Now that I was looking more closely at the handful of other teens here, I could see they all seemed to be a few years younger than me. There was only one other boy, and he too had a cochlear implant, visible as he chatted up the girl sitting next to him. Neither of them were signing.
I couldn’t tell if the three other girls had cochlear implants because of their longer hair, but I was willing to bet they did. The fact that nobody was signing was a huge indicator.
Mom nudged me and pointed to the woman who got up to greet us. HER NAME J-O-A-N, she signed. SHE HERE WITH HER DAUGHTER C-A-S-E-Y.
Joan, the woman in the turkey sweater, was talking animatedly, and her daughter Casey was apparently the one with the coffee blabbing away with one of the boys.
WHO THEY? I signed, gesturing to everyone else.
It took a few minutes for Mom to introduce everyone. By the time she finished, I’d come up with a pretty good idea of what was going on. This wasn’t a group of Deaf kids—it was a group of kids who could technically hear . . . just in a very different way. When it came to my turn to introduce myself, I refused to use my voice. I wanted to see for myself if anyone else in this group besides Mom and myself knew sign language.
MY NAME M-A-Y-A, I signed. HIGH SCHOOL SENIOR. NICE T-O MEET YOU ALL.
My suspicions were proven correct. All I got after Mom interpreted for me were a couple of confused looks and polite nods.
Joan jumped into conversation after that, and Mom started interpreting for me again. WE START GROUP, WHY? I WANT C-A-S-E-Y T-O MEET MORE KIDS WITH CI. HIGH SCHOOL SCARY, AND—
I held up a hand to stop Mom and Joan mid-sentence.
NOT HAVE CI, I signed, pointing to myself. HEARING AIDS.
Joan’s eyes flicked over to Mom as she voiced for me. I watched Joan’s face fall a fraction of an inch before she gave an airy wave, saying, “That’s . . . okay. I just wanted to . . .”
I didn’t even bother trying to lipread the rest of what Joan was saying. I looked back to Mom and signed, NOT GROUP FOR DEAF?
Mom relayed my question to the others, and Joan’s daughter Casey answered, “Oh, I’m not deaf.”
I was so taken aback by Casey’s response that the only thing I could think of to say was, “What?”
Casey brushed back part of her hair to show off her tan colored CI and tapped a finger to it, saying, “I’m not deaf. I hear . . . fine.”
Helplessness wasn’t really the right word to describe how I felt when Casey said that. It was something more than that, something distressing, and I couldn’t put a name to it. Something was missing here, and I felt it almost like a physical ache.
Cochlear implants were great, sure, but take those away and you wouldn’t be able to hear. It was only with the help of assistive technology that you’d be able to hear. So what was so wrong about saying you were deaf? Not big D Deaf, but deaf—just not being able to hear.
DON’T KNOW SIGN, I told Mom, gesturing around at the group.
She agreed with a short nod, looking just as caught off guard as I was. She leaned over to Joan to say something, and whatever she said made Joan nod.
“Didn’t want . . . stuck in . . . bubble. Thought it . . . she learn . . . talk,” Joan said, glancing toward Casey, who was back to talking with the boy beside her.
There was nothing wrong with having a cochlear implant. Of course there was nothing wrong with it. But there wasn’t anything wrong with being Deaf either. I just couldn’t believe none of these kids had been taught ASL.
What happened if their CI somehow broke and then they were left without a way to communicate because they didn’t know sign? Not everybody carried around a notebook and pencil to jot down notes all the time. Wouldn’t you need to know sign language if there was even the slightest chance of that happening?
HEY. Mom waved at me to get my attention. WHAT’S WRONG?
NOTHING, I signed back.
I had nothing left to contribute to the conversation. I felt so wildly out of place here, surrounded by these freshmen with cochlear implants who didn’t know how to sign. Even at Engelmann I never felt so unsettled.
I just sat on the couch, drinking my now tepid tea, drafting a text to Melissa. She was the one person I could talk to who would actually get it. If her parents could’ve afforded it, I bet they would’ve gotten her a CI, but even then it was impossible to imagine Melissa not knowing sign language. ASL was as much a part of her as anything else.
Eventually I sent her a text saying, If you had a CI . . . would you still sign?
Melissa’s reply came a few minutes later while I was finishing the rest of the cookie Mom bought for us to share.
YES! But I don’t want CI, so don’t matter.
That made me feel a little better.
My phone vibrated with a second text from Melissa a minute later.
Why u ask?
FaceTime later? I texted back, and Melissa’s response was a big smiley face emoji.
Finally, our time at the coffee shop came to an end. It felt as if the meeting lasted a lot longer than a measly forty-five minutes, and I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I barely managed a half-hearted wave before racing for the exit.
Mom hung back to talk to Joan while the kids stood around exchanging phone numbers. A sharp pang of jealousy twisted my gut seeing this, and it took a second to snap myself out of it. I’d exchanged phone numbers with Nina, hadn’t I? Beau too, even though it was only because of that midterm project. And if the others had the same line of thinking as Casey, that they didn’t even consider themselves deaf, would they even want to be friends with me? Would I get more of those weird looks I’d gotten used to at Engelmann or maybe flat out ignored?
Mom exited the coffee shop a few minutes later, and I scrambled into the passenger seat the second she unlocked the car.
Neither of us signed a single thing on the ride home.
Everything was always silent for me, but this silence was completely different. I wanted to say something to Mom, to at least attempt to tell her what I was feeling, but no words and definitely no signs came to mind.
The living room lights were on when Mom pulled the car into the driveway at home. I could see the babysitter Mom hired for the evening through the thin curtains in the front window, sitting on the couch. I wasn’t sure where Connor was, but my guess was that he was sitting up close to the TV watching Spider-Man cartoons.
WHAT’S WRONG? Mom finally signed to me, tapping my knee.
I bit down on my lip, inhaling deeply. My breath must’ve sounded funny because Mom automatically leaned toward me, her eyes wide in concern.
DON’T UNDERSTAND, I signed with a shaky hand.
Mom sat there waiting for me to elaborate while I kept growing more and more frustrated with myself. I couldn’t figure out why that get-together had shaken me up so much. I hated that angry tears were beginning to spill down my cheeks.
DON’T UNDERSTAND, I signed again, forcing myself to get on with it. WHY GIRL SAY SHE NOT DEAF?
Mom seemed pained as she thought about how to answer. Her movements were slow as she signed, DON’T KNOW.
GIRL HAVE CI, OK, I signed. FINE. BUT WHY SHE NOT KNOW SIGN LANGUAGE? WHY THEY ALL NOT KNOW SIGN LANGUAGE?
DON’T KNOW, Mom signed again. SOME PARENTS THINK DIFFERENT.
YOU WANT CI FOR ME? I signed to Mom, the question suddenly pushing its way front and center.
YOU KNOW BEST, Mom signed, and a warm smile was taking over her face. I WANT FOR YOU WHAT YOU WANT.
She paused here, eyes fixed on the center console. Then she signed, IF YOU WANT CI, MAYBE WE—
NO, I signed quickly, stopping her before she could get too far into that sentence. I NEVER WANT CI, BEFORE AND NOW. NOTHING WRONG WITH CI, BUT THAT NOT FOR ME. I LIKE MYSELF DEAF.
GOOD, Mom signed a moment later. Her smile was wide enough to crinkle her pretty brown eyes at the corners.
It was a smile I hadn’t seen much of since we moved to Colorado. Helping Connor get ad
justed to this place and frequent trips to the hospital for his breathing treatments took a lot out of Mom. My poor attitude probably hadn’t helped any. Seeing Mom’s smile now, I realized I’d missed it.
NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT, Mom repeated, squeezing my knee again. YOU SHOULD LIKE YOURSELF DEAF.
PROMISE, I assured her.
NO WORRY ABOUT KIDS WITH CI, Mom signed to me. YOU MAKE FRIENDS, DEAF AND HEARING.
YES, I agreed after a beat.
Of course, Melissa was my closest friend despite being back in New Jersey. I sometimes even got a few random messages on Facebook from some old classmates back at Pratt. Nina was my friend. She was picking up sign so well there were times I forgot she was hearing. Spending time with her was never boring either, and she took the extra step to get to know me—me, the weird new Deaf girl with the interpreter.
And then there was Beau. Hanging out and signing with him was way more fun than that awkward meeting had just been. Even telling him about my disastrous chemistry midterm was preferable to another minute in that coffee shop. I’d been with kids that were supposed to be like me, and yet I felt ten times more comfortable with Beau, despite our occasional communication fumbles.
So far, I hadn’t come across anyone else besides Nina who even put forth the amount of effort Beau did in practicing sign language. Those two were really the only reason I sometimes actually looked forward to school.
YOU OK? Mom signed to me, catching me before I could head upstairs to my room.
YES, I told her. Even though five minutes ago it felt like the last thing in the world I wanted to be doing, I felt myself beginning to smile.
CHAPTER 18
Two weeks after the failed coffee shop meeting, Connor sat cross-legged on Mom’s bed, carefully folding one of Mom’s sweaters while Saturday morning cartoons played, and Mom ran around the bedroom like a chicken with its head cut off. She’d announced at dinner the night before that her company was sending her on a weekend trip to Aspen—a town about two hours from Denver. I thought the timing was perfect. Mom needed some time to relax, and even though Thanksgiving was only a few days away, I knew this would be her real vacation.
YOU SURE YOU FINE WITH CONNOR? Mom signed to me one handed, walking out of the bathroom with some toiletries.
This was probably the nineteenth time she’d asked me.
FINE, PROMISE, I signed yet again, the same response I’d given her each time she asked.
I didn’t think Mom was this frantic because she didn’t trust me to watch Connor. It was just that she was worried about the breathing treatments he needed regularly and that she wouldn’t be here for two days to sit by Connor’s side while he went through them.
She seemed to have already forgotten she spent plenty of time coaching me through each step of prepping Connor’s nebulizer, how to replace his oxygen tank, what to do if he started having difficulties breathing or started coughing so hard he coughed up blood. I knew this routine of Mom’s inside and out.
HEY. FINE, I signed again, catching Mom’s hands while she fumbled zipping up her duffel bag. PROMISE.
Mom pulled me in for a tight hug, resting her chin on top of my head.
OK, she signed with a wobbly smile when she finally released me.
Connor and I helped Mom cart her things downstairs to the rental car her company arranged for her. We needed the van at home in case anything happened.
SEE YOU LATER, Mom signed to me after she finished hugging Connor and peppering his face with kisses. CAR KEYS IN KITCHEN. TEXT ME IF YOU NEED SOMETHING.
ALWAYS, I assured her.
Connor and I stood on the front steps and waved Mom off, waiting until she disappeared down the street before heading back inside.
“What would you like to do today, squirt?” I asked Connor as I shut the front door.
He held up one finger, signaling for me to wait, and jogged off with his oxygen tank in hand to grab our notebook. He sat himself down on the couch once he retrieved it and carefully wrote me a note on a fresh page before passing the notebook over to me.
I sat down next to him while I read his note.
Watch Spider-Man. Mac and cheese for lunch.
I laughed then went to get the first Spider-Man movie going and make us a bowl of popcorn. I’d been so busy with homework and midterms and fretting about college applications that I hadn’t spent as much time with Connor as I should’ve. I missed my little brother, even if we did live in the same house.
We spent the afternoon and most of the evening watching Spider-Man movies and then various Marvel-themed cartoons. In between the movies and cartoons, we got out the board games and played Monopoly and Trouble, both of which I let Connor win.
As promised, we had macaroni and cheese for lunch and leftovers for dinner, finishing off with a dessert of mint chocolate chip ice cream.
A pleasant warmth had curled up inside me seeing Connor so animated and excited for the first time in what seemed like ages. Moving to Colorado had been a more difficult adjustment for him than I think we could’ve imagined.
Connor was passed out on the couch by the time nine o’clock rolled around, which was my cue to turn the TV off and get him up to bed. It took some serious effort to get him up the stairs, changed into his pajamas, and tucked into bed.
“Love you, squirt,” I said, kissing his forehead. “See you in the morning.”
I woke to someone shaking me. I quickly sat up, shoving a mess of hair out of my eyes. Connor was standing beside my bed, one hand gripping the bed for support, his fingers curled into the blankets. He was not wearing his cannula, and there was no oxygen tank in sight. In the dim light of my lamp I could see there was a bluish tint creeping its way into his face.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” I demanded, all but throwing myself off the bed in my haste to get to him. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
I don’t know how he managed to do it, but he tapped both his index fingers together, his hands trembling, the sign for can’t, and motioned to his throat.
Connor couldn’t breathe.
CHAPTER 19
There are moments in your life when time speeds up instead of slowing down.
I don’t know how I got Connor out to the car, how I remembered to grab the car keys and look up the address to the nearest hospital, or even how I got the car into gear and down the driveway.
Connor was up in the front seat next to me, hastily buckled in, arms wrapped around his legs with his head resting on his knees.
“Breathe, Connor, just keep breathing,” I kept saying, but I couldn’t be sure if he was actually listening. “We’re almost to the hospital, I promise. Everything is going to be okay. The doctors there will help you and everything is going to be okay.”
Everything is going to be okay.
Connor had to be getting some air into his lungs because he was still conscious, but I’d never seen my little brother in such a bad state. I checked him at every stoplight, squeezed his arm, told him I loved him and that everything was going to be okay, but I don’t know how much of it he understood and how much was lost in the panic.
That I didn’t get us into an accident on the way to the hospital was an epic feat. The steering wheel jerked wildly in my hands when I bounced up the driveway in front of the ER entrance and quickly threw the car into park, yanking my seatbelt off so fast the edge burned my hand.
I wrenched open the passenger side door and unbuckled Connor, carefully scooping him up into my arms. He was light enough for me to carry, but my knees were knocking and everything was going all topsy-turvy. I staggered a few steps before I regained my balance. When I turned around with Connor in my arms, there were people in hospital scrubs rushing toward me. Somebody was coming out the doors with a gurney, and someone else was trying to take Connor from me.
Lipreading was never the easiest under the best of circumstances, but lipreading in this moment was not even remotely possible.
“Wait, please, my brother—he’s got CF, he can�
��t—”
No one seemed to hear me.
“Please, can you tell me what’s going on? I have to—”
A female nurse had a tight grip on my arm when they took Connor from me, lay him on the gurney, and slipped an oxygen mask over his face. I used the sleeve of my shirt to wipe at my eyes, trying to get rid of the tears, but it didn’t work. I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t see clearly. The woman’s face was blurry and kept shifting in and out of focus.
I ripped my arm from her grasp and raced after the people wheeling Connor inside the hospital. I only got a few feet inside the ER before another nurse blocked my path. I knew she was speaking, but I was looking over her shoulder, watching Connor disappear through the double doors just past the check-in desk.
“That’s my brother, I need to go with him—I need to—”
I made to move around the woman to get through the doors, but she worked her way in front of me to stop me again.
That was my breaking point. I could feel the scream working its way up my throat. I don’t know how the words sounded coming out of my mouth, but they made the woman look like I just slapped her across the face.
“I’M DEAF!”
She took a step back, putting a good foot of distance between us. I stood there for a few moments trying to get my breathing under control again. I was sure I did not sound calm when I said, “That’s my little brother. I need to be with him!”
I was probably shrieking at this point, no doubt a spectacle to the people I could see behind the check-in station watching us. “Where’s your VRI? Hospitals are supposed to have one!”
Video Remote Interpreting was a system hospitals and doctors used because it was cheaper than hiring a live interpreter. It required a video camera and a monitor, and most of the time it was on a cart wheeled around from room to room as needed. Turn the system on, an interpreter would show up on the screen and communication between the doctor and the patient was supposed to take place that way.
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