The Silence Between Us

by Alison Gervais

  As we watched the rest of the interview, I had to sympathize with the student and the actress. The news anchor was making it difficult for them to get a word in edgewise even though he was the one asking all the questions about the protest and what they hoped to achieve. They looked nothing but frustrated throughout the entire interview, almost always being interrupted when they were trying to sign something. I was always annoyed by the same thing.

  TOO LONG, I signed when the interview was over.

  TRUE, Beau agreed. “But maybe . . . clip some . . . ?”

  DON’T KNOW, I signed back. I was already worried it would be hard to keep our classmates interested for ten minutes.

  “We’ll make . . . work,” Beau said with a firm nod.

  And we did, clipping the video down to an acceptable minute and a half, mostly shots of the students marching on Capitol Hill and Gallaudet’s front gates closed up. Beau worked some type of computer magic to get the clip inserted into the PowerPoint.

  Then we moved into editing, revising our works-cited page at the end of the presentation, making notecards with speech cues. We’d both gotten so tangled up into the work that it came as a shock when Dana—I hadn’t even realized she was still here—flipped the living room lights on, walking into our line of sight. She was speaking to Beau, so I sat back against the couch, stretching my arms above my head.

  When Dana was finished speaking, whatever she’d said to Beau suddenly had him on his feet, turning toward the foyer behind us. I was so used to Beau becoming flushed all the time that it came as a surprise when his face went ashen instead. His lips formed the words hey, Dad, and that was the missing piece I needed.

  Beau was the mirror image of the man who was removing his coat and slipping his shoes off in the foyer, maybe just thirty or so years younger. The man had an authoritative air about him, wearing nicely ironed clothes, his graying hair brushed back in a somewhat sophisticated hairstyle. He introduced himself as Doctor Watson when he approached, holding out a hand for me to shake.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, this uncomfortable feeling creeping up my spine when Doctor Watson’s gaze zeroed in on my hearing aids.

  “Homework?” Doctor Watson said, nodding to our mess on the coffee table.

  I only saw Beau say, “Yes, we . . .” before everything else was lost on me. He had his hands raised as if he wanted to sign as he spoke with his dad, but the pained look on his face made me think he didn’t know how to sign what he was saying.

  I could sympathize with Beau there at least. Signing and using your voice at the same time when you were just learning to embrace sign language was difficult under the best of circumstances, but I kind of hated that I still managed to feel somewhat left out as Beau and his dad were talking.

  Something Beau said made Doctor Watson raise an eyebrow and take a step forward to look more closely at our PowerPoint still pulled up on my laptop. The project was open to the slide where we listed the protestors’ four demands, and either Doctor Watson had perfected the art of remaining impassive, or he wasn’t impressed with what he saw.

  “Interesting,” Doctor Watson finally said. “But . . . think Red Scare might’ve . . .”

  I purposely looked away so I didn’t have to lipread the last of Doctor Watson’s sentence. I was anticipating a lack of interest in the subject from some of my classmates, but I didn’t want to witness it from Beau’s dad too.

  I watched Beau instead, more questions forming in my mind as I observed his behavior around his dad. He didn’t seem quite as confident as he did at school, not so sure of himself. His hands were at his sides, his gaze focused on a spot on the wall above his dad’s head.

  Sure, Beau’s dad did seem intimidating, but what was it about him that would get Beau to act like this, like he was trying to draw in on himself?

  I think the constipated look on Beau’s face was what made me do it, use my voice to say, “Well, we’re just about finished here. Wanna take me home now, Beau?”

  Beau jumped on my words like they were a lifeline, nodding eagerly, and he said, “. . . be back soon,” to Dr. Watson.

  “. . . safe,” Dr. Watson said to Beau, and I imagined his voice must’ve sounded cold with the suddenly austere expression on his face. Then that look was gone when Dr. Watson glanced my way and gave a short, polite nod.

  Beau leapt into action, saving the presentation on my laptop, powering it down, piling our work together. I shoved everything carefully into my backpack and followed Beau back into the foyer to grab my shoes after I waved good-bye to Dana. She’d been watching the whole exchange with an expression that looked like sadness. I had a strong suspicion this wasn’t the first time she’d seen something like this.

  The moment we were out of the house and Beau shut the front door behind us, he turned to me, signing, SORRY, immediately. MY FATHER, HE . . .

  FINE, I signed back.

  “It’s fine,” I repeated aloud when Beau seemed unconvinced. “I get it. Your dad, he seems intense. Caught us off guard.”

  Beau gave a pained smile at that and nodded, signing, TRUE.

  He was starting to look a little more relaxed now that there was some distance between us and his dad, his posture not so tense anymore. It had me wondering if he always reacted like that when he was around his dad, like he’d been caught red-handed doing something he shouldn’t.

  It’s not because Beau is . . . embarrassed by me or anything, I thought as I settled into the passenger seat of Beau’s car.

  No. Nothing like that.

  Right?

  CHAPTER 16

  FINE, Kathleen kept signing on our way to Mr. Wells’ class the next day. YOU FINE. YOU BOTH FINE.

  I KNOW, I signed back.

  Even though he’d just come aboard yesterday with this project, Beau was prepared. He was up at the front of the classroom, hooking my laptop up to Mr. Wells’ projector the second we walked in.

  I set my backpack down at my desk and pulled out the stack of notecards Beau and I put together last night. Beau was adamant we include every important detail to make our case and seemed even more into it than Nina had been.

  Please let this go well, I thought, notecards clutched in my grasp as I went up to join Beau.

  Kathleen followed, her eager expression almost identical to Mr. Wells’. Kathleen told me she remembered seeing DPN in the news and apparently it had been a huge factor in her decision to go to school to become an interpreter. My classmates might not be interested in the presentation, but Kathleen would be, and I guess that helped, knowing she’d be there interpreting with an encouraging smile if I needed it.

  READY, Beau signed, gesturing at my laptop.

  COOL, I signed, sucking in a deep breath.

  Mr. Wells was kind enough to flash the lights when he was ready for us to start, and I felt my stomach drop and settle somewhere around my knees.

  It was now or never.

  I caught Beau’s arm as he was turning on the projector, our presentation flickering to life, and signed, NOT WANT USE MY VOICE.

  For solidarity, I wanted to say.

  Beau didn’t seem surprised by this, instead signing, I UNDERSTAND.

  THANK YOU, I told him, and he smiled. His dimples did nothing for my nerves.

  Beau took the lead—not that I minded—and jumped into the opening spiel we practiced during our study session at his place last night. I didn’t bother having Kathleen interpret this part, since I already knew what Beau was saying. He talked his way through the first slide, a compilation of pictures taken during DPN of students protesting, marching on Capitol Hill and at the closed front gates of Gallaudet.

  When it was my turn, I passed the notecards off to Beau, so I’d have both hands free to sign. Looking to Kathleen, she gave me an encouraging nod and another thousand-watt smile, and my next breath came a little easier.

  You can do this, I told myself confidently.

  My hands were a mess of shakes through my first couple signs, but it wasn’t so
bad in the end. I kept looking from Kathleen to Beau, and there was something in their expressions that kept me going.

  Halfway through the slide on the media’s response to DPN, I was starting to wonder if all that worrying had been pointless. There were a few people leaning forward in their seats with interest, like Beau had done yesterday, but nobody was whispering behind their hands or trying to hide any laughter. Even if some people weren’t paying attention, at least they weren’t being snide about it.

  When Beau was flipping to the next slide with the small clip he’d pieced together from the interview he found on YouTube, Jackson raised his hand and waited to be called on. I thought whatever he was going to say would be meant for Beau, but when Kathleen came a little closer to interpret, I realized it was directed toward me.

  Whatever Jackson said made Kathleen hesitant. Her lips pursed, her posture going rigid. She clearly wasn’t happy with what Jackson was asking, but as my interpreter, Kathleen technically had an obligation to relay the information to me, regardless of her own personal feelings.

  HOW THAT IMPORTANT FOR REAL WORLD? Kathleen signed while Jackson sat there, staring at me expectantly.

  REAL WORLD? I signed, and those signs felt weird on my fingers—at least in this context.

  I was pretty sure I knew what Jackson was hinting at, and I didn’t think I wanted Kathleen to finish interpreting what he had to say.

  MOST PEOPLE NOT DEAF, Kathleen signed, and I kept my attention fixed on her and not Jackson. WHY THAT M-A-T-T-E-R FOR US?

  I couldn’t come up with a coherent response, so I signed to Beau, PLAY VIDEO.

  Beau pressed play without hesitation.

  It wasn’t the interview half of the video I was interested in, but the compilation of scenes at the beginning that showed the world’s reaction to DPN and all the support that came flooding into DC for Gallaudet students from everywhere—Deaf and hearing.

  Beau hit the pause button when I signed, STOP, to him. I brushed aside Kathleen when she prepared to interpret, and I addressed Jackson myself.

  “As you can see, there are more Deaf people around the world than you think. More hearing people involved with this than you think.”

  “Yeah, but . . .” Jackson said, going palms up.

  “But what?” I said. “What, just because my world looks a little different from yours suddenly that means it’s not as important? I know what it’s like to be a part of the hearing world because I used to be hearing. But I also understand what it’s like to be a part of the Deaf world because I am Deaf now. Not everyone gets that chance though, and that hearing president sure didn’t. No matter how hard you try to understand something, sometimes there’s this personal connection to the cause that you’re missing, something you may not ever reach, and that can make all the difference. That’s why this is important to the real world.”

  I’d never been one to give many Deaf pride speeches like this one, but in this case, I felt it was warranted. Just because you didn’t understand something didn’t make it any less significant.

  Jackson took so long with his response I foolishly thought he was going to drop the subject, but he turned awkwardly in his seat to speak to Kathleen, leaving me unable to lip read what he was saying.

  FINE, BUT THAT 3-0 YEARS PAST, Kathleen interpreted, keeping her eyes on me instead of Jackson. NOW TECHNOLOGY HELP DEAF HEAR AND PEOPLE WALK AND MORE. PAST DOESN’T M-A-T-T-E-R NOW.

  “I’m pretty sure Mr. Wells would disagree with you on that one,” I said, trying and failing to keep from rolling my eyes. “The past does matter. Deaf President Now showed the world Deaf people don’t need to be coddled, but this is just a tiny part of the Disability Rights movement, you know.”

  I was on a roll here, ready to keep going and say what was really on my mind for once, and I wasn’t even going to think of what all my classmates would say about this.

  “Some people would even say the Disability Rights movement started over in Denver, where people in wheelchairs chained themselves to buses to protest lack of accessible transportation. But even then, it would be years before the ADA was passed. History really does involve everyone.”

  I stood there in front of the class waiting for a response from Jackson or anybody else, but it didn’t come. I kept my lips pressed together to keep from letting any funny breaths escape, and my heart was still pounding uncomfortably against my chest.

  I looked to Beau next and was a bit taken aback to see that he was smiling. When I signed, WHAT’S UP? at him, he just gave this casual shrug and signed back, NOTHING, and gave a cheesy thumbs-up.

  I didn’t get the chance to push the issue further until class was over and I was powering down my laptop. It had been difficult to sit through three more presentations while wondering if my classmates were whispering about everything I threw at Jackson.

  HEY, I signed, reaching out to grab Beau’s arm as he passed, backpack slung over one shoulder.

  BAD PRESENTER? I signed when Beau turned to look at me, pointing back at myself.

  NO, he signed quickly with a shake of his head. WONDERFUL.

  SURE? I signed back, skeptical.

  Beau took a step closer, and I chose to ignore the way my heart gave a stupid little stutter in my chest.

  “They heard . . .” he said, pointing at me.

  “They heard me?” I said, hoping I understood him correctly.

  YES, Beau signed with another nod. THEY HEARD YOU.

  CHAPTER 17

  One week after the midterm showdown in Mr. Wells’ class, Kathleen caught up to me just as Mom was pulling into the pickup loop after school, eager to tell us about this group of Deaf teens getting together at a local coffee shop. Mom hadn’t hesitated telling Kathleen we’d be there, and now I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be ecstatic or terrified at the thought of meeting Deaf people my age for the first time since we moved here from New Jersey.

  WHY YOU NERVOUS? Mom signed to me when she parked in front of the coffee shop where the group was supposed to be meeting. WONDERFUL YOU MEET MORE DEAF KIDS.

  NOT NERVOUS, I signed back.

  EXCITED? she asked next.

  Mom seemed excited herself, despite the permanent look of exhaustion that had made itself at home on her pretty face since we moved here. There were a few more streaks of gray in her brown hair than I remembered too. How she’d been splitting her time working from home to be with Connor and going into her office was still unfathomable to me.

  READY? Mom signed, pointing to the coffee shop.

  YES, I signed, unbuckling my seatbelt.

  The coffee shop was crowded for a Thursday night. The place was trendy with that locally owned feeling no Starbucks ever had, with lots of tables, couches, and old armchairs all over. If Connor were with us, he would’ve made straight for the giant checkers board along with the other games set on shelves in the corner.

  Mom and I got in line and bought ourselves some hot tea and a cookie to share. Gathered around the one couch and the surrounding chairs by the front window were a handful of teens and two women I was willing to bet were members of this new Deaf group.

  I pointed them out to Mom and she gave me a smile and an encouraging nudge to get moving. Each step toward the group felt heavier than the last.

  Why was I so nervous? This was going to be exciting. Maybe I’d even make a new friend or two. Making a new friend who was Deaf was long overdue since moving to Colorado.

  A woman dressed in a knit sweater with a colorful Thanksgiving turkey on it got to her feet as Mom and I approached and said, “Hi! My name . . . and you . . . ?”

  Mom shook the woman’s hand, smiling, saying something I didn’t quite catch.

  “What’s . . . name?” the woman said to me next, shaking my free hand vigorously.

  M-A-Y-A, I finger spelled, adding my sign name next.

  The woman stared at me with her eyebrows pulled together and head tilted to the side until Mom stepped up and said my name aloud.

  “Well, i
t’s good . . . you. Why don’t . . . there?” the woman said, gesturing to an empty spot on the couch next to some girl deeply engrossed in whatever was on her phone.

  I guessed it wasn’t that unusual the woman didn’t understand what I was signing, but if she had a Deaf kid, shouldn’t she know ASL? My own mother had busted her butt learning ASL with me.

  WHO? I signed to Mom, wanting to know who the woman was as she sat in a nearby chair.

  Sitting on the floor next to the woman’s chair was a boy of probably fourteen or so, more interested in his tablet than his surroundings. His dark hair was cut short, so I could clearly see he had a cochlear implant, the one piece of assistive technology that was a hot topic of debate within the Deaf community.

  Cochlear implants were kind of like hearing aids in that they worked to improve hearing, but the process of getting one involved an irreversible surgery and a lot of follow-up speech therapy if you were born Deaf and never developed oral skills. I remembered one history class back at Pratt where the girl who sat beside me had a cochlear implant, and she had it turned off a lot of the time, signing just as much as the rest of us. When I mustered up the courage to ask her why she never had her cochlear on, she told me it was because of how strange things sometimes sounded being filtered through it. Crackly, like the noise was being processed through a computer so everything sounded electronic. That’s the word she used—electronic.

  She said it made her tired sometimes too, having to process all the extra noise she wasn’t used to, and it made her head hurt occasionally. And the required speech therapy after the surgery had apparently been a pain in the butt. That in itself would be enough to turn me off from getting a CI. They did a lot of good for people, I knew that, but it just didn’t seem like the right fit for me.

  And I would never say—or sign—this to anyone, but I was deathly afraid of the necessary surgery to get a cochlear implant, even if the surgery was more common than it used to be. Being stuck in a hospital fighting meningitis while at the same time losing my hearing was more than enough to cause me to develop an irrational fear of hospitals. Those days had been some of the worst of my life.