Page 21 of The Quiet
“You picked a great one,” Jolie commented in the silence, and Marnie whipped back and scolded her before returning her attention to Baker.
“What’s your name?” Marnie asked, putting away the towel and reaching for a small comb. Baker opened her mouth and wanted to speak so badly for the first time in a long time, if anything to release what was starting to boil deep inside.
She couldn’t.
She didn’t know what words to choose anymore. The world made no sense. It had become a language she couldn’t speak.
“You’ll talk when you’re ready,” Marnie said, combing her hair back, the words unlocking a dam of tangled emotions and grief. Khalid had said the same thing, but lately every day made her feel less and less ready.
Baker started to sob, Marnie pulling her into her chest and soothing her. “It’s alright,” Marnie whispered, letting her cry.
Jolie left the room, taking her book with her and slamming the old wooden door with a rattle. A small chip of stone from the low ceilings clattered to the floor.
Marnie waited to speak until Baker’s sobbing calmed.
“The world is tough everywhere,” Marnie whispered, chin resting on Baker’s head as she sat on the bed next to her. “If you think hard enough, here is no different than anywhere else. This can be the perfect place if you want it to be, more perfect than everywhere else. It’s all yours, you see? Yours to be what you want it to be.”
As she listened to Marnie talk, she found it hard to believe she was even there, unable to pinpoint the exact reasons she was crying at all beyond feeling overwhelmed. Marnie continued to talk and night settled in before Jolie returned.
Marnie spoke quickly and often, Jolie quietly putting away her things and preparing her bed.
Baker simply listened to the two women chat back and forth as she lay on Marnie’s bed with new clothes. She buried herself in a tunnel of stitched brown blankets as Marnie tucked her in.
Jolie crawled into bed a few minutes later, but Marnie changed clothes and let down her blonde hair instead.
“You’re going to see him again tonight, aren’t you?” Jolie asked.
From the safety of her tunnel, Baker could see Jolie’s still form.
Marnie rolled her eyes, combing her hair by a candlelit mirror. “Leave it alone.”
“He’s a Strike,” Jolie shot back.
“He’s good to me.”
“Until one day he decides he wants to know what you look like without any fingers and pulls them off just out of curiosity,” Jolie shot back bitterly.
Marnie cringed, glancing over at Baker as if concerned she was still awake. “I hate that story.”
“We all hate that story, and for a reason,” Jolie said, exasperated as she rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. “I hope he turns your hair red this time and gives you your mother’s nose.”
Marnie chuckled. “Peter himself wouldn’t recreate my mother’s nose.”
They both laughed, Jolie doing so as if a weight sat on her chest. Her smile faded quickly and she looked over at Baker.
Marnie stood up and twirled around in the candlelight, “How do I look?” she asked. Jolie rolled over and faced the wall but said nothing.
Leaning down in front of Baker, Marnie used a finger to open up the small window of covers Baker had made for herself and kissed her on the cheek.
Baker kept her eyes closed but she wanted to tell Marnie that she looked like the most beautiful woman Baker could ever remember seeing, beautiful like she believed her own mother to be. Marnie tapped her on the nose and in that moment, became her mother.
“Alright, I’ll be back,” Marnie said, and left, leaving the room in a dark silence. Lying in the bed alone, Baker was unable to stop images of the crashing mountains from replaying inside her head. In the new comfort of the covers, the pictures seemed clearer than ever.
The mere notion of it sweltered with fear. Like a threat, Baker buried the thought and next remembered Valentine when he’d looked out at the village and praised what it was to live there.
She’d defied him then, but he’d been right after all. She never should have left.
Baker wrapped herself in her arms as she felt the sting of shame. She bit back the urge to cry again, but the tears came anyway.
