Words are a choking hazard. Your throat is the sepulcher. How many graves can you dig before you become one? The first thing I noticed midday, June 2024 was that I yawned, and no sound came out. I yawned and instead of the customary grunt that led to a violent, spastic, stretch there was silence. My first response was to choke on the very breath I had inhaled to supplement the missing oxygen. That didn’t make a sound either. I scrambled out of bed and to the bathroom to stare at my reflection. I had hoped that I was having an after-nap malfunction. My body had been through copious amounts of trauma before factory resetting itself with sleep. A side effect? I wondered.
I stood in the mirror and moved my mouth. I willed the words to come. I thought them slowly at first and then rapidly as panic set in. Goodmorning. Goodmorning? GOODMORNING?! Say the words! Your mouth is way too big to have nothing to say! Nothing arrived. The voice in my head worked just fine, but it wasn’t any help seeing as it was spiraling. Is my voice box broken? How am I supposed to live my life? Will people hate me? Does muteness appear in late twenties? Has that ever happened? God? Did I do something wrong.
It was just like me to think the Almighty God had time to render me mute. It was prideful at best and correct at worst. I stood in the mirror and tried again. Please, speak. SPEAK! Nothing.
It took twenty minutes for me to start blubbering wordlessly. Tears streaked down my face, but no words came out. I must’ve looked ridiculous to the spirits who watched me with my pants down. I was leaning against a wall like a fairy tale damsel. My right hand clutched my throat, and my left hand was on my heart. I was swearing to my body that I would treat it better. I’d stop smoking as much. I’d drink more smoothies. Hell, I’d even go on a morning run (no, I wouldn’t, but it was a sweet offering.).
When I realized my voice wasn’t coming back on its own, I attempted to bring it back with scare tactics. I watched horror films and played horror games in hopes that the jump scares would startle the sound back to my throat. After three days of waiting and the weekend coming close to an end, I wasn’t sure what to do. It was good that my job didn’t require heavy amounts of speech. I could wave. Nod. Offer a toothy grin at my co-workers. That’s doable. Right?
Wrong. Monday morning, everyone wanted to speak with me. The janitor. The delivery guys. The constructions workers?! ON THE FOURTH FLOOR? Imagine being a grown man yelling down to a young woman literal floors beneath you. I was happy to ignore them, but I couldn’t shake the feeling they’d throw cement on my head. I offered a weak wave and continued my way.
By day four of being silent I realized, people took kindly to my hush. When I clutched my throat and shook my head at a co-worker, she offered a sympathetic look.
“Awe, what happened?” Nat asked.
I shrugged. She began digging through her purse.
“I’ve got these candies that might help. Here.” She said.
Nat was nice but she was not the cleanest. It was law among the folks with sense to refuse any offerings of foods or beverages. My main observation was that when you didn’t speak, people took your silence as a yes. Hey Lotea, can you work for me on Saturday? Ugh! Thanks, you’re a lifesaver. Lotea, can you run this down to the copy machine? Lotea, can you grab everyone coffee. Then before you knew it, you were working late, becoming an errand boy, and breaking the copier out of frustration.
It was so easy for people to step right on your toes and refuse to say sorry. People bumped into you more and kept going. People would absolutely ignore you if you didn’t make yourself known. If you didn’t speak for yourself, people spoke for you. Over you. Down to you. By the end of the work week, I’d had enough. What happened? What did I do before I lost my voice? I asked, thinking back to the week prior to the anomaly.
I remembered being in my bed, resting peacefully. My father called requesting my bank statements. Did I mention I am thirty-three? Did I also mention that I live three states away from my parents? Did I mention that he’’d been doing it since I was a teenager and had yet to stop? I wanted to argue. I wanted to burst! I wanted to yell at him, but that wasn’t polite. Not to mention, he’d done everything for me. Bank statements was his way of being sure I was responsible with the money I was earning. He was trying to be a good dad. That was Monday.
Tuesday, I had gotten guilted into attending the wedding of my ex-lover and her new beau. She had her mom call. I’m a sucker for moms. The bar was open, and I got to get wasted in a chiffon dress. I cried in the bathroom after the wedding and threw up in the uber on the way home.
Wednesday, I got roped into working a late shift for a woman named Barbie. Yes, Barbie. She was always calling out or looking for coverage. I had managed to avoid her thus far; however, I was arguing with my boss about my timesheets. He stated I was wrong, but I knew my hours were right. Between Barbie and him berating me I just let the issues go. I worked the shifts and missed out on my favorite show with my favorite person.
If I was being honest. I noticed a pattern. The day I woke up with my voice missing was the worst day of them all. My father called again and this time he wanted more information. He wanted to have access to my ring footage, my text messages, and anything else he could find. I attempted to dissuade him and that was the biggest mistake a Carver girl could make.
No one said anything to dad about his oppressive tendencies. He was the man who did everything. Everyone treated him like he was above reproach. My brother and sister had left home and removed him from their lives. I couldn’t find the gumption to follow their lead. I was all he had left and he needed me. If I am candid, I think my father is a reaper.
A Reaper is the term I coined for parents who lived vicariously through their kids. Dad had been reaping me since I was young. Ballet? No. Tag football. Choir? No. Karate. Piano? No. Your dreams? No? Your major? No. Your college degree and career? My second chance. Dad didn’t get to go to college and move out of state. Dad never got to do a lot because he had us. Mom was strung out on opioids and dad was the closest thing to structure we had. He was determined to make sure we had the life he didn’t have. Even if we didn’t want or ask him for it.
Monday June 30 was much of the same. People speaking over me. Talking down to me. Taking my silence for yes, no, maybe. Taking my silence as please sit here or sure I’ll do that.
I couldn’t help but notice I’d picked up the nasty habit of grinding my teeth. I heard the enamel screeching as I ground them down like a mortar against a pestle. The paste of all the words I wanted to say getting lodged into my throat. Fuck you, Charlotte. I’m not an errand boy. No, Barbie. If you didn’t want the job, you shouldn’t have taken it. Aaron, you’re an asshole. Dad, I am a thirty-year-old woman! I pay all my own bills. Stop treating me like I’m ten.
My stapler fell first and then my chair as I clutched my throat. I don’t care about your dream’s dad! This is my life! I wanted to be an arts major. I wanted to be a journalist. I quit. I quit. I quit!
Another thing I learned about silence. No one can tell when you’re drowning. No one knows if they’ve pushed you too hard, loved you too little, or taken too much. It was four p.m., and I was dying. Tears left my eyes as my throat expanded. My lungs shriveled like raisins — like dreams in the sweltering sun. Painful gurgling noises and clattering items could be heard all around the office above the steady whir of clickety! Clickety! Clickety!
Had my eyes not been squished shut from the pressure, I would’ve noticed the small crowd gathered around my desk. They were watching me like I was a circus. A freak show. An evening dinner with entertainment.
Stupid faces of stupid people who I never wanted to work with in the first place! For what? For my dad? For the man who I only heard “I love you,” from when he was dying and needed a kidney? The man who gave my brother a car but made me work for it? A man who was so strict about my money but could spend all his?
As I stood there, becoming a spectacle I realized something. My entire life had been drawn out for me. My childhood was snatched. My work life was misery. My adult life was heading down a disastrous path of people pleasing and swallowing my pride. My vision went blurry at the edges. Somewhere, a volcano erupted.
“Barbie! You never want to work and I’m sick of you and your shit! Charlotte? You’re the worst office manager ever and no one makes a latte with anything but espresso! Nat, I love you, but you’re dirty and no one wants to take food from you. Aaron?” I asked.
Aaron stepped to the front with his hands on his wide hips. He was shaped like a Christmas tree without the adornments or twinkling lights.
“I’ve heard enough, Lotea. In fact — I think you should pack your stuff.” He said.
I heard a maniacal, unhinged witches cackle coming from somewhere in the room. It took me two minutes to notice it was me. People were murmuring. I could see security stomping up to me in their black outfits.
“Pack my stuff? You’re firing me?” I asked.
“Ye — ”
“No, no, Aaron. I’m talking now. You don’t fire me. You know why you don’t fire me? This place wouldn’t be the shit on my shoes if I wasn’t here. You wouldn’t be able to rope your tie around your fat ass neck without me! So, no. You don’t fire me. I QUIT!.” I said.
BELLLCH!
I let the security carry me out of the building princess style. They deposited me at the front door. One was laughing and the other was hiding a grin.
“Later, suckers.” I said.
They both offered me a two fingered salute before turning back to the elevators. I skipped to my car and checked my phone. I hadn’t yet responded to my father’s absurd requests. I decided I would call him and give him a piece of my mind. He answered on the first ring.
“Where do you get off Lotea? I am your father and you’re just going to ignore my calls? Where are the paystubs I asked you for? Matter fact, send me everything in your checking. I don’t trust you — ”
“No.” I said.
Silence thickened like elephant toothpaste. It expanded and grew warm before engulfing everything. The traffic outside stood still. The birds stopped chirping. The sun winced and the moon watched with awe painted blue across her lips. Blue. The entire world went blue.
“What did you say to me?” He asked.
“I said, no. You can’t have that information.”
It had taken me so long to figure it out. The saying, “you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone,” rang through my ears. For decades, I had been giving up my voice. I took things I didn’t need to take. I made excuses for people who didn’t deserve them. For what? Their approval? Their praise? That had gotten me nowhere. I was underappreciated at a job I despised. My father kept tabs on me like I was a little girl. I ran myself ragged to please everyone, yet no one was pleased. Not even me. Especially not me.
“Lotea, get your ass on a flight home right now. I want you moved out by tonight. Clearly you must’ve bumped your head or — ”
Click! I hoped my father heard the dial tone and went crimson in the face. I hoped he heard the dial tone and felt as if the cord on his parachute had severed. He had no backups. My siblings hated him. My mother was gone. His family distanced themselves. I was all he had left, and it was time he treated me like it. There is a time to be quiet and there is a time to speak. My time had finally come.
