Chapter One
Present day
My fingers toggle the light-switch just outside Brody’s room off-and-on. My son’s head snaps up quickly. “My C-I, lost. Where?” his frantic ten-year-old hands sign in ASL.
I waggle my hand to gain his attention back as he tosses his pillows askew on his bed. “I found it on your floor when I came to tuck you in last night. Your processor is stuck to the fridge,” I sign back, using SEE, Signed Exact English, for his benefit.
I oftentimes will sign that way when conversing with Brody while he doesn't have his cochlear on because it helps him with his syntax when he's speaking English with his peers. I know it’s frowned upon, breaking away from Deaf culture by not signing in true ASL—which is its own language entirely, not just signed English—but as a mom, my main concern is helping my son assimilate as much as possible in an area where English is the primary spoken language. Besides, as a hearing person, it wouldn’t sit right with me to try to teach him about Deaf culture—that’s best done by someone who is deaf or hard of hearing.
He audibly groans, tossing his hands in the air as he scoots out his doorway past me. Once I see him attach it, and it blinks signifying it’s connected, I tell him, “Your bus is going to be here soon, do you have everything in your backpack? Your permission slip and everything?”
He whines, “Awh, Mum! Do I hafta ride the bus?! It’s the last day of school! Besides, I hate takin’ the bus; Ryder’s always bein’ a jerk.”
“I can take you, Brode. I’ll be going right by there on my way to work anyways,” his father offers. “Go load up in my truck.”
Brody pumps his fist in the air, kisses me goodbye, and shoots out the door—excited for his field trip.
Marcus steps out of our bedroom all done up for work.
It’s the end of his second week at this new job, and I think he already hates this one too.
I'm certain the biggest part of his loathing for this job is the uniform though.
He says the all-brown outfit makes him look like a giant turd who delivers packages.
I stifle a snort looking at him now. He kinda does. His tall, husky form does look rather comical donning the trademark cocoa-toned cargo shorts and matching button down.
“Yeah, yeah. Yuck it up now,” he huffs, the angular features of his face pinched in annoyance as he tosses his cap on his head, effectively flattening out his gorgeous dark brown ringlets of hair.
“I know you hate the shorts, but they do show off your booty.” I snicker.
He rolls his eyes, exasperated with how much I admire his perfectly sculpted bubble butt.
I only wish growing up being fed his mother’s carb-loaded cooking had the same effect on me so I wouldn’t have to do so many squats to get my ass in the same shape as his…
with the same level of effort he puts into it.
Which is exactly none, in case you were wondering.
It’s unfair. Chock it up as yet another way the universe magnifies gender imbalance, I guess, and further goes to fuel my feminist fire. Fuck you, universe. I want an ass like Marcus’ too… without having to get all my rage out at the gym to achieve developing one.
Marcus clears his throat, dragging me out of my mental tirade. “Right, because I’m planning on picking someone up, rather than dropping packages off. Thanks, but no thanks. You look nice though.”
“Thanks.” I smooth out my pantsuit, smiling broadly. Marcus has a way of perpetually doling out compliments that simultaneously leave me feeling slightly less bitter and wishing that more men were just like him: thoughtful, caring, and always willing to uplift someone.
Were he not attracted to men, I’d say he was my perfect match.
The sunlight to my dark. Marcus is a walking, talking, lovable green flag.
Sometimes I feel guilty that he chose this life for himself—never coming out and, instead, choosing to dedicate his life to Brody and me.
I keep trying (and failing) to get him to go out there and see what he could be missing, but he insists that here, with us, is where he belongs.
Not that he doesn’t go out and play a little though…
“Have many appointments today?” he asks after giving me a quick goodbye peck on the cheek, the rough stubble of his face having scraped my skin.
I’ve missed his facial hair. He either had to cut it off or wear it in some beard net thing for the last job he had in food-service. Not that he didn’t look good without it, but with it? Guy is a spicy lookin’ meatball.
“Yeah, about five or so. They’re all local-ish though, so I shouldn’t be home too late. Dinner is in the crockpot regardless. You don’t have to wait for me if you get home and are starving. Oh, and don’t forget, Brody has that sleepover tonight at Harrison’s.”
“Ah yes, thank you for reminding me. I totally forgot. Speaking of, did Brody remember to charge his extra battery for his processor?”
“I’ll check before I run out of here. Have a good day! Love you, Marco!”
“Love you too, Polo.” He beams at me before setting out, shutting the front door to our house behind him.
I peek inside Brody’s room, checking to make sure he’s got his spare processor battery for his cochlear charging.
I really hope he doesn’t lose this one at tonight’s sleepover.
He ruined one at a pool party last summer, and these things are not fuckin’ cheap, let me tell you what.
Thank heavens for his Medicaid insurance because without that—we’d be fucked with a capital F.
Well, I can’t totally say that, I guess.
Marcus and I would still be able to communicate with Brody, but none of his friends would know how to, and that’s a tough pill to swallow for him.
He already feels like an outsider enough, being the only deaf kiddo at his school.
In fact, there’s hardly a Deaf community in our little seaside village at all.
The fact that I only have one appointment in town today is evidence of that.
Since deciding to pick up American Sign Language the day we got Brody’s audiology results back, I found my career goals changing for myself.
Marcus and I worked hard to become fluent in it—oftentimes only communicating with each other by just signing for practice—and eventually I went back to school and completed my degree online.
With my background of medical terminology from nursing school, I ended up becoming licensed in Maine to be a medical sign-language interpreter.
My job takes me all over the Midcoast region most days, but today, my cases have me sticking closer to home.
For the remainder of my shift, I’m on call only for emergency virtual appointments, which are usually pretty rare.
Good deal for a Friday, so I have no complaints.
Also, the first appointment should be pretty easy.
The patient isn’t deaf or hard of hearing; he’s mute, so the appointments I attend with him take half the time I’m allotted since he can hear everything.
Once his doctor’s visits are over, we usually grab a cup of coffee and idly chat a little—something I’ve come to look forward to whenever I see his name pop up on my case list. I’m guessing, but I figure he’s lived somewhere in or around Ternbay for a couple of years now since that’s about how long I’ve been interpreting for him.
It’s not protocol or anything to hang out with a client once their appointments are over, but Caleb is super nice, and I get the impression that, because of his disability, he feels just as much like an outsider as Brody does.
He really doesn’t get to talk to anyone because—as he’s mentioned to me before—no one makes an effort to learn sign language to be able to communicate with him better.
He gets so excited to just sit and chat about the most menial of things: the weather, current events, how our day has been, etc.
It’s sad, really. He doesn’t fit in with the Deaf community because he’s not a person with hearing loss.
He also doesn’t get along well with the hearing community anymore either because he can’t carry on conversation with anyone without writing everything down.
I feel like he’s caught in this limbo, never really able to fit in anywhere.
Or maybe I’m just projecting, I don’t know. After all, I can understand the feeling of not fitting in. I hardly make an effort to get out and socialize. Case in point? The last person I made friends with is our freakin’ real estate agent, Sarah.
Don’t get me wrong, she’s amazing, but still…
Even now, we don’t get to hang out a lot.
She and I are both busy mothers with active children.
I don’t know how she does it with twins by herself, since even when she was with her now ex-husband, Gannett, he didn’t seem to be much help.
As an only child, Brody keeps me and Marcus running all over the place—speech and occupational therapy appointments, sports, playdates, Lego robotics club, summer camp… you name it.
I can’t completely blame being busy for my lack of social life, however.
There are still some days where I can’t get out of my own head, and I need to rot in bed, cry a bunch, or head to the gym to go beat the shit out of a punching bag.
Sometimes, I do all three, and those are the days the local gym, Forge Fitness, sees me at my worst.
Still, I persevere. It took years of therapy—and mind you, I’m still going—to come to a place where I’m functional enough to be a good mom for Brody and a good partner for Marcus, and now we’re working on tackling my fear of intimate interactions with men.
And bless my best friend—my lifelong partner in crime—for being there with me throughout everything.
For stepping in to be a father to Brody, to be there for me on the days when I’m drowning in self-loathing, and for loving me unconditionally.