone? I tried to look at it this way, at least he got in some batting practice. Not to mention, I liked going to the cages. Most ballplayers did.

They were indoors so you didn’t have to practice batting when it was cold or rainy. You wore a helmet, locked yourself in a caged room, dropped some coins in to get the machine started … and swung at perfectly thrown pitches until your arms were too tired to lift the bat anymore. What’s not to like? “Cool,” I said. “How’d you guys do?”

Tyrone shrugged. “I did all right, but Jordan was killing the balls. He missed, like, only five out of fifty pitches!”

“Nice going.” I wasn’t really glad to hear this.

The coach had me pitching tomorrow’s game.

Now here was my teammate telling me about what a hot-hitter I’d be facing. But if Tyrone wasn’t telling us how good Jordan had done, Jordan would have been telling us himself. He liked to talk big.

Sweat beaded on my forehead. Probably pre-game jitters. Too bad Jordan didn’t play on our team. We could always use another hard hitter. But he didn’t. So now it became more important for us to win. If I didn’t strike Jordan out, he’d never let me live it down.

“Want to play catch?” Patrick asked.

I shot Patrick a look. Why would he ask them to play catch?

“Nah,” Jordan said. “We’re headed to my house.”

“See you guys at practice tomorrow, before the game?” Tyrone asked.

“Get there early,” I said. We all shook hands over the fence. “I want to practice some new pitches I’ve been working on.”

Jordan arched his eyebrows.

“Cool,” Tyrone said. “See you guys then.”

They left.

Patrick tossed me the ball. I caught it.

“You got new pitches?”

“Nah. I just wanted to psyche out Jordan a bit. Think it worked?”

“He looked scared to me.”

We laughed, and put our mitts back on. The video game momentarily forgotten.

This time I sent the ball toward him like a rocket. The air whistled as it parted to let the ball pass. Then came the satisfying sound of the ball slamming into padded leather.

“That stung, man.” Patrick shook off his mitt and rubbed his palm down the front of his jeans. “I thought we were just taking it easy, you know?”

“Sorry. I just, well, I guess Jordan got me worked up.”

“Why?” He threw the ball back to me.

“Because he wanted me to know he went to the batting cages.”

“You think he told you that to rattle you?”

“Yep. I sure do.” I sent the ball back to Patrick—hard.

“He knows you’re pitching tomorrow?”

“He’s with Tyrone, right? I’m sure Tyrone told him.” It didn’t matter. Jordan would have found out at the game tomorrow. But knowing in advance gave him the chance to stop by and make me nervous, or at least to try to make me nervous.

“Ah, so what,” Patrick said.

“He’s a good hitter.”

“And you’re a good pitcher. You got nothing to worry about, and if you pitch like this tomorrow, Jordan won’t be hitting a thing.”

I smiled at the thought of him striking out. “If he was smacking them at the cages…”

“Forget it. He was probably in the slow-pitch cage. Who couldn’t hit a ball floating at him like a butterfly? Your arm is like a gun. The ball is like a bullet. He’ll be swinging at shadows tomorrow.”

“You mean that?”

“You know it.”

Mom pushed the kitchen window open. “Mark?”

I rolled my eyes. Patrick laughed.

“Yes, Mom?”

“Patrick’s Mom just called. He has to go home for dinner.”

I looked at Patrick. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“You know it.”

“Mom, can he eat with us tonight?”

“It’s okay with me. I’ll call his mother back,” she said. “Dinner’s just about ready here, too. Why don’t you two come in and get washed up?” She closed the window.

“All right,” I shouted. We ran together and slapped high-fives. “Hey, want to play the video game right after dinner?”

“Perfect!” he said.

“I’m hungry.” I patted my belly.

“Me, too.” He smiled. “Race you!”

We ran at the house like hungry cheetahs chasing after prey.

He won. I had to stop. Running made my head feel like it might fall off my shoulders.

Chapter 2

Intense was not a strong enough word to describe the pressure I felt. We were one hard-fought run ahead and it was the bottom of the ninth. Joe’s Collision Shop was up to bat with two outs, but their runner on first had just stolen second.

Jordan dug in at the plate with three balls and one strike against him.

As I stood on the pitcher’s mound, I imagined myself to be Hoyt Wilhelm, the first relief pitcher introduced into the Hall of Fame in 1985, a player my grandpa was always talking about. I might only be twelve, but I bet I knew more about Wilhelm and his career—thanks to grandpa—than any grownup who claimed to be a baseball fan.

This was something I often did when in tight spots. Pretending to be Wilhelm, who pitched in over a thousand games during his twenty-one year career, helped me focus through the taunts of the Collisions, the yells from the packed bleachers, and the pounding ache in my head that had started about the top of the third inning.

Jordan backed away from the plate, giving me a moment to massage the painful cramp in the back of my neck and consider the best pitch to throw. He didn’t seem nervous. Why would he be? The count was in his favor. Instead, he took a few practice swings and then tapped the end of the bat against his cleats. Stepping back up to the plate, he settled in to a perfect stance—legs shoulder length apart, elbow up, and head in. He looked as eager for the next pitch as I was to throw it.

Behind me, over my right shoulder, the guy on second base bounced up and down smugly as if ready to steal third.

I tucked my head down so the bill of my cap shielded my eyes from the sunlight. I’d pitched many games under the sun, but it had never bothered me so much before. Today, the bright light was more than annoying, it felt painful, making the back of my eyes throb.

There was nothing I could do to protect my body from the sun’s heat. Instead, the sweat seemed to spill from my pores, especially where the baseball cap touched my forehead. Salty drops stung my eyes. I shook my head, trying to concentrate.

With my mitt up to my face so Jordan could not see anything, I let my right hand caress the ball inside my glove. My fingers cradled the ball in a variety of pitching holds. I had practiced the holds my father had taught me, getting my fingers used to some of the odd grips.

Squatting behind the plate, Patrick signaled the next pitch pointing two fingers to the ground. A curve.

I shook my head. Last time I’d thrown a curve Jordan hit a double. It wasn’t that Jordan was great at hitting curves, it was more that I wasn’t all that good at throwing one correctly. I was pretty good at a few different pitches, but the curve was one I was still practicing with my Dad.

My fingers massaged the ball’s stitching the way an animal lover might pet the silky, furry skin behind a dog’s ear. This relaxed me.

Patrick suggested another pitch, a screwball—where the ball spins kind of weird so it goes up and down and is very unpredictable. If I couldn’t throw a solid curve, there’d be no way I’d risk a screwball. I didn’t want to end up walking Jordan. That would be as bad as his hitting another double.

I shook my head again. I knew what I wanted.

When Patrick pointed one finger to the ground, then slapped the inside of his thigh, I nodded in agreement—a fastball change-up. My Dad and I spent hours in the yard practicing this one.

All I could hear was the cheers and jeers from the people on the bleachers. Normally, spectators yelling my name was like music to my ears. Normally, imagining I was Wilhelm playing in a major league stadium in the last inning of the last game of the World Series made the game that much more exciting.

Now I was just eager to get this over with.

I needed to get to the cooling shade of our little wooden dugout, but forced myself not to rush. I glanced over my shoulder. The runner on second was leading, ready to make a break for third. I could throw the ball to Tyrone, on second, and hope he’d be able to tag the runner out.

But that might backfire. The runner might sprint for third and make it. We couldn’t afford a runner on third, not with a batter who could hit a homerun on the right throw—or on the wrong one, depending on your point of view.

I took a deep breath to steady myself.

I let the ball sit deep in my palm. I wound-up and at the last second, just before releasing the ball, lifted my top two fingers off it.

My pitch sped toward the catcher’s mitt. Just as Jordan swung with enough power to knock the ball out of the park, it jumped slightly upward. His bat missed. The ball slammed into the Patrick’s mitt with a loud whumph-pop!

Strike two.

Cheers erupted. Clapping. Whistling. My heart beat so fast I feared I might pass out.

I took another deep breath and glanced at the bleachers along the first base line where my Mom, Dad and my eight year old sister, Brenda, sat. They waved to me. My father cupped his hands around his mouth. “One more, Mark! Throw it right to Patrick! That’s it, just one more!”

Three balls. Two strikes. Full count.

Stay calm. Concentrate. I breathed in, held it a moment, and breathed out in a long sigh.

I signaled the next pitch by touching the brim of my cap with the ball. Patrick nodded. Fastball. Anything else would be risky. A knuckle ball would be nice, but they’re hard to throw—and harder to catch. If I threw a wild ball the guy on second would steal third and maybe home, tying up the game.

So definitely, a fastball made the most sense.

I wound up, released the ball, and watched it whiz through the air. Jordan swung.

For a brief moment I thought I saw the bat connect, and thought I heard the smack of impact. But then my heart raced as I realized what had actually happened.

The sound I had heard was the ball colliding with Patrick’s mitt and the swoosh of the swinging bat as it cut through empty air.

Strike three.

I jumped up and down on the pitcher’s mound in tempo with Patrick’s gangly leaps, but had to stop. Fast. Jumping made my head feel as though my brain was about to slosh out through my eye sockets. I tried to stand still, but could feel myself swaying slightly as my teammates rushed the mound. “Way to go Mark!”

Jordan headed back to the bench with the rest of his team. He wasn’t looking our way. He just stared at the dirt.

The guys were slapping my back and sloppily rubbing the top of my baseball cap to congratulate me. Every slap, pat, and rub shot straight to my pounding head.

“Great pitching, Mark!” The coach wrapped an arm around my shoulder.

“Thanks.” I tried to smile, but my body suddenly felt very hot, like I might burst into flames.

“Mark?”

I nodded—just a little nod—because my head might fall off. As I focused on his face, my legs gave out. My vision blurred. The coach’s face seemed to snap backwards. I looked toward the ground and before I could say anything, the grass rushed up to meet my face.

For a split second I saw the cleats of people around me. Then everything went dark.

Chapter 3

“Mark! Mark! What's wrong?” Patrick shook my shoulder as I struggled to open my eyes. I waved a hand to fend him off—his voice was so loud! My stomach roiled, and I just knew everyone would watch me get sick.

“Get away!” I sort of rolled onto my side and the muscles in my shoulders and arms went rigid as my stomach heaved. My throat burned and my head pounded. Sunlight barbequed my eyeballs, so I slapped my lids over them and concentrated on catching my breath.

When I opened them again Dad and Mom were kneeling by my side. Mom massaged my back. “You think you’re done, Mark?”

I nodded. “I’m okay.”

Mom touched my forehead. “He’s really hot.”

They helped me to my feet. Mom held one arm, Dad the other. We walked toward the car. I kept my head down and eyes shut. I couldn’t do much but stumble along. My toes dragged across the dirt and grass of the field, and then over loose parking lot gravel.

Dad snapped the button on the car key and clicked the locks on the car doors. “I’ll start the engine and get the air conditioning going.”

“No, Dad, no. I’m cold.” My lips quivered and teeth chattered. The flesh along my arms was covered with goose bumps.

“Cold?” Mom repeated in surprise.

“Does that mean we’ve got to ride with the air off?” Brenda whined. “It’s like a hundred degrees out. Two hundred inside the car.”

“Get in the car, Brenda,” Dad said. “Roll your window down if you’d like.”

Dad’s voice was tinged with annoyance. If I didn’t feel so sick, I’d have given her my best sure-to-infuriate grin.

“Good. That will at least get rid of the puke smell coming from Mark.” Brenda folded her arms.

“Ride up front next to your father. I’ll ride in back with Mark.”

I didn’t care who rode where. I was just thankful to be in the car and not down on my hands and knees, vomiting while half the town watched.

Dad eased the car out of the lot. Everyone was quiet for a while. Thank heaven for the silence.

Mom slipped an arm around my shoulders. “How are you?”

I didn’t usually like it when Mom worried about how I was feeling, but now her arm around me felt good. Real good. My head hurt. My entire body ached. Keeping my eyes open seemed impossible; even with my eyes closed, the light seemed too bright. “The light hurts my eyes.”

“There’s no light on,” Dad said. “Is sunlight coming in through the windows?”

“Some.” Mom’s reply sounded weak. “Mark, honey, what else doesn’t feel well?”

“All of me. I got a pretty bad headache during the game, but I thought it was because I was excited. But now, now I feel like I have the flu. Everything hurts. And I’m so cold.” I couldn’t stop shivering.

“I’m calling the doctor.” Mom rooted around in her purse, probably searching for her cell phone.

“Oh great,” Brenda groaned. “That’s what I need, a flu at the beginning of summer.”

“Brenda,” Dad warned. “Stop it.”

My mother gently touched my face. “Mark? Mark?”

“Huh?”

“You fell asleep on me. Stay awake, all right? Stay with me.” Mom’s voice shifted from concern to demanding as she spoke into the phone. “Hello? Yes. This is Mrs. Tanner, Mark Tanner’s mother. I need to speak to Dr.— Absolutely not! Don’t put me on hold. I need to speak to Dr. Davis now. This is an emergency.”

I couldn’t believe how horrible I felt. Ten minutes ago, I’d been part of a winning baseball team, ready to go for ice cream and celebrate with my friends. Now all I could think about was getting home, getting under a blanket, having Mom and Dad wait on me.

“We were at my son’s baseball game and he threw up. He says his head hurts. I haven’t taken his temperature.” Mom touched my forehead again. “Each time I feel his head though, he’s hotter. Right now it feels like he’s burning up.” After a few moments of silence, Mom added, “Yes, right, the light bothers his eyes and he seems lethargic.”

Lethargic. I’d heard the word before. What did it mean?

“Dr. Davis wants us to meet him at the hospital,” Mom reported to Dad as she snapped her phone shut.

The word “hospital” should have been enough to have me bolting upright in my seat, but lead weighted my eyelids and it didn’t seem worth the battle to force them open. Nothing seemed worth the battle.

“Hospital? Mom, what’s wrong with Mark?” Brenda wailed as dark silence settled around me.

# # #

My eyelids fluttered open. Dad had me by the arms and was pulling me out of the car.

“Dad?” My throat felt dry and my back felt bruised, as if Brenda had been kicking me for an hour. I wasn’t even sure I could stand. “Dad, I don’t feel well.”

“I know, Mark. Don’t worry.” He breathed heavily as he lifted me into his arms. My legs dangled over one side of him, my head hung painfully over the other. Then Dad was running with me, and my head wobbled and bounced.

“I have to throw up.”

He stopped, set me down on my knees, and placed his hand on my back. “Hang in there, buddy.”

The doors swooshed open. Mom and Brenda ran toward me. A tall black man dressed in white followed behind them, pushing a wheel chair.

“Let’s get him into the chair,” the man said. He and my father lifted me up and eased me into the wheel chair.

My family ran alongside as the man wheeled me back through automated doors and into the emergency room.

“Mom?” The acid taste in my mouth, mixed with my saliva, dribbled down my chin. I used the back of my wrist to wipe it away. “Mom?”

“I’m right here.” She took my hand and it felt good to have her hold it, like she could protect me.

“We’re going to take him back,” said the man who’d wheeled me in. “Only one of you can go with him.”

Mom knelt down next to me. “Do you want me or Dad to go with you?”

“Mom,” I said. “What’s wrong with me?” I thought I might cry, but tried to hold back the tears. I felt so bad, so cold, I thought I might be dying.

“You go with him,” Dad said.

“Mark,” Brenda said weakly. Tears streamed down her cheeks. I managed half a smile before the man pushed the wheel chair through a set of doors.

Everything spun out of whack. Colors blended. Two men lifted me onto a bed and between cold sheets. A woman in baby blue pajamas jabbed a needle into the top of my hand. I screamed.

Someone held my hand. Mom stood by my side.

“I can’t keep my eyes open.” My stomach roiled. I might get sick again. My dry mouth demanded water.

“Stay awake, honey. I don’t know if you should go to sleep.”

I wasn’t sure I had a choice.

Chapter 4

I knew I was in the hospital, but everything felt like some bizarre and twisted dream. I felt hot. Then cold. Then hot again. My body ached—all of my joints, my neck, my head. And whatever didn’t ache, throbbed.

Whenever I opened my eyes I saw shadowy faces hovering over me. Sometimes it was Mom and Dad, sometimes Brenda. Maybe other times doctors and nurses. It was when I opened my eyes and saw no one, just the room, dark, that I felt alone and frightened.

One word kept coming into my mind. I’d heard people around me saying it, sometimes loudly, mostly in whispers. Meningitis.

At times the dream turned into a nightmare. Monsters would attack, biting and stinging my arms. Once, while I was curled into a ball, I was stung down at the bottom of my back, close to my rear end. The pain shot through my body like fire racing through my spine.

Most of the time my body felt drained, as if all my blood had been sucked out and all that was left were heavy bones under wrinkled, sagging skin.

# # #

When I opened my eyes, the sun poured through the window into my hospital room. Flowers, balloons, and fruit baskets sat clustered together on the table. Mom slept in the chair by the window. Had she spent the night?

“Mom?”

Something felt strange. I couldn’t hear the sound of my voice. My heart beat hard inside my ribcage. I could not hear the sound of my voice. “Mom?” I said again. No. I heard nothing.

Had I talked to anyone since I arrived at the hospital? I wasn’t sure—it was all so hazy. I felt tired and weak. My dry and scratchy throat felt rusty from neglect. Maybe I was still asleep, still dreaming.

I tried again. “Mom? Mom, can you hear me? Mom?”

She woke with a start and jumped up. Her pillow fell to the floor. She rushed over to my bed. I could see her lips move. She smiled, cried silently, ran her fingers through my hair.

She thought I could hear. She had no idea I was clueless about what she said.

I poked a finger in each ear in search of cotton balls, or earplugs, in search of whatever had plugged them up, but found nothing. If I hadn’t been so exhausted, I would have laughed. What was going on?

“Mom?” It was a test. I knew I was talking, could feel the vibration in my throat and jaw.

Silence.

She backed away from the bed, as if something frightened her. Her lips kept moving, faster now. Her eyes got wide while the rest of her face crinkled up, the way she looked when she saw a spider on the kitchen countertop, but I still couldn’t hear a word she said.

“I can’t hear. I can’t hear you.” I tried to sit up, but dizziness settled me back against the pillows. “Mom!” I was about to fall out of bed. I grabbed the railing and clamped it with a white-knuckle grip.

She looked panicked and started snapping fingers near my face. I just kept shaking my head. “I can’t hear it.”

She ran toward the door and darted out into the hall.

All this activity was like watching television with the sound off. Where was the remote? I needed to turn the volume up, but there was nothing to reach for or press.

Whenever I swam underwater, my ears would fill up, and all I had to do was rattle my head from side to side to clear them and everything would be all right. I slapped at the sides of my head, attempting to shake out whatever it was that was keeping me from hearing. I was still doing this when my mother returned dragging a doctor along by the sleeve of his white coat.