by E. J. Mara
THE TWINGE OF pain that’s been making an appearance in my stomach ever since Mom’s overdose is becoming worse. It’s not an ache, more like a burning. I’ve been trying to ignore it, but that’s becoming impossible.
Holding Tessa’s hand, I weave in and out of the crowd and do my best not to make eye contact with anyone. I’m in no mood for stilted conversations about my mom.
Tessa yanks my arm and grunts. I glance back at her and she’s pointing to Nathaniel. Tall and broad-shouldered in his dark suit, he stands with his back to us, talking to his friend Brad and a few other boys from school.
The fiery pain flares up in my stomach as I study each of Nathaniel’s companions: Brad, Ryan, and Mark. Why are they even here? It’s not like they care about my mom or my family.
Tessa grunts, decidedly releases my hand, and starts for Nathaniel.
“Oh, God, no,” I whisper. I reach for my sister, but she dodges my grasp and heads for him like a woman on a mission.
I take off after her, hoping I can grab her before she gets to Nathaniel and his stuck up friends. But Tessa zips through the crowd with superlative speed, and I’m stopped by some hearing lady who plants a kiss on one of my cheeks and tells me she’s sorry for my loss. Barely looking at the woman, I offer a quick, “thank you,” and keep my eyes on my sister.
She’s come to a halt directly behind Nathaniel, where she carefully opens her diary to a fresh page and readies her pen.
I dart away from the hearing lady and head for Tessa.
She has no idea what she’s walking into.
As I approach the boys, their conversation drifts my way.
“…thought Deaf people were supposed to be quiet,” Ryan drawls in his thick Alabama accent, “but, dude, they’re so loud.”
“I know. And did you hear when one of them farted? It lasted for a solid eight seconds; it was one of those machine gut farts,” Brad says.
I tense, pausing in stride while he, Ryan, and Mark laugh like this is the funniest thing in the world.
These idiots know that none of the Deaf had the audacity to fart during Mom’s funeral. They’re just being jerks.
“Brad,” Nathaniel says, “we all know it was you. Quit trying to blame your gas on other people.”
The boys laugh and I shift on my feet. I don’t know if I’m more relieved that Nathaniel said something in our defense or upset with him for hanging out with these hearing-minded jerks.
At this, Tessa darts forward. She charges past Nathaniel and barges her way into the boy’s conversation.
A roll of thunder sounds above while she faces Nathaniel and signs, “Tall? You? Tall? You?” She’s trying to ask him how tall he is so she can record this crucial information in her diary.
“Whoa! Look who it is.” Ryan laughs and, tapping my sister’s arm, points to her diary as he looks down at her and begins to speak in an exceptionally slow voice, “Hey, Forest, what you got there?”
Tessa blinks back at him, confused.
“She can’t hear you even when you talk slowly, moron. She’s deaf!” I shout and all three of the boys jump.
I push past Nathaniel and Brad and grab Tessa’s hand. Of course she fights me, not understanding that I’m saving her from being made fun of. Tessa’s surprisingly strong, but I manage to drag her away from the boys.
“Karen, wait!” Nathaniel calls, following us.
Tessa slips out of my grasp and runs back to Nathaniel, where she links her arm through his. At this, she smiles up at him like he’s her knight in shining armor.
But her knight’s eyes are full of guilt as he sheepishly says, “I’m sorry. They’re idiots.”
“Yet, you hang out with them…” I start to say more, but the remorse in his eyes stops me.
“I know. But they’re not bad guys,” he nervously replies, “they’re just insensitive and I’m sorry they said that stuff.”
My thoughts dart to what he told me in his Jeep the day I found Mom- that sometimes he freezes up and finds himself trapped in an overwhelming fear that stops him from doing anything. Maybe that’s why he didn’t jump to Tessa’s defense, he froze up.
“I get it, it’s fine.” I glance at my sister as she opens her journal. “And she was trying to ask you how tall you are. So she can write it in her journal.”
“Oh.” Still looking unsure of himself, Nathaniel says, “I knew she was signing ‘tall’ but I didn’t understand why.”
“Yeah, it’s hard to put together what she’s saying.” Several raindrops fall right splat on top of my head and I glance at the darkening skies. “Sometimes I can’t understand her either.”
Using the signs I’ve taught him over the years, Nathaniel tells Tessa how tall he is. I watch their conversation, silently wondering what my sister would be like if she weren’t mentally impaired.
When she was about six, one of our town’s specialists diagnosed her with autism and Mom and Dad argued over the diagnosis for months. Dad insisted that Tessa did have autism, but Mom thought the doctor was wrong because Tessa doesn’t always display the symptoms of autism. So, I don’t know if my little sister really has autism, but I know she’s different.
The kids at our school know too and they’re jerks about it. They make fun of her poor motor skills, which often result in her drooling or walking with an odd gait, and they really go after her lack of social grace. Some of them mock her to her face, but most do it behind her back, which is typical of hearing people.
“Your dad,” Nathaniel says, nodding in the distance, “he holding up alright?”
“Honestly? Probably not.” I glance at Dad and he’s abruptly turning away from Ms. Greenich, our school guidance counselor, as she attempts to make conversation with him.
Great. Now Ms. Greenich probably thinks my family is even weirder than she did before.
While Ms. Greenich is talking to him, Dad thrusts his hands into his pockets and scowls, staring straight ahead. He says not a word to her and after a moment, Ms. Greenich takes her leave with an unbothered expression. I watch her, surprised by how unaffected she seems. I know she’s a nice person, but wow, I have to give my guidance counselor props…most people would be at least a little thrown by Dad’s rudeness.
“Dr. Lyles,” Nathaniel says, his voice deepening. Before I can blink, he’s making his way to my dad while Tessa clings to his arm like a parasite that refuses to leave its host.
Nathaniel straightens his posture and gives my dad a firm handshake. I can’t help but grin at this, and then Nathaniel pulls Dad in for a hug, which erases my smile.
“No, you know better than that, Nathaniel,” I whisper.
“Please refrain from hugging me. I am not a hugger,” Dad says in his loud, hard-of-hearing voice. He pushes Nathaniel away and utters a loud sniff before dusting off his jacket as though it’s been soiled by Nathaniel’s touch. I cringe, embarrassed.
Sometimes my dad reminds me of a robot. The way he talks to people without a thought to their feelings and even his movements, so abrupt and measured, appear robotic.
“Sorry about that, Dr. Lyles.” Nathaniel’s face falls as he takes an awkward step back. “I just wanted to, uh, to say how sorry I am for your loss. Mrs. Tessa was an amazing lady.”
“She was.” My dad blinks quickly, his eyes going to Nathaniel’s tie while he takes a deep breath and says, “And she would never kill herself. This was not a suicide.”
“Here we go…” I mumble, looking down at the grass. I’ve been hearing this since last Thursday. It goes something like: “Your mother didn’t kill herself, she would never do that. I can’t explain how she was killed, but I know she wasn’t the cause of her own death…”
“My wife didn’t kill herself,” Dad says, loudly enunciating his every word, his gaze glued to Nathaniel’s tie like he’s having a conversation with it instead of with an actual human, “she would never do that. I’m not at liberty to explain how it happened, but I know my wife didn’t do it.”
I glance at Tessa
and she’s frowning in confusion, her gaze going from Dad to Nathaniel.
I don’t want to hear this and where I go, Tessa needs to follow, so I’ll need to find a reason to tempt her away from Nathaniel. I turn to the surrounding crowd, scanning it for someone who Tessa might want to hang out with.
Our nosey next door neighbor who often drops by to bring Tessa her favorite cookies, Ms. Davidson, catches my eye and waves to us. Normally, I’d avoid Ms. Davidson like the plague. She talks a lot, sticks her nose where it doesn’t belong, and she’s starting to lose her memory, so she tends to say the same things over and over again. But now I grab Tessa’s hand, force a smile, and use my free hand to sign, “Let’s go see Ms. Davidson! Maybe she has cookies for you!”
Tessa acquiesces, but of course Ms. Davidson does not have cookies. Instead, she has lots of hugs and a sermon about the sin that is suicide. “…apparently she didn’t know how loved she was,” Ms. Davidson says, her large hand warm as it envelopes mine.
Thunder rumbles above and I glance at Tessa while she looks from me to Ms. Davidson, her blue eyes narrowed.
“…and girls, that just may be what took your mother from us, a sadness that was spurred on by loneliness. Now all we can do is hope she’s safe in the Lord’s grace despite the wicked path her emotional state led her down and …”
A raindrop lands on one of my eyelashes, startling me. I retract my hand from Ms. Davidson’s and interrupt her longwinded speech. “Ms. Davidson, my sister wants to know what we’re talking about, so I need to interpret for her.”
“Oh, honey, we’ve been neighbors for seventeen years, little Tessa Junior understands me!”
she exclaims, her pigeon-like chest shaking as she chuckles.
I barely refrain from rolling my eyes. If I had a nickel for how many times people say that to me. ‘Oh, she understands me!’ or ‘Tessa and I have our own special language.’
“A lot of people think that,” I say, “but Tessa really can’t understand it when people talk to her. She’s Deaf.”
“You’re such a cutie aren’t you? You understand me you little cutie-patootie!” Ms. Davidson says in a baby-voice as she reaches down to pinch Tessa’s cheeks.
Her eyebrows meeting in a fierce scowl, Tessa swats at Ms. Davidson.
I wince and sign, “Stop! No!”
But Tessa ignores me and thrusts her fingers in Ms. Davidson’s face, frantically signing, “No touch! No touch!” Her blue eyes are full of anger as I grab both of her hands, stilling her.
Ms. Davidson laughs. “My, my. What a big temper for such a little girl!”
“She doesn’t like to be touched,” I explain before nodding to the ever-darkening skies above, “and it looks like we’d better get going before the rain, so we’ll see you later, Ms. Davidson.”
“Oh well, look here, take my umbrella.” Ms. Davidson shoves her umbrella into the crook of my arm.
I want to be annoyed, but the older woman’s brown eyes are so full of sympathy that her earnestness startles me. I shift on my feet and nod. “Thank you. You didn’t have to.”
“An umbrella’s nothing, dear,” she says with a wave of her hand. She offers me a shaky smile, and for the first time, I notice that she seems a little hesitant, like she’s not quite sure what to say. I guess I’m not the only one who feels uncomfortable.
Ms. Davidson smiles. “We’re neighbors, we look out for each other. Oh!” The older woman’s drawn on black eyebrows move up so quickly that she startles me for the second time. “Speaking of, I almost forgot to tell you, be careful when you take the garbage out at night. I noticed that you do that sometimes. Even at midnight, wearing nothing but a T-shirt, bless your heart.” Ms. Davidson prattles on, unaware of the blush that’s crept into my cheeks. “For the past two days there’s been a black car parked two doors down from me, all day and all night- someone just sitting in there!”
I blink back at Ms. Davidson. “Really?”
She nods. “Yes. And so last evening I marched over to the car, ready to ask them what on earth they were doing in there and the car sped away! So, be careful when you …”
“Karen!” My dad’s voice, louder than a bullhorn, yanks my attention away from Ms. Davidson’s tale of strange black cars and I wince at his volume. Along with every hearing person in the vicinity, I turn to my father while he shouts, “Let’s go!”
I glance at the hearing people who are pretending not to stare. This is awkward, but not nearly as awkward as the time we were on the chips aisle in Walmart and Dad shouted, “Didn’t your mom say you needed tampons? Where are the tampons? They’re not in this part of the store, are they?”
As usual, however, Dad’s oblivious to the staring crowd; his eyes red and watery, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his suit and trudges to our car.
“Ms. Davidson, we’d better go. See you at our house.” I get a firm grip on the umbrella and pull my sister forward.
“Bye, dear. I’ll see you there. And keep in mind what I said about that car. In fact, it looks just like the one parked in front of you …”
“Right, okay. Bye.” Tuning Ms. Davidson out, I meld into the crowd, hauling Tessa behind me. We pass a Deaf family from church and they give us sympathetic smiles. I nod but hurry along, hoping to get out of sight before they’re able to pull us into a long-winded conversation. That’s one thing about our Deaf friends-- ASL is all about story-telling, so our conversations literally last for hours.
Hurrying past them, I glance right and spot Julia. I pause in stride, hesitating. Julia’s my one friend from school, well other than Nathaniel, of course. She sort of took me under her wing in ninth grade, loaning me clothes and helping me sneak out to stay the night at her house when she could tell I needed a break from my family.
Julia wipes her eyes with a tissue, her nose and cheeks as pink as ever. I want to tell her everything’s going to be okay or at least be there while she cries, but she’s standing with her “other” friends, Esther Reams, Amber White, and Riley Frasier.
Amber and Riley I can stomach. But Esther? The painful burning sensation flares up in my stomach as my gaze darts from Julia to Little Miss Perfect.
Tessa taps my shoulder and I sign, “Just wait a minute,” without looking at her.
I should go to Julia, but I’m awful at comforting people, and with Esther right there, I’d be even more uncomfortable.
More tears stream down Julia’s pale cheeks while she wipes her eyes and my heart sinks. What should I do?
Just then, Esther, even taller and prettier than usual, with her billion inch high heeled shoes and expensive-looking black dress, leans over and gives Julia a big hug.
Annoyed, I turn away from the preppy triplets, reaffirm my grip on Tessa’s hand, and guide the two of us around Reverend Miller while he comforts a sobbing mourner.
Clearly, Julia’s going to be fine. She has her other friends.
My sister and I leave the crowd behind, and as our station wagon comes into view, relief settles down on me. But when I catch sight of Dad behind the wheel my relief scurries away like a scared rat. He’s sitting there, frowning while he stares straight ahead, his eyes narrowed and his lips curled into a snarl. I follow his gaze to the license plate of a black car parked in front of ours. It has a Louisiana plate, but other than that I don’t see anything especially odd about it.
My thoughts shift to Ms. Davidson’s warning about a black car parked down the street from us.
Why would that make Dad angry? Does he know who’s in the car? I glance at the black car’s tinted windows, but I don’t see anyone inside.
A loud honk sounds from our car and I return my attention to Dad. He’s punching the steering wheel, which elicits several more honks.
“Lord have mercy,” I mumble, looking around and hoping no one else hears or sees what’s happening in our station wagon. But of course, all the hearing people are aware of it and they’re giving Dad the side-eye.
My cheeks burning, I pull us towards the
car, but Tessa yanks on my arm. She points to Dad and asks, “Mad?”
I glance at him, and now Dad’s getting out of our car and marching to the vehicle parked behind ours. It, like the one in front of ours, is also black. Dad runs around to its bumper, where he stoops to look at its license plate. He shouts the F-word and someone behind me gasps. Horrified, I look around. But most of the hearing people are pretending not to notice.
Yeah, of course they’re pretending not to notice. That’s what hearing people do. They pretend they’re oblivious to whatever’s happening, and then as soon as you turn your back, they’re gossiping about you.
Tessa pulls on my arm, yanking me out of my thoughts. She points to Dad and repeats her earlier question. “Mad?”
“Stop asking me questions,” I sign and then point to our car. “Go to the car.”
Tessa’s eyes darken but she does as told.
Her question lingers in my mind …is Dad mad?
I follow Tessa to the station wagon, a lump forming in my throat as I watch our father walk from car to car, stooping to check each vehicle’s license plate.
The drizzle that tap-dances on top of our heads intensifies, turning into rain. I open Ms. Davidson’s umbrella and running after Tessa, pull her under its shelter while my gaze returns to Dad. He’s getting soaking wet as he shakes his head in despair and runs to yet another car, checking out its license plate.
There are so many things about my family that I don’t understand. Mom losing her mind and memory for seemingly no reason, and now this …Dad running from car to car at her funeral, like he’s searching for someone. What’s wrong with us? Why can’t we be normal?
I open the car door and give Tessa a nudge, signing, “Get in.” She slaps at my hands, signing something about me being bossy. I ignore her and close the car door.
Reaffirming my grip on Ms. Davidson’s umbrella, I head to my father. I don’t know what’s going on with him, but I know that from now on, I’ll be the one to take care of it.