Jessie Carver
Jessie Carver is a queer writer and editor who lives in Portland, Oregon, but grew up on a farm in the borderlands of New Mexico. Her short stories and poems have appeared in journals that include Entropy, Lost Balloon, HAD, The Normal School, Barren, and Watershed Review, and in the anthology, Love Is the Drug & Other Dark Poems. She also co-authored the book Rethinking Paper & Ink: The Sustainable Publishing Revolution. You can find her online at www.jessiecarver.com.
[SILENCE]
Pregnancy made Lucia’s brain feel foggy as she watched the gritty British crime dramas. She struggled to catch every piece of dialogue through the thick accents. But turning on the closed captions solved that. So simple.
She liked how captions augmented the shows she watched. It was like having the machinations behind the narrative revealed, gaining access to the screenwriters’ underlying intentions and the minutiae that ordinary viewers weren’t privy to. Before, she might not have observed the faint background music, but now her attention was drawn inexorably to the [DRAMATIC ORCHESTRAL SWELL]. How haunting that dramatic swell, how much it heightened the tension in the scene!
It didn’t take long for her to insist on watching every television show and movie with the closed captions on, even the ones that portrayed American English speakers. Why miss critical clues when she had the option to peer inside the script?
This irritated Tom, her husband.
Back when they were dating and still performing their most shining versions of themselves, their joy was unflappable. Her happiest memories with him were weekend mornings, laughing and dancing and singing together in her black-and-white tiled kitchen to Billy Bragg and Wilco’s Mermaid Avenue, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing.
~
Lucia studied the captions with increasing intensity. She loved learning how the characters’ names were meant to be spelled. It made her feel closer to them, knowing whether they were a Sarah versus Sara, Mark versus Marc, Elisabeth versus Elizabeth. She understood these characters in a way that most others did not.
She and Tom agreed it was bad luck to name the fetus before it was born. It is a fetus before it is born, and it is a baby after it is born, they concurred. But after prenatal testing conceded its biological sex, she secretly called the fetus “Elle” and talked to her when they were alone. She tried to capture experiences she thought Elle might want to know about. And what a radiant responsibility this was, to introduce her fetus to the world before she was birthed into it.
Resting her hand on her belly, she described the alien-like limbs and strange, unsettling movement of crane flies, the subtle almond-sweet aroma of forsythia. The flavor and texture of the lamb heart pâté and fig chèvre she and Tom ate on their first date, sitting on a bar patio next to a fire, holding hands between bites. How doves and pigeons are genetically identical, but inflicted with different societal perceptions. “It’s really unfair to the pigeons,” Lucia pointed out, in case that wasn’t clear to Elle.
When she came across a statistic that asserted the total weight of all the ants in the world was equivalent to the weight of all the people in the world, she recited it to Elle and knew she’d find it amusing, too. Good for the ants; what silly, self-absorbed creatures humans were. She chronicled how her high school English students sounded like chattering starlings when they congregated around their desks in clusters before class started. She felt fiercely protective of these starlings and the frothing tumult of their daily dramas.
One morning she told Elle about the dream she’d woken from, in which Lucia walked through an immense art gallery with her own mom, but they lost each other in the maze of corridors. Lucia stepped into a luminous room that contained a stage. A constellation of women in gauzy white dresses performed an ethereal dance to no audience and no music, their bare feet lightly pattering. It was so beautiful that when she woke up, her cheeks and pillow were wet. Perhaps Elle wept with her.
Was that possible? She would need to research if fetuses cry.
To compensate for the violence of the crime shows, she read aloud to Elle, poetry and fiction and philosophy and memoir. She didn’t want Elle to live an unexamined life. Sitting at her desk grading essays about The Bluest Eye, Lucia told her how the word fuck was debatably the most versatile in the English language, functioning as six different parts of speech—maybe more by the time Elle was grown. She tried to articulate her suspicion that the beloved children’s book The Velveteen Rabbit was actually a prophetic parable about the uncanny valley, but she couldn’t figure out whether it was aspirational or cautionary.
~
Tom claimed the words crashing across the screen interrupted his viewing experience and competed with the images. He was a graphic designer, and aesthetics were important to him. When they painted the office-turned-nursery a pale sage green, he paused mid-wall to kiss Lucia’s expanding belly. She indulged this with a laugh and ruffled his hair but noted the drops of paint he scattered on her socked feet as he knelt before her like a prayer.
If Tom had asked her, Lucia would have explained that she thought there was a sophistication to the descriptions of non-dialogue audio. They somehow showed restraint and breadth all at once. She believed they deepened her immersion into the storyline, forging a more intimate understanding of the characters and unfolding plot. You could really tell when the person writing them infused their work with heart, creativity, even flair.
She admired how generous sound-effect captions were with adverbs—contrary to the conventional writing advice that she had long objected to. Her primary grievances were that captions were often riddled with typos and poorly rendered transcriptions, and, on occasion, they let slip spoilers. (The lurking man shrouded in shadows whose identity we’re intended to rapturously contemplate for another 47 minutes—onscreen, his words “Stay away” are attributed to Jacques, the sinister neighbor.)
But she forgave these minor offenses.
Besides, Tom did not ask.
~
And then, one night: blood. So much blood. Her bathroom a crime scene. Cramps that felt like blades twisting in her uterus. More blood. Nothingness.
[ANGUISHED WAILS]
~
She couldn’t bear to pick up a book. She had nightmares about Atwood’s unbabies. Tom’s touch made her flinch. She wanted only to watch her shows. The captions demanded such undivided attention that she found relief from the thrumming of her empty belly.
~
After a while, she started keeping notes of the captioned sound effects she thought were compelling or manifest or funny, scribbling them on index cards she kept in her purse and pockets and every room on the chance that later she might remember one she’d neglected to write down at the time.
[SPARKLING, VIBRANT MELODY PERSISTS]
ROBOT [IN ROBOTIC TONES]:
[SNARLS FEROCIOUSLY LIKE WOLF]
Lucia measured good days by how many cards she filled. It was a feat to engage with the world around her—even if through a screen—and she relied on the shows to remind her how ordinary people interact. She wanted to feel like an ordinary person again.
~
Pushing aside a pile of clean laundry that had sat untouched for days, Lucia settled onto the couch and ran her finger along the edge of an index card, daring it to slice her flesh. Tom sat across from her in the armchair, bent over his sketchpad.
“How do you think someone goes about getting hired to write captions? Because I think I’d be good at it.”
“Luce. You haven’t even felt well enough to go back to work yet.”
“This might be a better career for me,” she insisted.
In her head played a reel of accusations at Tom. He rejected precision. Lacked depth. Deprioritized communication. She knew it was unfair but the thoughts pummeled her like fists.
“It’s true! Some people might see writing captions as a meaningful pursuit.”
“Can we talk about literally anything else?” Tom said. “That new Thai place on Alameda. Or, I don’t know, how you’ve been ignoring your mom’s calls. Maybe she wants to hear about captions.”
Lucia watched his lips move but had stopped listening.
Tom was unable—or unwilling—to recognize the unexpected profundity of captions and furthermore did not share her particular appreciation of translated subtitles. Her favorite moment was in the unofficial subtitles of the 1975 Soviet animated film Hedgehog in the Fog. “Excuse me,” [SAID SOMEBODY SOUNDLESSLY]. “Who are you? How you got there?” Speaking soundlessly made abundant poetic sense to her, but the day before, Tom had dismissed the short film as a boring, grim cartoon not even suitable for kids. His words hung in the air between them, cold and mean.
She was astonished that that man in the kitchen, singing along off-key but earnestly to “Ingrid Bergman,” had evolved into someone who didn’t care enough to participate in what she was experiencing. That shimmering effervescence of early love suspended as though in epoxy—day by day, Lucia watched it grow dimmer.
~
On their way to have dinner with their friends Marie and Amy, they walked by a sign taped inside someone’s front window that said, “We just want you to be happy,” written in loping blue letters.
“Well, that’s charming,” Lucia said, “if a little sappy.” She could hear [BIRDS SHRIEKING] from the barren trees lining the sidewalk.
“Happiness seems like irrelevant, fluff kitsch,” Tom said. Or maybe he said, “Happiness seems like an innocent-enough wish.” Lucia nodded noncommittally and walked faster to keep up with him.
[FROZEN SNOW CRUNCHING SEVERELY]
Amy opened the door and ushered them in. “How has it been so long?” she said. “Come in. You must be freezing.” She sounded far away, and the dark lipstick framing her too-wide smile made her teeth look aggressive.
Lucia accepted her hug. “We’ve been so busy—we haven’t seen anyone in ages,” she replied before Tom could say anything.
Marie took their coats and scarves and hugged them, too. Lucia considered how to describe the sound of hugs. It would depend on the clothing worn by the huggers, and on the velocity of the hug.
As they ate, her eyes circled the room. She was distracted by [SILVERWARE CHIMING] and [HEARTY CHEWING NOISES].
“Lucia!”
She looked up, surprised by Tom’s voice.
“What?”
“Marie’s talking to you.”
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I was just. I don’t know, I just feel bad. That we didn’t reach out sooner. With everything that happened. Are you holding up okay?”
Lucia smiled. “I’m fine. We were all unborn once. And we’ll all die. It’s, you know. The human condition.” She served herself more salmon, confident the logic of her reassurance would put them at ease. Marie and Tom and Amy exchanged glances.
“But I’ve been trying to decide: what do you think the sound of grief is?” Lucia said. “Like if you had to describe it. As an intellectual exercise.”
“I . . . don’t know,” said Marie softly. She touched Lucia’s wrist as if she were about to take her pulse. “I might have to get back to you on that.” Tom refilled his wine.
[GLASSES CLINKING]
“I’ve been going back and forth about whether it’s cacophonous or so quiet it smothers out other noises,” Lucia offered, to show them how nice it was to exchange banter with old friends. “Can something be dull and sharp at the same time?”
When no one responded, she pivoted. “Or hugs! How would you describe the sound that hugs make? That’s a real tough one.”
[UNEASY LAUGHTER]
Lucia was confused. She had not made a joke.
“Hey, did you two hear about . . .” Tom said, his voice fading out again. Snow started to fall outside the window behind him, and Lucia let herself be mesmerized by the chaotic white flurries that obscured the darkness beyond.
~
“We can talk about it, you know,” Tom said over breakfast one day. He reached for her hands, but she moved them to her lap before he could get to them.
It was hard to make out his words. Lucia squinted at him.
She wanted to suggest, “Maybe you can write down what you’re saying to me, so I don’t misconstrue anything.” She pushed the stack of index cards on the table toward him but couldn’t conjure the words.
Tom smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes, which looked liquid and dark, like when he found her in the bathroom that day. He glanced at the index cards and left the room.
[RECEDING FOOTSTEPS]
~
They went about as if they were living in separate houses, inhabiting separate lives. While Tom cooked dinner, Lucia watched TV in the living room. While Lucia watered the house plants, Tom worked on his laptop. Neither entered the sage-green room. If they passed one another in the hall, polite eyes averted, they stepped around each other. An onlooker might even be impressed with how fluid their movements were, almost following a choreographed path.
Tom put on a record that Lucia couldn’t discern but did register as [MOURNFUL MUSIC]. A few times she thought she heard Tom’s voice but couldn’t be certain.
~
One evening, she noticed Tom’s suitcase and laptop bag next to the front door. She must have forgotten he was going on a trip. Lucia was aware there were some murmurings just off-screen, but she couldn’t quite make them out, and went to the living room. Captions would be useful. She searched for the remote, pulling the cushions off the sofa but finding only crumbs and a few coins.
[INAUDIBLE DIALOGUE]
She was missing something. Something crucial. Lucia [ANXIOUS BREATHING] looked behind the sofa, pushing aside stacks of books on the coffee table. The remote was nowhere, the screen of the TV a black abyss. Through the window, she could see her mom getting out of her car, which made no sense. She felt disoriented. “What’s happening?” she wanted to ask Tom. “How did we get here?” She wanted to ask, “Do you remember dancing with me?” and pull him back to her.
[MUFFLED CRYING]
[SLOW, HEAVY FOOTSTEPS]
[DOOR CLOSING]
[ATMOSPHERIC SILENCE]
[SILENCE]
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© 2025 Iron Oak Editions
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© 2025 Iron Oak Editions
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