Helene was gracious to see her daughter in one piece when she came to pick her up. Penny was in the back seat, eagerly waiting to hear about her big sister’s day. Bill had gotten off of work early today, so he sat in the car in the passenger seat, analyzing the array of children in front of the school.

Pam was waiting until her name was called, then raced to her mom’s car. The adrenaline was flowing through her like the wind flew through her untamable curls when she swung on the freeing swing. She was eager to share, to brag about her courage and ability to cope. 

She was relieved to see the impact of her actions had very little consequence, but anxious at the thought of Karen’s look in her eyes which played repeat in her brain. Her brain had a habit of finding something that shook her and made her panicky then putting it on a DVD set on replay. The DVD was carefully made to remind her of what not to do and how to avoid any unwanted feelings. If Jim was around, sometimes the DVD would receive a scratch in it, giving her a break from the horrid film.

Her mind was set, she had reviewed each sentence of her story carefully, thinking of every vowel and sound she must make in order to share. She pulled open the door handle and gingerly placed her bag on the car floor. Helene loved how careful Pam was with everything, as if each thing was made or porcelain or glass. Pam never made big movements that caught attention or loud sounds that demanded eyes to look. Quietness followed her, a cloud of silence encircling her. The more she thought about it, the less Helene loved how careful Pam was.

••

Pam was settled in on her car seat, then scanned the car, triple checking the door was closed shut. She then noticed the out of place item: her father was in the car. She wasn’t sure what it was that made her feel dizzy around him, as if she couldn’t step wrong and her ears making a consistent ringing noise. She loved her father and his big, affectionate hugs. Yet, he made her feel tight. Her lips were pressed in a line, suddenly forgetting her prepared story. It was as if she got stage freight, her words floating away from her mind. They were still there and legible which only taunted her of what she could have had. 

Bill wasn’t harsh or quick-tempered. He was a traditional man and preferred minimal problems. His solution was to find a solution, push Pam to knock at the glass, refuse to give in to the comfort of the quiet. He wanted to skip over the easing her into it and rush to the finish line. Helene knew this was the way her husband viewed the situation, but wished she could show him that she wasn’t choosing not to talk. It was never a choice for her. 

She was physically capable, but mentally unable. It wasn’t a physical hurdle, but a mental one. Which is sometimes worse.

Pam still answered questions when prompted, her voice stunned back into her. She still calmly chatted, but not in the smooth way Helene got when she jumped in the car, squealing with a story that she had kept pinned up all day. 

Eventually Penny chimed in. Penny was an open book, a chatty kid with a lot to share. She loved Pam and kept her from the discomfort of the silence moment when Pam’s words were empty. She would rush in to take on the load for Pam, giving in to the compulsivity of Pam’s silence. Penny always knew Pam as quiet and Penny easily took the role of filling in the pieces meant for Pam. When the silence was too dense and heavy, pressing on their shoulders, she was quick to relieve it. In public, Pam was seen hiding in Penny’s shadow.

Pam took the time with the chatter of her family providing a white noise as she envisioned a brilliant white canvas, waiting to tell a story.

••••

He saw it at the dollar store on a small street in Scranton. It wasn’t that the object called Jim’s name, but that it called his name in how he would imagine Pam’s small voice to call him. There was an array of colors, mixtures of pastels, and deeper colors with ranging tints and shades. There were 24 spots, his favorite color being the gentle green that matched her eyes. At the bottom of the plastic dish was a small placeholder encasing a skinny, wooden paintbrush. The brush hairs were frayed from poor quality and the paints looked fake and cheap, but the sum of the purchase took a toll on the hard-earned money he has gotten working in the garden for his mother. After watching her relax, her tense muscles soften as she took in the watercolor, the image of her standing there was ingrained into him, but the image was of her- in watercolor. He held onto his new prized possession tightly the whole way home, marveling at each perfectly circle color on the plate.