Sounds of Silence by Elizabeth White

flowers or something, too.”
    The idea of paying a florist good money for something that would die within forty-eight hours pained Eli’s soul. But he remembered the expression on Isabel’s face when Mercedes had handed her a handful of weeds. “I’ll think about it,” he mumbled.
    At this major concession, Owen grinned. “Good. Class dismissed. There will be a test.”
    “All right, professor.” Eli sighed. “Now see if you can set this bird down without making me lose my breakfast.”

    “Mommy, I’m tired of making Ws . Can I write a letter?”
    Isabel snipped a thread on the gown she had been hemming. “Let me see your work, sweetie.”
    Danilo shoved his tablet across the kitchen table and began a rhythmic tap with his chunky pencil and a ruler. Isabel knew she’d have to find an outlet for all his pent-up energy soon, or he was going to drive her crazy. Maybe drum lessons.
    Isabel glanced at Mercedes, who was tackling a page full of subtraction problems, tongue between her teeth. As much as she was growing to love the little girl, Isabel’s nerves were fraying. They hadn’t been to church in three weeks, and she missed the fellowship.
    She had called Pamela Hatcher, offering the excuse of a sick child for missing Bryan’s funeral. No matter what Eli said, the lie made her uncomfortable, and Pamela’s understanding had made Isabel feel even worse. She’d prayed over the phone with Benny Malone, too, after little Dulce’s death. Benny had promised to come for a visit soon, but volunteer relief for orphanage housemothers was hard to come by. In fact, Isabel herself had been the only person to sub for Benny in quite some time.
    With a sigh, Isabel confiscated Danilo’s ruler and stuck it in her sewing basket. “Your W’s are pretty good, except they need to touch bottom.” She demonstrated.
    “You mean like in Josh’s swimming pool?” Danilo gave Isabel one of his patented cajoling looks. “Would you write my letter for me? I don’t spell good.”
    “I don’t spell well, ” she corrected. “Who do you want to write to? Your nana?” Isabel hadn’t talked to her mother in over a week. She really should call.
    “No, I want to write to Daddy.”
    Isabel jabbed herself with the needle. “What?” She quickly put her finger into her mouth.
    “I said—”
    “I heard you.” She smiled at Mercedes, who had looked up from her drawing. Isabel saw that Danilo’s smooth brow had furrowed at her sharp tone. She took a breath. “Baby, Daddy’s in heaven.”
    “I know. But he could look over my shoulder and read my letter.”
    Isabel fought to maintain her composure. Explaining death to a five-year-old had its challenges. She laid the dress, needle and thread down in her lap. “Okay. What do you want to say?”
    Danilo beamed and handed Isabel his pencil. “‘Dear Daddy, I miss you.’”
    Isabel turned to a fresh page in the tablet and wrote. Oh, Lord Jesus, this is hard. She looked at her son. “Got it. Now what?”
    ‘“But Mommy and me are doing great and we even have a new sister.’ I know,” he added when Isabel opened her mouth to object. “My pretend sister.”
    Isabel wrote the sentence, looking up when Mercedes put a hand on her arm. The little girl’s face was lit like a May sunbeam. Isabel continued to be staggered by how quickly she had learned to read English.
    “Mom!” Danilo tapped Isabel’s shoulder. “I’m not finished.”
    “Okay, buddy. What else?”
    Danilo screwed up his face in thought. “We have to stay in the house a lot, but we get to play ‘Sets’ and Eli comes to see us, so I don’t care.’”
    For some reason, this confession was nearly impossible for Isabel to put on paper. A vivid mental image of his sky blue eyes had her bearing down on the pencil to keep it from trembling in her hand.
    “One more thing.” Danilo bounced on his knees. “‘I’m gonna play T-ball this summer, and Eli said he’d teach me how to hit a home run. Love,