Live Out Loud Page 15

  “Are you hungry? Peanuts and pretzels on the plane is no dinner. Let me make you something.”

  At the mention of food, my stomach rumbles. What was the last thing I ate? I don’t even remember. “I don’t know if I should. Mom wants me to help her with the centerpieces.”

  “Give her another twenty minutes and the wine will kick in. She won’t be finishing those centerpieces tonight. You need to eat. You’re too skinny.”

  I glance down at my C-cup chest and poke my soft tummy, shaking my head in disagreement. With the demands of school, stress eating peanut butter cups has become my new favorite pastime. Those mini ones are the perfect size to tuck into my lab coat’s pockets. “I’ve actually gained a few pounds since I’ve been home last. But that’s okay. Food and I have a good relationship.” I give her a thumbs-up. “A sandwich would be amazing. Thank you.”

  “You got it.” Mrs. R winks and shuffles off to the refrigerator abandoning her tart shells and bowls of fruit. Pulling out several varieties of deli meats, mayo, mustard, tomatoes, lettuce, and cheese slices, she keeps piling the ingredients on her ample chest, using it as a table.

  Skirting the island, I jog up next to her, and take jars and containers of meat off her hands, lightening her load.

  Both of us spin around, depositing the makings of the world’s greatest sandwich on the island’s granite countertop. “Grab the bread.” Mrs. R instructs, pointing to the other side of the kitchen. At least a dozen loaves are stacked on the far end of the counter, in preparation for Dad’s party tomorrow, I assume.

  I swipe a loaf off the top, not even bothering to see what kind it is, I’m so famished. At this point, I might not even mind a little mold growing on the crust. Plopping the bread next to the jar of mayo, I take a quick look at the edges, just to make sure there is no green fuzz, though. Yeah, don’t think I’m hungry enough to share my sandwich with mold spores. Not wanting to channel my inner Alexander Fleming tonight.

  Twisting the bread tie, I pull out two slices of rye, loving the earthy scent. I reach for the knife sitting beside the bread bag and Mrs. R. slaps my hand away. I look at her, sticking out my bottom lip. “What was that for?”

  “You, go sit. I’m making this sandwich.” She points to the barstools on the other side of the island with the table knife.

  I give her my best pouty face. “Okay, but I was just trying to help.”

  “You can help by telling me how you have been. What have you been up to?”

  “Oh, goodness. I’m so busy. I feel like I’m always a step behind at the hospital, so I work twice as hard to make up for it. And when I’m not at the hospital, I’m working at the YMCA. I’m in charge of the Deaf Youth After School Program. I’m beat, Mrs. R.”

  Folding slices of turkey, roast beef, and salami on top of each other, Mrs. R layers sharp cheddar between them—just the way I like it. Topping it off with lettuce, a couple of slices of tomato, and a thick coating of mayo and mustard on the top piece of bread, she puts the cap on and slides the plate across the counter. “Dig in.”

  “This is a work of art.” Lifting the sandwich, I bring it to my lips. It’s so tall, I can’t fit my mouth around it. I smash it down with my fingers, biting off a small corner of the crust, the bitter taste of mustard hitting my tongue first.

  I move in for a bigger bite, foregoing any modicum of manners. Mouth full, my eyes roll to the back of my head, savoring Mrs. R’s handiwork. Holding the sandwich with my left hand—refusing to give it up—I sign with my right, “This is amazing. So good.”

  “Glad you like it.” Mrs. R. busies herself, cleaning up the sandwich mess. Restocking the fridge, she turns around and asks, “Sounds like you’re working hard. Any time for fun? Got yourself a fella?”

  Midbite, a smile creeps to my face.

  “Oh, so there is a man.” Mrs. R. shimmies her hips, eyebrows wagging.

  Chewing, I set the remaining one-fourth of my sandwich on the plate. “His name’s T-H-O-R. He’s in a band.”

  “A musician.” She nods her approval. “Nice.”

  “He’s got such a kind heart. You should have seen him play his guitar for the kids at the Y. He was a natural with them.” I pick at a corner of cheese poking out from between two pieces of salami, popping it into my mouth. “And he’s so protective of his mother.”

  “Any man that’s good to his mother is a keeper.” She nods, carrying a bowl of raspberries and a cookie sheet of tart shells over to the island, resuming her work.

  “Yeah.” I agree as I watch her assemble one cute little tart after another. My mind replays bits of last night, when Thor shared his sea-glass story. I pressed him for more, wondering why his relationship with his father had gotten so bad, but he got quiet. Changed the subject. What happened between you and your dad, Thor?

  Every time he opens up, even just a little, the second I push for more, he shuts me out. I’ve gathered that his dad wasn’t the best, and Thor pretty much hates him. But why? Why won’t you tell me? Why won’t you let me in?

  Mrs. R drops another raspberry into the pastry, drizzling melted white chocolate on the top. I want to steal one, but I know better than to take one of her creations without invitation. Chloe gives me the evil eye when I steal her food but Mrs. R is ruthless. She won’t hesitate to smack your hand, and it will leave a mark.

  “Looks like you’ve got it bad for this guy.” There’s that eyebrow waggle again.

  Who am I kidding? I really do. “I think I’m falling for him.” I keep my signs small, hesitant to confide that tidbit of information.

  “Oh, Harper!” Mrs. R signs, her smile beaming. “I know that look.”

  I roll my eyes, trying to hide the look Mrs. R is referring to. The one that makes my cheeks burn with heat and heart skip a beat, pinching tight in my chest, and stealing my breath away. The feeling that scares the shit out of me. I’ve never felt this before.

  Risking a bruised hand, I pick up on of Mrs. R’s tarts and take a bite. I need the distraction. The sharp tang of the berries floods my mouth, along with the sweet, white chocolate drizzle. It’s a delicious combination. “This is fantastic!”

  Mrs. R eyes me, contemplating her next move, a sly smile lifting one side of her mouth. “Thank you,” she signs, bring her palm down from her chin.

  I pop the rest of the tart into my mouth, savoring the bite. And just when I thought I was safe, Mrs. R smacks the back of my hand, leaving an angry, red outline where her fingers made contact.

  “Ouch! That left a mark!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Harper

  Who knew stealing one of Mrs. R’s desserts warranted onion duty? I’ve chopped onions all morning and shed approximately two cups of tears in the process. I’m sure this is some form of cruel and unusual punishment.

  Mom hustles through the kitchen, waving and most likely shouting. I’ve got to hand it to her, she was up before me this morning, and has been working her ass off ever since. She’s determined to make sure Dad’s party goes off without a hitch. She’s even called in the troops: her friends on the New Hampshire Women’s Foundation board of directors, the ladies she golfs with at the country club, and anyone who was available to pitch in from the National Society of New England Women. Mom does have loyal friends…well, except for Sophie and Pauline, who were too hungover to put the finishing touches on those centerpieces.

  Mom and Mrs. R discuss something while I pick up a pile of onions and drop them in a bowl. Glancing at the microwave clock, I see it’s well past three o’clock. Shit! I’ve got to start getting ready.

  Walking over to the sink, I run my hands under the water, working the soap into a good lather. I turn off the water and dry my hands on a paper towel, still reeking of onions. Great. I’m going to be the only one at the party wearing eau de onion.

  Twisting the hot water back on, I repeat the process, sudsing up again. Drying, I press the back of my hand to my nose, taking a hesitant sniff. Ugh!

  Ready to whirl around and giv
e Mrs. R a piece of my mind, she plops a giant, metal serving spoon in my hands.

  I glare at Mrs. R’s retreating backside, then at my hands. What am I supposed to with a big-ass serving spoon? Does she want me to wash it? Turning the spoon over in my hands the words “stainless steel” are etched into the handle.

  Stainless steel. Of course. An image of my interpreter signing a lecture from my first-year undergrad general chem course flickers in the back of my brain.

  Onions contain a high level of sulfur molecules, which give them their distinctive odor. Rubbing your hands with stainless steel under running cold water for a minute or two neutralizes the sulfur molecules when they come in contact with the chromium in the steel.

  Pouring soap on my hands and the spoon, I rub, making sure the metal comes in contact with every inch of my skin. When my fingers are pink and raw, I drop the spoon, and turn off the water, patting dry. I give them the sniff test.

  Chemistry for the win! And Mrs. R.

  This time I do whirl around, but instead of giving Mrs. R a piece of my mind, I give her several Thank yous, and plant a kiss on her cheek as I waltz out of the kitchen.

  Upstairs, my dress is laid out neatly on the bed. Mom took a shopping trip into Hanover last week and found this amazing royal-blue Shoshanna. One of my mother’s best qualities is her giving heart. Gifts, service projects, manning crusade after crusade—from collecting school supplies for underprivileged children, to lobbying politicians for better healthcare for the elderly—my mother loves to give back.

  She’s always wanted to save the world. Even more so after I got sick. And being married to New England’s most sought after neurosurgeon, she had the means to do so.

  Mom’s not a bad person. Far from it. I just wish she accepted me for who I am, instead of pretending I’m not deaf, or wishing I were hearing. There’s nothing wrong with being deaf. I’m proud of who I am. Why can’t she be?

  Climbing in the shower, I ponder this question, knowing I won’t ever find the answer.

  *

  Coming down the stairs, the handkerchief hem skirt of my dress swings at my knees. My parents wait for me at the bottom of the staircase. Dad looks so handsome and distinguished in his tailored Ermenegildo Zegna power suit and striking red tie that matches the dress of the beautiful woman on his arm.

  Mom’s a knockout in her sleek Ralph Lauren number. Her jet-black hair touches her shoulders, curls softening her look. In her heels, she’s just about the same height as Dad. No one would ever know, not with Dad’s full head of silver hair and Mom’s well-maintained color, but Mom’s actually older than Dad by a year. She doesn’t look a day over forty-five, but she’s sixty-one! And if anyone asks, she’ll deny it until she’s blue in the face. But I’ve seen her birth certificate. I know the truth.

  It dawns on me that I’m two years older than Thor. Like mother, like daughter? Going for the younger men?

  As I make the last step, Dad raises his arms, shaking his hands in silent applause. Between the two of them, Dad is more likely to bust out a sign—a “yes” here or a “thank you” there. Nothing too complicated, but he tries.

  “Darling, you look breathtaking.” Kissing both of my cheeks, he pulls me in for a hug. He smells like mint, as always. Still using the same aftershave he did when I was a kid.

  I step out of his embrace and smile. “Thank you.”

  “Glad you’re here, Freckles. It means a lot.”

  Giving him a sidelong glance for the old nickname, I tuck my clutch under my arm and sign, “Wouldn’t have missed it, Daddy. Happy birthday.”

  Dad touches his fingertips to his chin, lowering his palm. “Thank you.” And just like when Thor signs, my heart gives and extra beat. God, I love that!

  Offering me one elbow and Mom his other, Dad escorts us from the foyer and into a room that’s used for all her epic parties, the great hall.

  The room is packed, wall-to-wall people. All here to celebrate the life of Dr. Charles King. Mom waves at a couple near the back of the room, nodding her head for Dad to follow. Towing me along behind him, we weave in and out of clusters of guests, Dad shaking hands with many of them as he passes by.

  Mom stops short, air-kissing a woman I’ve never met. I glance around. I’d be surprised if I know a handful of people in this room. Nothing like being a stranger in your own home.

  Isn’t that the way it’s always been? my internal pessimist weighs in.

  Mom grabs my hand, jerking me close to her side as she speaks to the woman. Both of them carry on their conversation while Dad kisses Mom’s cheek, leaving us.

  And just like old times, he works the room, Mom chats with friends, and I fade quietly into the background.

  As a child, I won the role of the “adorable little girl.” I had the Little Orphan Annie thing going for me, with my curly red hair. Mom’s friends couldn’t help fawning over me. I don’t know how many cheek pinchings I endured over the course of my childhood. Too many to count.

  As I grew up, the adorableness gave way to a “womanly grace,” as Mom called it. When that transformation occurred, the cheek pinching stopped, thank God. But a new kind of attention started. Mom’s guests didn’t have that “Aww, isn’t she adorable!” look on their faces anymore. It was more of an “Oh, I’m so sorry.” expression. Like they knew that the adorable little deaf girl had grown into a beautiful deaf woman that would never be able to make anything of herself.

  They felt sorry for me.

  I know my parents spoke of my academic accomplishments, but that never changed the sad expressions cast in my direction.

  And no matter how many of these parties I’ve attended in my life, my function has never changed: stay quiet, smile, nod, and look pretty. And don’t sign. It draws unnecessary attention and no one understands it anyway.

  It makes Mom and Dad’s life easier if I don’t rock the boat. Can’t lose my temper. Ever.

  “Let people think what they want. Prove them wrong later.” Dad’s words to live by.

  The woman Mom’s been chatting with turns her attention toward me. Oh God. Did she say something? To me? I couldn’t see her lips. She tries again, this time, opening her mouth wider with each word, overenunciating.

  Mom told her I’m deaf.

  Happens every time.

  When most hearing people find out I can’t hear, they do one of three things: speak like they’re a star in an iPhone slo-mo video, shout, or a combination of the two.

  I want to scream: News flash! None of those options make lipreading any easier!

  You know who got that without me telling him? Thor. Never once did he alter his speech pattern to “help” me out.

  The woman chatters away, turning her head to the right. Left. Down. Up. Side to side. Stuffing her mouth with crab cakes. Sipping wine.

  Never once looking directly at me, yet, still speaking to me.

  Be polite, Harper. She doesn’t know any better.

  I nod and smile, putting on the nice act. Don’t rock the boat. Lord, I hope I’m not agreeing to some sadistic cult ritual. Staying away from the Kool-Aid tonight.

  Crab Cake Woman hugs Mom, then me, and moves off through the crowd, grabbing another hors d’oeuvre for the road.

  Without missing a beat, Mom strikes up another conversation, keeping me in tow.

  And another.

  And another.

  Smile and nod, Harper. No signing.

  I miss Thor.

  I run the fingertips of my right hand over my left palm, twice, giving this woman a pleasant grin. “Excuse me,” I sign anyway. I’m twenty-six years old, for goodness sake. Every one who knows my parents, knows I’m deaf. Who cares if I sign?

  I touch Mom’s shoulder and point across the room, pretending there is someone I must speak to over there. Swiveling her head in the same direction, she stands on her tiptoes and scans the room, a light of recognition dawning on her face, like she knows exactly whom I’m scurrying off to see. It takes every ounce of my self-control to re
in in the eye-roll I so desperately want to unleash.

  Over the years, I’ve gotten good at holding things in, and escaping. It’s all I can do to get rid of all the…noise.

  Snaking through the crowd, I press my fingertips into my temples. A waiter passes by with a tray of full champagne glasses. I snatch one and down the bubbly, hoping it will help my thumping head. So much focus and concentration on people’s mouths, trying to decipher words that aren’t in my language, I’m exhausted. And my cheeks hurt, not from pinching, but from too much fake smiling.

  Tucked safely in the corner, on the opposite side of the room, I welcome the silence. Embrace it, actually. Setting the empty champagne flute on the windowsill, I wrap my arms around my shoulders and turn my back to the stifling crowd. The large picture window in front of me overlooks the west side of the grounds. The bright lights from the party spill into the dark yard below, casting an eerie yellow hue on the lawn. But, in the distance, it’s the pool house that catches my eye, dimly lit by the silver moon.

  I remember the night Thor took me to the abandoned pool and showed me the place where he goes to think, to write his music. There’s a fire in my belly to retreat to the pool house—to be alone in a place that might make me feel closer to the person I want to be with right now.

  Keeping along the perimeter of the room, I slip my heels off, carrying them and my purse in the same hand as I dash down the back staircase leading to the kitchen. Thankfully, Mrs. R is busy filling empty serving trays with stuffed mushrooms, crab cakes, fruit tarts, and a dozen other kinds of finger foods. She doesn’t even bat an eye as I tiptoe through the kitchen and out the back door.

  A harsh, frigid wind whips my hair into my face as it sends fallen leaves skittering over the grass. Holy crap, it’s cold out here! The chill of the concrete soaks into the bottoms of my feet. Setting my Louis Vuitton heels on the ground, I slip my feet back inside and wrap my arms around my body, hunching over to keep warm.