The Deafening SIlence

Crossing the square in Marfa on that hot summer’s day, my phone rang and minutes later, I found myself stumbling for words and gasping for air to form the questions racing in my mind. ... She is where? Who did this to her? Her boyfriend, but they broke up weeks ago. His voice steady. He has done this before. His promise to keep me informed on her condition did not bring back breath to my lungs or peace to my heart as I sat 1,750 miles away, two days until I could return. “She is stable and responsive,” they said with confidence. If only I had known that the words she spoke to him that day would be her last.

Tear-stained and lifeless, my body hauled itself from courtyard to the hotel room where I wilted onto the bed. Staring at the ceiling as I called my boss who was engaged with the happenings of the work conference I was photographing when I got the call. Frantic calls to the airlines and car rental companies left me with no options but to wait.

Two days, that felt like centuries, waned on as I trekked those 1,750 miles to her bedside. Her eyes lit up as I entered the room and I rushed to hold her hand. Her face was a puzzle of delight and frustration as she tried to communicate, though her words would not come. The swelling in her skull had damaged that part of her brain, leaving her to communicate only through the squeeze of my hand and widening of her eyes. Each day for the next 12 days, I sat by her side, took copious notes of doctor’s updates, and waited for more information. Twelve days, two more surgeries, thirty six pages of a sketchbook, led to one final breath at 4am on October 25th, 2017. Nothing can prepare you for that moment. Nothing. Not movies, not podcasts, not books, not even first-hand stories from people in your life can prepare you for the moment when someone you love leaves.

The subsequent days were spent cleaning out her apartment, arranging the cremation, and unfortunately, a morning in court with the man that took her life. I sat, dressed in black, a few short days after her death within feet of him, separated only by a small wooden barrier. Shaking, I gave a testimony to what I knew of her medical condition and what the doctors said might have been the cause. Mere moments after, followed an objection from the defense that I was not a licensed medical professional and my testimony should be stricken as she proceeded to deface my mother’s character and claim that she “did this to herself.”

Two years later, we finally got the verdict. Guilty.

Domestic violence is often silenced. Angry words, once flying like shrapnel, morph into false promises that “this is the last time” or they “never meant to hurt” their partner. Scraps of papers with numbers to shelters hidden in drawers hoping, praying, that he doesn’t find them. She thought she had no where to go. She thought… he would never.