by Deeanne Gist
Her own heart heavy, she approached. “Hello.”
Rousing himself, he rose to hold out her chair. “Hello.”
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I was just going to ask you the same thing.” He pushed in her chair.
“I had a horrible day.”
His brows drew together. “What happened?”
“Some parents came to class and tried to whisk one of my students away for a few hours.”
He motioned for Miss Zonderkop to bring a cup of cocoa.
“And that’s bad?” he asked.
She rubbed her temples. “Yes. The students are supposed to stay with us for an uninterrupted six-year period.”
“What does ‘uninterrupted’ mean?”
“It means they never go home.”
He studied her. “Not even for Christmas?”
“Not even for Christmas.”
“Doesn’t that seem a bit excessive to you?”
She sighed. “The parents are allowed scheduled visits as often as they’d like, they just aren’t allowed to take the children off the property.”
“Why?”
“The directors are fearful the parents will use hand gestures during vacation and will undo all our hard work. But you should have seen these parents, Cullen.” Her nostrils flared as she tried to swallow the hurt. “They just wanted to take Kitty out and show her the fair for a few hours. A few hours. I just don’t see the harm in that.”
“I don’t either. Did you let them?”
Her hot chocolate arrived, but she didn’t touch it. “No. Our director came to the classroom and made me tear the child out of her parents’ arms.” She fumbled with the napkin in her lap. “It was awful. Awful.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “Hearing people use hand gestures all the time. We wave, we point, we cross our arms, we stomp our feet. We do all manner of things.”
“So you think signing should be taught instead?”
“No. Lip-reading is very important. My question is, Why can’t we teach both?”
“Why don’t you ask?”
She looked at him. “Maybe I will.” Swiping her eyes, she sniffed and gave him a watery smile. “So how was your day?”
“Not as bad as yours, but not one of my favorites. Still, there was one bright spot.”
She took a sip of cocoa, its warmth soothing her raw throat. “Oh, I would love to hear about something bright.”
“Well then, guess who came by my booth just now?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Ferris.”
She blinked. “The Mr. Ferris?”
“Yes. We talked extensively. He’s an engineer, of course, and takes great interest in all things mechanical. Anyway, he gave me some tickets as a token of good luck for my demonstration.” He reached inside his jacket and withdrew two tickets.
Taking one, she turned it over in her hand. On one side an “F” in fancy calligraphy had been set against ornate scroll designs. On the back, THE FERRIS WHEEL had been printed in a wave-like pattern across the top. Along the bottom, ONE RIDE. “Oh, my goodness. Why did he give them to you, again?”
“As a token of good luck for my demonstration.”
“What demonstration?”
A dimple began to form. His eyes took on a shine. “The director-general said yes. A demonstration of my automatic sprinkler is scheduled for a week from today.”
“Oh, Cullen. That is a very bright spot.” She smiled, her heart lifting. “Congratulations. I’m so proud of you and pleased. You must be ecstatic.”
He gave a shrug. “Relieved would be more accurate. At least I can do something other than stand in my booth all day.”
She took another sip. “And how did the meeting go with the printing works man?”
Unbuttoning his suit jacket, he allowed it to fall open a bit. “He passed.”
She slowly set down her cup. “I’m sorry.”
“It was no surprise, really. I should never have gotten my hopes up.”
“It’s his loss, Cullen. Not yours.”
He lifted one shoulder.
Straightening, she tapped the Ferris wheel ticket with her hand. “What do you say we forget about our troubles for now and instead celebrate the commission’s decision with a ride on this. Everyone has said the wheel is going to be to this fair what the Eiffel Tower was to the Paris Exposition. And I, for one, can’t wait to ride it.”
CHAPTER
35
The line to the Ferris wheel wound clear down to the German Village, but she hardly noticed it. Shoving her situation at work aside, she placed all her focus on Cullen as he told her of his plans for the demonstration and all the preparation it would require.
An Egyptian woman with a hooped nose ring beat her drum in a strange rhythm, momentarily drawing their attention to the Cairo theater. Della would love to see the show, but she knew Cullen wouldn’t want to spend the money, and she’d do well to save hers too.
“Forty people to a car!” A ticket taker let the appropriate number past the wheel’s barricade, which separated them from its loading platforms. The enormous iron spiderweb gave a creak and rumble as excited voices rose all around them.
FERRIS WHEEL CAR
The line surged forward, but before they could reach the front, the barrier was replaced. Still, they were close enough to watch passengers load the cars. Once full, those began to ascend while six more cars settled along the bottom. Sliding doors opened, allowing riders to unload.
Cullen gave her a sharp glance. “Is the height of this going to bother you?”
“No, no. I told you, I wasn’t prepared before. I’ll be fine.”
Calling for more people, the ticket taker let them through.
Anticipation built inside her. She wondered if this would be as thrilling as the toboggan ride. Placing a hand on her hat, she looked up, but the brightness of the sky made her squint and kept her from seeing the height of Mr. Ferris’s engineering marvel.
Someone bumped her from behind, while another man crowded her on the side. Taking her elbow, Cullen tucked her close and guided her toward the middle coach. At its door, she stopped short. Her breath hitched. People swarmed by on either side like a stream rerouting around a stone.
The cage was about the size of a passenger car on a train and held five huge wire screens on opposite sides. Numerous revolving stools were nailed to the floor.
“Della?” Cullen looked down at her, a question in his voice.
Her stomach gave a small objection.
“Is everything all right?” He bent slightly to see below the rim of her hat. “Do you want to turn around?”
It reminded her of the elevator, only bigger.
You’re being silly, she told herself. Start walking. You conquered the elevator. You can conquer this. It’s Cullen’s celebration for receiving the commission’s blessing. Don’t ruin it.
“No, no.” She forced a smile. “I’m fine.”
Someone again bumped her from behind, pushing her forward. She placed one foot in front of the other, her stomach graduating from an unpleasant tickle to a rumbling, nauseating sensation.
The door behind them slid shut with a distinctive click. An attendant dropped a bar across it.
A new tingling danced atop the nausea. That hadn’t happened in the elevator.
“It doesn’t look like there are any two seats together anymore.” Cullen’s voice came to her as if through a long tunnel.
She wanted to turn around. She wanted to run.
The wheel jerked and began an upward descent. She slung an arm out to steady herself.
“Come on.” Cullen guided her toward a vacant stool.
The upward motion was noiseless, like a balloon flying away in the sky.
Her oxygen supply shut off. She stumbled, trying to suck in air, but couldn’t get enough. The tingling turned into a prickling and rose from her stomach to her chest. What was happening?
Cullen
slipped an arm around her and helped her into a seat. “You’re pale as a ghost. Are you all right?”
Don’t leave me, she thought. But she was afraid to speak. She didn’t have enough air to spare. The prickling continued to rise, now from her chest on up to her throat. Its rate of ascent matched that of the wheel’s.
Those on the stools around her nudged Cullen with their knees and shoulders. He stepped away to find himself a seat.
She felt boxed in. Her nausea increased. Look out the window. Look at all that open space.
And when she did, she made the mistake of looking down. The earth was sinking away, slowly, quietly, and at a great distance. The racetrack beyond the park held throngs of carriages and swarming crowds, while little horses galloped in a circle. They were so small it looked as if she could pick the whole thing up and watch the race on the palm of her hand.
The prickling filled her face, spreading out like arms of an octopus. She touched her cheek. It was numb. Her face was numb.
She gasped for air, able to catch only tiny snatches. Just enough to tease her. Just enough to keep her alive.
But for how long?
The whole fair spread out before her—its buildings, lagoons, green turf, and trees. Old Vienna and its bandstand were surrounded by tiny tables with microscopic people drinking beer. And beyond the fair were prairies. Endless prairies.
She sucked in, but no air reached her lungs. No air at all. Oh, Lord. She was dying. She was actually going to die. Right here on the Ferris wheel.
The woman next to her oohed and pointed at something she saw. Her son pressed his face against the strong wire mesh and looked down.
Della bit her lips together to hold back the nausea but had to quickly open them again for air.
Her fingers began to curl of their own volition. Tighter and tighter, they froze into a fist until they too were numb. Why was this happening?
Terror sent shivers through her. Her heart pounded with such speed it would surely leap clear out of her chest. Was her heart failing? Would it cease altogether, or would she instead suffocate in slow agony?
Pulling in snatches of air, she scanned the crowd. Where was Cullen? Where was he?
Then she saw him, weaving through the stools to get to her, his face filled with concern.
What is it? he asked, knowing she could read his lips.
Take me to the hospital.
He didn’t understand, but she couldn’t sign by alphabet because her fists were frozen shut. Still, she stacked her fists, stretched them in front of her and pulled them into her chest. Help me.
His eyes widened. He practically leaped over the last few stools. There was no room for his large body. She shrank back. She needed space. More space.
Scooping her up, he sat on her stool and cradled her in his lap. “What is it?”
She touched her collar with fisted hands, gasping, gasping. “Air,” she croaked. “I need air.”
Cullen thumbed open the buttons at her neck, loosening her collar, spreading her blouse open.
The boy who’d been pressed against the window pointed at her, then cupped his hand over his mouth and said something to his mother. The woman twisted around. One by one, those around them began to stare, having no idea she could read every word they whispered.
What’s wrong with that woman?
She’s sitting on that man’s lap and he’s, he’s undressing her!
Shocking. I never . . .
She averted her gaze. The view the occupants had paid precious money for was no longer as interesting as watching her die. For there was no question now, she was going to die.
Tears rushed to her eyes.
Where was the bright light? The one everyone said you see just before you die? She began to sing “Jesus Loves Me” to herself.
It’s an attack, a man said. She’s having an attack.
Is it contagious? Will we get it?
What’s a woman like that even doing here? Her kind are to be locked up.
That little boy next to her will have nightmares for months.
Quick, cover little Shirley’s eyes.
Della closed her own eyes, but the dark made her dizzy.
She finished the chorus of her song. Just take me, Lord, she thought. Just take me.
Instead, she found the next breath a bit easier. And then the next. Feeling reentered her fingers, a thousand pinpricks stung her skin. She took a tremulous breath, her first real one since she’d stepped into the car.
At some point, Cullen had removed her hat, for she saw it on the floor next to their stool.
Her fingers relaxed. She slowly unfurled them.
Tears rushed up again. It had passed. Whatever it was had passed.
Cullen placed his hand against her face and tucked her head beneath his chin. He swayed from side to side, his arms around her, one hand rubbing her back.
She took deep, healing breaths. Nausea still held her captive, but she could breathe. And she wasn’t numb.
Her heart slowed to match his, which beat with reassuring steadiness against her ear.
“I want off,” she murmured.
“My lap?” he whispered.
“The wheel.”
“It won’t be long now. You’re better?”
She gave a slight nod against his chest, too weak to do more.
The wheel lurched to a stop with a slight creak and a grumble.
She tensed.
Cullen rubbed his lips against her forehead. “Shhh. It’s all right. They’re letting passengers off. There are two more groups after them, then it will be our turn.”
“What if something gives way?” She heard the fear in her voice.
He gave her a gentle squeeze. “The machine is solid. The weight of two thousand people would mean no more to it than a fly on the back of your hand. And we’ve only forty in here.”
She closed her eyes, willing away the image of dangling at the top of the wheel’s cycle. “Did you see the axle at its hub? It’s barely the width of my finger.”
“It’s at least three feet in diameter. It’s the distance that makes it look so small.”
The wheel lurched again, along with her stomach. The second group began to disembark.
After a bit, he smoothed the hair away from her face. “Do you feel like sitting up? We’ll be getting off soon, and I thought you might want to repair your shirtwaist first.”
Placing a hand against his chest, she pushed herself to a sitting position, then tried to remove her glove but was too weak.
He steadied her on his lap, then pulled the fabric of her blouse together and buttoned it, his knuckles and fingers grazing her skin. It had been a long time since anyone fussed over her. She barely recalled the last time her mother had performed such a task.
It felt much different when he did it.
She studied the side part in his hair, tempted to run her hand through it. Tempted to rest her nose against it. Tempted to breathe in his scent.
But air was still too precious and the patrons of the car were shocked enough as it was, so she stayed put.
Lifting her chin, she allowed him to secure the last few buttons. Though she made eye contact with no one, stares pierced her from all around. She wondered if this was how her students felt when people realized they were deaf.
Her eyes widened. They could lip-read. Those sweet, precious children would be able to see every ugly thing people whispered about them.
Cullen lowered his hands to her waist, bracing her for the next lurch. It wasn’t long in coming.
When they stopped again, he scratched his thumbnail against her waist. “We’ll be next.”
She braved a glance over his shoulder. Men eyed her with lasciviousness. Women eyed her with disgust.
For the first time, she experienced what it was like to be “different.” What her students experienced, through no fault of their own, every single day. This was what she had been trying to protect them from. For if they used sign language in public, it wou
ld garner every bit as much attention as she had.
Yet deafness didn’t make them inferior any more than her inability to breathe made her inferior. She was still the same person she’d always been.
“I’m sorry,” Cullen said. “I should have known better. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“It’s my fault. I didn’t expect it to bother me.” She wondered if the entire episode had stemmed from a fear of being closed in or launched up into the air.
“You’re okay, though?”
“For now, I think. My stomach is still upset and my limbs are weak, but the rest has gone away.”
He nodded. “Your color looks much better.”
“I still want off this thing and don’t ever want back on.”
“I don’t blame you. I’m sorry for all the chatter in here. I know you saw it.”
She swallowed, having forgotten he could lip-read enough to garner the gist of the conversations around them. “I think I’d have been more prepared for their comments if I’d known I was going to become so frightened. The whole thing took me by surprise.”
“There’s still no cause for what they said.”
“They didn’t know we’d ‘hear’ them.”
“They knew God would.”
She gave him a slight smile, wanting to rest against him again. To thank him for his fierce protectiveness. It was the same protectiveness she felt for her students.
But she couldn’t be with them forever. At some point, they’d have to face the world and its prejudices. And when they did, would lip-reading be enough? The man from the National Association of the Deaf didn’t think so, and if she were completely honest with herself, she didn’t think so either.
No, her students would need as many tools as they could garner, including sign language. For sign language was not only a tool, it was one of the most critical. As was spending time with their parents. She’d been so tied up in her quest to make the children “normal” she ended up making them abnormal. For what could be more unnatural than being wrenched from their parents’ loving arms when they were barely old enough to dress themselves? And then being separated from them for another five years?
She shook her head. She’d been hindering these children for years, all under the guise of benevolence.
