Interpreter

by Kristy Marie

  I almost shrug and remember her saying it was my tell. “Possibly. The prosthesis is supposed to allow sound vibrations to pass from the eardrum to the inner ear fluids.”

  Her hands go to my shoulders, holding me down as if she’s afraid I will leave. “And you don’t want to try it? Why?”

  The golden question that everyone wonders and only few know the truth. Namely, Dr. Parker. It’s not something I like talking about or sharing. Some wounds will never heal and this… this surgery is my scar.

  “I just don’t,” I lie.

  For a moment she just stares at me, and whatever she finds in my face, brings a softness out of her. “I know you, Timaeus.”

  I almost scoff but don’t. She knows me. She may not know my favorite color or stupid shit like that, but she knows me with a rawness that no one else does.

  “You can trust me. I won’t judge. God knows I’m not perfect.”

  I swallow as her hand moves to my throat. She’s using my own move against me. She’s forming our connection. I bring my hand up and lay it over hers at my throat and then place my other one on her throat. She smiles a sweet and innocent smile, and I know I’m going to fucking tell her.

  “My mother was a singer,” I begin, pushing down the urge to stay silent. “A Grammy Award-winning singer.”

  Milah gasps.

  “I lived out my high school years in a penthouse in a Vegas casino.” I watch her face for any frowns, and when she only remains curious, I keep going. “My dad was her agent, and he secured her a Vegas deal for two years, which he got renewed when she brought in more revenue than the casino anticipated. She was on every billboard. Every radio station. It got so bad that I couldn’t even listen to the radio because I would hear my mom’s voice. You can’t imagine what it was like when you set the mood music to the Top Twenty Countdown… Nothing kills the mood like hearing your mo—”

  Her eyes narrow at the mention of me setting any kind of mood with another female.

  “Anyway,” I move on, “I couldn’t escape her fandom. My mother was the face of Vegas. I led a good life. An easy one. I was declared a musical prodigy at the age of twelve and went to a private school where my academics revolved around my music.” I scoff, thinking about how suddenly things changed. “My future was planned out perfectly.”

  I try to pull my hand from her throat, and she stops me. “Don’t stop.”

  I nod. She deserves the truth.

  “And then she came home one night after her show. She’d been crying, and she and my dad were fighting.”

  I fight the eye contact with Milah, but she leans in and kisses me, keeping my focus solely on her. “She started having symptoms?”

  I nod. “Her father was deaf, so she always knew it was a possibility that she would carry the gene, but when she never showed any symptoms…” I sigh. “She thought she was safe.”

  I remember the devastation on her face. She was never the same after that night.

  “She was off-pitch most of the show that night,” I explain. “Concertgoers were disappointed and filed complaints with the management.”

  “People are so cruel,” she adds, her hand leaving my throat long enough for her to sign.

  I shrug, uncomfortable with this whole conversation. “My father said they paid for a show and they should have received one. If she wasn’t feeling good, she should have canceled.”

  “But she didn’t know it would happen!”

  A grin pulls onto my face as I watch Milah defend a woman whom she’s never met.

  “She didn’t,” I agree. “And I think if she would have known that would happen, she would have spared herself the embarrassment. She would have never wanted to disappoint her fans.”

  “What happened after the show?” She knows the story doesn’t end there.

  I cup more water and watch it rain down her neck. “My father asked her if she wanted to go home—back to our hometown. Back to Georgia, where we had nothing. We were so accustomed to the finer things, so my father blanched when she stayed silent.”

  I can still remember his rage. “Fix this, Penelope. I don’t care what you have to do. Fix it!”

  “She saw so many doctors. Back then they didn’t have as many options as they do today. They offered her hearing aids, which she accepted.” I scoff. “My father flipped out. Told her she couldn’t sing with the hearing aid and use the in-ear monitors on stage.”

  “No offense,” she says, “but your father sounds like a dick.”

  I chuckle. “He was. I mean, he still is. He knew how to manipulate her with his words.”

  “What about Timaeus, huh? Are you going to throw away his chances with the orchestra? Lessons cost money, Penelope! What are we supposed to do? Sing on the street corner and beg for pennies?” I clear my throat and shake off the memory.

  “He used you against her, didn’t he?” Milah isn’t smiling when she asks the question.

  I nod once. “He did. Finally, she found a physician that was offering surgery to correct her hearing loss.” I feel my body tighten underneath Milah’s hands. “By then she was completely deaf.” Milah’s eyes are red and puffy. “And he offered her a cure.”

  I look away for a moment, a heaviness pushing down on my chest. “For the first time in years, she had hope. She began preparing to make another album. She was excited. My father was happy, and that meant she was happy.”

  I turn back and face Milah. This is the part she wants to know. “After surgery, she got an infection. She didn’t realize it, and so it wasn’t caught until her follow up appointment. The day she was supposed to hear again.”

  Milah’s arms hold me close to her.

  “The infection destroyed her inner ear. She was never going to hear again.”

  A tear streaks down Milah’s cheek and into the bubbling water.

  “My mom never recovered. My father not only had an affair, but he waited until she confirmed that she would never sing again before divorcing her and taking half of her fortune.” The rage I have for that man could take down an army. “Last I heard, he found some nineteen-year-old pop star that made him millions. I read in the gossip magazine that they were married a few years later.” I shake my head. “But my mom….”

  “She didn’t take it so well?” Milah asked.

  I shake my head. “She was devastated. Not about the divorce as much. She knew my dad was having an affair. They were already going to divorce before the surgery, it just wasn’t filed until he knew she wasn’t going to be his meal ticket anymore.”

  “I want to junk-punch the bastard.”

  I chuckle at her choice of punishment. “You can’t imagine what I wanted to do to him,” I say, thinking of all the scenarios I thought of throughout the grieving process. “What really affected her the most was losing hope. She had so much hope that she would hear me again. Sing again. Listen to music again.” I swallow past the knot in my throat. “She wanted to hear me play the piano again.”

  “That’s why you didn’t want to play in front of a crowd?” She’s not being nosy. Her earnest expression tells me she only wants to understand me.

  “That’s part of it. The other part is that I’m scared to make a mistake and relive her concert all over.” For once, I finally let it all out, and it doesn’t feel as embarrassing as I thought it would.

  Milah nods and runs a hand through my hair. It’s soothing. “What happened to your mom?”

  A rumbling sound vibrates in my chest. “She became depressed, and when I was off at college, she killed herself.” I leave out the part about her leaving me a note, the deed to the house, and all the bank account information I would need to live a nice life.

  “Oh my God.” Milah pulls me to her chest, pulling my head down to rest in the dip in her shoulder.

  After a moment, I pull back. “It was a long time ago,” I add.

  “Regardless,” she argues, “I can’t even imagine how I would feel if my mami left me so suddenly.” Her fingers drag along my jaw, easing
the unintentional clenching I had going. “Is that why you joined the military?”

  I nod. “Our security guy, King, was a Marine. When I was young, he talked about this brotherhood and, even then, he still met up with those guys. I was alone and didn’t know what to do after college, so I did some research and ended up joining the Marines. I had found that brotherhood he talked about. I was finally getting my life back after her death. I even played the piano in the military band.”

  “But then your hearing started going?”

  I tried not to look away. “Yes. I didn’t pass the physical, and I was honorably discharged.” I laugh a bitter and cold laugh. “I was so fucking lost. I went back to my mother’s home she bought when she moved from Vegas. All I saw was her and music and failure. So, I left. I promised myself I wouldn’t be like her. I wouldn’t have hope because I wouldn’t love anything. That day, I killed the old Timaeus. Tim didn’t need a home. The street was just fine. The new Tim wouldn’t ever play music again.”

  My lips purse, and I take a deep breath. “I became homeless—a wreck of a man until Anniston found Hayes, Vic, Mason, and me.”

  Milah places a gentle kiss to my lips. “You got better being at the foundation.”

  “I did. I didn’t want to, but eventually, the hate started to lessen as I found a family again. A brotherhood.”

  Milah’s head tilts just slightly. “Are all of the guys Marines?”

  I grin. “They are.”

  “Huh. It’s like fate put you all together.”

  I shrug. “Maybe.”

  “So, you don’t want the surgery because you’re afraid it won’t work?”

  “I’m not afraid,” I snap.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean it that way. I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t want to try. What if it does work?”

  And what if it doesn’t? I never want to feel that kind of pain again. The pain of losing everything. Hope is a dangerous thing to lose. “I don’t need it. I’m fine the way I am.”

  At least, I thought I was.

  Ten times.

  That’s how many times Tim has peeked behind the curtain to stare at the packed Performing Art’s Center crowd. Part of me thinks I should say something. Something encouraging. Something consoling. But I know him better now, and the last thing he wants me to do is baby him.

  So, I’m not going to.

  I’m going to stay strong and make sure he knows he’s not alone on the stage tonight.

  I’m going to show my support the only way I know how.

  I’m going to take off my shoes.

  One and then the other, I slip off the sparkly heels that match perfectly with the champagne-colored gown. I felt like a princess this evening when I stared in the mirror, taking in my reflection. My hair is curled and pulled to one side of my shoulder. The teardrop-shaped fake diamonds dangle from my ears like a reminder of the gift I’ve been given. I’m going to go out there with the bright lights heating my cheeks and wait on my cue. Then I’m going to let every ounce of confidence that Felipe, Mami, and Abuelita instilled in me flood my soul. And I’m going to sing.

  Sing for Tim who will never hear a single note again.

  I’ll sing for Mami and her sacrifice to provide a better life for her only daughter.

  I’ll sing for Oliver who hovers at Tim’s side, itching to take his hand. But even he knows Tim needs a moment.

  But most of all, I’m going to sing for me and the last time I’ll ever get the opportunity to sing for these kids. For this community. For this country. For this man.

  I’m leaving everything out there on the stage tonight.

  I’ve earned it.

  Placing the shoes together on the floor where no one will stumble, I walk to Tim’s side and squeeze Oliver in a tight hug. I sign, reminding him to “Always be brave. Especially when you’re scared.”

  He nods, and we both stare at Tim’s back.

  He hasn’t moved from his position by the curtain. Tightness takes hold of my chest. Gah. I want to take him in my arms so bad. But I need to be brave for the both of us.

  I place my hand on his shoulder, and he whips around to face me. I don’t sign this time. Instead, I speak. “Are you ready?”

  He swallows thickly, expelling a deep breath.

  Interpretation: Fuck no, but I’m not going to pussy out.

  My smile is forced, but he can’t see it anyway since he bows his head, nearly resting it on the top of mine. We stay still, Oliver at our side, watching our every move, waiting to see what his mentor is going to do when suddenly his head pops up and he says very clearly and incredibly raspy, “Why are you so much shorter than usual?”

  I can’t even take offense to his question. I am short, and without heels, I could be mistaken for one of the kids. Except for the boobs—nothing small about those babies. Wiggling my toes, I grin and slowly pull my dress up, watching as his nostrils flare and his throat bobs with an emotion that he only allows me to see when we’re alone.

  “Where are your shoes?”

  When he doesn’t meet my eyes, I clasp both sides of his face and lift his gaze to mine. “I wanted to hear it like you do.”

  That strong jaw under my hand flinches as he tries to pull away, but I don’t let him.

  “Will you let me listen with you?” I plead. “Let me do this with you, Timaeus.”

  A sound plunks next to me, and Tim follows my gaze to below us where Oliver is stripping off his own shoes with fervor.

  A deep and tortured sound rumbles through Tim’s chest, and I know he won’t fight us on this anymore. I pull his chin from the boy, who turned his world upside down, and beg for the last time, “Let us share this moment with you?”

  Mahogany eyes, which are much prettier than mine, gloss over. He swallows and places a warm and patient kiss to my forehead and steps back. I’m not sure if that’s his consent or if he’s about to walk away, but when he bends down, grabbing Oliver by the shoulders and pulling him into a hug, I know.

  He’s letting us in.

  He’s letting us stand in this moment with him.

  He’s letting us hear.

  Someone yells backstage, breaking our moment, and I touch Tim’s shoulder to let him know that it’s time. Slowly he pulls away from Oliver, giving him a kiss on the top of his ruffled hair. He stares at me for a moment, making me a little uncomfortable. And then he bends down, unlacing the polished shoes, and places them beside the much smaller ones.

  “I’m ready,” he whispers before wiping the rogue tear trailing down my cheek.

  I can’t help it; I have to tell him. Well, I sign it. He needs to know he’s perfect. Deafness does not define him. In fact, it makes him even more incredible than he already is.

  With a round of signs, my fingers move quickly in front of my chest. “You are an incredible man. I couldn’t be any prouder of you than I am right now.”

  His mouth quirks like he’s about to tell me to hush, but I don’t care. He’s going to listen to me.

  “She would be so proud of you.”

  I bet she already was, but I think he needs to be reminded that she, especially, would be so proud in this moment.

  Several slow swallows follow my statement before he finally responds with a simple chin tilt. It may not seem like much, but for Tim, it’s monumental. He just admitted that a) I was right, and b) his mother would, in fact, be very proud of the man she raised.

  Ms. Peak approaches us and looks at us with a no bullshit type look. “Two minutes,” she tells us.

  I look at Tim and purposely don’t sign. “Are you ready?”

  He looks at Ms. Peak and then again at me and confirms, “I’m ready.”

  “We’ll go on your cue,” I confirm for Ms. Peak, signing along with my words. She nods, beaming with pride at all three of us. We’ve worked so hard for this moment.

  I kiss the man fantasies are made of on the cheek before ruffling Oliver’s hair a little more. “You ready, kiddo?”

/>   He nods and smiles before signing to Tim, “Break a leg, Mr. Lambros.”

  Have mercy. These boys are ruining me.

  Chuckling, Tim holds out his fist, and the much smaller version of him returns his fist bump. Alcoholics call moments like this a moment of clarity. Well, I’m not an alcoholic, but for the first time in my life, I realize what they are talking about. Clarity. And for me, the realization—the clarity—is that I bought a plane ticket last night that will take me far away from these two men. Two men that mean the world to me.

  My heart aches inside my chest when Tim nudges me and mouths, “It’s showtime.”

  Is it? Shit. I was so wrapped up in my two boys that I completely missed the flashing light.

  Masking my fear of getting deported in another week, I take his callused hand in mine and tug him and Oliver through the heavy curtains. The first thing I notice is the silence. Heavy and weighted down. The anticipation hangs in the air like a fog.

  And then the chanting starts.

  A distinct cadence only heard by the military reverberates through the curved walls. “Oorah,” repeats over and over, as I search for the source while Tim watches on, confused, until we spot her. Standing in her chair, Anniston Von Bremen cheers on our boy, taking the attention away from him for just a moment until she’s joined by the entire McCallister-Jameson Foundation. One by one they stand, chanting—rooting on—their fellow Marine. Even Pe and Marcus are on their chairs, chanting for my boy. Tears threaten to fall from my heavily made-up eyes when I look at Tim. Seeing the act of solidarity from his family—our family—makes his chest work under his suit before he clears his throat, finding his strength.

  What he does next will forever be engrained in my memory.

  Timaeus Lambros, bare feet and all, stands at attention and salutes our families.

  Not one soul dares interrupt their moment as each of them return his coveted salute. It’s a moment you know will never be repeated in your lifetime. Honor and bravery are rarely witnessed up close. And I’ve now seen it several times in Tim’s presence.

  Once they all drop their hands, the audience stands, and their applause fills the air around us. I chance a look back at Oliver, hoping he sees this monumental show of bravery and solidarity when I see his big eyes dripping tears onto his bare feet.