Chapter 13
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Sophie
Gabby:
Text me when you get here! I saved you a seat.
I exhale an uneven breath as I approach the ornate doors of the Twilight Theater for the second time in as many months. Never in a hundred years did I think I’d return. Granted, the feat feels a tiny bit easier considering Portia’s graciousness and the fact that this is an introductory ASL class I’m attending and not an audition.
As soon as I step into the lobby, I shoot a reply back to Gabby.
I’m here.
Unlike the first time I visited, I’m struck not only by the nostalgic interior of a theater rich in history and charm, but also by the freshly painted walls in the lobby. Gabby and her crew have been hard at work. I detect where the cracks along the baseboard have been caulked and where dated light fixtures have been upgraded. I m eander a bit farther to the center of the lobby, where I focus on the inky-black domed ceiling. There’s a smattering of painted metallic stars in the center—no doubt the namesake for this gorgeous theater—but as I ponder the impossible darkness after all the ambient light has been blotted out during the live shows, a chill skitters my spine.
Footsteps approach from behind, and I swivel to find Gabby. She smiles and signs hello to me in ASL. I sign back, proud of myself for learning a few basics on my own.
She gives me a hug as if she’s known me for years.
“Good job,” she exclaims, and when we break apart, I notice her hearing aids more than usual due to the double Dutch braids she’s wearing tonight—an adorable style on her. Though I’ve seen her aids dozens of times, I’ve never seen them so exposed. The technology is fascinating. They’re so small, and the wires are nearly invisible to my naked eye.
She picks up on my focal point, and I immediately want to apologize for staring.
“Thing One and Thing Two are getting a bit more attention than usual today,” Gabby says without any sense of self-consciousness.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t stare, I’m just fascinated by how they work and...”
“And what?” she teases. “It’s okay, Sophie, I’m not easily offended. You can ask me anything.”
“I thought you couldn’t hear out of your right ear but you still wear an aid in that one?”
She nods as if she’s answered this many times before. “Right, because even though I’m profoundly deaf in the right, these aids use the vibrations inside of my skull to transmit sound to my partially hearing ear.” She shrugs, and the action is so authentically teenage girl that I can’t help but smile. It’s weird to think I was her age only a decade ago. “My brother explains the science part a lot better, but in echoey spaces like the auditorium we’ll be in tonight, they make it easier for me to localize sound and pick up on specific conversations.”
I’m still stunned by their size. They’re a fraction of the size I remember my Gigi’s being when I was her age. “Are they comfortable?”
She pauses before answering this time. “They’re okay. Sometimes the distortion can be really annoying, and I get headaches if I wear them too long, but it’s the tinnitus that makes me feel...” She purses her lips. “Like I want to rip my ears off.”
“Tinnitus.” I scrunch my eyebrows, trying to place the word. “That’s the high-pitched ringing sound?”
“For hours and hours,” she confirms and then says, “But I can be a better help to Portia tonight if I keep them in. I’m not as skilled of a lip-reader as Tyler yet, and even if I was, it becomes really difficult when there are multiple speakers interacting at once. I can help Portia with interpretation when I have them in, although the acoustics in the room still cause me to miss things. But that’s why we’re here, right? To promote the many benefits of interpreters.”
“Right.” I recall the interpreters I’ve watched during second service on Sunday mornings. When Portia first started the ministry at Seaside so her husband could attend, she was the only interpreter. Now, there are four on rotation.
Gabby links her arm through mine and tugs me deeper into the lobby. My pulse kicks a little harder in my chest. I can tell my brain I’m only here to attend a class, but my body knows exactly where I am. I’ve simply been inside too many auditoriums for me to pretend otherwise.
“If it wasn’t for my brother,” Gabby continues with ease, “I probably would have ditched my aids altogether after camp, though.”
The mention of August sends a rush of warmth through me. “Why if not for your brother?”
“Because he doesn’t want to accept that I’ll be deaf forever.”
This draws me up short. “What do you mean?”
Her hesitation is the first time I’ve felt her hold back, and I don’t know if it’s her brother she’s protecting or herself. “My condition is degenerative. It’s why my aids don’t work as well now as they did when August first bought them for me.” She rubs her lips together. “August still hopes I can be fixed someday—that my life will be better if I can go back to hearing and communicating the way I used to.”
I flinch at her use of the word fixed , and it takes me a second to recalibrate my thoughts. “And what do you hope for?”
“Peace.” Her voice holds so much honesty, I don’t dare take a breath. “I should have died two years ago in the same accident that killed my parents, but I’m still here. I don’t understand why things happened the way they did, but I trust that God has a plan. My mom raised me to believe He works in every circumstance in our lives. Even the hardest ones.”
The way she speaks about God, with such confidence, reminds me of what August said about Gabby finding comfort in her faith. And I understand it now. Because her words have brought me comfort, too.
Behind us, I hear several more people enter the theater. By the way they’re conversing back and forth, I know they’re hearing attendees. As I follow Gabby through the auditorium, she boldly greets each guest with a smile and a wave, being sure to thank them for coming.
Meanwhile, butterflies hatch in my gut at the smell of polished wood and velvet seat cushions.
“So glad you made it, Sophie,” Portia says, greeting me as Gabby points out our saved seats facing the front of center stage. While Portia asks questions about my day, the sight of the stage behind her is distracting at best. “I was hoping to talk with you about something after the meeting tonight. Do you have a few minutes to spare?”
And then the butterflies hatch in full. With as much as I appreciate Portia’s kindness to me, I’ve feared being asked to do more at the theater outside these Tuesday night classes. For one, my commitments at the studio and the winery simply won’t allow it. And for two, I’m not ready. No matter how badly I want to be, the panicked hum in my limbs warns me otherwise.
“Sure, I can stay after class for a few minutes.”
“Great.” Portia squeezes my arm lightly before she makes her way to the stage. There are maybe forty-ish people in attendance ton ight, and from the look that passes between my seatmate and her boyfriend, I can see how delighted they are by the turnout.
Tyler signs something to her and then points to me.
I lean in. “What did he say?”
“He says we’ll have to start thinking of some good name ideas for you.”
“Name ideas?”
“Yes. Your ASL sign name. Only a deaf person can give you one.”
“Really?” The thought brightens my mood considerably. “That’s really neat.”
Portia takes the stage then. She reintroduces herself to the room using both English and ASL. It’s intimidating to watch how quickly her hands move, but also inspiring. The more I see of this beautiful language, the more I want to understand it. Unlike the last time I saw Portia address an audience from a stage, this time she introduces her husband, Nick, to the group. Nick stands, turns, and waves.
We all wave back.
“Nick is the best man I know, which is why I was the one to propose marriage to him first because I didn’t want him to get away,” Portia says in a somewhat mischievous tone.
Nick, still standing, signs something back, and I notice the way he uses his entire body in his response—his shoulders play as active a role as his facial expressions. I don’t need to understand everything he’s saying to understand he has a funny sense of humor like his wife. Gabby belly-laughs beside me, and so do a few others in the room. And I’m desperate to know what he’s said.
Portia is laughing as she tries to deliver her husband’s reply. “Nick says, ‘Oh, no, you don’t. That’s not how it happened at all. The only reason she asked first is because her mouth moves three times quicker than my hands. I was already on bended knee, holding out the ring to her, and she stole my next line like a diva.’”
The rest of the room erupts into laughter, and it’s incredible how the atmosphere relaxes. As stage actors, we’re shown techniques to warm up an audience, but this is next level. In a single interaction, this couple has bridged two worlds, and I’d bet there’s not a soul in this room who doesn’t look at ASL like the incredible gift it is.
With the attention squarely focused on the stage, Portia shares a brief overview on the history of ASL and how this special language has played both a personal and a professional role in her life as a certified ASL interpreter, tutor, and speech therapist. Her vision to integrate the hearing and non-hearing communities in our area is commendable, and I find that as she shares, I’m overcome with a desire to know more. Like how this old theater plays a part in her family’s life. How did Twilight Theater come to be purchased by them?
We spend the rest of the class discussing the layout of the months ahead, the workbooks and curriculum for purchase, the at-home videos we’ll need to watch and practice each week, and our overall commitment to learning. It’s a lot, but it’s right. I know it is.
When Portia mentions the option of memorizing a weekly Bible verse in ASL before the start of class each week, I watch her find me in the crowd. Perhaps she’s remembering our brief conversation about the Bible journal we share. I’ll be happy to tell her I’ve been tracking my progress with the plan in the mornings.
As the meeting winds down and eventually wraps up, I make my way to Portia, who is surrounded by attendees. When the last person finally steps away, she rotates to face me.
“Great job tonight,” I say. “You’re really inspiring.”
“I believe I said the same thing about your résumé the first time we met.”
I feel my calm slip and my nerves return, but then she reaches for my hand. “I’ve been thinking about that coffee date we talked about.”
“Oh yeah?” I release the anxious breath I’ve been holding. Committing to coffee is an easy yes.
“Yeah,” she continues, “only I’m wondering what you might think of doing something a bit more routine, like meeting for an hour or so before class on Tuesdays to talk through what we’re reading and discovering in the Bible since we’re following the same plan. Could you do that?”
“Ab solutely. I’d love to.” I’m equal parts flattered and thrilled by her suggestion. “Thank you.”
She drops her voice to a whisper. “What do you think about inviting Gabby to join us? I know she has an aunt who sees her every couple of weeks, but I lost my mom when I was an older teen, and I know how valuable a consistent female influence is at her age.” I nod emphatically, and she smiles and touches my arm. “Great. And for the record, Sophie, I don’t think you’re in the Tates’ lives by accident.”
A tiny thrill climbs my spine as the sentiment takes root. I think about what Gabby said earlier—how she trusts God is at work in every circumstance. How she believes He has a plan even in the hard times. The thought is so remarkable I can’t help but try it on for size myself.
Could God’s plan be at work in my life at this very minute? The question is almost dizzying as I process the untimely ending of my stage career, my move back to California, my narration gig at the studio, and even my friendship with the Tates. With one in particular.
A thought that leaves a smile on my face for the entirety of my drive home.