Page 76 of Echoes of a Silent Song

Dr.Richards tucked his stethoscope into his pocket.“I think she’s got anxiety.”

“Anxiety?”Mother drew back.“So she’s just worried?What on earth do you have to worry about, Iris?”

“It’s more serious than that, I’m afraid,” Dr.Richards said.“It’s a mental disorder.Iris’s brain doesn’t work the way most people’s brains do.But there are treatments for it.”

They kept talking, but I was half asleep again.Their voices drifted in and out, Mother’s high-pitched one and Dr.Richards’s low-pitched one.It sounded almost like a song, the way they were talking.Maybe I could write it later.When I had the energy.

“So this medication?”Mother said.“It will help?”

“Many people do see improvement, yes.”

“Well, by all means, put her on it, then.And don’t tell anyone.”She turned to me.“Iris, don’t tell anyone.”

That would have required my talking to people.She had nothing to worry about.

“I assume she’d be fine to go to school tomorrow?”Mother asked.

“Well, she’s not contagious, so—”

“All right, Iris.”Mother yanked open the pink-flowered curtains, and I squeezed my eyes shut against the onslaught of bright daylight.“You get the rest of the day to loll about in bed, and then you’re going back to school tomorrow.”

Dr.Richards patted me on the shoulder.“Feel better, Iris.”

They left, mercifully shutting the door on their way out.

So that was it.I had a mental disorder.

Maybe the medication would make me feel better.Maybe not.It still wouldn’t fix anything.

My composition notebook was on my nightstand, and I struggled to sit up again.I wanted to jot down those pitches I’d heard when Mother and Dr.Richards were talking.Not that it mattered.I probably wouldn’t ever have the connections to get any of my work out there.

But music still swirled inside me.It still demanded to come out.

Why had God put it inside me, then, if he didn’t have any plan for me to use it?

I wished I could ask him.I wished I were face-to-face with him.

I wished I could just skip the rest of this miserable existence and go straight to be with him.

Oh.My notebook wasn’t on the nightstand after all.I’d left it on my desk.

All the way across the room.

Too far.

Okay.Music could wait.

Two books sat on my nightstand.My Bible and a book of poetry by Langston Hughes.The Weary Blues.We were supposed to read a bunch of the poems for English.Probably best to start catching up, then, since I had to go back to school tomorrow.Even better, maybe I’d find a text.

The book fell open to the spot I’d bookmarked.“Suicide’s Note,” the poem was called.

The calm,

Cool face of the river

Asked me for a kiss.

River ...water ...