Joy and Tiers

by Mary Crawford

  When I wake up, I find a big gift bag of art supplies Delores has left by my bedside. It contains a book that looks like my mom’s diary, except that it has a treasure map on the front and blank pages inside. There is also a nice pen. It’s like the one my Pa has in his office. I see a tiny note on the gift bag. As I pull it off to read it, I’m shocked when I read the familiar print. “Aidan, just because you can’t hear the music doesn’t mean it’s not inside you. Every piece of music needs a good lyricist.” By understanding my secret fear and helping me start to overcome it that day, Delores and I forged a friendship that remains strong to this day.

  She has been by my side helping me find treatment options when my parents were too tied up with Rory to notice, or care, what was happening with me. My mom really did try for a while. But when you grew up being a concert violinist, receiving the adoration of crowds, the drudgery of speech therapy, audiology appointments, and special education gets old quick. As Rory grew more famous, so did the chasm between my family and me. They seemed willing—even eager to leave me behind. Finally, the summer I turned 15, they gave up any pretense of filling the parental role with me and let Delores take me in.

  By that time, I had lived in a virtually silent world for four years in near total isolation. My mom refused to learn sign language because she was from a good Irish-Catholic family and she was convinced a miracle would be coming soon. My dad refused to learn because he was pretty sure if I would “man up” and put mind over matter, I wouldn’t really be deaf anymore. He was convinced if I only tried harder to hear, I would no longer be totally oblivious to sound. The only person who accepted the new me was, ironically, Rory.

  When I turned sixteen, I became eligible to participate in a medical trial of cochlear implants. Even though cochlear implants are very controversial in the deaf community, I jumped at the chance. Hearing aids were doing me no good and I was tired of the isolation. My world had shrunk to just Rory, Delores, and a few special education kids; I needed more. Once again, Delores was by my side when everything in my world changed.

  I remember the day I was “plugged in” as clearly as if it were just yesterday. I lost my hearing at such a late age that I had a very clear memory of what sounds should be like. I had spent five long years dreaming of what it would be like to leave this silent prison I’d been living in. I could hear music in my head as surely as I could feel my own heartbeat, and I couldn’t wait to hear it again.

  When no one was looking, I went to an old abandoned church and played the piano, just so I wouldn’t forget how. I always left my private practice sessions in a twisted emotional state. On the one hand, my body had phenomenal muscle memory which allowed me to fall into the rhythm of playing, as if it were a well-loved dance partner that I never left.

  As therapeutic and calming as it was to play, every press of a note was like a nick to my soul with a rusty razor blade. No single cut was fatal, but collectively the effect was the slow and excruciatingly painful death of the person I had been. Despite the best efforts of Delores, I had become a sullen, angry shadow of the person I once was. I struggled to maintain my optimism about a procedure that was experimental in my type of deafness. The risk was great. Choosing the procedure meant destroying the 4% of hearing I had left. If the activation didn’t go well, it would amount to nothing and I would actually emerge worse.

  When my receiver was turned on, I immediately wanted them to turn it off again. Nothing made sense! My brain felt like scrambled eggs in an earthquake. The sound was loud and screeching like a radio station tuned to two stations that were receiving only static and feedback. I was so disappointed. This was not how I had imagined it would be. I knew some deaf people had trouble processing sound after an implant; I just never figured it would be me. I was so sure my brain would just remember how to process sound and I would be normal again. It was a steep learning process for me. Eventually, as the audiologists tuned my implants and my brain started to develop nerve pathways to better interpret the feedback from the cochlear device, I began to cope much better and adjust to my new perception of sound.

  When I turned eighteen, I had a second implant placed in my other ear that helped me hear music even better. My implants are never going to restore my normal hearing, I’ll always be deaf and sadly, music will never be quite the same. If I were to describe it to a hearing person, I would suppose it’s like sound was filtered through a highly distorted synthesizer. When I first got my CI, I had a really hard time even recognizing music, let alone individual notes.

  Gradually, with more practice I was able to recognize songs I knew before I became sick. I started playing along to recordings of them, so I could get accustomed to the altered sound of the notes. I practiced piano like a novice, relearning all my scales and chords. I worked like a fiend until I could associate the memory of music I had in my head and heart with the new version of music I heard coming through my implants. By the time I was done, I had developed thick calluses on the pads of my fingers, but some of the ones that had formed around my heart and soul began to fall away. After almost a half a decade, I was finally a musician again.

  I shake my head to bring myself back into the present as I slide back behind the piano, place my lemonade on the coaster, and start to play Piano Man by Billy Joel. I slip in one of my original songs and no one seems to object. In fact, the Judge guy gives me thumbs up. I am pleasantly surprised. Usually, when I play these gigs, I’m invisible and no one gives a tiddly-wink what I do.

  As I continue to play a mix of cover songs, I see an older man burst in, although perhaps it’s more accurate to say I smell him first. It appears he’s been bathing in Kentucky Bourbon. His face is a mask of fury and he appears to be yelling obscenities. As near as I can tell, his anger appears aimed at the groom’s mother. However, there is a lot of chaotic background noise, and even with my cochlear implants, it is nearly impossible to hear accurately. In these situations, I depend on lip reading to clarify things. He swings around, wildly looking for the bridal party. This causes his disheveled shirt to gape, revealing the distinct silhouette of a handgun. Damn it! Where’s Tara?

  I vault over the top of the baby grand and nearly run over a very startled Judge as I remember to utter, “Gun. Saturday night special. Older guy. Reeks. Probably drunk. Looking for the groom’s mom.”

  The Judge starts to ask me a question, but I push past him as I search for Tara. Finally, I spot her and the rest of the bridal party in the gazebo in the flower garden. My heart racing, I take off in a dead sprint until I am a couple of yards away from the back of the gazebo. I flatten my body against the side of a small potting shed and glance over to the bridal party. The big cowboy and the blond pin-up gal are juggling peaches in some sort of friendly competition, and the wedding photographer is busy snapping pictures as the bride and groom watch with bemused grins on their faces. My movement seems have caught Tara’s attention at the same time the armed and angry guy charges toward the front of the gazebo yelling physically impossible profanities. I quickly sign, “Gun! Careful!”

  Tara’s eyes widen as she processes what I’ve just said. Her body language changes ever so slightly as her spine stiffens, her stance widens, and her muscles tense in a manner that I recognize from the martial arts classes I took as a teenager. A look of grim determination settles over her face as she studies the ugly situation unfolding in front of her. I can feel the tension roll off of her like heat waves off of asphalt in August. I start to move closer, but Tara cuts me off with an imperceptible shake of her head and a small “no” sign.

  I hear more yelling, but the anger in the man’s voice is distorting the sound and I am not in a position to read lips to help me. I’m not catching every word, but what I am catching is nasty and vile. The groom looks like he’d give everything he owned or could ever hope to own to be able to lock his lovely bride in an ivory tower right about now. Before Tara could warn anyone about the gun, the guy points it at the groom. The whole confrontation is over in a blink of an
eye. I’m still not sure what happened. One moment, the asshole seemed to hold all the cards. The next, the groom has the drunk guy hog-tied in what seems like a nanosecond.

  I have to shake my head and blink my eyes when I suddenly realize the delicately shaped foot planted in firmly across the guy’s neck is Tara’s and she has a can of what looks like bear repellent aimed at his face. If looks could kill, this creep would be vaporized into the atmosphere by now. He looks like he’s about to pee his pants even though he’s continuing to spew profanities like an overheating radiator. Finally, the police department gets there and carts the perp away, and I notice that he did indeed piss his pants. I start to smirk until I glance back up at Tara and notice her sway as she sees the front of his pants. I run to catch her before she crumples to the ground. Just then, the bride warns urgently, “Don’t touch her! You’ll only make it worse.”

  Even if I were inclined to follow that advice, it came about three beats too late as Tara collapses in my arms, in a cloud of blue lace and wispy stuff. Reflexively, I gather her up to my chest and stride out of the gazebo in one fluid motion. I anxiously study her limp form in my arms as I see her pulse quiver in a strong, regular cadence at the hollow of her neck.

  After a tense discussion with the groom about her well-being, I carefully walk over to the porch swing on the side porch, being careful not to jostle her too much. I take off my jacket, roll it up and place it under her head. I search in vain for something to place under her feet to elevate them. Finally, I decide to just use myself as a prop. I sit down and place her legs on my lap. During all the ruckus, her beautiful hair has started to come out of the fancy bun she had it in for the wedding. Remembering what a stickler she was for a perfectly straight bun even as a child, I reach over to brush a stray hair out of her face.

  Her lashes flutter a few times before she opens her eyes. I can’t even begin to describe her amazing eyes; I’ve never seen anything close to them on another person. Even when she was little, people would accuse her of wearing weird contact lenses. I know her eyes are real. I saw her deal with the very real repercussions after my brother went out and partied with his friends the night before an important dance competition and nearly blinded her when he skipped warm ups and missed a lift, tearing her cornea. Slowly she opens her eyes, squinting against the sun. I hold my hand above her forehead to provide some shade and meet her eyes with a steady gaze.

  I’ve forgotten how strikingly beautiful she is. Her eyes are light gray, with a band of brown around the outside, and a naturally occurring tear in one pupil. As she examines me, she is clearly confused, but then she chuckles under her breath as she asks, signing as she speaks, “AJ?”

  I nod as I confirm, “Yeah, it’s me, but I go by Aidan now.”

  AJ? That fine specimen of manliness is little AJ? He can’t be the same gangly, knock-kneed kid who followed me around trying to persuade me to solve his Rubik’s cube or babysit his DigiPet. His hair, which once was an unfortunate study in frizziness, is now a hairstylist’s dream of glorious tousled curls, gold blond shot through with highlights of red, brushing his shoulders as he played the piano. I’ve been trying to carefully ignore him all night. “Your hair is a lot longer,” I blurt.

  Really, Tara? You haven’t seen the man in over a decade and that’s the best you can come up with? I suppose it could have been worse. I could have been a little truer to my natural tendency to being spectacularly blunt at inappropriate times. I could have just told him that I suck at relationships, but I find him really drool-worthy and, since he’s a really talented musician, I wouldn’t mind borrowing a few of his sperm so I can become a mom to a prodigy. He wouldn’t have to stick around for the tricky parts—like a relationship and parenting. He could enjoy the fun part and leave. This isn’t a fully formed strategy in my head. It’s just an idea that’s been rolling around in my brain for a few days, since Kiera and Jeff announced they were planning to adopt the girls.

  I am glad life has taken this turn for Kiera. I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more. My life, on the other hand, just doesn’t work that way. First, I’m chronically unemployed, unless you count my shifts at the Shell station as a career, and I still have a year to go before I finish school. Second, I probably wouldn’t fare as well during the criminal background check as Kiera did. I once took a stand to help someone, and my background check is still paying for it. I’m not the ideal choice as an adoptive mom and guys like Jeff don’t grow on trees, so I’m kind of sorry out of luck. I can’t believe my thoughts are even going there. I’m so not in the same stable place in my life as Kiera and Jeff.

  “Yeah, I’m a musician now,” Aidan explains, interrupting my train of thought. “So my hair has to look the part.” He gives me much the same self-deprecating smile I remember so well from childhood, but the grown-up version is devastatingly sexy. If I had known the awkward kid with a mouthful of metal braces and glasses that could never quite perch squarely on his nose was going to turn into such a knockout, I might have paid more attention all those years ago. Instead, I had an embarrassingly obvious crush on his older brother.

  I scramble to get off his lap and sit up with some degree of decorum, studying him carefully as he holds out a hand to steady me. I love to look at the lines in a person’s body as they move. I haven’t danced in years, but the way a person moves still speaks to me. Aidan’s body whispers like a familiar lover. His fingers are long and graceful, and his forearms are well developed with strong natural muscle that only come with hard work and discipline. His hair defies description. It isn’t really red like Kiera’s, but it’s too vibrant to be called blond. I wonder if he still hates it. It used to irritate him to no end when Rory would needle him and call him “Berry” as a pejorative offshoot of strawberry blond. His tousled mane of curls is wildly rugged now. “It’s a look that suits you,” I reply, as I look down at my feet and watch a ladybug crawling across my big toe. When I was little, my dad used to tell me, if a ladybug landed on my hand, I would soon marry. I wonder what it means if it lands on my toe. I chuckle at the random memory.

  Aidan regards me with a look of alarm as he asks, “I’m sorry, did I miss something? It’s kinda loud in here and I lost my focus for a minute.”

  I draw in a quick breath as the puzzle pieces abruptly start to fall into place in my head. I recall his rapid signing and his laser-like focus on my face. Why hadn’t I noticed that he had been repositioning himself all night to get a clearer view? It’s my job to notice such things and respond appropriately. What kind of professional will I make, if I miss something so obvious?

  I immediately take off the sparkly tennis bracelet Kiera had given us for being bridesmaids and tuck it in my pocket so it’s not distracting. “It’s fine, you didn’t miss anything,” I assure him, speaking and signing at the same time. I point to the ladybug that just made its way to my anklebone. “I was remembering an old wives’ tale my dad used to tell me about ladybugs, and it made me smile.”

  Aidan grins as he replies, “Hey, I’m Irish and I was raised by a lady who grew up in Louisiana. There isn’t much in the way of limerick, folklore, or superstition that I don’t have at least a passing knowledge of. I know at least two versions of the story and in either superstition I come out a winner. It’s only a matter of how you define luck.”

  “AJ, there is no possible way you could know that! We haven’t even seen each other in a dozen years. I am a completely different person now,” I argue, signing emphatically.

  “You are really good at signing, but I don’t really need you to. I have bilateral implants,” he explains, pulling his hair to the side to expose the two devices attached to his skull.

  I cringe slightly because it looks like it must have hurt to have them put in. “Do they bother you? I think I’d feel a bit like a robot,” I inquire, studying it closely. Then I slap my hand over my mouth. I really wish I had some magical power to teleport right now, because I’d rather be anywhere else in the galaxy.

  Aidan l
ooks at the expression on my face and throws his head back and laughs. I breathe a sigh of relief. At least he doesn’t seem terribly upset over my idiotic remark. “Sometimes I do feel like a robot, especially when they have me hooked up to a computer to calibrate my units,” he answers. “They don’t usually bother me much, unless I’m working out or I get them wet. I ruined a pair of receivers when a groom and his buddies got rowdy at the reception and threw me in the pool. Lucky for me, they stepped up and got me new ones. I suspect they had really great homeowners insurance.”

  “I am glad they are not a lot of hassle,” I say, still mortified by my lack of sensitivity. “Still, I am a professional—well, close enough—and I should know better.”

  “A professional dancer?” he asks, confusion wrinkling his brow. “No surprise there. So was Rory until he blew out his Achilles one too many times. You were as good as him.”

  I flush at his compliment. No one ever puts me in the same league as his brother. I always felt lucky to even breathe the same air as my former dance partner. Yet even as I soak in his praise, the pain of what I’ve lost washes over me. I fight to stay composed as I struggle to find the words to explain my life. “I am a sign language interpreter. Or I guess, more accurately, I am learning to be one. I’m in the ASL Interpreting program at Western Oregon University. I have about a year to go. I don’t dance anymore.”

  Aidan’s jaw goes slack for a moment before he shutters his expression. “Congratulations on your interpreting gig. I know it’s tough, and they only take the best. But I must have misheard you. This is the second time tonight I thought I heard you say you don’t dance.” He shakes his head and rakes his hand through his hair as he continues, “That can’t be right. You’re the best dancer I’ve ever seen. Sure, Rory danced with technical precision and was a master at his craft, but you were still a million times better. You danced the very essence of your being. Your love of the art flowed through you, spilling from every pore of your body. I have never seen someone so compelling to watch. I know what I’m talking about, because there were some pretty phenomenal dancers surrounding Rory’s life. I don’t understand how someone like you can just stop dancing.”