Novel: "Touch" chapter 8
Jun. 17th, 2013 04:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
violetcheetahThis chapter didn't go where I intended it to go. Which makes me feel like one of those stereotypical flighty artsy-fartsy writers, except I like where it went.
[Reminder, since it's been a while: Trudy is blind, but when she and Amy touch, she sees what Amy sees; Amy, who is aphasic, understands language only when the two are in contact. Susan in their foster mother, who knows none of this.]
-----
"Turn on the stereo," Trudy hissed as soon as she grabbed Amy's arm.
"What? Why? I don't want to listen to music; I want to talk more."
"Yeah, and Susan will be able to hear us talking, unless we play something to drown out our voices."
Trudy felt Amy's arm shift as she shrugged. "Fine." She trailed Amy over to the stereo and watched her fiddle with the buttons until violins emanated from the speakers.
"Really?" Trudy picked up the CD and read it as Amy glanced down: Bach Violin Concertos. "This is what you want to listen to?"
"What's wrong with it?"
"It's just... normal people don't listen to classical crap. Unless they're old, or full of themselves."
"But it's beautiful."
"It's stuffy. Stodgy."
"Stodgy," Amy murmured, apparently appreciating the word, before her tone sharpened. "Well, you wanted music, and this is what I have." She started back toward her bed, but Trudy led them toward her own bed, farther from the door in case Susan walked by. Amy's gaze turned to the window, the small Japanese maple in the back yard, the sparrows flitting from its branches to the overgrown privet by the fence. "Sparrow," she sighed. "Privet." Now she chuckled and repeated it while Trudy rolled her eyes. "It's almost 'privy.'"
Trudy snorted a laugh in spite of herself. "There's a poem in there somewhere. A really bad poem."
"Poem? I don't, I mean —" She shook her head abruptly. "Too much; it means too much."
Trudy's breath caught, surprised by the rightness of the words, and by a sudden desire to curl up in a ball on the bed and sob. She almost pulled her hand away, but she fought against the compulsion and gently squeezed Amy's arm.
"I want to show you." She swallowed. "My favorite poem. It's... oh. Right."
"What?"
"It's in one of my books. Which isn't here, because why would my mother pack any of my books, because I can't see to read."
"Susan has a lot of books. We can go get one."
"She's not gonna have the right one."
"I don't understand. What's not right about her books?"
"It's just probably not in any of them. It's not a famous poem; I've only seen it in the one anthology."
"I don't understand."
"Okay, I don't understand what you don't understand."
"I don't know, I don't understand." Near-panic raised the pitch of Amy's voice. "Her books have lines in them. Writing, words, lines of words."
"Uh, yeah, just not these words. It's not gonna be in a copy of the Bible or Little House on the Prairie or — Oh! Holy crap! Duh, you wouldn't know."
"What?"
"The stuff in each book, it's different. Each page. Like, I could write a story about, about seeing the periwinkles the first time. And you could write a story about you seeing them the first time. But they wouldn't be the same story, because one's what you saw, and one's what I saw. So we'd use different words, right?"
"Yeah..."
"You don't get it."
"I'm sorry."
"No, it makes sense that it doesn't make sense. Is there a pencil and paper in here?" Amy got up wordlessly and went to the dresser drawer, towing Trudy, and grabbed a sketch pad and pencil and sat quickly back on the bed. Trudy flipped through the first several pages to get to an empty sheet and started printing.
"Each word looks different. See?" She paused a second, then wrote, "Trudy. Amy." Amy gasped, then reached out a finger to touch her name.
"Every line in every book in this house is different. Each book has a different story. Or stories. Or poems. Or all three, on different pages." "There are lots of copies of some books, so there might be an identical book in a thousand people's houses, or a million. Or only one copy anywhere in the world.
Amy slowly pulled her finger back from her name, hesitantly reached for the pencil. Trudy relinquished it and waited as Amy held the point motionless against the paper for an eternity before finally writing.
"I could write"... "my own story. And there would be a new book."
Trudy took the pencil back. "Yup."
[Reminder, since it's been a while: Trudy is blind, but when she and Amy touch, she sees what Amy sees; Amy, who is aphasic, understands language only when the two are in contact. Susan in their foster mother, who knows none of this.]
-----
"Turn on the stereo," Trudy hissed as soon as she grabbed Amy's arm.
"What? Why? I don't want to listen to music; I want to talk more."
"Yeah, and Susan will be able to hear us talking, unless we play something to drown out our voices."
Trudy felt Amy's arm shift as she shrugged. "Fine." She trailed Amy over to the stereo and watched her fiddle with the buttons until violins emanated from the speakers.
"Really?" Trudy picked up the CD and read it as Amy glanced down: Bach Violin Concertos. "This is what you want to listen to?"
"What's wrong with it?"
"It's just... normal people don't listen to classical crap. Unless they're old, or full of themselves."
"But it's beautiful."
"It's stuffy. Stodgy."
"Stodgy," Amy murmured, apparently appreciating the word, before her tone sharpened. "Well, you wanted music, and this is what I have." She started back toward her bed, but Trudy led them toward her own bed, farther from the door in case Susan walked by. Amy's gaze turned to the window, the small Japanese maple in the back yard, the sparrows flitting from its branches to the overgrown privet by the fence. "Sparrow," she sighed. "Privet." Now she chuckled and repeated it while Trudy rolled her eyes. "It's almost 'privy.'"
Trudy snorted a laugh in spite of herself. "There's a poem in there somewhere. A really bad poem."
"Poem? I don't, I mean —" She shook her head abruptly. "Too much; it means too much."
Trudy's breath caught, surprised by the rightness of the words, and by a sudden desire to curl up in a ball on the bed and sob. She almost pulled her hand away, but she fought against the compulsion and gently squeezed Amy's arm.
"I want to show you." She swallowed. "My favorite poem. It's... oh. Right."
"What?"
"It's in one of my books. Which isn't here, because why would my mother pack any of my books, because I can't see to read."
"Susan has a lot of books. We can go get one."
"She's not gonna have the right one."
"I don't understand. What's not right about her books?"
"It's just probably not in any of them. It's not a famous poem; I've only seen it in the one anthology."
"I don't understand."
"Okay, I don't understand what you don't understand."
"I don't know, I don't understand." Near-panic raised the pitch of Amy's voice. "Her books have lines in them. Writing, words, lines of words."
"Uh, yeah, just not these words. It's not gonna be in a copy of the Bible or Little House on the Prairie or — Oh! Holy crap! Duh, you wouldn't know."
"What?"
"The stuff in each book, it's different. Each page. Like, I could write a story about, about seeing the periwinkles the first time. And you could write a story about you seeing them the first time. But they wouldn't be the same story, because one's what you saw, and one's what I saw. So we'd use different words, right?"
"Yeah..."
"You don't get it."
"I'm sorry."
"No, it makes sense that it doesn't make sense. Is there a pencil and paper in here?" Amy got up wordlessly and went to the dresser drawer, towing Trudy, and grabbed a sketch pad and pencil and sat quickly back on the bed. Trudy flipped through the first several pages to get to an empty sheet and started printing.
"Each word looks different. See?" She paused a second, then wrote, "Trudy. Amy." Amy gasped, then reached out a finger to touch her name.
"Every line in every book in this house is different. Each book has a different story. Or stories. Or poems. Or all three, on different pages." "There are lots of copies of some books, so there might be an identical book in a thousand people's houses, or a million. Or only one copy anywhere in the world.
Amy slowly pulled her finger back from her name, hesitantly reached for the pencil. Trudy relinquished it and waited as Amy held the point motionless against the paper for an eternity before finally writing.
"I could write"... "my own story. And there would be a new book."
Trudy took the pencil back. "Yup."