TCB: The Sound Of Walking Away

by Madrigal Baroque

While My Heart In My Chest Shouts

Scarlet petals, each carefully cut and softly shaped with patient fingers. Affix them one by one to the tightly curled bud until the blossom is in full bloom. Then tease out the petals, each one exactly placed in a meticulous spiral pattern, and flatten the back to make it even.

Perfect.

Nona took the red tissue rose and affixed a loop of sticktape to the base. She walked over to the wall of her tiny bedroom and considered where she should put the newest addition to her garden.

There were vines and stems and leaves of every shade of green painted onto a wall that had been stained the blue of a Van Gogh sky, with soft clouds near the edge of a grassy horizon. All along the painted vines were paper flowers of every size and shape and color. Pink carnations, yellow dandelions, white magnolias, purple violets, azaleas and hydrangea and lilies of every color. And roses, so many roses. Because Nona liked roses best.

Nona had never seen a real rose. Or any flower at all. But she had seen pictures. On holoview, in old books, in paintings from artists long dead. Papa said the Good Families had gardens, or so he'd heard, but they would never get a chance to see one. Papa had a good pension, but he'd been released from employ years ago.

Voices came from outside her room. Voices raised in anger. Mama and Papa were arguing again. Usually they tried not to shout, because Nona would hear and they knew it would upset her. And it did. Nona concentrated on where to place the new rose. It was a beautiful rose, the best she'd ever made. It should be in a special place, a place of honor.

"...almost twenty years old! All she does is sit up in her room reading books and making silly little paper flowers to stick to the walls. She lives in her own little dream world. When are you going to finally admit that she's never going to get any better?"

"Goddammit, Ruth,you treat her like an idiot. She's not."

Then why can't she find work? Why can't she talk to people? My God, Jacob, I can't even take her to market with me. As soon as someone looks at her she pitches a fit and runs off to hide. Last time it took me hours to find her! She is totally out of touch with reality–"

"She's autistic, Ruth. Her brain isn't wired like ours but that doesn't mean she's not bright. She's very bright, but loud noises–" Papa seemed to realize how loud he'd gotten, and immediately his voice dropped to an unintelligible, soothing murmur.

"You always put her fir–" Her mother's voice, still at full volume, was interrupted by a sharp "Shhhh!". When she continued, she spoke in a lower tone as well, but she still sounded harsh and resentful.

Nona hummed softly so she couldn't hear the noises from her parents' room. There, that was better. Now she could focus on her flower wall.

There! Carefully she affixed her rose to a spot on the vine just above a cluster of daffodils. She took a step back to regard her garden as a whole, enjoying the juxtaposition of the brilliant splash of red above the whites and yellows below.

The slam of the front door made her jump. Someone had left in a hurry. Just like the last two times they'd fought about her.

Nona hated it when her parents fought about her. She hated fighting in general, all the shouting and cursing and things smashing and feet stomping and doors slamming…

There was a soft knock on her bedroom door. "Punkin? Everything okay?"

It was only when she fell silent that Nona realized her humming had turned into keening. She was sitting cross-legged on the sunflower rug, rocking, back and forth, back and forth. She put her hands down flat on the hardwood floor to ground herself and make the rocking stop. "Hi, Papa." She tried to sound cheerful, but it was hard and she didn't know if she did it right. Papa was hard to fool about things like that. And he certainly must have heard the noises she'd been making before he knocked. Papa had good ears.

The door opened gently and Papa poked his head in. Nona stiffened, but Papa didn't scowl or berate her for whining the way Mama might have. He just smiled and looked at her wall garden. "I see you've been busy growing new flowers," he said. "I especially like the new rose."

Nona got to her feet. She felt so much more relaxed now. "Papa, if you need me to get a job, I'll do it. I can cook, and clean, and–"

"Jobs are scarce, punkin. Nobody can find work right now." He stepped into the room and cocked his head. "Are you bored staying at home? We could go to the art gallery this afternoon. Or the old library. You could get more books."

Nona loved books. Inside a good book she could escape into a reality belonging only to her, at least for a while. There was a lot to be learned from books, too.

But…

Nona cast her eyes in the general direction of the front door. "What about…?"

"Your mother went for a walk. We'll leave her a note." He was holding the door open. Nona could tell he wanted to hug her, but he was holding back. He knew she didn't always want to be touched.

But right now she wanted contact. She went and put her arms around her father. "I wish I wasn't like I am," she said. Her voice was flat and toneless, like it always was when she was stating a simple but painful fact. Her mother said it made her sound like a robot, like she didn't have feelings. Nona had feelings, and her father understood that she couldn't always show them in ways other people would...or in ways other people would understand.

Papa understood. "You are who you are," he said, holding her gently. "Now. Gallery or library?"

She peeked up at him through her tousled brown bangs and smiled the way she only did for him. "Both?"

Papa chuckled and tousled her hair. "So long as we're back by dinnertime."

***

Author's Note:

This is a side story to my first fic The Heart of Everything . It isn't required to read the other story, but it might be a good idea.

I have known several neural atypical people in my life, and I did a lot of research and asked a lot of questions in order to present the character of Nona as authentically and as sensitively as I could manage...and I'm sure I still made mistakes. I hope they can be forgiven.