I envied Mom. Her farm tales sounded fun. While milking the cow, she would sneak in a drink directly from the udder. She described how the chickens were killed: “My father would hold them by their necks and cut off their heads. Then, they would run around flapping with blood spurting out of their necks.”
“They were still alive?” My young mind had difficulty imagining such a scene.
Mom was not afraid of anything. A snake? Not a problem. She’d split it in half with a shovel. Bat? She’d grab a broom, open the bedroom window, and lure the bat out of the closet. Huge hairy spider? She smashed it with a napkin. Mouse? After Mom released the dead mouse from the trap, she would hold it by its tail and chase us to test our reactions. I never questioned her ability to protect my siblings and me from nature’s harm.
Everything my siblings and I did, Mom insisted she was capable of doing the same, and even better than us. She could run as fast as we could. She could beat us in an arm-wrestling contest. She could twirl a Hula-Hoop without letting it fall. She could ride a bike without holding the handlebars – that is, until the day she took a bad fall and learned her lesson. Not to mention all the board games she would win. She was no merciful player either. If Mom lost, it meant one of us had cheated. If we denied it, she would demand a rematch.
My friends thought Mom was cool. She participated in our games, helping us find good places to hide during hide and seek. At night, when we were ready to sleep, Mom would sneak outside to spook us through the bedroom window, scaring us out of our skin. Mom would show off her strength by flexing her muscles; my friends’ jaws would drop seeing how strong Mom was.
You could tell how hard a worker Mom was just by looking at her hands. They were not smooth and silky. Every spring, she and Dad planted vegetables – corn, potatoes, lima beans, string beans, peas, zucchini, squash, tomatoes, cucumbers, green peppers, and onions. We also grew strawberries, watermelons, and cantaloupes. After harvesting, Mom would either freeze or can the summer bounty.
Indeed, Mom was a superwoman. She was the one who could do it all. She was our housekeeper. She was our cook. She was our hairdresser and barber. She was our seamstress. She was our banker. And so much more.
Unfortunately, what Mom couldn’t do were the things I needed most from her.
Chapter 3
1978
My younger sister Connie walked into our bedroom and burst into tears.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“I don’t want to call,” she sobbed. No explanation was needed. Mom or Dad had asked her to make a phone call. To whom, I wasn’t sure. It could be that Dad wanted her to call someone regarding a letter or a bill that he had received. It could be that Mom wanted her to schedule a doctor’s appointment. It could be that Dad wanted her to relay a message to someone.
“Don’t,” I commanded.
“Mom will be so mad.”
“I’ll go to talk to her now,” I said.
“No,” she pleaded. “Please don’t. She will get angry.”
I ignored Connie and stormed out of our bedroom. I had assumed the role of peacemaker, settling disputes or misunderstandings between Mom and Dad and my siblings (and at times people outside home). I was overprotective of my siblings, especially Connie, because she was next in line. Unfortunately, I was not around them much. I lived at the Maryland School for the Deaf (MSD), and I was home only on weekends, forty-nine hours to be exact, not including holidays and summers.
When I was away at school, all the responsibilities that would have normally been mine fell on her shoulders. To make matters worse, she was hearing, which meant she had one added responsibility that I did not have to deal with – interpreting.
It had happened one time too many and I was fed up. Why couldn’t Mom or Dad understand? Connie was only a child.
“Who did you want Connie to call?” I asked.
Mom looked at Dad. “See. Connie always tattle-tells. Connie does not want to help us. You all never want to help,” she accused me.
“Not true!” I argued back. I listed all the times we had helped her. But it didn’t matter. Mom wouldn’t listen. As always, Dad just stood there, speechless. He was never much help.
“Sue is very lucky! Very, very lucky,” Mom said. “Missy always helps Sue and Bill. She never complains. Same with Dawn. She always helps her parents. Right?” Mom looked at Dad.
Dad said nothing.
Mom continued: “Connie always complains. Complains!”
“Connie is so young,” I tried to make Mom and Dad understand. “Some of the words are hard for her to interpret. She does not know those people, so she does not feel comfortable talking. Why don’t you ask Grandma or Harold to help you?”
“Not Grandma’s business to know who we want to call. If I ask Harold, he would wonder why I don’t ask my own children. Connie can call. I know she can do it.”
“You just don’t understand.” The minute I said it, I wished I hadn’t.
“You think I’m stupid?” Mom glanced at Dad. “See. She thinks I’m stupid! I knew it.”
Dad finally tried to intervene. He looked at both of us and said, “Just forget it.” As if that would resolve our problem.
“I never said the word stupid. I did not say that! You added that word yourself. I said you don’t understand why Connie does not want to call,” I tried to explain. “Some words are hard for her. Better to ask Grandma or someone else so that there’s no misunderstanding.”
“Ha! Connie knows the words. You all don’t help because you don’t love me. I know it,” Mom reasoned. She added, “If I die, you wouldn’t care.”
“Not true! Please don’t say that,” I begged. This kind of talk scared me, but at the same time it never made me stop arguing with her. She had threatened numerous times in the past that she would go into the garage, get in the car, start the motor, and let it run so that the carbon monoxide would kill her.
I let out an exasperated sigh as I stormed out of the room – another day and another bungled attempt at expressing our thoughts and feelings.
Chapter 4
Early years with Dad
People often tell me that I looked like Dad. We have similar features, except for our ears – his are quite large. I also inherited his laid-back personality. We both grew up attending the same residential school – MSD. Dad graduated with the class of 1959, and I would in 1985. We even shared the same teacher, Ms. Mooring, in elementary school; she seemed so old to me, wrinkles and all. She liked to tell me how she always had to tie Dad’s shoes when his laces came loose.
Everyone in our hometown seemed to know Dad. He was not famous, mind you, but everywhere we went, there’d be at least one person walking over to shake Dad’s hand. The person extending his hand would begin to talk, and Dad would smile and nod as if he understood everything. I would nudge Dad and say, “You don’t even know what he said.” As soon as the person stopped talking and left, Dad would begin reminiscing about how he’d known that person in the old days. You see, Williamsport was a small town of less than 1,800 people. My dad grew up here. My grandfather graduated from Williamsport High School and was known as a great athlete. My paternal great-grandfather was well-known in the community; he was a county superintendent of roads, and served as a board member of our local bank. Several of my relatives still lived in the area. Because Dad was Deaf, I suppose, he was someone people didn’t easily forget.
Dad had a strong work ethic. Right after his graduation, he was employed by Moller Organ – a factory that manufactured handcrafted pipe organs. His work was unique – he was Deaf, and yet, he was a part of the company that built pipe organs which produced beautiful sounds in churches all over the world. His work required sharp eyes and precise measurement, and he was proud of his contribution to organ-making.
Dad was a friend to all – young and old, hearing and Deaf, uneducated and educated. We k
new several Deaf elderly people who did not have driver’s licenses, and Dad would gladly take them places – the annual summer Deaf picnic in Boonsboro, MSD reunion gatherings, and other Deaf-related events. I loved to tag along, and when I received my license, I also volunteered to take our older friends for their medicine, grocery shopping, or on errands.
Dad was proud of his good deeds and liked to tell me how the “world” couldn’t manage without him. How he had taught his friends to play baseball. How his co-workers had depended on him to cover their duties at work, yet no one could cover Dad’s station. How he was the first among his high school classmates to purchase a car with his own money and would chauffeur his friends around town after graduation because they didn’t have cars.
Traditions were very important to Dad. We ate turkey or ham four times a year – Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, and on his birthday. He expected the same dishes to be served at each of those special occasions. And speaking of food, supper was served every afternoon at 4:30 p.m. sharp. He was never home late from work, always arriving between 4:21 and 4:23 p.m. He would put his black lunch box on the kitchen counter and wash his face and hands in the bathroom before sitting in his usual place at the table.
Dad was a huge fan of the Baltimore Orioles, the University of Maryland basketball, and the Washington Redskins. My Sundays – before returning to school – were spent sitting in front of the TV with him. He was forever telling me trivia about the players, and I even learned the players by their names. Dad rarely became angry, but if a referee made a lousy call or a player made a stupid mistake, we’d see his temper flare. But his anger was never directed toward us kids. He never laid a finger on us. In fact, if Mom sent us to our rooms, he’d let us out as soon as she left the house.
Dad gave me what he could, the only way he knew how. Yet his soft heart and good nature couldn’t give me what I needed most. I needed a “daddy.” But that just couldn’t be.
Chapter 5
May 1989
Grandma and I stepped into a small florist located several miles from our home. I had passed this storefront growing up but had never been inside the shop. As I stood next to Grandma, my eyes scanned the flowers on display. Grandma proudly introduced me to the florist, resting her hand on my arm. I smiled as they chatted. Throughout the conversation, Grandma kept patting my arm. I had no idea what was being exchanged, although I knew they were talking about me. The florist kept stealing glances at me and smiling.
Grandma was probably telling the florist that I had recently graduated from Gallaudet and that I was now working as a psycho-social counselor in Baltimore, with Deaf and chronically mentally ill clients. I knew she was proud of me and my accomplishments.
I grew up next door to my grandma. I loved her dearly, despite her inability to communicate with me in depth. She knew some basic signs, but beyond that, we depended on paper and pen. I knew she loved me. Every time I walked into the house, she would drop everything she was doing to greet me.
“May I see the flowers?” I gestured, Grandma relaying the message. The florist immediately put on her professional front and escorted me to a tiny table that held two books. After I settled into one of the chairs, she resumed her conversation with Grandma.
It didn’t take long before I fell in love with the most beautiful bouquet – a bright, colorful mixture of delphinium, daisies, stargazer lilies, statices, and freesia. Small green leaves complemented the arrangement.
“Oh, pretty,” Grandma agreed.
I looked at Grandma with a thankful heart as the florist filled out our order. Grandma had offered to pay for the flowers. And, bless the florist’s heart, she gave us a discount. It helped that Grandma and the florist had a long-standing relationship; they had worked together for many years. As a member of Zion Evangelical Lutheran Church, Grandma was responsible for setting up flowers in the sanctuary.
Actually, she had a lot of responsibilities at the church. She even had her own key. I would often accompany Grandma to church on Saturdays while she made sure everything was ready for the Sunday service. I would just roam around, looking at nothing in particular, not paying attention to what she was doing. But I knew God played an important role in Grandma’s life – beyond her service to her church. At home, I would find her sitting in her favorite armchair in the living room, with the Bible open on her lap, reading. Though she never talked to me about it, her actions displayed her deep love and reverence for our Lord.
Chapter 6
Fall 1980
It was a typical Friday when our bus pulled into the high school parking lot. I scanned the lot and spotted Grandma’s car. Mom would pick me up some Fridays, but mostly it was Grandma.
When the bus rolled to a stop, ten or so of us got up and stood in a line. We moved slowly as each person, elementary through high school, stepped off the bus. We waited patiently as the bus driver hopped out, walked to the rear side of the bus, and opened the compartment containing everyone’s belongings.
During my elementary years, I had a black suitcase; the tag attached spelled my full name. Every piece of clothing packed into the suitcase had my name sewn in it. As I got older, I outgrew the small black suitcase, and my clothes were no longer identified with my name.
This afternoon I had my blue suitcase in hand, and I walked across the parking lot to Grandma’s car, opened the back door, tossed the suitcase on the seat, and flopped into the front seat. Not much was exchanged between us; our conversation would have to wait until sometime during the weekend, when we would sit by her tiny table in the kitchen with paper and pen, writing back and forth.
When I arrived home, I opened the front door and went straight to my room to change into comfortable clothes, as always. I also checked, out of habit, to ensure that my diary was in its place under my winter sweaters on the shelf Dad had built inside my closet. This time my diary was not underneath the first sweater. Perhaps I had put it between the second and third. Not there, either. My heart began to race as I groped everywhere – underneath, inside the sweaters, and behind the pile of sweaters.
I backed out of the closet, trying to focus. Had I hid it elsewhere? I checked every possible hiding place – inside my drawer, under the mattress, and under the chair cushion. Empty-handed, I sat down on my bed, a sickening feeling building inside me.
It’s not that I had written something bad or secretive. I hid it because I shared a room with my sister, Connie, and I didn’t want her to come across the diary. She was two years younger than I was, and I didn’t want her to read about Randy kissing me.
Had Connie taken the diary? Had she read it? Had Mom? How would I ever find out without asking?
Chapter 7
Same day
Mom appeared in the doorway of my bedroom. After few seconds of silence, she finally asked: “How was school?”
“Fine.”
Mom looked at me, nodding. She wore an expression I knew too well. She was holding something back.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“I found out.” It was her passive aggressive behavior that I had grown to loathe.
“Found out what?” I asked, hoping it had nothing to do with my diary.
“You tell me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Now I see. You’ve been lying,” Mom accused.
“Lying about what?” I had no idea what she was talking about.
“You had sex with Randy.”
I was stunned. Then I began to feel angry. How could she read my diary? It was mine.
“I did not,” I protested. “You misunderstood.”
“You think I’m stupid?”
“I’m telling you the truth. Honestly, I did not.”
“So, you have been lying. Now I know what you have been up to.”
“Please,” I begged. “Give back my diary. Show me where I said I had sex.”
“It’s too late.”
“What do you mean?”
“I threw it away.”
“No, you did not!” I knew she was lying. “Please give it back,” I begged. She had completely misunderstood my writing.
“I don’t have it. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
Randy and I attended a camp earlier that summer. He was the first boy I had kissed. We weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend, but we had experimented with kissing. At the camp, the two of us had wandered off to the woods…
“Please give it back. We will read it together and I will explain what I mean.”
“It’s over.” She walked away.
That was the end of our conversation. Why she was so upset, I had no clue. The topic of sex was not taboo in our house, except around my siblings. Growing up, I had often hung around Mom and Dad’s friends, and I knew what sex was all about.
Sex was a fairly open topic. So what was upsetting Mom? I had not mentioned a single word about sex in my diary.
Over the next couple of weekends, when I was home, I would sneak into Mom and Dad’s bedroom, looking for my diary. I checked every possible hiding place. But it was nowhere to be found.
Chapter 8
Fall 1980
Bridgetta and I exchanged our first secret when we were nine or ten years old.
Her secret? Well, I can’t reveal it because I promised that I’d never tell.
My secret? As a nine-year-old, my written English was better than my mom’s. In fact, I helped her compose letters and complete paperwork. When I received letters from Mom, Bridgetta and I would hide behind the big chair in the corner of our dormitory living room and read them together. She was the only one who could understand the diary incident.
Deception Ebook EPUB 3-17-2014 Page 2
