Chapter Twenty-nine
In Maisy’s IEP meeting a few weeks ago, it was decided she’s coming along so well she doesn’t need three home visits a week anymore. While that means progress, I wasn’t exactly excited to find out Ellie would only be coming over once a week.
Add that to the fact that Maisy doesn’t want me walking in to pick her up anymore—a request she was actually able to convey—and I haven’t seen Ellie nearly as much as I’d like lately.
Not to mention she postponed our dancing date. Twice.
Something’s been going on with her, and I hope it doesn’t have anything to do with the guy at Donovan’s that night.
Bolt rubs against my leg as Maisy finishes her dinner. Then he hobbles over to his food dish, gives it a sniff, and walks away. I regard him for a minute. Does he know he’s different? Does he see other cats walking around gracefully and get upset that he doesn’t have four fully functioning legs?
My focus shifts to Maisy. I’ve spent many sleepless nights wondering similar things about her. Does she know what Lucinda did to her was wrong? That kids shouldn’t be locked up and hidden away just because they aren’t perfect in their mother’s eyes?
We’ve been communicating a lot more, and not just through drawings, but signs. Short and simple conversations.
I give the table a little shake—my way of getting Maisy’s attention—and point to Bolt. “He’s hungry.”
She hops off the chair, takes her plate to the sink, then feeds Bolt and plops down next to him while he eats. She always sits next to him while he eats, protectively hovering.
I know the feeling.
When the house lights flash five times, Maisy stands and runs for the front door. She knows Allie is coming. I stride behind her and undo the upper lock.
“Cool,” Allie says, accepting Maisy’s hug. “I saw the lights from out here. Doorbell strobe lights.”
“I had them installed last week.”
Allie looks intrigued. “You’re really in this for the long haul, aren’t you?”
I snort. “What gave it away? The cat that has become a permanent fixture in this house? Or the playground cemented into the back yard?” I see the way she’s staring at me. “Wait. Do you think I’m not cut out for this or something? Is that what people are saying behind my back?”
Maisy drags Allie over to the kitchen where Bolt is still eating.
“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Allie says over her shoulder.
I follow them in. “What are people saying?”
“Do you remember the gossip that went around when Hawk McQuaid found out he had a kid?”
I stiffen, feeling a bit green. “Yeah.”
“Well, it’s nothing like that.” She giggles at her attempt at a prank. “In fact everyone is impressed with how you’ve stood up and taken responsibility.”
She turns to Maisy. “Show me drawings,” she signs.
Maisy claps and races into the dining room to collect them.
Allie and I share a satisfied smile. Because it was just a few short weeks ago when my daughter wouldn’t understand such a simple request. How all our worlds have changed lately.
~ ~ ~
Me: I’m here. Buzz me up?
I wonder if, like last time, she’ll come down and meet me. But I’ve been up to her place since then. And honestly, if she thinks she’s fooling anyone, she’s not. People have seen us together all over town. Even if there wasn”t anything going on between us, the rumor mill would have everyone thinking otherwise.
The door latch clicks in release, making me smile, and I climb the stairs to her apartment. Her front door is cracked open, so I enter.
Ellie: Give me a minute to finish getting dressed.
I take the opportunity to study the pictures on her wall. Family portraits mostly. I see only a slight resemblance between Ellie and her mom. What a shame it is that she must look more like the asshole. A new photo of her and Sierra is off to one side. It still amuses me how much they look like twins.
Ellie comes out from her bedroom looking… fucking amazing. She’s wearing a short flowy blue dress that has pleats near the hem. I can almost see her twirling around as it catches lift from beneath. And those shoes. How women can dance in five-inch heels, I’ll never understand, but damn, her legs look even more shapely than usual.
“You look…” Then I sign, “Wow.”
She smiles. “You learned a new sign.”
I flash her an arrogant grin. “I’ve learned a lot of them.” She’s standing right next to the photo of her and Sierra on the wall and I motion to it. “If you ever wanted to fool anyone, the two of you could switch places. She could pretend to be you and then eavesdrop on all the conversations going on around her.”
Ellie: That’s sinister. Besides, I don’t really want to know what people say about me behind my back. If they can’t say something to my face, it’s not worth knowing.
Me: Geez, El, that’s so… healthy. You are definitely a bigger person than I am.
She comes over and playfully squeezes my bicep. “No I’m not,” she signs.
Her touch sends zingers right to my cock. She seems to understand this, and tortures me even more by adjusting her dress and rewarding me with a tiny flash of cleavage.
Me: I’m not sure I’m okay with you going dancing in that dress. If I spin you around, others might see what’s beneath it. And believe me, I’m the ONLY one who’s going to see what’s under that dress tonight.
Her freckles make an appearance. Then she lifts the bottom of her dress to show me it has shorts underneath. She does a sign I don’t know then fingerspells, “Romper.”
I don’t do it back. That is one word I don’t need to know how to sign.
“Good,” I sign. “How’s Sierra?”
She pages through the photos on her phone and hands it over. There’s a picture of Sierra decked out in ski gear on top of a mountain, her goggles pushed up on top of her head, holding skis and poles at her side. Her smile is easy and comfortable. She must really be in her element.
“She looks happy.”
When I look back down at her phone, a text notification pops up. I can’t help but read the first line.
Brooke: I’m doing wonderfully, Ellie. Please don’t feel like you have to check on me every—
The notification disappears.
“Who is Brooke?”
Ellie looks caught off guard. Scared even.
I hold out her phone. “Someone named Brooke texted you.”
She takes her phone and reads the text. Then she does another sign I don’t understand. She fingerspells, “Client.” But, oddly, she does it while looking at the wall behind me.
It makes sense. But something isn’t right. She was caught off guard by my question. And she always looks at me when she’s signing. If I’ve learned anything about the deaf, it’s that they are very visual. They never look away from conversation. Not unless they’re mad. It’s something I’ve learned Maisy does if I tell her anything she doesn’t like. I think a deaf person turning away is akin to a hearing person sticking their fingers in their ears.
And Ellie never averts her eyes. She’s lying.
But… why?
She points to her clock and raises a brow.
“Dinner is at eight,” I sign. “Dancing after.” I step closer. “Then…” I tug her toward me. She’s too close for me to sign, so I say, “Then I’m going to take off this dress and everything under it and do things to you that’ll have you screaming my name.”
She stiffens in my arms. I replay the words in my head and understand why.
“Shit,” I say. “I didn’t mean—”
A finger comes up over my lips.
“Sorry,” I sign.
She nods politely. But I can tell my slip up affected her. “Wine?” she asks.
“Of course.”
I follow her to the kitchen. I’ve only been in here once before for a glass of water the night we were together. In one corner, there’s a small desk with a computer monitor that’s turned on its side, long side up. That’s odd. I point to it. “What’s that for?”
“Phone calls,” she signs. “Deaf like video calls.”
“Really?”
I shouldn’t be surprised, knowing how visual they are. It makes sense that they would want to see each other sign versus read texts. It still baffles me sometimes that English is Ellie’s second language. It’ll be Maisy’s second language too—when she learns it.
Me: Good to know. When Maisy goes off to college, I’ll make sure we each have a large monitor for video calls.
Ellie smiles. Is she thinking what I’m thinking? That I hope I still have Maisy in thirteen years when it’s time for her to go off to school?
She gets two glasses from her cabinet and a bottle of Merlot from her pantry. I raise an amused brow. It’s one of ours.
“You like my wine,” I sign.
“Really good,” she signs emphatically.
I take the bottle from her. “You like me.”
Her eyes roll. “Not bad,” she signs.
I laugh, walk her back to the counter, and press her into it with my thigh. “I’ll show you not bad.”
When I set the bottle behind her, it knocks into something. I glance over her shoulder and see a spilled jar of fortune cookies. I palm one and show it to her. “Why all the fortune cookies?”
“My parents like them.”
She’s pleased that I understand.
“May I?” I hold it up.
She shrugs.
I remove the cookie from the plastic, crack it open, and pull out the tiny slip of paper, laughing when I read: Wise man never plays leapfrog with unicorn.
I show it to her, then say, “Your turn.”
She fishes her phone from her pocket.
Ellie: I don’t do fortune cookies. I just keep them around for my parents. They have a somewhat unnatural affinity toward them. It’s kind of nauseating. But also romantic in a way.
I stare her down. “Humor me.”
Her eyes don’t avert from mine. We’re having a silent battle of wills. It must last an entire minute before she caves. She sighs, rolls her eyes, and reaches for one.
She reads it and tosses it aside. “Stupid,” she signs.
I pick it up and read: The fortune you seek is in another cookie.
I chuckle and hand her a second one. After another slightly less intense stare-off, she accepts it. I think I see the hint of humor in her eyes as she reads the second one. Then she shakes her head and balls that one up.
I smooth it out and read the crinkled paper: Error 401: Try again later.
Me: I’d call that an UNfortunate cookie. Try another.
She shakes her head.
“Why not?”
Ellie: Because they’re silly, and—case in point—they have nothing to tell me that I don’t already know.
Me: That’s deep, El. Are you saying you have your entire life planned out?
Ellie: Are you asking me what I want to be when I grow up?
“Maybe I am.”
Ellie: I could ask the same from you. Maisy is thriving. Are you thinking of going back to work full time?
Me: Way to pivot the conversation. And, yes, I’ve been bouncing around the idea. My mom thinks I should get a nanny.
She raises a brow and chews her lip. Do I detect a hint of… jealousy? I could swear I do. And it makes me stand a little taller. Ellie Stone holds her cards close to her chest. I don’t know if it has anything to do with her deafness, or if it’s just a random character trait. Sure, it seems she likes to kiss me, and she didn’t seem to complain about me in bed, but I honestly have no idea how she feels about me. Or I didn’t until now.
Me: Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she’s old and ugly.
Ellie giggles, an almost imperceptible sound escaping her throat, and shows me the signs for old and ugly.
“I have an idea,” she signs.
“If it involves you and me and your bedroom, I’m all for it.”
She blushes. “Signs only tonight.”
“You don’t want me to talk?”
“Not with your mouth.” She holds a finger to my lips as if to punctuate her words. “Or your phone.”
Me: What if I use a wrong sign and unknowingly call you a dirty hooker or something?
She laughs and shows me the signs for dirty and hooker.
“Start now,” she signs.
I crack a smile, thinking this is a game.
But once we get to the restaurant and I go to speak to the host, she puts a hand on my arm to stop me then places a finger against her lips and shakes her head.
Oh, so when she meant no speaking, she meant at all, not just with her.
“How?” I sign.
She shrugs, maybe liking this game a little too much.
The host is staring at me, waiting. Maybe he has a piece of paper. But I don’t want to reach over the podium and just grab something. That would be rude.
Some men standing next to us shake hands, and one of them hands a business card to the other, giving me my answer.
I get out my wallet, fish a business card from the inside pocket, and give it to the host. He eyes me strangely. When I point to my name and then to his iPad, he puts two and two together. “Right this way, Mr. Montana.”
“Than—” I stop talking before the word is out, leaving the host even more confused.
I simply nod and smile when he seats us and hands us the menus.
“Awkward,” I fingerspell.
She shows me the sign.
“Hello,” a woman says, coming to our table. “I’m Michelle, I’ll be your server tonight. May I start you out with any drinks?”
“Drink?” I sign to Ellie.
“You pick.”
“We’ll—” I stop, roll my eyes, and find my selection on the wine menu, pointing to it before holding up two fingers.
Yeah, not awkward at all. The waitress now knows I can talk.
She looks between Ellie and me, like she’s wondering if we’re pranking her. When she looks at me again, I sign, “Thank you.”
The waitress scurries off, not knowing what else to do.
Ordering drinks and dinner turns out to be the easy part. Sitting across from Ellie without being able to say everything on my mind is torture.
Ah, shit. Unexpectedly, I get a taste, however small it may be, of what Maisy must have felt like when she couldn’t communicate. How she still must feel only knowing how to ask for basic needs and use simple words.
Part of me wonders if this is an exercise, part of an education plan for me to learn how to sign better. Another part wonders if this is Ellie’s way of showing me just a little bit of her world. Probably a little of both.
It takes us ten minutes to have a simple conversation about the weather because I have to fingerspell a lot of it. And if there’s one thing I can’t do fast, it’s fingerspell. I feel like this date is going horribly. I can’t be my usual charming self if I can’t talk. Is she even going to want to go dancing after?
The sultry glances and subtle toe taps she gives me are reassuring, however, and now I can’t wait to have her in my arms. Plus, my hands are cramping. It’ll be nice to give them a rest.
By the end of dinner, I know that no matter what I do, I could never even begin to know her world. Because even though I didn’t speak, I could still hear everything going on around me. Gossip from the ladies at the next table. The platter of food that crashed loudly on the tile floor of the kitchen. The distant clap of thunder that warns of a brewing storm. But somehow, in all this silence, I feel closer to her than ever.