Impossible Music

by Sean Williams

  Here is proof, if I need it, of everything the specialists have told me.

  Blindsight is not so much a “condition,” in the negative sense, as a strange exception to what would normally be a state of complete impairment. Some people who lack all conscious ability to see a single thing are nonetheless able to navigate or make choices based on a visual sense of their surroundings. They are blind, but their unconscious can see and guide their actions.

  These remarkable brains have not repaired themselves. The damage they have suffered merely cuts off neuronal pathways that lead to the seat of consciousness, while leaving other pathways intact. It is as though a terrorist blew up a highway while leaving various side roads intact: cars can get around the damage, even if the highway appears empty.

  Do I really have an analogue of this? A new kind of sense that has yet to be discovered by science?

  I can’t believe I’ve been sitting on this knowledge all day. Literally!

  I stay up late, digging deeper into the internet for answers. There’s no existing term for my potential condition, not one that I can find, anyway.

  “Deaf hearing,” for instance, refers to a suggestion that some people learn to “feel” sound via their sense of touch, turning their entire body, effectively, into a single giant ear. I don’t think that’s what I have, but maybe I’m developing it?

  I need to conduct more experiments. Maeve would be justifiably pissed if I started making loud noises again in the middle of the night, so instead I fish out a pair of unused headphones and start flicking through music videos at random with my eyes closed, trying to guess what the skin of my ears might be picking up. I don’t “hear” anything. Whatever faint signals my skin might be detecting don’t register anywhere in my brain.

  Probably not that, then.

  Putting “deaf hearing” aside, I turn to the general concept of what I decide to call “deaf perception.” Could it be possible that the part of my brain that used to recognize sounds has been spared the ravages of the stroke? Could that part have learned to reconnect and be feeding me information about the audio world?

  I have no idea how to test that theory. In bed, in the middle of the night, I am again literally in the dark. Still, I am seeing Prameela tomorrow. Cases of deaf perception might be (1) or (0), but either way she will know more than me.

  I am unable to sleep. There’s no response from Professor Dorn, and none from G either when I text her to see if she’s up too. Desperate for distraction and impatient for any kind of response, I send “Doom Ballet” to Roo and Sad Alan, even though I know it’s premature, but they’re either out or asleep, and that leaves me alone in the silence of my head for the remainder of this long night’s empty hours.

  * * *

  At 4:03 a.m., I realize that the four-month anniversary of my stroke was five days ago. That I didn’t notice only makes me feel worse.

  How I Used to Feel

  January 8

  You told us we wouldn’t be miming.

  Roo’s response to “Doom Ballet” comes while I’m en route to the appointment. It’s pretty much what I expected.

  Come on. Read the notes again. You wouldn’t be miming, and neither would I. We would be performing, just a bit differently from usual.

  You talk as though this is a thing that’ll actually happen.

  It could. If Professor Dorn likes it, it might get into the undergrad concert in June, and if it does, I really want you to be part of it.

  We’ll look like idiots.

  What’re you talking about, Roo? We’ll be the coolest people in the room.

  Alan’s support takes me by surprise. I didn’t even know he was following the conversation.

  All those hot music students have probably never seen anyone like us before. Metal AND kind to the disabled? We’ll rock their worlds!

  It would be helpful, Alan, if you stopped thinking with your dick. This isn’t Slave Leia. This is Blackmod. Drip, you’re asking us to stand onstage and make no noise at all. Noise is the whole point of our existence!

  No, MUSIC is the whole point of our existence. Please, try to see this from my perspective. I can’t do this without you.

  And I can’t do this sober.

  All right. Two six-packs. Each.

  Now you’re talking.

  Mum pulls into a parking lot outside Prameela’s office. She asks by sign if she can come in with me. I am too tired to refuse her.

  Gotta go, guys. Talk later.

  Yeah, that would be good. I want to change the lyrics: WTF, dude?

  Can’t, Roo. Sorry. Read the notes again.

  Yeah, Roo, keep up. This is art!

  I tuck my phone into a pocket as Mum and I check in with the receptionist. Happy New Year. Is it still okay to say that? I think so. Great! Take a seat, she won’t be long. The conversation is entirely in sign, and I understand every word. Damned assimilation.

  I do not want to consider the possibility that I will remain fully deaf, not now that I have a chance of being . . . something else.

  * * *

  “Deaf perception”? I like it. You have a way with words, Simon.

  I don’t care what Prameela thinks of my crappy wordplay. I just want to know what she thinks is going on inside my head!

  And I reckon you’re pretty much spot-on. Obviously, we can’t know until I’ve conducted more tests—​I haven’t even told Selwyn yet—​but it does look like we have a world first on our hands.

  “What does that mean for me?”

  I don’t know. This may be something that’s always been there, but you’ve only just noticed it. It may be a temporary side effect of your stroke. It may be something new that’s going to improve with time.

  How likely do you think that is, the last one?

  Mum’s question is the one I can’t bring myself to voice. I stare at the screen of my phone, awaiting Prameela’s answer while she gives it the consideration it deserves.

  Hard to say. My instinct is that it’s a very distant possibility, but I don’t want to rule anything out. If I’ve learned one lesson from this job, it’s that there’s no stranger or more surprising thing than the human brain. But at the same time, it’s not my job to give you unwarranted hope. It is to tell you the way the world is, as I see it. And how I see it changes depending on the information at hand—​so let’s get more information and see what happens, shall we?

  I feel wrung out like a sponge. More information? More tests is what she means. The prospect of waiting through further nights like the last one fills me with dread.

  “I feel like I’m on death row,” I tell them, not intending to be this honest, but the pressure inside me has to come out somehow. “Waiting for my last meal, hoping for an appeal, dreading not knowing . . . Can I hear or not? Why can’t you just tell me?”

  I understand.

  The reply, unexpectedly, comes from Mum, who has taken the iPad from Prameela.

  Or I think I do. It’s so difficult to be caught between worlds, feeling powerless to do anything either way. I was like this when your father and I were splitting up. Wouldn’t it be better to just finish it and move on? It was, in the end, of course—​and ultimately, I did have the power to choose which world I ended up in, but for a long time I just froze, not truly realizing until afterwards that it was up to me. And you have that power too, darling. In a very different way. You are choosing, even though you don’t realize it. You know, I only gave you permission to apply to study composition because I thought Professor Dorn wouldn’t let you and that would help you get music out of your system so you’d learn sign language and move on. But she hasn’t said no yet, and you’re still trying, and I find now that I don’t want you to fail, I want you to succeed, and I hope that if you just keep on doing what feels best for you, it’ll work out in the end. Don’t freeze. Don’t regret what you never do. Don’t let anyone else tell what you’re supposed to be or not be—​even me!

  Mum takes me into her arms, weeping, and I am sho
cked into unexpected emotion in return. This is my mother raw and revealed, as I have never seen her before—​except maybe once, the day Selwyn told her that I would never hear again. She is a woman with an ex-husband and an occasionally delinquent daughter and a difficult full-time job, and me. She is a woman who has struggled and survived. She knows something of what she speaks.

  I glance up at Prameela. She is smiling. Her hands move, slowly but precisely.

  Why do farts smell?

  Caught by this utterly unexpected question, I shrug: Dunno.

  So the Deaf can enjoy them too.

  * * *

  Back in the car, confronting the possibility of another long series of MRIs and EEGs—​and who knows how many other three-letter tests—​I nod when Mum signs, Breakfast, my treat? Ten minutes later, we’re in a café ordering scrambled eggs on toast and hot chocolates, and she tricks me into talking about other people in the café.

  Girl—​red sweater—​your three o’clock.

  I look around. There’s a redhead my age reading a book in one corner. I don’t know her.

  The only way to reply to Mum without the girl noticing is via sign.

  I see—​what?

  Has enormous ears—​like elephant.

  I suppress a laugh. There’s practically zero chance the poor girl can understand us—​she hasn’t even looked up—​but I still feel shocked that Mum is doing this.

  Big ears—​big heart.

  Says who?

  Me!

  This is exactly what Madeleine Winter suggested she would do if she knew sign language, but it takes my mind off everything else that’s going on in the soundless bubble of my life right now. Or not going on, as the case may be. At least I.T. appears to be off the table.

  Mum asks, This week—​you do what?

  That’s too complicated for me to answer by sign alone.

  “Wednesday there’s a band I might go see with Dad, if that’s okay. I wasn’t going to go, but now it’s a chance to test out this deaf perception thing.”

  Band—​name—​what?

  “3D Owl. Some obscure electro outfit from the distant past. You know what he likes.”

  She rolls her eyes, which says more expressively than sign, Do I!

  And G?

  I give Mum the correct sign-name: George-who-loves-coffee.

  “Dunno. I haven’t heard from her, which usually means her tinnitus is bad. If it drags on, I’ll send Aunty Lou a text, make sure she’s okay.”

  So then I have to avoid mentioning her suicide attempt while explaining G’s home life, feeling as I do that this integrates G just a little more into my own reality. I hope that’s a good thing, for both of us. The more ties there are, the harder it would be to let go, if we have to . . .

  I catch myself thinking this way and wonder at myself. We’re just beginning, and I’m already worried about the end!

  Is she doing the same, as Aunty Lou suggested she might?

  I’m not going anywhere, she said. I hold that thought so tightly I can feel it struggling for breath.

  You—​like—​her, Mum signs. When she says “like” she performs it with her whole body, nicer than Maeve and her teasing lo-ove dance but still annoyingly over the top. Why can’t they be Deaf? They’d be great at it.

  “Get a life,” I tell her.

  Me—​old, she signs. No life.

  “What happened to Michael from the DSTO? I thought you were seeing him on Thursdays—​you know, when you tell us you’re out with the Pilates girls.”

  It’s her turn to blush.

  That’s the trouble with living in a house full of teenagers, she says into my phone. No privacy!

  “Don’t tell Maeve I told you. She’s holding on to it for next time she gets into trouble.”

  Mum laughs and taps the side of her nose. Our secret. I feel something alien and warm in my chest that isn’t the hot chocolate, and I wonder if this is how I used to feel every day, before.

  The Opposite of Deafness

  January 15

  Add birthdays to the list of things that my stroke has changed forever, along with Christmas. Music is such an intrinsic part of celebration that not being able to hear Mum and Maeve sing “Happy Birthday” made it hard to feel the requisite cheer. Silent sparklers don’t seem as bright.

  For my eighteenth back in October, Mum bought me a new phone, which was appreciated, given how much use I was getting out of my old one. Maeve supplied the case. For Christmas, the pattern repeated with a new laptop.

  I understood: for years they’d been giving me strings, straps, pedals, picks, or whatever else seemed missing from my mountain of musical paraphernalia. It’s easy to buy for someone with a clearly defined obsession. What do you do when that obsession passes and a new one doesn’t immediately replace it? Going generic is much better than taking a wild swing in the dark. Unless a crack on the head is what’s needed—​but how do you tell that?

  Dad, the slacker, gave me nothing but an IOU text on both occasions. That’s okay. He always makes good at some point. Besides, the score he gave me in September was worth two presents combined.

  After I’d read it several times, back when Shari and I were still together, I asked him, Why Mahler’s Tenth? What made you choose that?

  Perhaps I shouldn’t have expected a more romantic reply than Because it was on sale.

  No other reason?

  All right. It came with a free CD.

  Seriously, Dad.

  I don’t know. It seemed the sort of thing you would understand better than I ever could. And less obvious than Beethoven. Like giving someone an album by the Smiths instead of Ed Sheeran. Did I get it wrong?

  No, just right. Thanks heaps.

  I thought that was that, but ten minutes later, out of no-where, he sent me another text.

  There really was a free CD. I haven’t listened to it.

  You should.

  I hoped we could listen to it together one day. Do you think we still could—​you with the score and me with the CD? Would that be too weird?

  No, I think it’d be great. You can tell me what it sounds like.

  And you can tell me what it means.

  It seemed a terrific idea at the time. When we tried it, though, the day before my birthday, we lasted barely ten minutes. What Dad could appreciate in seconds just by listening took far longer to explain—​and what I understood by looking at the page, I spent ages trying to capture in words. It was like trying to drive a car with your eyes shut while a passenger recited from the operating manual. A crash was inevitable.

  * * *

  As a prototype for the way hearing and nonhearing people might experience the same piece of music, what we did was disastrous, but as a metaphor for how life feels to me in the new year, it’s perfect. A whole week flies by for the rest of the world while my life drags on without the slightest change. Still waiting for G, Professor Dorn, and results—​my whole life in stasis. News on any front could fling the rag doll of my emotions in any number of directions. It’s draining, trying to be ready for every possible outcome. Have I been dumped again? Has my hearing not come back? Do I have any kind of future left that matters to me?

  Some of the pressure has been taken off that last question, but not all. Mum’s given up on I.T. and hasn’t suggested anything equally soul-destroying to replace it. Not yet. Composition has to work out, or it’s back to the drawing board for both of us—​just like I was with Sandra, all those weeks ago, trying to find an acceptable substitute for music.

  I can think of several careers that sound cool, although whether they’d work for me is anyone’s guess. Brewing beer, for instance. Jewelry making. Rocket scientist, even.

  They all, however, require starting entirely from scratch—​which, on top of learning to talk again, like everyone tells me I should do, is just too exhausting.

  Roo and Alan help by filling a few of the empty hours. We go bowling, something that doesn’t require language at a
ll, really, and gives me a chance to test for any sign of deaf perception. Chest bumping, high-fiving, and giving each other the finger is the extent of our communication, beyond ordering hot dogs and beer, which I leave them to manage. I haven’t been drinking much lately, because I haven’t been going out much. A not entirely pleasant head spin has hold of me by the time I get home. Only then do I realize that I didn’t “hear” a pin drop—​not even a full strike.

  At the 3D Owl concert, Dad is a willing participant in another experiment. I stand with my eyes shut, and he spins me several times. If I then correctly guess the direction of the stage, he declares it a win, and I don’t tell him about the other cues I’m picking up: the movement of people around us, a general bassy vibe in the air from the speakers by the stage, and a certain inevitable amount of light leakage through my eyelids. If I was blind as well as deaf, I would still be able to point at the two decrepit band members eight times out of ten. So much for science.

  Seeing KO is almost a welcome distraction from the persistent, vulture-like circling of my insecurity. He insists on peppering our conversations with signs, like he thinks I’ll learn by osmosis.

  Some say it’s very gendered, how people respond to loss, he tells me at one point.

  You know, men want to fight or fix everything, women bend instead of breaking. Me, I think that’s largely rubbish, although it’s true that those are two common strategies. There are others. You can view loss as a challenge to better yourself, for instance. Or as an opportunity for future gains. How? Well, the Deaf community is smaller than the hearing world, and that suits some people. If you have a phobia about loud noises, or just hate the sound of people eating—​