She spells that out with acrimonious precision, and I feel every letter hit home.
Again, I feel a twinge of irritation. How dare she criticize me for the way I try to cope?
There’s no right way to deal, G.
I know that, Simon. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.
She looks down at her hands for a moment as though wondering what they’re going to do next.
I—learn—sign—no—think.
Huh?
What I mean is, I’m trying to sign without thinking what I want to say in English and then translating it into Auslan. That extra step is infuriating. I know what I want to say—why say it twice? I’m not a very patient person—
No, really.
And concentrating on avoiding English only makes the whole thing worse. I just have to keep practicing until going straight to Auslan becomes second nature. First nature, even. Do you understand that?
I think so.
I’m trying, at least, sign by sign.
So that’s how I’ve been dealing. Making something out of the hand I’ve been dealt. It’s a beginning, anyway. Then I’m going to get my degree and become the best Deaf counselor in Adelaide. I’m going to try skating again, when I’m absolutely sure I’m ready. I’m going to have a fucking life, not the slow, living death that I thought was all I had left. Like you think you have. I bet you’ve been doing nothing this week but sitting around feeling sorry for yourself—am I right?
Maybe.
It’s not enough. That’s really what I want to tell you. Feeling sorry for ourselves did neither of us any good.
What if sorry’s all I’ve got?
I don’t believe that. It wasn’t true for me, so I know it’s not true for you, either.
She’s more right than she knows.
There’s something I have to tell you, I sign, and my motives for doing this are unclear.
If you HAVE been cheating on me—
No, not that. But it is important, and I want you to know.
“It” is the whole deaf perception thing. How will she react to me keeping it from her? How will it affect the way she sees our future together, if she sees one at all?
Go on.
My confession is clumsy and halting, not least because I have to spell out nearly every word. There’s no sign for blindsight or half the terms I need. It takes a small eternity to get the concept across, and even then her silence makes me wonder if I’ve failed.
She doesn’t say anything until I’ve finished.
How long have you known?
I’ve been pacing back and forth, dreading this question.
Since the day I picked you up from the hospital. That’s when it first happened. I should have told you sooner—
I’m glad you didn’t. I would’ve hated you a little.
More than you do now?
Who says I hate you now? But misery definitely loves company. The last thing I wanted back then was to feel alone.
I’m still miserable, if it helps.
It really doesn’t. Haven’t you been listening to me?
Of course I have! I am. I mean . . .
I shake my hands and my head, frustrated by the need to make words with my body and think at the same time. There’s a lot to be said for G’s “sign-no-think” plan, I have to grudgingly admit.
I’ve clung to deaf perception like it’s going to solve everything . . . but deep down I think I know that it won’t. So what if part of my brain can maybe hear a little bit? It’s not like I can or will ever hear anything again. At best, I’m a freak of nature. At worst . . . well, I’m deluding myself. That part of me—the tiny part that can maybe still hear, or even just the part that hopes I can hear—might be better off dead and buried, too. If it was, I could get on with what KO wants. And you too . . . and everyone. You all want me to be Deaf. But I don’t know how to do that, not when there’s this tiny bit of hope to cling to.
There are tears on my cheeks, but this admission brings no catharsis. Naming my problem now won’t make it go away, any more than it did in Selwyn Floyd’s office all those weeks ago.
Welcome to the club, she says. I still hope my implant will start working like it’s supposed to. Or my brain. That’s my backup plan. Prameela keeps telling me that tinnitus is partly psychological, so if I feel better, my tinnitus will get better. Guess that’s why I’m here. Trying to make myself feel better.
By making me feel worse?
Yep. Is it working?
My shoulders are sore; my head hurts. It’s like G and I have been physically fighting. My heart feels bruised right through.
Ugh, yes.
She says with a crooked expression, I actually thought about never telling you. That would be the best revenge, wouldn’t it? You’d be moping about, trying to get even with music for ditching you, all the while not knowing I was silently stabbing you in the back.
Stab, stab, stab. She puts entirely too much enjoyment in acting out the blade going in. I practically feel it.
Where’s the fun in that? I ask her, aiming for a measure of levity. You know, if this were a movie, we’d meet halfway—two semi-deaf people muddling together through a hearing world. All symbolic and shit. What do you think?
She mimes sticking two fingers down her throat.
And something clicks in my head. A new thought, but it has the feel of an old thought that’s been there for a while. Creeping up on me. Waiting for the right moment—the right phrase, perhaps, or simply the right state of mind—to pounce.
Halfway.
The problem isn’t that I’ve lost music. The problem isn’t even that I’ve lost my hearing.
What’s killing me is that I’ve lost my sense of certainty.
Once, I knew what I was, who I was, and where I fit in. Then I lost my hearing, and all that stuff went with it. Playing music, being a guitarist, rocking in a band—none of those roles make sense anymore, no matter how I’ve tried to make them lock together. Overnight, my life went from being a model train kit with tracks stretching out ahead of me to a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing.
I can’t solve the original puzzle. It’s never going to work. But maybe I don’t have to force the pieces I have left into some ghastly mash-up of the picture on the box.
Can I find new pieces and put the puzzle together another way?
I could scream when I realize I’ve been doing just that. Noticing the world more effectively through my remaining senses. Learning Auslan without realizing it, to the point where I can actually communicate concepts as complicated as blindsight and deaf perception, even if it does take a while. Meeting new people who just happen to be Deaf. Catching myself feeling happy once or twice. Considering other careers, no matter how ludicrous. (Calling Dr. Rain, rocket scientist.)
This would have been unimaginable to the Simon Rain who had just lost his hearing. In fact, it’s a betrayal of everything he stood for.
But, well, maybe that’s okay.
Maybe the old me was too busy fighting his battles to realize that he had already lost the war.
Except that’s not the right metaphor. The old me isn’t gone. He’s just . . . learned. Met the new Simon halfway.
And, as impossible as it seems, he’s still me.
I wrench myself out of this sudden epiphany to pay attention to what G’s signing.
You should write the script of that movie, grammar boy. If it’s a smash hit, you can give me half the royalties.
Wait—half?
You still owe me for “Doom Ballet,” remember?
Are you ever going to forgive me for that?
Maybe. Ask again after the first million.
G laughs—hesitantly, but she laughs—and I smile hard back at her, putting all the wordless language I have into that single, silent expression.
Is this an ending or the beginning of something new?
It doesn’t feel like either, exactly. I feel a bit nause
ous, to be honest, and I can’t tell if that’s from relief or fear. The truth is still hard. Being deaf IS. But like music, it isn’t a thing that’s done to me. It’s a thing I’m being.
That G got here ahead of me makes sense: it’s easier to hide from no noise than all noise. She’s had time since her second fall to fight, lose, and see the positive in giving up. That it is an act of giving, not the loss of something.
The concept is slippery in my grip, like if I ease up on it for a moment, it’ll wriggle away. But I can see the shape of it now. Maybe it’s something I can actually have—a future defined not by irrational demands that all things remain the same, but by the promise of change. Even if that change means new relationships with the world, with G, with music . . . possible music . . .
Okay, tired of being angry, G signs, hopping off the bottom step to come join me. Intervention’s over.
Is that what this was?
Yes. How did you like it?
It sucked.
Well, it sucks not having anyone to practice with outside of classes, particularly for someone like me, who hates everyone. Almost everyone.
The sign for everyone is two arms held crossed at the wrists in front of the body, like a barrier, index fingers pointing in opposite directions. Open the arms to expose the body.
We are close enough to turn that sign into a hug, but I don’t press my luck.
Is this you telling me I have a chance?
Maybe. Depends on what you decide to do next.
Well, for starters I’m thinking about a haircut—
Or at least washing it—but seriously, Simon!
And then I guess I’ll sign up to your plan and come back to class. I can’t go through this again.
It gets easier, I swear.
It better. What about giving up being a musician who’s deaf and becoming a Deaf musician?
That’s up to you, don’t you think?
I suppose so.
G looks at me hard, like she’s wondering if I’m trying to talk myself into something, or just telling her what she wants to hear.
Hear? See? English needs new words.
No, I do.
A bird flies behind her, skimming the grass and catching my eye. I look up and only then notice the lightening sky. The pink clouds are gorgeous, so perfectly reflected in the river that the trees seem to shiver in delight. Already, it feels warmer.
So what now? I ask her.
Tell me you came in your car.
Over there, I sign, pointing through this dawn chorus for the Deaf.
She nods. Great. You can give me a lift. And buy me coffee on the way.
I already did that!
Consider it a down payment. Looking forward.
She puts her hands in the pockets of her hoodie—end of conversation—and side by side we set off into the silent sunrise.
Coda
Merely Improbable
March 11
Elder Hall is filling fast. It’s gratifying to see so many people out on such a miserable night. Heavy rain sweeps the streets in watery waves, giving everyone a flustered look as they hurry through the front doors, shedding hats and coats. The foyer smells of damp wool and wine.
I am nervous, even though this is no longer my gig. It belongs to Professor Dorn and all the other composers. Sure, four of the ten concepts are mine, and I wrote the music for three pieces plus the essay in the program booklet, but I’m a participant now, not the all-powerful progenitor.
There’s no sign in Auslan for that last word. I found it in an English thesaurus.
G signs, You good?
Yes, I tell her because it’s true. I came up with Impossible Music thinking it would be a way to ward off the reality of being Deaf. Now, I see it as a step along the road to a new reality—one I’m still negotiating, but at least I’m aware now that it is a negotiation. And it’s not one I have to undertake alone.
G and I escape to our seats in the front row and sit holding hands. The buildup to the concert is a bit of a blur. Too many people and too much talking I can’t understand among the other composers and their families. There’s a blind woman, a young man with Downs, an old guy with one hand, and three others, each with their own story. They’re all in formal dress, which makes me feel like an outsider in faded black jeans and a “Punkin” T-shirt. At least from the neck up, I look slightly respectable, because last month I got rid of my inconvenient, hard-to-maintain rock god hair. Sandra was right, again: it wasn’t as big a deal as I’d feared. Now when I look in a mirror, I don’t see my old me looking back.
G’s hair is white now, in startling contrast with her op-shop tuxedo. Maeve pokes me hard in the back. She’s sitting with Mum, KO, and Prameela, among others. My recent past is crowding in around me, but that’s a good thing. It reminds me of the most important lesson I’ve learned in the last six months.
Dumbass that I am, it never occurred to me that hiding in my room wasn’t going to help Impossible Music reach a Deaf audience. Those days are over, now. Everyone I’ve met in the community is here. I’m amazed and slightly unnerved by the turnout.
What if they hate it?
What if it all goes horribly wrong?
The air feels dense with more than just moisture, as though my preshow fears are taking on literal form. I look up at the heritage-listed ceiling and wonder if the hall has seen anything like this in its history. The Coetzee Centre calls this a world first, but that’s just marketing. For me, it seems like a last chance to connect with music the way I used to. I feel a sharp pang at the thought.
Professor Dorn is suddenly in front of me, holding two thumbs up. Okay? She means, “Ready?”
I nod and point to the stage. Let’s do it!
Then the lights go down. G clutches my hand again.
A spotlight comes up. Professor Dorn steps into it. Aloud, she says a few words that are repeated on the big screen behind her.
Will the hearing please refrain from using the spoken word during this performance? Thank you.
Then a Deaf Aboriginal elder steps into the light to give a welcome in her own sign language. Auslan and English interpreters translate from the side of the stage. The glorious old woman goes off script for a while, and, smiling, the interpreters do their best to keep up.
Then they’re all offstage and the lights go down for a moment.
I hold my breath, which is neither a sign nor a gesture, but is definitely part of the way we communicate with ourselves. Sitting in that illustrious hall with a small piece of the world contained tightly in my chest, I feel the puzzle of my new life piecing together at last.
Something old, something new . . .
The lights come back up, and Dad and Mr. Mackereth walk out on stage, dressed in identical black-and-white-check suits with matching bow ties. They have both shaved their heads. Their scalps shine in the lights.
Opening the concert with the piece I still privately call “Plastic Maps” was not my idea. Programming is Professor Dorn’s responsibility, as was renaming every piece yet again, this time after the notes/color/mood systems devised by Scriabin and Rimsky-Korsakov. “Plastic Maps,” latterly “Concerto for the Other,” is now just called “C,” after the key it’s in. C is apparently innocence, lovesickness, earnestness, red. Minimalism triumphs once more.
The big screen lights up with a view outside. Thankfully the rain has paused, and some unwitting passersby are present to experience what will unfold.
Dad counts in Auslan: 4—3—2—1.
Their cover of “Tokyo Go” begins.
* * *
It has been a whirlwind journey. I’ve written some of it down, but not all, because most of it can’t be written down. The more Auslan I learn, the more I understand that sign language is inscribed on the water of our bodies and swept away in the moment of its creation. That makes it the best means of describing the ephemeral—emotions, lovemaking, music—and, although that makes it useless for a journal, this is in
fact a positive, not a negative.
Auslan is the language of storytelling. And this is my story, with all its mess and tangles, from the beginning of the end to the end of the beginning. From deafness to Deafhood—and this new version of me I’m still getting to know.
Impossible Music may have successfully installed me in the university’s music department, but how seriously will my music ever be taken? Evelyn Glennie and Professor Dorn notwithstanding, a composer who can’t hear will always be a novelty, an oddity, a freak, and I’m not sure I’m prepared for that endless battle as a career choice.
On the other hand, if reading Mahler was like reading a book, why can’t writing words be like writing notes?
I’ve decided to pursue a double major in English, so if music becomes something more like breathing than a career—an essential part of me, but not defining me—I’ll have a backup plan. That crappy rom-com movie version of my relationship with G is what gave me the idea. Deafness isn’t a cross to bear: it’s a story. Some stories are made to be put into words, and I’m good with words, apparently. Lyrics never worked out for me before, but maybe that was because music was getting in the way.
Lyrics without music—possible lyrics—could be the key. What a revelation!
Funny how passion can surprise when you least expect it.
G is at uni too, of course. We spend most of our time bouncing between my place and hers, depending on who’s putting what on the dinner table. I’m thinking about becoming vegetarian for the sole reason that Aunty Lou’s cooking is so damned good. I concentrate on the taste when I eat rather than the absent sound of chewing: it’s part of my therapy, or so I sign to Aunty Lou as I take second helpings. I’ve started burning some of KO’s boyfriend’s incense too, for the smell. For seeing and touch, I have G, which sounds creepy, though of course I like her for much more than that.
Impossible Music Page 20
