NO WORRY, Beau assured me without missing a beat.
THANK YOU, I signed back as I chewed on my lip.
“Interviews . . . not . . . big deal,” Beau said, using his voice. “You’ll . . . fine. They’ll find . . . interpreter too.”
I hope, I thought, as I started tapping out my reply to the Steaming Bean. As long as they were willing to meet with me in the afternoon once I was finished with school, there shouldn’t be a problem.
On the other hand, I knew there was no possibility of my getting through this interview without an interpreter. And I doubted Kathleen would be willing to spend her evenings and weekends with me too. Interpreting a job interview wasn’t exactly a part of her job description.
My fingers faltered as I started to worry that I hadn’t thought this through.
CHAPTER 29
At a few weeks shy of eighteen, I’d sat through so many hearing tests over the past nearly five years as doctors tried to determine the severity of my hearing loss, I could almost administer one to myself.
You spend fifteen minutes in a soundproof booth with a clicker you’d press anytime you heard any of the range of sounds the audiologist looped into the ear pieces plugged up to both your ears. If there wasn’t a clicker, you got to raise your hand instead.
We were in a new state with a new doctor at a new hospital, and I was desperately hoping we weren’t about to start this whole process over again. I tried not to pout like a little kid the entire way to Children’s Hospital, but I’d always dreaded these ear, nose, and throat appointments. Nobody liked being poked and prodded in the ears or having your hearing tested when it was pretty obvious you had none.
NERVOUS? Mom signed to me when I happened to glance her way.
FOR JOB INTERVIEW, YES, I signed. FOR DOCTOR APPOINTMENT, NO.
FINE FOR BOTH, Mom signed, then tossed an arm around my shoulders to give me a squeeze.
A handful of minutes later, a chipper nurse came up front to retrieve us and take us to the back where the exam rooms were. Not a surprise, a small flat-screen TV on a cart with wheels sat waiting for me in the purple room the nurse led us to. This nurse—Mom signed to me that her name was Wendy—seemed to know what she was doing and got the VRI booted up in a matter of moments.
The interpreter on screen was a kind, elderly gentleman who had no problem jumping right into the appointment. Once Wendy took down my height and weight, we had about a ten-minute wait before the doctor actually arrived, which was a bit awkward with the interpreter just sitting there on screen waiting along with us.
When the door opened, a short woman with graying blonde hair falling out of its bun came walking in. She looked tired, but she still greeted us with a smile. I thought my last doctor, Dr. Hartwood, was a bit of an old grump, so it was nice to see a happy face in the office.
The interpreter finger spelled that the woman’s name was Dr. Porter, and she got right down to business after the introductions were over. She took a peek down my throat, up my nose, and spent the most time looking in my ears.
More than one doctor told Mom and me that my ears were in good shape. Very minimal damage to my eardrums thanks to two rounds of ear tubes as a kid—not an uncommon thing—but otherwise perfectly fine. I just couldn’t hear. The interpreter on screen signed the same thing—your ears look fine—and it just made me think even more that this whole appointment was totally unnecessary. But Mom had always been a big fan of the saying better safe than sorry, which I guessed was true.
Dr. Porter finished up by cleaning out my ears with this weird, pick-like tool, and took a seat on one of the nearby chairs after she washed her hands at the sink. As nice as Dr. Porter seemed, this was just about identical to every other ENT appointment I’d had over the years. I wanted to go home and dive into some homework or find some articles on how to ace job interviews, not sit around in a doctor’s office bored out of my mind.
I wasn’t sure how long Mom had been tapping my knee when I finally snapped back to attention. She was giving me a disapproving glare and nodded at the interpreter on screen, signing, AGAIN PLEASE.
The interpreter pointed at Dr. Porter and signed, SHE ASK IF YOU CURIOUS ABOUT CI.
This again?
I shrugged in response, signing, NEVER WANT CI. STILL NOT WANT CI.
Dr. Porter listened to the interpreter voice what I signed, nodding along in understanding. I watched her say, “Well . . . have many benefits. There . . .”
I definitely stopped paying attention while Dr. Porter went on to list all the pros of getting a cochlear implant, how it could improve my future, how I was a good potential candidate for one. Dr. Porter probably gave the same talk to all the parents of Deaf kids; she was just doing her job.
I genuinely did not see anything wrong with my future or how a cochlear implant might make it better. And why would I voluntarily agree to a surgery I’d be just fine without?
More to the point—and what people didn’t seem to understand—I liked being Deaf. Some of the best things in my life happened without my being able to hear, like excelling in my studies at Pratt, meeting Melissa, meeting Nina and Beau . . .
The appointment wrapped up sooner than expected and with no hearing test either. I made sure to thank the interpreter for his time before ending the call, grateful we hadn’t had a repeat of our visit to the ER with Connor.
I shook Dr. Porter’s hand on the way out, and she waved us off with another tired but cheerful smile. Mom fell into step beside me as we made our way back through the waiting room toward the elevators. I noticed she had a couple sheets of paper in one hand.
WHAT’S UP? I signed, nudging her and pointing to the papers.
FROM DOCTOR, Mom signed, holding the papers just so to prevent me from seeing any of the writing on them.
ABOUT? I signed, pushing the issue.
We were in the elevators on our way down into the parking garage when Mom finally handed the papers over to me. As expected, the papers contained facts about cochlear implants, which insurances typically covered the surgery—if at all—and what the follow-up therapy would look like.
Mom didn’t stop me when I crumpled up the papers and tossed them in a trashcan as soon as we reached the parking garage. We were buckled in the car, sitting there with the engine idling, when Mom signed, WHAT’S WRONG?
I wasn’t angry because cochlear implants had been invented or that a lot of people chose to undergo the surgery to get them. CIs were a cool piece of technology. I was angry because it was only when I started attending a hearing school that cochlear implants entered the conversation. A year ago, CIs weren’t on Mom’s radar, and suddenly she was all interested in me getting the procedure, or at least that’s what it felt like.
I answered Mom’s question by signing, NOTHING.
SURE? she signed back, looking unconvinced.
MY FRIENDS LIKE ME DEAF, I signed slowly, thinking about my response as carefully as possible. LIKE MYSELF DEAF, I added, placing a hand against my chest. WHY I NEED CI NOW?
YOU NOT NEED CI, Mom signed to me quickly. BUT CHOICE HERE IF YOU WANT.
DON’T WANT, I signed back, and I meant it. Why would I suddenly change my mind? ALL DONE NOW?
SURE, Mom signed, putting the car into gear.
We drove home in silence.
CHAPTER 30
I was checking my email religiously after that first message from the Steaming Bean. My reply had included an enthusiastic Yes, I’d love an interview! and some resources for local interpreting agencies after my short explanation of my hearing loss and using sign language. I had high hopes for another quick response, but each time I refreshed my email with no new message waiting in my inbox, my frustration began increasing at an alarming rate.
AGAIN? Kathleen signed to me when I snuck a peek at my phone under the worktable in Ms. Phillips’ art class. WHAT’S UP?
SORRY, I signed quickly, dropping my phone into my backpack. WAIT FOR EMAIL.
ABOUT INTERVIEW? Kathleen signed, look
ing almost as thrilled as she had when I’d shown her my acceptance letter from Cartwright.
It wasn’t so easy to return her smile this time around.
Kathleen knew about my interview with the Steaming Bean because she was the one to refer me to a handful of interpreting agencies in Denver. It was my potential employer’s responsibility to supply the interpreter, not mine, which is why I hadn’t asked Kathleen to do it, and she hadn’t offered. This was an entirely new process for me, but I figured it was better that I do it the right way the first time around.
But the more time that passed without a second email from the Steaming Bean, the more paranoia started making itself at home in the back of my mind.
Scheduling an interpreter for some event or doctor’s appointment usually wasn’t that big of a deal because the law required it. Same with any employer, but this was different. I hadn’t been hired yet. They could just as easily pass me over because I was Deaf and use the excuse that they’d already filled the position because they didn’t want to pay for an interpreter, and that would be the end of it. Nobody would ever be able to prove anything like discrimination.
So probably this obsessive worrying was a bit premature, but it was a little difficult to just brush it all under a rug and forget about it. I wasn’t oblivious to my mother’s increasing financial struggles. The sooner I got a job, the better off we’d be.
PATIENT, Kathleen signed when she caught me sneaking another peek at my phone in my backpack instead of focusing on my charcoal sketches.
I KNOW, I signed back, pressing down hard on the paper with my charcoal pencil. NERVOUS.
YOU FINE, Kathleen told me, and I wished I could be as confident as she looked. DON’T WORRY.
HAHAHA, was my response.
As hard as I may have tried to follow Kathleen’s advice and just be patient, I trudged my way through another twenty-four hours of a grueling wait before the email came. I had my phone out beneath the lab table in chemistry class yet again and only had the chance to see that I had a new email in my inbox before Kathleen sent a disapproving look my way and nodded pointedly up at the whiteboard where Mr. Burke was working on a set of formulas.
It took an insane amount of self-control to keep my phone tucked away in my backpack for the rest of class. It was a good thing this was a class I didn’t share with Nina or Beau. I wouldn’t have been able to keep the email to myself.
OK, NOW LOOK, Kathleen signed, an excited smile in place again when we were standing by my locker after the final bell.
The thudding of my heart against my chest felt painful as I pulled my phone out of my backpack. A tremor shot through my hand while I tapped open my email and clicked on the response from the Steaming Bean.
Each word I read in the email came like a sharp jab that made my breath get stuck in my throat.
Dear Ms. Harris,
Unfortunately, the position was recently filled, but we thank you for your interest and encourage you to apply again at a later date.
Sincerely,
The Staff at Steaming
Bean
I gave a start when Kathleen squeezed my shoulder, snapping me away from the disastrous email now burning up a hole in my inbox.
Kathleen didn’t sign anything, just looked at me expectantly with raised eyebrows.
NOTHING, I signed to her once it seemed as if the nonexistent ringing in my ears was gone. ALL DONE.
Kathleen’s hopeful expression slipped, and she signed, NO INTERVIEW?
I shook my head, biting down on my lip and shoving my phone into my back pocket.
“They found someone else. But it’s okay,” I said aloud. “There’ll be more interviews.”
The words were a downright lie flying past my lips—this didn’t feel okay. But they made Kathleen’s smile reappear, so that was something at least.
TRUE, she signed back, along with a few more signs of encouragement for me before we parted ways.
I was proud of myself for not letting any hurt, angry tears escape as I made my way to the student parking lot where I knew Beau would be waiting for me. He’d been driving me home for the past few weeks, which certainly made things easier on Mom.
Beau was already in his car when I found him, some book propped up against the steering wheel which he tossed into the backseat as I opened the passenger side door and slipped in.
I thought I might find a little sliver of relief seeing Beau and his quirky smile, but that didn’t happen when he signed, HELLO. EMAIL?
There was no point in hiding it, so I told him, “Yes.”
That was all Beau needed before he rapidly started firing questions at me in sign.
I signed, WAIT, at him and took a minute to get a grip on myself, yanking my fingers through my hair and pulling it up into a messy ponytail.
Something on my face definitely must’ve given away that I wasn’t okay. When I finally turned to Beau, he signed, WHAT’S WRONG?
“No interview,” I settled on saying. “They’ve already filled the position.”
I could almost see his brain whirring, filling in the missing pieces of what I wasn’t telling him, what he might’ve been reading from the look on my face.
WHY? Beau finally signed. When I didn’t answer, he signed, YOU THINK BECAUSE YOU DEAF? next.
My lack of response seemed to confirm something for Beau.
Beau wasn’t facing me straight on so I couldn’t be exactly sure of what he was saying—it was kind of like a little rant actually. But I caught the two important things—“Not hire” and “deaf.”
“What? Are you going to bully them into hiring me?”
I definitely remembered making it clear to him back at the beginning of the school year that I could handle myself.
NO, Beau signed, snapping his index and middle fingers to his thumb. BUT IF THEY NOT HIRE YOU BECAUSE—
BECAUSE WHY? DEAF? I signed, pointing back at myself.
Beau didn’t sign yes or no, but it was obvious by the expression on his face that was exactly what he was thinking.
“Beau, this isn’t . . . look,” I said, struggling to string together a coherent thought. “You think this is something I wasn’t expecting? Something I haven’t ever experienced before?”
This had to be the first time I’d ever seen a flash of genuine anger cross Beau’s face.
“Maya, not hiring . . . because . . . deaf . . . that’s . . .”
“Discrimination? Welcome to my world.”
I was not oblivious to the way some teachers, like Mr. Wells, rarely called on me when posing questions to the class, even though there was no reason to think I wouldn’t give the same thought-provoking response any of my classmates might. You could definitely write off my fully participating in Socratic seminars, a real favorite classroom activity in Historical Literature class.
And all this was just in high school. In college and out in the real world, things were going to be vastly different, and I was by no means eager to face it. I wanted to believe for just a little bit longer that the world was a nice place and people who were “different” were still treated kindly.
“This doesn’t . . .” Now Beau was struggling to come up with something to say and finished his thought by signing, BOTHER YOU?
“Of course this bothers me,” I answered. I could feel my voice trembling as I spoke. “To tell you the truth, this kind of thing will probably always bother me.”
“Then . . . should go . . .” Beau was saying. “Make them . . .”
STOP, PLEASE, I signed.
A feeling of defeat was quickly replacing my anger that had started brewing when I read that email from the Steaming Bean.
WHY? Beau demanded in sign.
He seemed to be absorbing all the anger I felt dissipating inside me.
“You have to pick and choose your battles, right?” I said. “This one just isn’t worth it to me right now.”
SURE? Beau signed.
Actually, I was sure I’d never been more unsure of anyth
ing in my life. But what could I possibly do now? It’s not like I had the time or money to take this coffee shop to court, and even if I did, lawsuits like this were an uphill battle.
As irksome as it was, wouldn’t it just be better to brush this incident off and keep looking for another job? Maybe one where I wouldn’t have to interact with people, like at the local humane society. I could work in the kennels. Dogs were never judgmental, and all the loud barking would hardly bother me.
NO, I signed to Beau, at a loss for words.
We did not sign or speak to each other again until Beau was pulling up into my driveway.
He turned to me, and I felt my stomach start twisting into knots with dread at what he might be about to say to me.
“Have . . . ever thought . . . ?” he said, then tapped a finger to his head, a couple inches behind his ear.
It wasn’t technically the correct sign, but I knew well enough what he meant.
“A cochlear implant isn’t a cure-all, you know,” I said, maybe a little too harshly. “It’s an expensive and irreversible surgery with a lot of follow-up therapy. And even if I wanted one, it wouldn’t mean my life would automatically get better.”
Beau’s cheeks filled with color, maybe out of embarrassment or shame, I couldn’t tell, and he gave a short nod. He signed, SORRY, followed by, CURIOUS.
“They work for a lot of people, but it’s not for me,” I said firmly. “Trust me.”
Beau gave another quick nod, signing, OK.
“Maybe they were jerks anyway,” I said, my hand on the door handle as I prepared to step out of the car. “I think my hearing aids are cool.”
A smile took over Beau’s face as he signed, YES.
“Connor thinks they make me look like a top-secret spy.”
“. . . correct,” Beau said before he started laughing.
“And you know what? I got into my dream college. So there.”
I wasn’t going to give up on my job search after one failed near-interview, but this wasn’t a very encouraging start. And seeing how angry Beau got when he’d put two and two together and realized what I was pretty sure went down, I wasn’t too eager to repeat the experience. The chances of something like this happening again weren’t exactly impossible.
The Silence Between Us Page 18