by Mary Carter
“ ‘Hearing impaired’ is not a term I accept,” the interpreter voiced as the woman signed. Her hands were flying so fast, Monica was worried she was going to hit one of the attendees next to her. She didn’t accept the term “hearing impaired”? Wasn’t that the polite way to say it?
“I’m sorry,” Monica stammered. “What would you like to be called?”
“I am Deaf. Not impaired. Impaired implies something is broken and needs to be fixed. I am not broken. I do not need to be fixed.”
“I’m so sorry,” Monica said. “Did you have a question?”
“I don’t understand you,” the woman said. “Castle in the sky. Architect of your soul. What does any of it really mean?” Monica froze. It was finally here, the moment she’d be “outed” as phony, a fraud. But she never pictured it happening with a hearing-impaired—deaf—woman with sign language interpreters, and Joe staring at her from the front row.
“It means there are no limits to what you can achieve. The sky is the limit.” That’s it, Monica told herself. Keep talking. She believed in some of what she had to say, she really did. “This weekend is about creating a vision,” Monica continued. “Planning out step-by-step the life you want to lead—”
Instead of just falling into it, crashing into it, following the pack—
“I will be leading you through specific exercises to help you get started. By the time you leave here this weekend—” The deaf woman waved her arms again.
“I want to confront my family,” she said. “Can you help me with that?” Joe stood up. No, Monica shouted inside her head. Don’t. He turned toward the hearing-impaired woman.
“Maybe you’re in the wrong seminar,” Joe said. “This isn’t family therapy.” He did not just say that. “This workshop cultivates visionaries.” Oh, but he did.
“Please,” Monica said. “I’d like to answer her question—”
“Who the hell are you?” the deaf woman said, staring at Joe. I like this girl, Monica thought. The air was thick with anticipation, as if everyone could feel a good fight coming on. They were probably all wondering who Joe was, wondering why Monica was letting him take over like that, as if Monica couldn’t handle a heckler.
“This is my fiancé, Joe,” Monica said. “He helped me write the book—”
“Oh,” the woman said after a smattering of applause. “No wonder it doesn’t sound like you.”
“Excuse me,” Joe said. “I’m sorry you’re hearing im—deaf—but it doesn’t give you the right to—”
How does she know? Monica thought. How does she know it doesn’t sound like me?
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” the interpreter translated. Her voice rose in volume. “You’re sorry I’m Deaf? You’re sorry I’m Deaf?” Oh God, Joe, you didn’t just say that, did you? You didn’t mean that. Tell her you didn’t mean that. “That’s a disgusting thing to say. That’s like saying ‘I’m sorry you’re black,’ ‘I’m sorry you’re Latino,’ ‘I’m sorry you’re a woman.’ ”
Joe threw up his arms. He looked at Monica and shook his head. She can see you, Monica wanted to say. She’s not blind. So why was she wearing those huge sunglasses? She looked like a deaf terrorist. Monica took a step forward.
“You want to confront your family?” The woman crossed her arms against her chest and nodded her head. “I can definitely help you construct a blueprint to guide you through the—conversation—”
“Confrontation—”
“Confrontation you want to have with your family.” Monica paused. “Although,” she said, “if you’re already thinking of it as a confrontation rather than a conversation, I think you’ll be setting yourself up for failure.” There. She did it. She took back control. Now move on before the woman picks up her hands again. Monica was suddenly grateful she wouldn’t be the recipient of this confrontation; the woman was terrifying. Monica could almost see waves of light pulsing from her. “So,” Monica said, addressing the entire crowd again, “please look at the number on the scraps of paper I passed out. This is your group number. Please meet your group in the sections of the room marked with your number. Then we’ll get started with our first group exercise.”
The deaf woman picked up her things and moved through the aisle as if she were leaving. Monica didn’t know why, but she couldn’t let her go.
“Wait,” she called after her. “Don’t leave.” She looked at the interpreter, who just shrugged. Monica walked down the steps off the stage and started after the woman.
“Monica,” Joe called. “Let her go.” Monica ignored him.
“Stop,” Monica yelled, even though she knew it was foolish and futile to yell at the back of a deaf woman. “Please, stop.” Nobody was gathering in their groups; they were all standing and gaping back and forth between her and the woman. Monica felt her hair start to come out of its bun; her underarms were suddenly soaked. She picked up speed. The woman maintained a quick pace, but Monica broke into an out-and-out run. When she finally caught up with her, Monica didn’t know the proper way to get her attention. She didn’t want to scare her, but she couldn’t let her go, and didn’t the woman see the entire room full of people staring? Didn’t she know someone was behind her?
Monica reached out, caught the edge of the woman’s coat sleeve and tugged. The woman stopped, then finally turned around. Monica stared at the oversized sunglasses and long blond wig. Both were too big for the woman’s face. She reminded Monica of a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s shoes.
“Don’t go,” Monica said. Could the woman understand her, read her lips? “Interpreter,” Monica yelled. It wasn’t necessary, there was one right behind her. Joe was also following. She wanted to yell at him to go away. She wanted everyone in the room, everyone but this woman, to disappear.
“Tell her to wait,” Monica said to the interpreter.
“You don’t have to say ‘tell her,’ ” the deaf woman said. “Talk to me directly.”
“You were right,” Monica said. “The book isn’t my voice.” She pointed to Joe. “I’m a fake. It’s his. All his.” The microphone Monica wore on stage was still attached to her, and she was aware that her voice was being carried throughout the seminar hall. The participants were clinging to every word, and after her declaration, the murmurs turned into steadily growing chatter. Monica didn’t care. Strangely, as long as the woman in front of her didn’t go anywhere, she felt as if she could say or do anything. Maybe it was true. Maybe the truth did set you free. Monica started to laugh.
“Monica,” Joe said. “We can hear you.” He touched her shoulder. She brushed him off.
“Who are you?” she said to the woman.
“I work with Mike,” she answered. “I believe you wanted to buy one of my paintings?”
“The artist,” Monica said. “The one who hates me.”
“What?” the woman said.
“Mike?” Joe said. “Tina’s boyfriend?”
“I was told you think my book is ‘total crap,’ ” Monica said.
“Should I call security?” Joe said.
“Shut up,” Monica told Joe. A hundred thoughts crashed the gates of her mind. Meeting Mike for the first time. How he stared at her. His interview. How he knew about her birthmark. Tina’s last words to her. “Everyone is going to feel sorry for her.” Aunt Grace. “Lacey.” Her mother—you had a sister—
Monica stepped forward, reached for the wig, and tore it off.
“Monica!” Joe said. She ignored him and snatched off the sunglasses.
“Holy shit,” Joe said from somewhere far, far away. “Holy shit.” Monica kept staring. She couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing. The participants suddenly burst into applause, as if they’d just witnessed a performance.
“Twins,” Monica heard someone say. “They’re twins.” Monica heard the words echo her own thoughts. She looks like me. Her hair is longer. She has a freckle by her chin, she’s dressed way casual, but she looks just like me. I’m not crazy, someone just said twins. I’
m not seeing things. Joe just said “holy shit.” Joe never ever swears.
“Lacey,” Monica whispered, touching her own freckle-less chin. “Lacey.”
“Hello, Monica,” Lacey said.
“I don’t believe this,” Monica said. It was true, she didn’t. It was a dream. She felt light, as if gravity itself had been snatched away from her, lighter than a helium balloon soaring to the sky. Her head was going to come right off and float to the ceiling. Maybe it was a dream, or she’d been drugged. Either way, she didn’t care. She couldn’t stop staring. She stopped short of feeling her face like a blind woman.
“Believe it,” Lacey said. “Believe it.”
“I understood you. I understand your voice—”
“Good for you,” Lacey said, switching back to sign language. Everything Monica wanted to say, an onslaught of words, funneled through her mind and hardened to a stop like a puddle of congealed grease. She’s deaf, Monica thought. I’ll just use my hands.
Monica lifted her hands and then didn’t know what to do with them. They hovered mid-hip, then sank to her side like kites without enough wind to soar.
“Joe,” Monica said. “Take over the workshop.”
“You got it,” Joe said. Monica took Lacey’s hand. “Come with me,” she said, pulling her out of the conference room. Lacey signaled for one of the interpreters to follow. Both trotted after them; apparently, neither of them wanted to miss this. Monica stopped.
“Can you read my lips?” she asked.
“A little,” Lacey said.
“Do we need them?” she said, pointing to the interpreters, a little embarrassed that one of them had to interpret her asking that question.
“You’re paying them anyway,” Lacey said.
“You’re so pretty,” Monica said. They were out in the courtyard of the hotel, sitting at a little table.
“You too,” Lacey said. Monica laughed. After a few seconds, Lacey joined in. Monica’s laughter was feminine and lilting, Lacey’s was guttural and hollow. Monica started to cry. Lacey held out her hand. Monica grabbed on to it. She had such soft hands. Were they just like hers?
“I don’t understand,” Monica said. “How can I have a twin? How?”
“I didn’t know until I saw your book,” Lacey said.
“Oh my God,” Monica said. “I’m adopted.”
“What?”
“This means I’m adopted,” Monica said. “I have to be adopted.” She stood up suddenly and looked at the surrounding fauna and plants as if waiting for them to rally to her side. “No wonder I’m such a bad shot,” she said. “And the cabin, maybe that’s why I hate the cabin. It’s not in my blood.” Monica patted herself down. Where was her cell phone?
“Hey,” Lacey said, standing. “You’re not adopted.”
“I have to be. Because if I’m not adopted, then—”
“Your parents are my parents.”
“But that’s impossible. My parents wouldn’t have—they couldn’t—” She slapped her hand over her mouth. “That’s why there’s lace all over the house. Every surface of the house—lace.” Aunt Grace. Her mother in the kitchen. You had a sister. You had a sister.
“You didn’t die at birth,” Monica said. “Oh my God.” She went to the wall and put her head against it. She had an urge to bang it against the bricks. She actually wanted to feel the pain in her head. It scared her, this sudden urge. She felt a hand on her back, rubbing her. She turned around and threw herself into Lacey’s arms. She hugged her as if she’d known her all her life; she sobbed into her shoulder. When she was done she lifted her head.
“Let’s go somewhere,” Monica said. Lacey turned to the interpreters. They were both in tears. Lacey hugged them good-bye. Then she held out her hand. Monica took it, and without even discussing where they were going, they headed out of the courtyard and started walking, hand in hand, down the street.
Chapter 20
They sat across from each other at a small wooden table in a café they’d never recall the name of, and soaked each other up like shipwreck survivors who’d just been told their deserted island was actually inhabited, always had been. There was a bittersweet feel to it, as if Tom Hanks in Cast Away found out at the end of the movie that he had formed an unhealthy attachment to a volleyball for nothing.
She cries more than I do, Lacey thought. Do I look like that when I cry? She vowed never to do it again. A pile of napkins sat in front of Monica. Is she always this messy? Lacey thought. I can’t be the neat one. Monica swiped the last napkin from the dispenser, blew her nose, and added it to the germ-filled heap.
“These are happy tears,” Monica said. Happy tears, she wrote on the pad of paper sitting between them. Lacey took the pen out of her hands before she could draw a happy face with fat tears dripping out of it. “I have so many questions,” Monica said. Lacey held up her hand. Rules, she wrote at the top of the paper and underlined it three times. Monica became a bobble-head, nodding her agreement.
I would’ve always gotten my way, Lacey thought. Mother, Lacey wrote under Rules. Father. Then she slashed a diagonal line through them. Will not discuss. A pained look passed across Monica’s face. Then she shifted, smiled, and it was gone. Tell no one, Lacey wrote. Monica opened her mouth. Closed it. She dug in her purse and pulled out her own pen. Interpreters. Joe. Two hundred participants, Mike, Tina, Aunt Grace, parents, Monica wrote.
Lacey laughed. That’s it for now.
“For now,” Monica repeated. “Just for now.” Monica’s cell phone buzzed. She looked at Lacey and mouthed, It’s Joe. She turned off her phone and stowed it in her purse. The waitress came over, flipped open her pad, and waited. Lacey pointed at a sandwich on the menu. The waitress pointed back at it. Lacey nodded. Still not convinced, the waitress looked to Monica.
“Would she like anything to drink?” the waitress asked Monica. Lacey pounded on the table. The waitress continued to stare at Monica. Monica pointed to Lacey.
“She’s capable of ordering for herself,” Monica said.
“Pepsi,” Lacey said.
“I’ll have the same exact thing,” Monica said. “My God,” she said when the waitress left. “It was like you were invisible—or a child. Does that happen often?”
All the time. I once had a doctor try and hand my prescription to the interpreter. Why did you copy my order?
“It’s exactly what I was going to order. I swear. I love curry chicken salad and Pepsi.” Monica tore off a sheet of paper for each of them. “Write down your top ten favorite foods,” she said.
“Including dessert?”
“Anything—your favorites. Go.”
They hovered over their papers and began writing. When they were done, they exchanged papers. They had pepperoni pizza, curry chicken, and cheesecake in common.
“We both work in creative fields,” Monica said. She wrote Writer and Artist on the paper. Lacey scrolled through her BlackBerry until she found what she was looking for. Then she held a picture of Rookie up to Monica.
“My puggle, Rookie,” she said.
“No way!” Several heads turned as Monica shouted it out. Her enthusiasm was undeterred by the gawkers. “I have a puggle named Snookie!”
“I know,” Lacey said.
“How did you—” Lacey held up Monica’s book. “My bio.” Lacey pulled the cover of the book out of her bag and slid it over to Monica. Monica looked at the mustache and horns and laughed. Then, she stopped suddenly.
“The bookstore,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” Lacey said, doing the sign for “sorry.” Monica repeated the sign. She laughed again. “I thought you were a face thief,” Lacey said. Monica laughed even louder. Lacey mimed her reaction when she had seen the poster in the window of the bookstore. Monica scribbled on the pad.
Where did you grow up?
Just outside Philly. Hillside Children’s Center. Monica’s face registered surprise. Then it flamed red and she examined her fingernails before picking up the pen and put
ting it to paper again.
Why, why, why, why, why, why????????????
Lacey tapped the first rule. Then, she wrote. You never knew?
Of course not. But they ... Monica looked at the words Mother, Father.
“We have to go to them. We have to confront them.”
“No.”
“We deserve answers. There has to be an explanation.”
“No, no, no, no.” Their curry chicken sandwiches and Pepsis arrived. Lacey put the pad of paper away and concentrated on her food. Monica played with her straw and watched Lacey.
“Sorry,” Monica signed. “Just us,” she added. “For now.” Lacey smiled. “I just ...” Monica continued. “This is the most incredible. I want to tell people. I don’t want to hide.” Lacey, her hand clenched in a soft fist, brought the nail of her thumb up to her lips and drew it down twice, teaching Monica her second sign for the day.
“Patience,” she signed. “Patience.” Monica repeated the sign, but there was no patience in her eyes, only wild desperation. The waitress caught Monica’s eye as they were walking out the door.
“A ton of people order the curry chicken salad and Pepsi,” she said. “It’s not that special.” Monica gave her a huge fake smile, and the finger.
It was Monica’s idea to rent a canoe. Float. Escape. Along the way, they noticed people staring. “Double takes,” Monica told Lacey. Lacey laughed. They went to Boathouse Row; Monica insisted on paying. They floated out onto the Schuylkill River, gently paddled to nowhere, and simply looked at each other across the boat. Monica was wearing her skirt and jacket, Lacey jeans and a T-shirt. Monica slipped off her pumps and pointed to Lacey’s feet. Lacey peeled off her tennis shoes. They put their feet together, Monica in stockings, Lacey in black socks, making a little bridge over the canoe.
“Same feet,” Monica said. Lacey whipped off a sock and showed Monica her toenails. Each nail was painted a different color: green, orange, blue, red, violet. Monica laughed. She stuck her hands up her skirt and peeled off her pantyhose. She showed Monica her foot. French manicure. Lacey whipped off her other sock. Then Lacey reached forward, grabbed Monica’s hose and chucked them into the water. Monica laughed, lifted them with her oar, and threw them even farther. Then she grabbed Lacey’s socks and flung them overboard as well. Lacey reached under her shirt with both hands and wrestled until she had removed her bra. She dangled it in front of Monica. Monica looked at the tag.