Chapter 27
27
August
I can count the number of words Gabby has spoken to me since our argument on one hand, not including the words she had Aunt Judy text me after packing her bags and leaving the house for several days. But even after she returned, she’s only stayed long enough to sleep. So when I found the note Gabby scrawled on the theater ticket taped to my studio door this morning, her invitation caught me completely off guard.
August,
There’s so much I need to say to you but don’t know how. Will you please come tonight?
—Gabby
I hold the ticket in my hand now, backlit by the lights of the Twilight Theater, and note my aunt’s Lexus in the parking lot. Her presence here tonight doesn’t surprise me, and yet her unwavering suppo rt of Gabby exposes a raw nerve. Despite my role as my sister’s legal guardian, it’s our aunt she contacted after she accused me of not understanding her.
Of not accepting her.
The glint of my aunt’s spotless sedan draws my attention once again. Perhaps I’d been wrong not to relinquish my legal rights to someone more capable.
Perhaps Gabby would have been better off if I’d stayed in LA.
Perhaps that’s part of what Gabby wishes she could say to me but doesn’t know how.
It’s eight minutes until the show starts, but I find myself rooted at the stoop of the theater. My palms are sticky with sweat, as if I’m the one preparing to perform for an audience and not my sister and her friends. In truth, I don’t know much about tonight’s show other than what’s printed on the ticket regarding the added accessibility for the deaf and hearing impaired. But I do know that Gabby started meeting with Sophie at the theater shortly after I blew everything up.
Sophie.
It’s been twenty-two days since I’ve seen her, and exactly none of those days have felt any easier than the day I lied to her face and told her I didn’t want her enough.
Even now, bile lurches up my esophagus at the memory.
For her sake, I hope to remain hidden within the crowd tonight. The last thing she needs is a reminder of the coward she dated.
I slip into the expansive lobby and into the auditorium with every intention to make a clean exit as soon as Gabby’s act is finished. There are too many opportunities to risk hurting the people I care about most by staying any longer than necessary.
At five minutes to curtain, a high school–aged usher at the door hands me a program and offers to help me find the best seat available. I politely inform him that I’ll be fine on my own. The place is packed—nearly every seat filled—but I’m hopeful to spy a spot near the back. I know Aunt Judy will be seated as close to the front as possible. I can’t think of a single music recital of mine as a boy when she wasn’t seated next to my parents in the front row, clapping for me with as much enthusiasm as if I’d just made the final touchdown in a championship game.
I locate an aisle seat in the second to last row. Head down, I do what I can to stay in the shadows, free from the gaze of the only blood relative I have in this auditorium. Once I’ve settled into my seat, I open my program in search of my sister’s name and cast picture.
“Hey, I know you.”
Dread prickles my spine. I haven’t heard Bonnie Brewer’s voice in months, not since that morning in church when she showered me with unsolicited advice. But I know it’s her. She has the kind of distinct vocal quality a subconscious doesn’t easily forget. And somehow, it’s directed at me.
“Hello again.” I rotate my neck just enough to give a diplomatic nod. “Ms. Brewer, isn’t it?” Though I’m certain my face portrays I’m in no mood for small talk, she is not deterred.
“Just Bonnie is fine.” She corrects me with a flick of her hand. “And you’re a calendar month.”
“Excuse me?”
She ticks at her fingers and mumbles, “Let’s see, it’s a weird one. Not October or March or...” She exclaims, “August! It’s August, right?”
I blink. “Yes.”
“I’ve been coming here for those ASL classes. Started a few months ago.” She shrugs. “I like to challenge myself.” Her fingers are hooked and arthritic, but even still, she finger spells her name—struggling on the N . “Turns out I’m not too old to learn new tricks after all.”
“That’s impressive,” I say, before turning my attention back to my open program. I’m relieved when she does the same with her own. I slide my eyes down the show’s lineup and then cringe. My sister’s act is dead last. This is going to be a very long night.
“You know any of these youngsters performing?” Bonnie shakes her program like the youngsters she speaks of might fall out of the glossy pages onto her lap. It’s an effort not to give in to my urge to lie so we can avoid finding a commonality of any kind.
“My sister,” I admit after a moment’s hesitation. There’s no chance I’m going to tell her that I also know the woman whose headshot is on the second page. Sophie’s photo and bio have her listed under the title of assistant director. A tiny, unexpected hope zips through my melancholy at the thought of her using her talent here, in this capacity. Of course, directing is not the same as acting. And I doubt the Pimentels are set up to offer her the kind of job security she desires, not with all the renovations they’ve done and still need to do.
Even still, I can’t help the movie reel that plays in my mind at the hope of her choosing a life here. I see it so clearly: me, taking Sophie’s face in my hands and begging her to forgive me, telling her how the idea of facing another hour, much less another week without her, makes me want to turn my skin inside out.
And yet I must face it. For her.
She deserves more than I can give her.
“Which one is she?” Bonnie asks, examining the cast’s headshots and bios.
Before I can answer, Bonnie wagers a guess. She taps on a picture of a blond girl listed under the second act of the night. “Going off your looks, I’d guess this cutie with the dimples right here—Emily Adams. You two share a similar eye color.”
I take the path of least resistance and point to a picture beside the eighth act of the night. “My sister is Gabby Tate.” I watch Bonnie’s eyebrows rise at the distinct lack of resemblance between me and my Colombian sister, and when she doesn’t immediately comment on our differences, I wrongly assume this interaction has fulfilled the required small-talk quota for seatmates.
Bonnie continues to study Gabby’s picture for longer than what feels comfortable. “I’ve seen her at the classes on Tuesday nights. Her smile is infectious.” She presses two arthritic fingers to her chest. “It comes from her heart. My daughter had that same type of smile.”
I note the past tense of her sentence and freeze.
“Cancer,” she confirms softly. “A quick battle.”
I shi ft my gaze to her profile. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” she amends. “Should have been me.”
A feeling I know all too well.
As the theater lights dim and the curtain rises, Portia and her husband, Nick, take center stage. He signs a greeting to the audience in ASL first while Portia interprets. The two of them take turns welcoming us to the winter showcase, cracking multiple jokes to lighten the atmosphere and warm up the crowd. They teach the hearing-only crowd how to give applause in ASL—by raising both hands and shaking them in the direction of the stage. They then highlight the donation boxes in the lobby and the QR code on the back of the program allocated for their future efforts at commencing a deaf theater. A dream the two of them have shared since they married nearly twenty years ago. Despite the unsettled feeling in my gut since I walked in, their passion to create theater that can meld two worlds in a way I didn’t even know existed draws me in.
By the time the couple exits stage left and a male narrator introduces the first act over the surround speakers, closed captioning of his words on the background screen, I’ve all but forgotten my resistance to being here. The lively song and dance number by two young people—one deaf and one hearing—invites audience participation as the two sign ASL to the lyrics in sync with each other. Bonnie leans forward in her seat, clutching at her program and squinting at the stage through her foggy glasses. I’m honestly not sure how she can see anything through those smeared lenses.
After the fourth act, Portia comes back on stage and announces a fifteen-minute intermission. I help Bonnie retrieve her walker. While I unfold it, I ask the young usher waiting nearby if there’s a place Bonnie might satisfy her “hankering for a Snickers bar.” She’s only brought it up to me five times in so many minutes, so it’s only fair I widen the circle of communication. Thankfully, the kid’s brother is the one working the concessions table, and he offers to take her money and purchase her one while she makes use of the facilities closest to us. Not trusting myself to stay clear of the backstage area, I remain exactly where I am, harboring a foolish hope that I might actually get out of here without running into Sophie.
Upon Bonnie’s return, the same young usher approaches us again, carrying a king-sized candy bar in one hand and a tiny flashlight in the other. He leans toward me and speaks in a hushed tone. “Sir, I’ve just confirmed with our director that we have two open seats in the second row. Center stage.” His smile makes no effort to hide his pride. “They’re reserved for guests with your mother’s specific accessibility needs.”
“Oh, uh,” I begin uncomfortably, “she’s not my...”
“We’ll take them,” Bonnie exclaims loudly, clapping me on the back with a force that nearly knocks the wind out of me. “Don’t leave your program behind, August. I don’t like to share. Oh, and please grab my tissue pack from the armrest there. My nose tends to drip the later the night goes on.”
And this is how I end up trailing after Bonnie as she navigates her walker down the center aisle of Twilight Theater at the speed of a tax audit. There’s no chance we have not alerted every eye in the auditorium as our quest continues long after the theater lights flicker and signal the return of the show. As our eager usher shines his baby flashlight beam on the floor near Bonnie’s feet, she sneaks her contraband Snickers bar from the basket of her walker and stuffs it into the pocket of her dress pants. She then has the audacity to tap a finger to her lips.
I’m still working on collapsing her walker for storage when the next act is announced on stage. I break into a sweat. When I finally take my seat beside Bonnie, the waving motion directly across the aisle from me catches in my periphery.
Even in this low lighting, Aunt Judy’s smile is easy to discern. It costs me whatever pride I have left to wave back.
From these seats, everything appears larger than life. The faces and hands of the performers are sharper and more expressive, and I can’t help but wonder how far along I’d be in my own ASL training if I hadn’t chosen to pursue the path that made me a stranger in my own home.
Through the entire seventh act, my mind is everywhere but on the stage. I can’t say if the act is a song or a drama or even a practiced comedy routine. But I do know that every minute that ticks by is another minute closer to whatever Gabby has planned for her performance.
As the applause hands come down and the clapping noise quiets, Portia and her husband introduce Gabby and ask her to please join them on the stage.
I sit up straighter. This is different.
My sister’s posture is confident when she steps out from behind the curtain and waves at the audience. Both Portia and her husband take a step back, and I look to Bonnie as if she has an explanation. But she’s too busy sneaking bites of her Snickers bar to weigh in.
“Hello,” my sister says directly to the audience. “My name is Gabriella Tate, and I’m a cast member in tonight’s showcase, as well as a student of the Pimentels.” Gabby is speaking and signing at the same time, and I’m completely mesmerized by her poised stage presence. “Due to an accident I suffered two and a half years ago, I’m profoundly deaf. And in just a few minutes, I’m going to share a little bit of my story with you. But first I wanted to share a little about what Twilight Theater and the Pimentel family have meant to me.”
She stops speaking for a moment and grins at Portia and Nick before resuming. “I’m still a student of ASL, but my growing vocabulary and immersive training is thanks to Portia and Nick, and their son, Tyler.” She twists her head to the side of the stage and smiles. “This family has been so patient to teach me—along with many others in this room tonight—exactly why inclusivity matters to both the deaf and hearing communities and why we should hope for a brighter, more communicative tomorrow. Before you leave here tonight, I hope each of you will consider donating to this special theater and its special cause. Thank you for believing in their vision enough to become a bridge builder.” Gabby bows slightly, and the packed auditorium erupts with applause when she encourages Portia and Nick to bow, as well. The couple hugs Gabby before they leave her alone on the stage. A spotlight illuminates her.
“For tonight’s final act, I’ve asked a good friend of mine to be my voice in English so that I can focus on communicating this narrative in ASL without having to break up the natural flow to code-switch for interpretation, the way I’m doing now. We’ve rehearsed our respective scripts in each language. But though there will be two languages represented on this stage, there is only one story.”
Pride swells in my chest, and I clap for her once again. It’s then my sister catches my eye. Discreetly, she touches her chin with her fingertips and proceeds to thank me in ASL. I nod, hoping it somehow conveys that there’s no place I would rather be than right here.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a male narrator says over the loudspeaker as the same words flash on the screen behind my sister. “Without further ado, the Twilight Theater proudly presents Gabby Tate and Sophie Wilder in an original dramatic narrative titled The Rescue .”
Every cohesive brain cell in my head retreats to standby when Sophie’s name is announced. And like the trained professional I know her to be, she all but floats across the stage—an actress who’s performed in dozens of live productions in dozens of venues, who is actively standing up against the past I accused her of avoiding only three weeks ago.
My palms itch to applaud her. They itch to do a lot more than that.
The millisecond I detect a break in her focus, our gazes meld.
I love you. The words burst from the confines of my heart like an involuntary declaration, and I cannot take my eyes off her.
“That’s your girl up there.” Bonnie leans into me and points to Gabby.
No , I silently correct. That’s both of my girls up there.
In a blink, the atmosphere in the theater changes. The lights are low when two separate spotlights capture them. Their heads are bowed as the large multimedia screen that stretches behind them brightens with a scenic picture of a country I’ve visited in a past life with my parents many years ago: Colombia.
The soft notes of a synth pad play a progression of four chords over a prerecorded track. D, A, G, B-minor.
When Gabby lifts her head and peers into the audience, she is not the sister I know today at sixteen. Her facial expression is young, and somehow it matches the movements of her hands, as well. And even before Sophie narrates word one, I know where she’s starting: at the orphanage, on the day we came to take her home.
“You are so loved, Gabby girl. We are your family now—you don’t need to be afraid.” Sophie’s narration is spoken in a reassuring tone meant to represent a man I wish I could beg forgiveness from.
Gabby moves the story along, skipping time like rocks in a lake. The screen pauses on a pool as Gabby acts out the day I taught her how to swim.
“Jump, Gabby, don’t be afraid. I’ve got you!” Sophie’s voice mimics my own this time as Gabby makes use of her entire body to show the scene vividly in ASL.
The words trigger my memories of her in real time, of teaching her to float on her back and then to doggy paddle from one end of the pool to another. It wasn’t too long afterward that we took her to the beach for her first surf lesson.
Time fast-forwards again, the background switching to a garden where Gabby’s spotlight dips to show her kneeling next to our imagined mother, who tries to calm her after a beetle startles her and crawls up her arm.
Sophie reaches down as if to pluck the invisible beetle off Gabby’s shirt sleeve. She dangles it out to the audience, and a few young girls in the front squirm and shriek.
“Why would you fear this beetle when God made you so much stronger than him?” Sophie asks in a maternal voice that causes my throat to thicken. She cups the imaginary bug in her hands and sets it free in the garden bed next to Gabby.
The instant the two of them are back on their feet and the screen behind them morphs into a shot of rural India, I grip the armrests on either side of my chair.
“You okay, August?” Bonnie asks.
But I can’t find the words to answer her, not as Gabby describes the details of a trip I declined. Twice . Once when my mother called to ask me to consider replacing their music pastor who dropped out last minute, and then again when my father called two days later. Our last phone call.
I’d just stepped out of a meeting with a killer music collaboration that had the potential to catapult all of Vanessa’s weird morning meditations into reality when my dad called.
————
“You have a minute to talk, son?”
I didn’t, but unlike my mom, my dad wasn’t a big phone guy. When he called, it was usually as brief as it was important.
“Sure, everything good at home?” I speed-walked past the conference room and Vanessa’s office toward the green room at the end of the hallway. I was famished. “You guys leave for India soon, right?” I slipped into our green room stockpiled with every kind of beverage and snack obsession known to mankind. Vanessa didn’t believe in skimping on anything. She was a go-big or go-home type of woman—the very quality that reeled me in when she offered me a contract I couldn’t refuse. That was the thing about Vanessa. She made it so you couldn’t refuse her.
I could tell by the interference of the wind against my dad’s phone speaker that he was somewhere outside. I checked the clock on the microwave to realize Dad was probably packing up for the day. “That’s actually what I was hoping to talk to you about.”
“India?” I beelined to the mini bags of trail mix. “Listen, I know Mom’s bummed that I said no. But the studio is insane right now. Believe it or not, I just got out of a meeting with an artist whose last EP had a million streams in the first week. The first week! That kind of deal is—”
“Are you living with that woman?”
The bottom floor of my gut dropped to my feet. “What?”
“Your boss. Vanessa. Are you living with her?”
I dropped the bag of trail mix on the counter in front of me, watching as a green Mthe surgeon warned that some of the side effects ofher head trauma would last a few weeks. “I know we’ll see them again,” she encouraged as her tears fell. “That’s our hope. The man said—”
“There was no man,” I replied quietly, though I wanted to rage. This person she created was a figment of her imagination, something she dreamed during her concussion and drug-induced coma. The doctors assured me that there had to be a logical explanation for why she was found so late into the rescue mission and then provided exactly what she needed. I chose to believe them. I needed to believe them.
She tapped on my arm, her brow creased. “I can’t hear you, August.”
I met her gaze with a crushing weariness and shook my head in answer to her earlier question in order to keep the peace. Beyond that, I didn’t know what to do or how to help her. How could I when I didn’t even know how to help myself?
Gabby wasn’t deterred by my silence. “He told me you’d be here when I woke up.”
I pressed my forehead to the mattress; my head throbbed. I’d barely slept since I got the call ... was that four days ago? Five? I didn’t know anymore. How would I take care of her, provide for her? How would I give her anything close to what Mom and Dad had given her? My tears pooled onto the white hospital sheet at her hip, and I felt the weight of her hand on my head.
She yawned. “He told me not to be afraid.” She yawned again. “He said something else, too. A verse, maybe? Something familiar that Mom prays for you often.”
Even in my sleep-deprived state, I knew I couldn’t handle one more thing. So I shut it off. The train. The questions. The pain. The unknowns. The anger. All I knew for sure in that moment was that our parents were dead, and nothing about our lives would ever be the same.
Hot shame fills my core like acid as I realize just how right Gabby had been the night she accused me of never listening to her. I’d heard her, but I hadn’t listened. Moreover, I hadn’t believed her. Because believing her story would mean having to reconcile the worst part of mine.
Sophie’s spotlight flicks off, and Gabby begins to speak into her wireless mic and sign for herself on stage.
“Our questions about the kind American man with the shiny black hair and ocean-blue eyes remain unanswered. There was no record of him on that train or with the medical personnel who assisted me and the other passengers involved in our tragedy. But I do have hope I will meet him again one day when I’m reunited with my parents.” She takes a moment before slowly sweeping her gaze over the crowd. “I don’t know why God allowed me to live when I should have died. And I don’t know why He allowed me to hear the words of my anonymous rescuer when my hearing was lost during the accident. But I do know why He encouraged me to pray for the same miracle my parents died believing would come to pass.”
I struggle to breathe as her gaze holds mine. The weight of my shame is nearly unbearable.
“Miracles come in many forms, and mine came in the form of a rescue I didn’t deserve, and in a hope I never could have emulated before the accident. Hope covered me on the days I could hear with my ears, and it will cover me in the future when I can only hear with my heart.” She places a hand to her chest. “The Scripture my rescuer partially quoted to me is from Romans, and I’d like to share it with you in closing.” Gabby takes a deep breath and recites the verse from memory. “‘And I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love.’” She curtsies. “Thank you.”
People jump to their feet, erupting in cheers and raised hands. But I am still frozen to my seat when Portia and Nick dismiss the audience to the lobby to meet the cast and enjoy refreshments.
“‘Miracles come in many forms. ...’ What a treasure your sister is, August,” Bonnie says as she steadies herself with a hand on my shoulder. “A beautiful reminder for a crotchety old soul like myself.” She bends and stares me down. “You come find me at church on Sunday, you hear me? I’ll be keeping an eye out.”
I drag my gaze up to hers as she winks good-bye and exits the aisle at the same pace she came down it. My aunt approaches shortly after, touching my shoulder with the maternal compassion I’ve rejected out of my own self-loathing many times.
“Your parents loved you fiercely, August. They never stopped. I hope you can believe that.” Tears clog my throat when she wraps her arms around my shoulders and plants a kiss on my head before continuing on to the lobby.
It’s then I see Gabby make her way out from backstage. Her steps are tentative, but her eyes are searching.
Before I can process what I’m doing, I’m up from my seat and s printing toward her, throwing my arms wide and wrapping her in an embrace so tight that it’s not until I lower her to the ground that I realize how fiercely she was hugging me back.
I’m sorry, I say in ASL as soon as she’s facing me. “I don’t know how to sign everything else I need to say, but I promise you...” I choke up on the words. “I’m going to learn.”
My sister’s chin quivers. “I’m sorry, too, August.” She looks behind her as cast members meander toward the lobby. “Will you wait for me to pack up my things? I’d like to go home.”
“Of course.” But of the dozens of half-processed thoughts circling in my brain, there is one that’s complete. So before she turns for the stage, I say it. “I think it’s time we open the box.”