Voice Memo
Gabby Tate
5 months, 3 weeks, 1 day after the accident
I met with my new ASL tutor/speech therapist today. Honestly, it was one of the best days I’ve had in a long time. The nurse at my audiologist’s office told my brother about her, and I’m so glad he agreed for us to meet. And it’s so crazy that her home office is only a few blocks from our house!
She has a super fun personality, and she seemed impressed with what I’ve learned online so far. As soon as my brother walked out of the room, she asked me how I was liking my new hearing aids. I told her the truth. That I don’t like them much at all. I told her how everybody still sounds like an alien and how my left ear rings constantly. She seemed to really care about my answers, like she wants to help me, even though she has two fully working ears herself. Later on she told me that her son and her husband are both deaf. I’ve never met anyone who can’t hear anything at all. Although, I suppose that could be my story someday.
Before I left her office, I saw a flyer on her bulletin board about an ASL interpretation ministry at the big church on the other side of town. When I asked her about it, it took all my strength not to start crying. She probably thought I was getting emotional due to the story she told me about becoming an interpreter so that her husband could attend services with her. But really, I was thinking about the last time I went to the little church I grew up in. August and I went together a few weeks ago at Aunt Judy’s request because she insisted we thank all the people who brought us dinners and sent cards and flowers.
But neither of us were prepared for how hard it would be. So many p eople came up to us after the service, hugging us and telling us how much they miss Mom and Dad and how sorry they are for our loss. It was the funeral all over again. August didn’t leave my side the entire time, even though I could tell he couldn’t wait to go home. But all the “we’re praying for you and your brother” conversations wasn’t the hardest part for me. The hardest part was seeing the seats my parents used to sit in every Sunday filled by people who weren’t my mom and dad.
August and I didn’t talk on the drive home that day. And even once we parked in the driveway, August went straight to the garage to get his tool belt so he could go fix something that probably didn’t even need fixing. I headed straight for my parents’ bedroom where I wrapped my mom’s wedding quilt around me and then tucked myself into their closet, careful to slide the mirrored door all the way closed before I touched the box I promised not to open without my brother.
I wish he would tell me why he’s so upset over Pastor Bedi’s letter. Maybe then I could understand why he refuses to go near this box, or our parents’ room, for that matter. Sometimes my brother treats me like I’m eight and not nearly fifteen. I pray he’ll change his mind about the box soon.
I also pray he’ll change his mind about attending church and come with me to this new one.