Who knew stealing one of Mrs. R’s desserts warranted onion duty? I’ve chopped onions all morning and shed approximately two cups of tears in the process. I’m sure this is some form of cruel and unusual punishment.
Mom hustles through the kitchen, waving and most likely shouting. I’ve got to hand it to her, she was up before me this morning, and has been working her ass off ever since. She’s determined to make sure Dad’s party goes off without a hitch. She’s even called in the troops: her friends on the New Hampshire Women’s Foundation board of directors, the ladies she golfs with at the country club, and anyone who was available to pitch in from the National Society of New England Women. Mom does have loyal friends…well, except for Sophie and Pauline, who were too hungover to put the finishing touches on those centerpieces.
Mom and Mrs. R discuss something while I pick up a pile of onions and drop them in a bowl. Glancing at the microwave clock, I see it’s well past three o’clock. Shit! I’ve got to start getting ready.
Walking over to the sink, I run my hands under the water, working the soap into a good lather. I turn off the water and dry my hands on a paper towel, still reeking of onions. Great. I’m going to be the only one at the party wearing eau de onion.
Twisting the hot water back on, I repeat the process, sudsing up again. Drying, I press the back of my hand to my nose, taking a hesitant sniff. Ugh!
Ready to whirl around and give Mrs. R a piece of my mind, she plops a giant, metal serving spoon in my hands.
I glare at Mrs. R’s retreating backside, then at my hands. What am I supposed to with a big-ass serving spoon? Does she want me to wash it? Turning the spoon over in my hands the words “stainless steel” are etched into the handle.
Stainless steel. Of course. An image of my interpreter signing a lecture from my first-year undergrad general chem course flickers in the back of my brain.
Onions contain a high level of sulfur molecules, which give them their distinctive odor. Rubbing your hands with stainless steel under running cold water for a minute or two neutralizes the sulfur molecules when they come in contact with the chromium in the steel.
Pouring soap on my hands and the spoon, I rub, making sure the metal comes in contact with every inch of my skin. When my fingers are pink and raw, I drop the spoon, and turn off the water, patting dry. I give them the sniff test.
Chemistry for the win! And Mrs. R.
This time I do whirl around, but instead of giving Mrs. R a piece of my mind, I give her several Thank yous, and plant a kiss on her cheek as I waltz out of the kitchen.
Upstairs, my dress is laid out neatly on the bed. Mom took a shopping trip into Hanover last week and found this amazing royal-blue Shoshanna. One of my mother’s best qualities is her giving heart. Gifts, service projects, manning crusade after crusade—from collecting school supplies for underprivileged children, to lobbying politicians for better healthcare for the elderly—my mother loves to give back.
She’s always wanted to save the world. Even more so after I got sick. And being married to New England’s most sought after neurosurgeon, she had the means to do so.
Mom’s not a bad person. Far from it. I just wish she accepted me for who I am, instead of pretending I’m not deaf, or wishing I were hearing. There’s nothing wrong with being deaf. I’m proud of who I am. Why can’t she be?
Climbing in the shower, I ponder this question, knowing I won’t ever find the answer.
* * *
Coming down the stairs, the handkerchief hem skirt of my dress swings at my knees. My parents wait for me at the bottom of the staircase. Dad looks so handsome and distinguished in his tailored Ermenegildo Zegna power suit and striking red tie that matches the dress of the beautiful woman on his arm.
Mom’s a knockout in her sleek Ralph Lauren number. Her jet-black hair touches her shoulders, curls softening her look. In her heels, she’s just about the same height as Dad. No one would ever know, not with Dad’s full head of silver hair and Mom’s well-maintained color, but Mom’s actually older than Dad by a year. She doesn’t look a day over forty-five, but she’s sixty-one! And if anyone asks, she’ll deny it until she’s blue in the face. But I’ve seen her birth certificate. I know the truth.
It dawns on me that I’m two years older than Thor. Like mother, like daughter? Going for the younger men?
As I make the last step, Dad raises his arms, shaking his hands in silent applause. Between the two of them, Dad is more likely to bust out a sign—a “yes” here or a “thank you” there. Nothing too complicated, but he tries.
“Darling, you look breathtaking.” Kissing both of my cheeks, he pulls me in for a hug. He smells like mint, as always. Still using the same aftershave he did when I was a kid.
I step out of his embrace and smile. “Thank you.”
“Glad you’re here, Freckles. It means a lot.”
Giving him a sidelong glance for the old nickname, I tuck my clutch under my arm and sign, “Wouldn’t have missed it, Daddy. Happy birthday.”
Dad touches his fingertips to his chin, lowering his palm. “Thank you.” And just like when Thor signs, my heart gives and extra beat. God, I love that!
Offering me one elbow and Mom his other, Dad escorts us from the foyer and into a room that’s used for all her epic parties, the great hall.
The room is packed, wall-to-wall people. All here to celebrate the life of Dr. Charles King. Mom waves at a couple near the back of the room, nodding her head for Dad to follow. Towing me along behind him, we weave in and out of clusters of guests, Dad shaking hands with many of them as he passes by.
Mom stops short, air-kissing a woman I’ve never met. I glance around. I’d be surprised if I know a handful of people in this room. Nothing like being a stranger in your own home.
Isn’t that the way it’s always been? my internal pessimist weighs in.
Mom grabs my hand, jerking me close to her side as she speaks to the woman. Both of them carry on their conversation while Dad kisses Mom’s cheek, leaving us.
And just like old times, he works the room, Mom chats with friends, and I fade quietly into the background.
As a child, I won the role of the “adorable little girl.” I had the Little Orphan Annie thing going for me, with my curly red hair. Mom’s friends couldn’t help fawning over me. I don’t know how many cheek pinchings I endured over the course of my childhood. Too many to count.
As I grew up, the adorableness gave way to a “womanly grace,” as Mom called it. When that transformation occurred, the cheek pinching stopped, thank God. But a new kind of attention started. Mom’s guests didn’t have that “Aww, isn’t she adorable!” look on their faces anymore. It was more of an “Oh, I’m so sorry.” expression. Like they knew that the adorable little deaf girl had grown into a beautiful deaf woman that would never be able to make anything of herself.
They felt sorry for me.
I know my parents spoke of my academic accomplishments, but that never changed the sad expressions cast in my direction.
And no matter how many of these parties I’ve attended in my life, my function has never changed: stay quiet, smile, nod, and look pretty. And don’t sign. It draws unnecessary attention and no one understands it anyway.
It makes Mom and Dad’s life easier if I don’t rock the boat. Can’t lose my temper. Ever.
“Let people think what they want. Prove them wrong later.” Dad’s words to live by.
The woman Mom’s been chatting with turns her attention toward me. Oh God. Did she say something? To me? I couldn’t see her lips. She tries again, this time, opening her mouth wider with each word, overenunciating.
Mom told her I’m deaf.
Happens every time.
When most hearing people find out I can’t hear, they do one of three things: speak like they’re a star in an iPhone slo-mo video, shout, or a combination of the two.
I want to scream: News flash! None of those options make lipreading any easier!
You know who got that without me telling him? Thor. Never once did he alter his speech pattern to “help” me out.
The woman chatters away, turning her head to the right. Left. Down. Up. Side to side. Stuffing her mouth with crab cakes. Sipping wine.
Never once looking directly at me, yet, still speaking to me.
Be polite, Harper. She doesn’t know any better.
I nod and smile, putting on the nice act. Don’t rock the boat. Lord, I hope I’m not agreeing to some sadistic cult ritual. Staying away from the Kool-Aid tonight.
Crab Cake Woman hugs Mom, then me, and moves off through the crowd, grabbing another hors d’oeuvre for the road.
Without missing a beat, Mom strikes up another conversation, keeping me in tow.
And another.
And another.
Smile and nod, Harper. No signing.
I miss Thor.
I run the fingertips of my right hand over my left palm, twice, giving this woman a pleasant grin. “Excuse me,” I sign anyway. I’m twenty-six years old, for goodness sake. Every one who knows my parents, knows I’m deaf. Who cares if I sign?
I touch Mom’s shoulder and point across the room, pretending there is someone I must speak to over there. Swiveling her head in the same direction, she stands on her tiptoes and scans the room, a light of recognition dawning on her face, like she knows exactly whom I’m scurrying off to see. It takes every ounce of my self-control to rein in the eye-roll I so desperately want to unleash.
Over the years, I’ve gotten good at holding things in, and escaping. It’s all I can do to get rid of all the…noise.
Snaking through the crowd, I press my fingertips into my temples. A waiter passes by with a tray of full champagne glasses. I snatch one and down the bubbly, hoping it will help my thumping head. So much focus and concentration on people’s mouths, trying to decipher words that aren’t in my language, I’m exhausted. And my cheeks hurt, not from pinching, but from too much fake smiling.
Tucked safely in the corner, on the opposite side of the room, I welcome the silence. Embrace it, actually. Setting the empty champagne flute on the windowsill, I wrap my arms around my shoulders and turn my back to the stifling crowd. The large picture window in front of me overlooks the west side of the grounds. The bright lights from the party spill into the dark yard below, casting an eerie yellow hue on the lawn. But, in the distance, it’s the pool house that catches my eye, dimly lit by the silver moon.
I remember the night Thor took me to the abandoned pool and showed me the place where he goes to think, to write his music. There’s a fire in my belly to retreat to the pool house—to be alone in a place that might make me feel closer to the person I want to be with right now.
Keeping along the perimeter of the room, I slip my heels off, carrying them and my purse in the same hand as I dash down the back staircase leading to the kitchen. Thankfully, Mrs. R is busy filling empty serving trays with stuffed mushrooms, crab cakes, fruit tarts, and a dozen other kinds of finger foods. She doesn’t even bat an eye as I tiptoe through the kitchen and out the back door.
A harsh, frigid wind whips my hair into my face as it sends fallen leaves skittering over the grass. Holy crap, it’s cold out here! The chill of the concrete soaks into the bottoms of my feet. Setting my Louis Vuitton heels on the ground, I slip my feet back inside and wrap my arms around my body, hunching over to keep warm.
Freezing, I run across the lawn, toward the pool house. I did not think this through. It won’t be much warmer in there, but at least I’ll be out of the wind.
Coming to a stop at the front door, teeth chattering, I try the doorknob. Locked. Come on, Harper, did you really expect it to be open?
Key? Where did Daddy hide the key?
Searching the landscaping for the hide-a-key, childhood memories flood my thoughts. As a kid, I’d come out here and watch my dad swim in his small lap pool, the kind where the swimmer has to swim against a current. That pool always fascinated me. He would swim and swim, and never go anywhere, just stayed in the same place.
I always enjoyed swimming…in the pool outside. The one that allowed me to move. I never understood the appeal of swimming against a current; feeling like you can’t ever break free.
A small chuckle escapes my lips. Battling a current that you can’t break free of. Sounds a lot like my life. I’ve endured an uphill battle with just about everything—my parents, school, romantic involvements (with the exception of Thor), my future career. Nothing has been easy.
Tilting a flowerpot, I peer underneath. Sure enough, there’s a small compartment in the bottom. Working the latch open, the lid swings free, and the key falls to the ground. Scooping it up, I set the flowerpot down, and fit the key into the lock.
Pushing open the glass door, I’m hit with a wall of hot chlorine-scented air. Ohhhh! I welcome the unexpected warmth. Stepping inside, I shut the door quickly, sealing off the blasting wind. Shivering, I walk around stacked chairs and a few tables pushed together—Mom’s outside pool accessories brought inside for the winter.
Plumes of steam rise off the surface of the gently swirling water in the lap pool. Dragging a chaise lounge closer to the pool’s edge to soak up its heat, I plop down and stretch out. Crossing my ankles, I lay my head back, and close my eyes.
Deep breaths. I pull in lungfuls of chlorine-rich oxygen, feeling my body relax. It’s not Thor’s pool, but it’s peaceful nonetheless.
Minutes drift by. The tension in my shoulders and head subside, and my mind wanders to Thor. What’s he doing right now?
Lifting my head, I flip open my purse and pull out my phone. Me: Thank you for wanting to learn ASL. He doesn’t know it, but it means so much to me. If there’s anything this weekend has taught me, or reminded me, it’s how much I yearn to be able to communicate with my loved ones. How much I’ve always wanted that. The fact that Thor wants to learn, it’s everything.
My phone flashes, lighting up the dark pool house like a bolt of lightning. Thor: For you, Red. Anything. I want every part of you.
Tears sting my eyes. My own parents never wanted that part of me. Me: I miss you. What are you doing? My heart hurts with how much I miss him. My heart feels like a lead cannonball lodged in my chest; something I’ve never experienced before, not even when I left David and moved to St. Louis.
Thor: Miss you too, babe. At work. I’m sitting in the break room putting away some Taco Bell. How’s it going there?
My stomach growls at the mention of Taco Bell. I love Mrs. R’s food, but some greasy tacos would go down easy right about now. I slide my fingers over the keyboard. Oh, Taco Bell. That’s sounds divine. Things are going. Mom and Dad mean well, but the language barrier has always been a gigantic hurdle we’ve never been able to get over. My brain physically hurts from trying to be a part of the conversations at Dad’s party.
Thor: Taco Bell. Got it. Filing that away for later. ;-) Hopefully, I don’t make your brain hurt.
Smiling, I type back. Never! You hear me just fine. :-)
Out of the corner of my eye, I see something waving in the dark, and then the lights come on. Turning my head, I see Dad making his way around a stack of tables. He grabs a chair and drags it over to mine, plopping down. “Hey, Freckles. Everything okay? I noticed you disappeared.”
I squint against the light, trying to focus on his moving mouth. The tentacles of my headache return, creeping up the back side of my skull.
My cell phone lights up with an incoming text. Holding up my index finger to Dad, I glance down at Thor’s message, careful to angle the phone away so he can’t see.
Thor: Loud and clear. And when you get back, I’ll show you just how much I hear. ;-)
Me: Can’t wait! I’ve got to go, my dad’s here. See you soon!
Shoving my phone back in my purse, I give Dad my undivided attention; after all, he did notice I wasn’t at the party. That’s got to count for something, right?
I sit up and kick my legs over the side of the pool chair, facing him. It’s easier to “chat” if we’re facing each other. “What’s up, Daddy?” I sign, mouthing the words for his benefit.
“Haven’t seen my favorite girl in a year. Wondered where you disappeared to.”
Sighing, I sit up, grabbing my purse. I love my dad. The last thing I want to do is disappoint him on his birthday. Opening my purse, I dig my phone back out. I want to be sure he understands why I needed a break from the party. Too many people inside. Sorry I bailed. I flip it around so he can see.
Lifting the phone from my fingers, he types a response. Sorry. Your mom goes a little overboard with these things. I don’t need to tell you how she gets. To be honest, I would have preferred a quiet dinner with my two favorite women. But, I learned a long time ago, your mother does not take no for an answer.
Reading his words, silent laughter shakes my shoulders. Dad’s so much like me. Quality time over quantity always wins out. What’s the point of sharing your time with a couple hundred people if they only get a handful of minutes with you? I prefer spending my time with one or two people and giving them all my time. Time is so precious anyway, why sever it into so many inconsequential little bits?
Since I have my dad’s ear and it’s been on my mind so much—with Thor and everything, it’s time I asked the question I should have asked so long ago. Why didn’t you ever learn ASL?
Handing the phone to him, I watch his eyes move over my short sentence. The jovial, lighthearted expression he usually wears falls, sadness making the wrinkles at the sides of his eyes more pronounced.
He shrugs, passing the phone to me. For several minutes, he’s quiet, refusing to meet my eye. I rest my palm on his knee and he looks up. I can see his sixty years, now. My dad has always been handsome, he still is. But, he’s carried the lives of all his patients on his shoulders for so long, the gravity is wearing on him. Neurosurgery is one of the hardest surgical subspecialties to get into, and the fact that my dad is still practicing, albeit, on a case-by-case basis, it says a lot about his character, how much he cares.
“I love you, Daddy,” I sign. He knows this one.
“Love you, too, Freckles,” He signs back and my heart threatens to explode. “I’m sorry, Harper.” He doesn’t sign this time. I’m forced to read his lips. “Can I tell you a story?” he asks, scooting closer to the end of his chair.
I nod.
“Good.” He pats my knee and smiles. “When you got sick…lost your hearing. I couldn’t fix you. With all my knowledge and skill, I couldn’t put my own daughter back together.” Pressing a fist to his mouth, his shoulders rise as he takes a breath. He turns his head away from me, but signs, “Sorry.”
Nice, Harper. You’ve made him cry on his birthday. Daughter of the year award coming your way.
I pat his leg, trying to console him, not knowing what else to do. Turning his attention back to me, he moves his fist in a circular pattern over his chest again. “Sorry.”
Unlocking my phone, I type quickly and turn it around so he can see the screen. I’m sorry. You don’t have to do this. I didn’t mean to upset you, especially on your birthday.
He waves away my apology and pats my leg again. “You didn’t. I can’t recall a time when you’ve ever upset me. I’ve been upset with myself for the last twenty-four years. I performed countless surgeries, restored so many patients to health, but I couldn’t save my own daughter’s hearing.”
I type. My fingers move over the keyboard, the words in my brain moving faster than I can get my hands to work. So many thoughts and emotions are bottled up inside me. I hate that he thinks I’m damaged, someone that needs put back together. Shaking my head I flip the phone around so he can see what I wrote. I’m not broken, Daddy. Being deaf isn’t some illness that needs to be treated. It was never your job to “fix” me. I don’t need to be “fixed.” All I’ve ever wanted is for you and Mom to accept me the way I am, for the both of you to want to be in my world. But, you’ve never wanted that. I’m your greatest disappointment, the one medical case that bested you. You distanced yourself from me, and all things “deaf” because that would mean having to concede, accept defeat.
Swiping a tear off my cheek, I know I shouldn’t have unleashed all my anger in that message. But, dammit, I’m so sick and tired of the charade my parents put on when I’m around them, the stupid avoidance dance we’ve perfected over the years—Sure, Harper’s deaf, but if we get her every gadget imaginable, we can pretend she’s as normal as all the other children.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned since Thor came into my life, the language barrier isn’t an obstacle that can’t be scaled. Yeah, it’s hard, but not impossible. The only difference between my parents and Thor? He doesn’t want there to be a wall between us…my parents like the wall, it protects them from their own guilt.
Tears pool in my eyes and a lump sticks in my throat, but I choke it back. My parents aren’t the only ones who are safe on their side of the barrier.
“Harper.” Daddy signs my name and a tear slips down my cheek. The dam is crumbling.
“What?” Twisting my head away, I suck my bottom lip into my mouth and bite down, hard. Holding my breath, I let the wave of emotion pummel me, but I refuse to give in. I. Will. Not. Cry.
Daddy’s warm hand rests against my knee, patting gently. It’s when I feel his other hand touch my upper arm that I know he’s trying to get my attention. Steeling myself, I face him. Tears are running down his face. He’s not even trying to hide them, or wipe them away.
“I know you’re not broken, Harper. I’ve let my own inadequacies come between us. If I’m being honest, I never learned ASL because I’m afraid.”
Tugging my eyebrows low, I shake my head, confused. Afraid? Why would learning my language scare him?
“In my mind, if I gave in and learned ASL, I’d be giving up. I’ve always held out hope that you would hear again.” His shoulders shake and he buries his head in his hands.
Some of my own tears breach the dam and roll down my cheeks. I’ve never seen my dad so upset.
I scoot to the edge of my seat and put a hand on his shoulder, running it toward his back in slow circles. All these years, I thought I was the disappointment—that signing somehow embarrassed him—and that’s why he never learned.
He looks up, his eyes red and glassy, he points to my lap. My phone.
Unlocking it, I pass it to him. “I want to be sure you get every word of what I need to tell you. You need to know this.” Looking down, he types.
As his agile fingers—surgeon’s hands—move over the screen at the same time I see Mom walking up behind him, her face pinched in exasperation. Uh-oh, we’re busted.
Dad tosses a quick glance over his shoulder, but returns to the message he’s typing.
Mom stands at the end of Dad’s chair, hands on her hips. “I saw the light on down here. What are you two doing? We have a houseful of guests.” Her hand flies off her hip, gesturing in the direction of the house.
“Too much lipreading. I needed a break.” Dad presses the phone into my hands the moment I finish signing. He stands, pulling Mom’s hands into his, calming her, putting out the fire our absence caused.
While they talk, I read the message. I’m so proud of you. Against everyone’s loud advice, telling you pharmacy was a career choice that would be too far out of your reach, you didn’t listen. You did your own thing, looked every challenge in the eye, and shoved them out of your damn way. You’re stronger than I’ve ever been. Don’t think for one minute that you’ve ever been a disappointment or an embarrassment. I got so caught up in mourning the loss of your hearing that I stopped hearing you. I’m so sorry, Harper. All I can do is beg your forgiveness and hope to do better. I love you. You are my greatest accomplishment in the sixty years I’ve been given. Don’t ever forget that.
Dropping the phone on the chair, I stand and throw my arms around his waist. Eyes closed, I block out anything that can detract from this moment. I’ve never questioned my parents’ love for me, but knowing I’m not an embarrassment, or disappoint in my dad’s eyes is beyond amazing. I’ve lived with that notion for so long, sometimes I think it’s held me back, like I’d been swimming against an unrelenting current and not gone anywhere.
His words just turned off the current. I’m in a calm pool and I can go wherever I choose.
Dad brings his arm up, wrapping it around my shoulder. Looking up, I open my eyes and see him smiling down at me. Mom’s circled in his other arm, smiling at me, too. Did he tell her what we’ve been talking about?
“I’m proud of you, too, Harper,” Mom says, pinching my chin between her thumb and forefinger.
Yep. He must have.
“But can we continue this heart-to-heart later, we do have a houseful of people here to see your dad. You can’t keep him all to yourself.” She winks and Daddy gives me a conspiratorial smile that leads me to think he disagrees.
“Sure.” I sign with a nod. Daddy squeezes me tighter and leads Mom and me to the door. I know things with my parents aren’t going to change overnight, but at least this is a step in the right direction, all of us together.