Page 85 of The Voice We Find

“How did the rest of your call with Dana go?” I ask. “It sounded lively, to say the least. I like her, by the way. She’s exactly what I pictured from your descriptions.”

“She likes you, too. And she totally picked up on your aesthetic.” Sophie scoops sand with her hand and lets it slip through her fingers. “Um, let’s see, the rest of our call was ... interesting.”

“How so?” I ask, brushing from the bottom of her hair and moving upward. Inch by tangled inch.

She draws her knees up and wraps her arms around them. “You remember what I told you about how I froze on stage during opening night and how the director had to call in my understudy?”

“Yes,” I hedge, though there is little more I know about that night.

“Dana was with me on stage that night. But she was also with me when my breakdown began the night before. Super long story short, everything I’d worked hard to stuff down over the past ten years chose the worst moment to fight back.”

I continue to brush out the snarls. “We’re gonna be here a while, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to hear the long version, please.”

She chuckles at this and then reaches back to squeeze my knee. “So tech week is brutal in the world of live theater. Lots of stress, short fuses, dramatic exits ... you get the picture. Right before we ended our last dress rehearsal, an argument broke out between the cast members, creating all sorts of extra chaos while the theater was closing down for the night. I’d just exited the auditorium doors when I realized I’d forgotten my phone backstage. I called out to my friends to wait up, but when I tried to open the door, it was already locked, so I had to run to the opposite side of the theater to try one of the side doors. I got in and was relieved to find the safety lights still on inside the auditorium. I figured I’d be okay. But as soon as I stepped behind the backstage curtain, every light in the building powered off. It was the same kind of blackness as the cellar and ... I freaked.”

The idea of Sophie having to relive that moment makes mephysically ill. “Were you able to call your friends once you found your phone?”

“Backstage is always so crowded with props and sets, and with no lights, my phone was impossible to find. At first I called out for help, hoping someone would come looking for me. But in the chaos of the evening, most of them hadn’t realized I stepped away. Except for Dana. She’s the one who eventually figured it out and came looking for me. She found me but ... I was pretty shaken up by then.” She releases a deep exhale. “No matter what I tried to tell myself, it was as if I was reliving the attack and those dark hours in the cellar all over again.”

It’s impossible not to recall my recent experience of finding Sophie in the dark. I was terrified. “Was that when you told Dana what happened to you?”

“No,” she says, laughing humorlessly. “I was too busy lying to myself, too busy thinking that I could just power through it. Despite all Dana did for me that night, making me tea and readying a bath, my nerves were shot. Too shot to fall asleep. I should have told my director I wasn’t okay as soon as the morning came, but instead, I faked my way through hair and makeup and even my vocal warm-ups. But the instant that spotlight came on, it was like every cell in my body rebelled against me. When I opened my mouth to sing, no voice came out. It was just ... gone.” She takes a moment to scoop up another handful of sand and watch it slip through her fingers. “Honestly, my director had every right to be upset. Same with the audience. I didn’t tell Dana about the cellar until after the press hit and I knew the damage to my reputation was irreversible. And even then, I couldn’t bring myself to share everything.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” I say.

“Me too,” she says. “Although, I think I have a better understanding of why it did.”

I tug the last of her knots free and marvel at the way her hair stretches to the center of her back. I move to settle beside her again on the towel.

She turns to face me. “Dana thinks the reason behind all this happening the way it did is so I can have some kind of epic professional comeback that will relaunch my career and my confidence.” She stares out at the ocean. “She thinks I’ll regret not pursuing auditions and opportunities that arise because I never know which one might lead to an extraordinary career breakthrough.”

My chest tightens. “And what do you think?”

She chews on her bottom lip. “It’s possible, I suppose. I do think I’ve regained some stage confidence since working with you in the studio, but I also think telling you what happened when I was sixteen shifted something inside me.” She picks up my hand. “You were the first person I’ve ever told the full story to, August. I always worried that if I admitted what I heard my father say to the detective about me that day that it would somehow make it ... true.”

“Sophie.” I lift my hand to rub my thumb along her jaw. “What you heard that day couldn’t be further from the truth.”

Sophie squints at me with one eye, her freshly brushed hair blowing over one shoulder and sticking to the wet suit. “I decided to test it out again, like a working theory of sorts. So I told the whole story to Portia last Tuesday night before our ASL class. Your sister was there, too.” She pauses as if waiting for me to interject, but I’m too stunned to say a word. “I’ve come to trust and care for them both, and I wanted them to know me. Toreallyknow me. I’m tired of keeping secrets that have only made me feel shame and fear.”

I adjust my position in the sand, sitting up a bit straighter, my pulse a hard knock in my chest. Still, I can’t quite find adequate words. Maybe because I truly have none to offer.

She beams when she adds, “Afterward, I felt brave. Strong. Free, even.” Her eyes turn watery. “They helped me see the truth: I’m not the same girl who was locked in that cellar at sixteen. I’m not forgotten or unloved or uncared for.” Tears glitter in her eyes.

This, I finally have a response to. My lips part to say,I love you, Sophie, when she hits me with, “No matter what my circumstance, no matter how cold my brother is or how undermining my father is or how passive my mother is, IknowGod loves me. Not only because my Gigi believed it for me. But because I finally believe it for myself.”

My chest spasms as a tiny fracture begins at the base of my ribs, spidering its way through every rung. At first the pain is tolerable. A pinch. A stab. But soon enough, the pain spreads. And with every intake of breath, it intensifies, sharpening to the point it’s nearly all-consuming.

Tell her now, I think. I should tell her the things I’ve never admitted out loud to anyone. The things I’ve been too ashamed might be true. The things I’m too afraid are already true.

She angles her head. “What are you thinking, August?”

That if I can’t accept my own shame, how can I possibly ask you to accept it?

I swallow the words and give her a different truth instead.

“That I’m proud of you. You deserve to feel loved.”

Voice Memo

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