by Anna Martin
Of course this blatant favoritism laid the foundation for a lifetime of resentment and distrust between Jo and his siblings. He carried traces of his father’s racism, homophobia, and bigotry. He started to believe the hype, saw himself as genuinely a better child, a better heir to their father’s name and small fortune than Ilse and Luc. Not that he ever voiced those opinions, but his actions spoke plenty.
So unless there was a time when Luc was ready to introduce a partner to his whole extended family, Johannes wouldn’t know his younger brother was a flaming queer.
Luc went to school that day feeling lighter, like his burden had been shared. Not that Caleb was a burden, but it was undeniable that having someone else know about their relationship made it feel a little more real.
He sent messages to Caleb a few times during the day, knowing that the last twenty minutes of his lunch period overlapped with the first twenty minutes of Caleb’s, so it was a good time to catch him for a quick conversation. No one at his lunch table needed to know why he was glued to his phone. They probably thought he was just playing Candy Crush.
They made a tentative agreement to catch up online later in the evening, and that thought fortified Luc, giving him strength to push through the afternoon’s calculus class. Caleb would be at his photography club for a few hours after school, so Luc would have a chance to get caught up on his homework. It was going to work out just fine.
9. Modifications
There wasn’t always time in the evenings for long conversations, but Luc got used to building time into his day to talk with Caleb, even if it was only for a couple of minutes. A few times a week they threw caution, and homework, to the wind and turned on the webcams to be able to hold a proper conversation.
Luc found himself living for these moments. No matter what was going on in his head, or at school, or with his family, he had Caleb.
So, I got some good news today…. My doctor has suggested me for a trial of a new cochlear implant, Caleb typed.
“A what?” Luc asked.
Over the webcam, Caleb laughed. Luc wasn’t sure if Caleb knew or not, but the microphone attached to his computer worked, and Luc put the sound up when they spoke online. It meant he could hear the clattering of the keys when Caleb typed, and on the rare instances when Caleb made any sort of sound, he could hear that too.
Since Luc was still learning ASL, Caleb typed his side of these webcam conversations when things got too complicated for Luc to be able to understand the signs. It took longer this way, but Luc was patient. Really, he was just pleased that Caleb was being so patient with him. He watched as Caleb sucked on his bottom lip as he typed.
Caleb: A C.I. It’s a little device that they attach to the inside of my ear, to the auditory nerve, that’ll do the work of the cochlea and send sound signals to my brain. It’s an operation to put it in, though.
“So you’ll be able to hear again?”
Caleb: That’s the idea. It takes time, though. It doesn’t just happen overnight.
“Sure. Wow. That’s amazing.”
Caleb was beaming when he nodded.
Caleb: Yeah. My parents can’t afford to pay for me to have it done, and there’s a really long waiting list. But my doctor heard of this trial that one of the implant manufacturers is running for a new device, and he said that I’m “physically, a perfect candidate.”
That much I agree with, Luc typed, accompanying his words with a cheeky grin over the camera. He hadn’t seen Caleb this bright and animated while talking about his deafness… ever.
Caleb: Haha. He means I’m young and fit and healthy.
“Yes, you are.”
Caleb: Stop it. It would mean I’d be able to hear you, Luc.
“I know,” Luc said, smiling. “I really hope it works out.”
“Me too.” Caleb hesitated for a moment, then scratched his nose. “Luc?”
Caleb had created his own shorthand sign for Luc’s name. It saved him having to sign each letter every time. In his home sign, he had a shorthand version of his own name, one his mom had made up when he was still a kid. The “Luc” sign was made with the right hand, index finger and thumb extended to make an L shape. Then Caleb tucked the fingers in quickly to turn the L into a C. The first time he’d shown it to Luc, Luc had developed that ache in his chest again.
“Yes?” Luc signed back.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“How did your dad die?” Caleb asked.
Luc startled for a moment at the question, then forced himself to relax.
“Cancer,” he said carefully. “Throat cancer.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
Luc shook his head. “I’m not.”
“You didn’t get along with him, did you?”
“No.” Wasn’t that just the understatement of the year? “No. My dad didn’t understand me, or why I dress like this, or why I like the things I do… I was an inconvenience to him.”
Luc rolled his shoulders and tried not to let this be a big deal.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“I know. I think I want to.”
“Okay. I’m here.”
Luc wasn’t even sure where he wanted to start. There was so much to tell. Trying to help Caleb understand the years of resentment that had built up between father and son was almost impossible. He didn’t want to get into the finer details of it all, how he’d been forced to listen to his dad call him a “fag” most days since he turned thirteen years old and it became increasingly obvious he was never going to be like his older brother. He didn’t know how to explain to Caleb, who had two parents who loved him, that his mother was an emotionally distant alcoholic who laughed off his father’s malicious needling as harmless teasing and told Luc to “man up” when he complained to her about it.
Only Ilse understood. Luc thought that she stepped into that parenting role when she saw just how bad a job his mother and father were doing of raising a kid that maybe wasn’t like other kids. Luc didn’t even need special treatment… he just wanted his parents to accept him.
“The worst part is,” Luc said slowly, wanting to turn away but knowing Caleb wouldn’t be able to understand if he did, “I’m not even sad he’s dead. And that probably makes me a really fucking horrible person.”
“I don’t think so.”
Luc laughed humorlessly. “My mom would think that way if she found out. When he died, all I could think was ’thank God.’ Thank God I don’t have to put up with him anymore. Thank God I’ll never have to listen to him call me ‘fag’ again, or watch him look at me with disappointment when I turn up for dinner wearing eyeliner, or even have him blatantly ignore me in favor of talking to Johannes all the damn time.”
“No one should be treated like that by their own parents, Luc.”
“I don’t even care,” he said, shrugging it off like he always did. “I have Ilse.”
“What about your mom?”
“What about her? She spends her days getting drunk, but expensive drunk, which makes it socially acceptable. Of course no one at the cocktail bar at the Four Seasons knows she’s completely fucking broke, so she’s allowed to keep a tab open there on the understanding that it’ll get paid eventually. Most of the time, Ilse calls them at the end of the month and throws the dollars she earns working fourteen-hour days at the bill. I doubt my mom even notices that someone paid it for her.”
“Luc.”
“It’s okay,” Luc said, because he was used to saying it and because sometimes it really was okay. “Sometimes all you need in life is that one really bright thing, you know? A beautiful person who makes getting up in the morning totally worthwhile.”
Caleb smiled and touched his fingers to the screen. Luc did the same, as if they could reach through their computers and just feel the simple reassurance of skin next to skin.
“Caleb?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you want to spend spring break with me?”
> Caleb laughed, delighted. “Yes. Absolutely.”
Luc leaned back and pressed his hand to his chest. Good. This was good.
His mother swept in, looking for all the world like she owned it. Once, she had.
No one needed to know that those crisply pressed slacks weren’t Ralph Lauren—they were from Gap. Or that her delicate blouse came from the sale rack in Bloomingdale’s, and it probably wasn’t a brand name at all.
These days, the pearls at her throat and ears were fake, only noticeable to those who were familiar with the real thing. Luc was. He’d grown up watching his mother carefully apply her designer makeup, spritz perfume at her throat from an antique French bottle. Luc was one of the few people who knew how far she’d fallen and how hard they’d all worked to crawl their way back up.
“Lucien,” she said, using Luc’s full name, as she liked to do.
There was just the faintest hint of German in her voice. He looked up from his laptop and smiled as she carefully brushed the flat of her hand over his hair.
“You look tired, sweetheart. How was your day?”
He nodded and set the laptop aside. If she wanted to talk with him, well, he’d talk.
“I didn’t sleep very well last night,” he said, neglecting to mention the hours he’d stayed awake trying to cram on his ASL studies.
His mom tutted and perched on the coffee table. “You need your rest if you are going to do well in school.”
Luc shrugged. “How about you?”
“Ach, you know how it is,” she said with a smile and a shrug. “Courting those who hate me, pretending to listen to those on death’s door.”
“They don’t hate you, Mom.”
She laughed brightly. “Oh, they do, sweet boy. But that’s okay. I’ve had plenty of time to get over it, as you like to say.”
“So, did any good come out of it?” Luc asked, tucking his bare feet up underneath himself on the sofa.
“Maybe. One of them offered me a job within a family business.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It’s for an antiques store on the Upper East Side. Apparently my knowledge of fine jewelry has been noted.”
“Are you going to take it?”
His mom smiled and nodded. “We have negotiated three mornings a week, to begin with. On a very handsome salary.”
“That’s good. Congratulations,” Luc said. He wouldn’t go to her, offer hugs or kisses or any physical displays of affection. His mother had discouraged that since he was a little boy, not wanting dirty hands on her immaculately cared for clothes. A nod of thanks, a kiss on the cheek in greeting, these things were acceptable.
“We will stay with Ilse for now,” his mom said.
“Yeah. I like it here.”
“Me too,” she said with a little conspiratorial smile. “But it is unfair to impose for too long or overstay our welcome.” She stood then, and brushed invisible wrinkles from her pants. Luc pulled the laptop back toward him but touched his mom’s wrist when she stepped away.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
He smiled, hoping that was enough. She chuckled lightly, cupped his cheek briefly in her hand, then disappeared to ask Ilse about ordering dinner. Frances would never cook. They’d had help before, but not now. That’s what his mother had called them—the help. Not maids and cooks and cleaners, but those who would aid her in doing what a lady of her standing shouldn’t be expected to do for herself.
There was no doubt that they’d never be best friends, Luc and his mother. But she’d never once judged or complained when he’d grown his hair out and dyed it black, or when he started painting his nails and wearing makeup. Her acceptance came in the form of still insisting that he join her for lunch in a prissy restaurant, even when he was wearing jeans and battered Chucks and his Black Sabbath T-shirt.
There had never been a shortage of stuff for the kids at school to make fun of. His mother wasn’t young and trendy. She’d been in her forties when she had her youngest child, making her the same age as some of his peers’ grandparents. And she was German Dutch, which some assholes thought meant “Nazi.” And because she was a first generation immigrant, coming to New York to live with an aunt when she was in her early twenties, she still had an accent—albeit one she worked hard to disguise.
His family wasn’t the same as everyone else. He got a hybrid French and German name, same as his siblings, and used to wish he had just been named Brad or Alex or Josh so there was one less thing for the bullies to pick on.
That was before he started dressing differently.
These days he rarely got picked on. Going to a school in the middle of Manhattan was surely a blessing. Unlike his old private school, people here were a lot more laid back. There were kids at this school who had gay parents, or had parents who worked in art or music or theater. There was less judgment.
Left on his own again, Luc pulled his laptop out and opened it, pulled up his Tumblr page and scrolled until he found one of Caleb’s posts. Frowning, he started to read.
Caleb sat down at his computer and pulled up his blog, fingers itching to write something, to get all of this nervous energy out of his system. He had never been much of a writer, but there was something in the air tonight—the thrumming electricity of an approaching storm. Caleb cracked his fingers and started to type.
Tuesday:
Things around me continue to change, and, as always, I feel like I’m running in place to try and catch up. People in my class are talking about college, making preparations to move away. I’m not ready for that yet. I don’t know what the future holds for me, and it’s terrifying at times.
I’ve only ever lived here, with my parents, so how am I supposed to move into a dorm? It takes a while for people to understand me. What about parties? Will I ever make friends? This is supposed to be the most exciting time in my life. I’m literally on the edge of one of the biggest changes that happen in our teenage years. It’s the time when we’re supposed to grow up.
I’m ready to be an adult, and I want to go to college. The details, though? Those scare the crap out of me.
I am sick and tired of my disability being somehow integral to my person. I know my abilities far outweigh the one ability I’m missing. It’s one ability! One sense. One thing that nearly everyone else has.
I am not mentally deficient. I am not “retarded”. I am not suffering from a “learning disability.” I am a straight-A student who is consistently in the top 10 percent of my class. But in at least four of my classes, probably five, my teacher won’t call on me to answer a question or solve a problem. Not ever. I am excluded from the “class participation” part of the grade, even though I could probably do it if they gave me a chance. It’s easier to exclude me, though, than to actually figure out a way to involve me.
I am more than my disability. So why is it when I’m in line at the movie theater and the guy serving popcorn catches sight of my hearing aids he suddenly needs to disappear out back, leaving someone else to deal with me? Why is it that people think they need to speak slowly, to point things out, to write things down to make sure I get it? Why is it that I’m constantly treated like a social outcast?
The biggest lie is that my inability to hear your words means I am unable to understand what you mean. When my school counselor asks “What do you want for your future?” she means “Who would want to marry you?” She means “How will you raise children?” She means “How will your children learn how to be normal, when you’re not?”
I want to answer and tell her I want to wake up one morning with my husband’s head on my chest and be able to hold him and listen to our kids playing downstairs, hear the birds outside our window. That’s it. That’s all I want. And I think I know who I want that man to be, but shit, I’m only eighteen. Maybe that doesn’t matter yet.
Because I’m deaf the message that’s sent to me is that I’m somehow damaged, that disabled people don’t have the same happy, contented lives as able-bodied pe
ople. It’s been implied by my own teachers that I’m incapable of raising children who can hear because I can’t. Like somehow the ability to hear is linked to my ability to love? They don’t even know I’m gay. There’s no way in hell I’d tell them.
All I know is, when I look into the future I want the same thing as so many other people all over the world. I want a husband and a couple of kids. Is that so much to ask?
He sat back in his chair, heart pounding, angry tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Without thinking or reading back over what he’d written he pressed the Publish button and sent his rant out for the whole world to read, if they wanted to.
It felt like only moments later that a chat window pinged up in the corner of his screen. Luc. Of course.
Luc: You okay?
Ignore me, Caleb typed before Luc could get any further. Just a bad day.
Luc: Want to talk about it?
Caleb paused for a moment and realized it was the offer that made all the difference. He pulled up his webcam and connected to a video-chat window. It was something of a shock and a novelty to realize there was someone on the other end of these posts. There was someone reading and caring, and he didn’t have to go through it all on his own. That in itself was almost enough.
With a smile, Caleb waved hello.
10. Out pt2
There was only one problem with spending spring break with Luc: he’d have to tell his parents about his relationship, especially if he was planning to spend a whole week in New York. He spoke to Marshall at the Deaf Youth group again, who calmed Caleb’s nerves and told him that honesty was always the best policy. Since Marshall had known Caleb’s mom and dad for years, Caleb thought he probably couldn’t go wrong following that advice.
He barely touched his dinner, prompting his mom to ask repeatedly if he was okay. In the end Caleb set his silverware down carefully—very carefully—and rubbed his palms on his thighs to dry the sweat that had gathered there.
