All Her Little Things

Naomi and I are both the youngest in our families. I knew from a very young age that no one wanted to hear what I had to say, so I learned to talk to myself, a habit I still enjoy. Naomi is different. She doesn’t care if anyone’s interested. Her words bombard me like tiny ping-pong balls — they don’t hurt, but they can be annoying.

But now Naomi has stopped talking, and the silence is so worrisome that I take her to the emergency room.

Her appendix has burst. She needs an operation, armfuls of antibiotics, and pints of painkillers. Seeing her wan and silent in a hospital bed, I feel an affection that’s missing when I’m listening to her chatter.

We end up spending close to three weeks together in the hospital. After a few days, when she’s feeling a bit better, she resumes talking nonstop, until a doctor or nurse enters the room; then she clams up completely. Her surgeon says, “I’ll bet she’s never quiet at home. You probably just brought her here to get a little peace and quiet.” He doesn’t know how much she talks here, too.