Deception Ebook EPUB 3-17-2014

by Deception (epub)

  Me: I know you care and I’m not feeling guilty or whatever. My feeling so low isn’t because of you; it’s because of something I’m not even sure of. Without you it might be worse. I dunno, but seems that the only time I’m happy is when I’m with you or when I’m at home. I want to know what is bothering me, and it bothers me to know that I don’t know. I cried all night last night. I was in Tiffany’s room by then, and I don’t know why I cried. Partly it was because I would 100 percent prefer to eat out with Lorraine and BK instead of going with Jay tonight, but it’s a little thing and yet I cried. Why???? I don’t know. Seems like everything isn’t going right for me, and sometimes I just want to cry for no reason. What is happening to me???? That was why I said I hope I would do good at the game tonight. It’s because right now I don’t feel good and I don’t know if I could play. Even worse, Lorraine and BK will be here. If they will not be there, then I don’t give a **** if I do lousy tonight.

  Him: Hey, you won’t do lousy. I’m sure of that, and I’m not trying to cheer you up. I’m sure of it. It sounds as if I am a heavy weight on your mind and I just seem to bother you, or it’s our relationship and the fact that we hide so much and sneak around that really must be bothering you. I’m so sorry for hurting you. I’m really sorry but still I love you and that will never change. Maybe you need a break from the sneaking to see if it is me. Lord, I hate to say that; it was really hard, but I hate to see you in such bad shape. I love you too much for that.

  Me: Is it because of you?? I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. Seems that I cry over little things that I used to not cry over. I’m tired of the life I’m living now. I’m just tired of it, and I told Tiffany last night I wish I could just die! Oh well. I think I better close for now. We have talked for more than thirty minutes I think.

  Him: Thirty-eight to be exact. I don’t know either, but it sounds like pressure, and if it is, then it is my fault. Also, dying is not the answer. Please believe me, that is not the answer. I better close, but I hate to end on a negative note. I feel you can get through. Please try to cheer up.

  Me: You’ve never died before, so you can’t say it isn’t the answer. (But don’t worry, I won’t do anything to harm myself.) Oh well, I hope I won’t look that bad, I’m crying now, and hope I’ll look as if everything is fine. Oh well, yes, I have to go now. I’m glad I called you though. I just wish I could see you. I miss you terribly. I love you. (I’m ending on a positive note. Ha.)

  Him: Good! I’m glad you called too. I love you too and will no matter what. I miss you just as much as you miss me. Please don’t cry. I can’t stand the taste of tears when we kiss. Ha ha. I love you. GA to SK

  Me: OK. SK

  Him: As ever. SK

  Me: As ever. SK

  Chapter 29

  Winter 1985

  Paper had always been my friend and confidant. But, now, I found myself revisiting my journal entries, memorizing my writing, the lines pulling me further into depression and misery. I think that was one of the reasons my journaling eventually ceased.

  12-03-85

  So cold outside. Winter is here, at least I think so. Like always, I end up some days feeling like crying. Today is one of those days. Last night, Bridgetta said maybe I should drink in order to make friends. No way! Maybe I don’t drink because of childhood memories. I remember Dad came home drunk one night. I was so disgusted with him. Just once; is it possible that my experience had such a strong impression on me?

  12-05-85

  Two more weeks until I go home. He called twice, at 11:30 a.m. and 10:30 p.m. I have a written evaluation I must pass in order to pass English. He said writing letters and essays are the same. To me they aren’t. Whenever I have to write, my mind gets blocked. I don’t write as freely as I do when I write letters. He said my grammar is great. Is that so?

  12-06-85

  I was supposed to get his four-page letter today, but I didn’t. Very depressing! Post Office is slow sometimes. My chest feels as if something is inside, so thick that it’s hard to breathe. I can breathe, but I can feel something tight inside. It has been bothering me for some time. Not sure if I should have it checked.

  I’ve been gaining weight. Here’s what I had for breakfast: OJ, milk, omelet, ham, two English muffins, cereal, and a blueberry muffin. For lunch, I had three slices of tomatoes, an apple, and ice cream with peanut butter.

  12-08-85

  Such a beautiful day. I wanted to go out for a walk or ride a bike, but there is no one I can ask to go with me. I’m all alone in my room, doing nothing much. I started crocheting but didn’t have a clue as to what I wanted to make.

  I wrote him a letter but think I’ll just throw it away. Boring and lonely here.

  12-09-85

  My heart twisting

  My eyes blinking

  Trying to hold back tears

  Aching everywhere

  Wanting to be free

  Wanting to laugh

  Wanting to have a friend

  Yet I’m not free from those feelings

  I’m crying

  Instead of laughing

  I have no one to talk to,

  To laugh with,

  To hold,

  And to share.

  12-12-85

  Ironed my shirt today while daydreaming about him and us. I ended up burning my shirt. Ugh. He called today. There wasn’t much for us to talk about. I’m not sure how I feel. Should I just end it?

  12-16-85

  Almost cried this afternoon after I called home. I wanted to have the car this week but Mom said I couldn’t. Looks like I won’t be able to go home until Friday. **** this world! I just want to go home.

  12-20-85

  Gave him two gifts. Coffee mug and a sweater. I really hope he likes it and that the sweater fits him.

  He called before I saw him. **** hard! I love him. At times I just don’t realize how much. Wish I could see him tomorrow. We had planned to meet, but then Mom said she had to use the car. She ended up not needing the car.

  Christmas Day

  I’m crying now. I cried last year as well. Last year, it was because of David. Today, it’s because of everything. We had to visit our relatives. I didn’t want to go but Grandma insisted. Why can’t she understand? What will I do there? Just sit and pretend I’m enjoying myself while everyone talks?

  Today is supposed to be the day we celebrate the birth of Jesus and look at me. I am crying.

  12-28-85

  Called him yesterday. He won’t be able to get away tomorrow. He has to take his son and some of his friends to Children’s Hospital to visit a girl.

  I’m having mixed feelings about everything. My call to him wasn’t what I wanted. Yes, we talked but it’s always when, where, how, and what time to meet.

  I want to end it all, but when I tell him I end up feeling like crying. It would probably be best if I did, but I don’t think I could go on through second semester without him. Nobody realizes I have no friends. None! I’m telling you, none!

  12-30-85

  I wonder if Mom suspects because I think I talk about him a lot. Maybe I’m just being paranoid.

  2-22-86

  Just called him an hour ago and I feel great. A feeling of contentment having talked to him. I ended our relationship a month and two days ago, but when we met last week we did just the same thing.

  Chapter 30

  August 1989

  Let me introduce to you Mr and Mrs Peter Myers,” Peter’s best man and brother, Jeff, announced as we stepped into the reception room. Immediately, everyone stood; half of them held up their arms straight into the air, waving their hands, while the other half clapped. Those who clapped quickly caught on to the Deaf way to applaud.

  Peter and I held hands as we walked over to the long head table and took our seats. The wedding party was seated in one row
; groomsmen on the left and bridesmaids on the right. In front of us were round tables filled with our guests. We had a good view of everyone: relatives (mostly from my side), Mom and Dad’s friends, high school classmates, and a very few of Peter’s friends from college.

  As soon as we seated ourselves, the guests at the Deaf table began swirling their cloth napkins in the air.

  Peter and I looked at each other and smiled, knowing that this ritual would continue throughout the night. We exchanged a kiss, a brief yet tender one.

  The napkins immediately went up in the air again, waving wildly. Apparently, the kiss they had witnessed was not enough. They wanted more. A show, perhaps. This time, Peter pulled me up from my chair, draped his left arm around my back, held my head with his right hand and bent me backward. His face met mine and he kissed me, this time more passionately. Everyone cheered and returned to their conversations among themselves.

  It was my special day, yet in the back of my mind, I was worried. I was aware of how difficult the day must have been for him. I also felt bad for all the kissing he had to witness.

  Guilt is such a burden. It can cripple us. I felt responsible for what had happened, and I’d need a little over ten years to finally let go of the guilt.

  Chapter 31

  Fall 1986 – Sophomore Year

  I had survived my freshman year. I found myself once again packing my belongings for another year at Gallaudet. Mom and Dad knew nothing about my unhappiness. They did not question my reasons for coming home frequently. To satisfy any curiosity, though, I simply told them that I didn’t drink, smoke, or party, which was true. Of course, they didn’t know the other reason.

  During my sophomore year I felt numb and disconnected from everything.

  I did not cry much.

  I did not keep a journal.

  I did not participate in any campus activities.

  I gave up playing basketball, my favorite sport.

  I ate my meals alone, showing up at the cafeteria during the nonpeak hours.

  I sat in the library by the window during the day, watching everyone pass by.

  I lived for Fridays. I would meet him on my way home, always planning around his schedule. We would meet at the park-and-ride for our hour together.

  I dreaded Sundays. I would return to school late into the night, already counting the days until Friday.

  I allowed my grades to drop. The first year, I had maintained a 3.31 cumulative grade point average. My second year, my GPA dropped to an unspectacular 3.0.

  I remember nothing about that year except for my daily trips to the local convenience store.

  How could a person so popular and carefree have fallen into a bottomless pit in just a few years? I was more isolated than I ever thought possible.

  Chapter 32

  Fall 1986 – Spring 1987

  I walked across the campus to the parking lot where my car was parked. With a car of my own, an older-model Buick my great-uncle had passed on to me, I could now go off campus as I pleased. I got in the car and decided to drive around DC for a while before parking at my usual spot by the High’s.

  It was still early when I pulled into “my” spot. It was 7:45 p.m. and the sky had begun to get dark. The darker, the better; Gallaudet students wouldn’t recognize me if they happened to come by the store. When they did, I would make sure I sat low in my seat or kept my head down, pretending to be doing something. I looked at my watch; it was only 8:03 p.m. and it was going to be a very long night. I usually remained at High’s until late into the night, 9:30 p.m. or so, before returning to campus. I would then slip into my room, pretending I had been out having a good time.

  Sometimes I would bring something to read, usually a magazine, or work on my homework assignments to help pass the time. Other times, I would observe people as they walked in and out of High’s, always interesting to look at. More often than not, I found myself wondering about life and fantasizing about death.

  . . . I got out of the car, not paying attention, when a car sped by, hitting me. I flew into the air, my head hitting the curb as I landed on the pavement several feet away. People came running to me, shouting: “Someone call 911.” I was bleeding badly when the paramedics arrived, trying to rescue me. It was too late. A sheet covered my body and face as they wheeled me into the ambulance.

  . . . I was in High’s looking for something sweet to eat when everyone shouted, “Get down.” I didn’t hear them, and as I pulled out a pint of my favorite ice cream from the freezer I felt something sharp hit my chest. I had been shot. I collapsed on the floor. After the masked guy fled, the customers screamed: “Someone help her.”

  . . . Mom and Dad opened their front door and realized something was wrong. The gentlemen had solemn expressions on their faces when they asked: “Is your daughter Debbie Anderson?” Mom had replied: “Yes.” The visitors then said: “We’re sorry to tell you this, but your daughter has been killed.”

  . . . People stood in the long line, patiently waiting their turn to see me in a coffin: My family. My relatives. Mom and Dad’s friends. My high school friends. And everyone who knew me from MSD (teachers, coaches, and staff). Everyone moved slowly. When they reached the coffin, they commented, “She was a sweet girl.” “She didn’t deserve to die like this.” And “I wish I had gotten to know her better.”

  How I wished I could die. How peaceful that would be. There would be no more tears. No more pain either. I certainly wanted to die, but I couldn’t kill myself. Not because I was scared, but because that would be a sign of weakness.

  Weakness was something Mom mocked and perhaps even despised. If I committed suicide, that would imply I was weak and not strong enough to make it through life. As strange as it may sound, it also meant that Mom would win. And there was no way I was going to let her do that.

  Chapter 33

  April 1987

  I stared at the paper posted on the wall. Had I read it correctly? I placed my finger on the line where my name was spelled out and slid my finger toward the right, where my internship site was listed. Next to my name was S.C.H.I., TX. What was going on? It had to be a mistake.

  I had applied for several summer internships – two in Washington, DC, and a few others I couldn’t remember. I really didn’t care as long as I could get out of here and keep myself busy for the summer.

  I walked into my internship placement counselor’s office. The minute she saw me, she said, “Congratulations.”

  “There is a mistake with my internship,” I said.

  “What mistake?” She flipped through her papers until she found my information. “Your internship is at Southwest Center for the Hearing Impaired.”

  “Right. Here in DC. The paper says Texas.”

  “No,” she said looking at the paper. “It’s actually in Texas.”

  “Remember, I applied to two places in DC,” I reminded her. We had met several weeks earlier to discuss potential internship sites.

  “That’s right, you did. You also applied to several others.”

  “I know. But my phone conversation last week was with the agency in DC.”

  “The agency you applied to is located in the southwest section of DC. They didn’t offer you an internship. The phone conversation you had last week was with Southwest Center for the Hearing Impaired,” she explained.

  Then she suddenly figured out my confusion. “The word southwest must have gotten you mixed up,” she said.

  Yes, I had mixed up the two places. I slowly sank into the chair. “So, I’m going to Texas?” I asked feebly.

  “Yes.” She looked at me, a bit worried. “Is that okay? You had already told them you would take the job.”

  That explained the interviewer’s first question as I replayed our phone conversation in my head. After introducing ourselves, the interviewer had asked if I was from Texas. I remember thinking what an odd q
uestion that was. But, I let it pass as he proceeded with more questions. In the end, he asked if I would like to accept the internship, and I said yes.

  I walked out of the office dazed. I only had a few weeks before the semester was over, and I was supposed to begin my internship the first week of June. A plane reservation had to be made. What would Mom and Dad say? Texas was so far away. Would I be able to handle not seeing him for two months? So many questions filled my mind.

  I had tried to escape the summer before. I had accepted an internship at Camp Harold F. Whittle in Fawnskin, California. Unfortunately, it was one of the loneliest times in my life. I didn’t realize I would be the only Deaf person on the staff; there was one other intern who was deaf, but she was not culturally Deaf. Besides, she was placed at another site of the camp. When I had considered the internship, I was told I would be working with a group of deaf campers, but when I arrived I learned that the deaf campers wouldn’t arrive until the end of the summer.

  After barely two weeks at the camp, loneliness overwhelmed me, and I couldn’t handle it. My year at Gallaudet had been better than this; at least I had full access to communication. Tension at home had been better than this. My limited time with him had been better than this.

  I wanted to go home. My dilemma: I had no money to purchase a one-way return ticket. I couldn’t ask Mom or Dad; they wouldn’t have the money. In desperation, I called him, hoping he would be able to rescue me. He did.

  After announcing the news to Mom and Dad about my summer plans in San Antonio, Mom was skeptical. “You won’t stay. You will want to come home. Remember last year,” she said with a smirk.