Chapter Four
I’m stuck in the back of the airplane, waiting to disembark. It was a bumpy flight, and my stomach is rumbling. When it’s my turn to get up, I rush down the empty aisle and turn onto the ramp, where there’s a worker waiting with a wheelchair.
I do a double take at the sign they’re holding up.
Because it has my name on it?
I’m in motion, and there’s people behind me, so I don’t want to stop or spin on my heels. I didn’t request a wheelchair, nor do I need one. I continue walking and ignore the whole situation, wondering what the worker will think when the whole plane has cleared and no one has claimed the chair.
It’s the first thing I discuss when I call my parents, their voices in my ears as I hold my phone in hand, walking away from the gate. “There was a wheelchair for me. That’s so weird.”
“There was a wheelchair?” Mom asks.
Maybe it’s difficult to hear me over the airport chatter, but I don’t want to shout about this, either.
“Yeah, with my name.”
It doesn’t take Mom long to figure it out. “You know what it might be? When I booked your ticket, I selected the Deaf or Hard of Hearing box.”
“And they’d give me a wheelchair for that?”
“Who knows what services it automatically triggers in their system,” she says. “Maybe it flags all accommodations similarly.”
“Huh,” Dad says. “Did you take the ride?”
“I’m regretting not considering it.”
My phone buzzes with a text Mom sends to the family group chat.
A picture from a road trip we took to Chicago when I was six and Amelia was seven.
We’re at a rest stop, standing in front of the car, wearing big cheesy grins and matching blue shirts covered in illustrated butterfly patterns, each holding a juice box in one hand and a cookie in the other.
It’s also one of those photos where my first pair of hearing aids—hot pink with glittery ear molds—is very apparent, a sparkle of personality that my current pair doesn’t display since they are tiny beige receivers tucked alongside my head with clear wiring that trails into my ears.
Nearly invisible if I’m wearing my hair down, and only noticeable if you’re looking closely when my hair is up.
My hearing loss is moderate, and I generally feel like I get by well enough on a day-to-day basis, though I’m curious to maybe find an American Sign Language class in college.
I was intrigued to learn, but it took a back seat after Amelia’s diagnosis—to the point where I’m not entirely sure how that would work for me anymore.
I rapidly weave through other travelers down the long corridor, and my mouth waters when I pass a cheesesteak shop, almost tempting me to grab some food for the road. “I’m still trying to find the exit.”
“Call Amelia,” Mom says. “She’s almost there.”
“Okay, I’ll call her. Love you, bye.”
After skipping past three bathrooms, I decide it’s really best if I stop before getting in the car. At least it’s easier to manage without a suitcase, though the first stall I try is missing a hook on the door to hang my backpack.
Then I’m still not sure where the exit is. I take a more leisurely pace as I turn the corner and call my sister.
“Where are you?” she asks. There’s a loud horn obscuring her voice.
“I’m still inside. Trying to get to the exit where I can find you. I go toward baggage claim even if I didn’t check a bag, right? Oh, ground transit—”
Because my brain is still thinking in board game creation, all of this feels like it could amount to some sort of journey-around-the-board-style game.
In moments, I’ve pushed past the point of no return and find myself nearing the exit, where other travelers are standing around waiting for bags or outside waiting for ride pickups.
“Aah, I’m going to have to do a loop.” Amelia continues grumbling incoherently as she struggles through airport traffic.
“Oh, you’re like here here.”
“Yeah, let’s go.”
“Okay, one second!”
I burst through the automatic doors. “I’m outside. Wearing bright pink.”
“I’m already heading around now,” Amelia says. “Less than a minute or so.”
“Just slow down and I’ll find you,” I say, trying to figure out how to make this whole situation simpler for both of us. But that’s easier said than done. There’s a lot of cars slowing down. I finally spot Amelia, pulling over to the side, but she’s pretty far away. “There you are!”
“They want me to move—hurry up!”
I take off, carefully speeding up as I jog down the sidewalk. “I’m running! I’m running!”
It’s only when I’m about two feet away from the car that she says, “There you are!”
I open the door, my voice reverberating through the car’s speakers. “No shit,” I say before ending the call on my phone.
She smiles. “Hey.”
Amelia looks like a college student. Specifically, one in the midst of exam week who’s wearing Audubon College–branded sweats and could use a shower but is overcompensating with a heavy helping of apple-scented lotion.
Her honey-blond hair is scrunched up into a knot atop her head, and she’s wearing a star pimple patch beneath her chin.
She’s got the keys for the car in the center display, on a floral lanyard with her dorm room fob and a plastic case that holds her student ID for easy access.
“Hi.” I fasten the seat belt and sit back into the seat. “The driver behind you has their signal on for you to get out of this spot.”
The one accessory my sister is wearing that doesn’t exactly scream typical college student is her bioptic telescopic driving glasses.
While she doesn’t use typical prescription lenses, the framed glasses—with two circular telescopes positioned above each eye—give her the ability to have a zoomed-in, closer look, which helps with reading street signs and observing traffic lights.
When she first got them, Dad made a joke that she looked like Inspector Gadget, and then we all went quiet because we weren’t sure if she was going to be offended by that, but Amelia laughed and did not care.
She was just relieved to have the opportunity to maintain her independence for as long as she can.
Even though I told her we were clear to merge over, Amelia still checks each mirror several times, testing everyone’s, but most especially my stomach’s, patience.
“Do you want me to drive to campus?” I offer.
She moves over into the next lane. “No, I know these roads.” My stomach roars. “Whoa, hungry much?”
“You could hear that?”
“Possibly the loudest sound I’ve ever heard. We can get dinner on campus.”
I let her focus on the road until we’re out of the airport mess and into smooth sailing on the highway. “Hey.” I start the hellos again, because I haven’t seen my sister in person since December.
It’s her turn to say hi.
“That’s all you’ve got?” I tease. “You made me fly all this way and go on a multiday drive back home just to spend some time with you, and all you’ve got is hi?”
“How was your flight?” Then she giggles at the second mundane conversation starter. “Sorry, my brain has been locked in on anthropology for the last seventy-two hours. That exam had no business being that difficult, but it was even worse than I expected.”
“You’ve still got another test tomorrow?”
“Actually, two, but these last ones aren’t tests.
One is a group presentation for a communications class, and the other we have to show up to turn in the final paper because the professor refuses to accept online submissions.
It’ll be an easier day tomorrow. We can hang.
You can help me pack. We’re still on track to hit the road Wednesday and get home late Thursday night. ”
She’s forgetting the next step of her itinerary.
“And then you flee the country,” I say, thinking of next week.
“Jealous? You should come visit.”
Her program offers a study abroad course, which sounds like one giant vacation to me, in an I’m-definitely-jealous sort of way.
She’ll be at a college in Spain but will be getting to travel to several other European countries as well, which makes sense because everything’s so close together over there.
The point is to learn to communicate or something?
I don’t really understand what a communications major is, to be honest.
.....
We finally approach her school, and from the road around the perimeter of Audubon College, I get a peek at the campus.
The hilly green quad and the old brick buildings.
Students who are trudging to an exam in stark contrast to their peers who are walking out to summer freedom.
Amelia continues to drive us around the outskirts to a super-faraway parking structure in the back, where she winds through the garage until we finally find empty spaces on the top level.
“They started letting freshmen have cars like a year or two ago,” she explains.
“This was the only spot they had to build more parking, which they are definitely overcharging us for, like everything else. I get by well enough with transit or catching rides with friends, so you can keep the car next year.”
“That’s so kind of you.” My voice is laced with sarcasm. “That’s always been the plan, but I’m glad you think it was your decision.”
She scrunches up her nose gleefully. “Just saying it works out for both of us.”
“That’s good. Don’t go changing your mind. Do I get to keep the lanyard too?”
“No. A friend gave me that. You can buy your own.”
She parks the car, and someone quickly takes the empty space beside us. The girl glances over and smiles at Amelia, but Amelia gives a blank look in response. Perhaps not recognizing the person, which doesn’t mean it’s not someone she knows.
“Amelia!” the girl shouts out, waving, probably thinking my sister is spacey or something.
Amelia recognizes her voice and cracks open the door. “Camila! Hey!” She scrambles to take off her driving lenses and put them away.
But Camila notices. “Nice glasses,” she says, in a way that fortunately seems more curious than mean.