I was about to leave when Mom stopped, looked past Grace and smiled her honey smile for me and me alone. She tried to sign, but needed both of her hands to hold Grace. It felt symbolic somehow, but I didn’t want this conversation to go the way of others, so I stepped forward and took Grace from her, freeing her to communicate.
This must be difficult for you, she signed, not needing to explain what “this” was.
I nodded, rested my chin on Grace’s warm, soft head. The delicate scent of baby shampoo was irresistible.
How does Grace’s cochlear implant make you feel?
How did it make me feel? Angry and frustrated, yes, but it was more than that. I felt like I’d been judged and found to be inadequate, a problem beyond remedy. But even that wasn’t the worst thing. “Alone. It makes me feel alone.”
Mom winced, but she didn’t look surprised. You’re not alone. You know that, right?
I buried my face in Grace’s soft, wispy hair, felt it tickle my cheeks, nose, lips. I’d forgotten how good it felt to hold her.
Grace isn’t you, honey. You had six years before your hearing went, but she hasn’t even had a day.
“I know that.”
Of course you do. But it changes things. You speak so beautifully, and even now you have some residual hearing—
“Not as much as you think,” I protested.
Okay. Maybe not as much as we think, she conceded, her movements fluid and face reassuring. But some. Grace would have heard nothing. She wouldn’t have learned to speak like you. With the cochlear implant she’ll have a chance to do those things.
“You mean she’ll hear and speak better than me.”
I don’t know. Would it bother you?
I shook my head—it was a lie, but I was too ashamed to admit how I really felt. I wondered if Grace would grow up knowing any signs at all, or if that part of our family life would cease the moment I left for college . . . wherever that turned out to be.
“What happens if I can’t afford to go to Gallaudet?”
You will. We’ll find the money.
“How? You’re working so much overtime and it’s still not enough.”
We’ll find it.
“And if you don’t?”
Mom sighed heavily and looked at the open door. I almost got the feeling she’d prefer to leave now than continue having this particular conversation. And I suddenly understood why: Because she felt guilty. I’d blamed Dad for raiding my fund because it was more in character for him, but Mom was equally responsible; it had been her call too. They’d had to make a decision about whether it was more important for Grace to get a cochlear implant or for me to fulfill my dream of attending Gallaudet University, and they chose Grace. My grandparents would never have let that happen.
“What do you think Oma and Poppy would have said?” I asked finally. I knew it would make Mom uncomfortable, but I needed her to acknowledge there was another side to all this.
I don’t know. Your grandparents were proud of Deaf culture, but it was difficult for me to be an only child in a house of deaf parents. Sometimes they seemed frustrated at me for being able to hear, like it made things easy for me. Other times they needed me to interpret in situations where I didn’t feel comfortable.thing
I knew this, of course. She’d been telling me the same thing for years. But surely I was even more demanding than my grandparents had been. Did she see me as a burden too?
After growing up like that, she continued, I couldn’t allow Grace to be the only profoundly deaf person in a house full of hearing people. She raised her palm to ward off my objection. But what would Oma and Poppy have said? I guess they’d have been disappointed by our decision. Let down.
I knew she was right. After several years I still missed them terribly. They had been the only family members who signed exclusively, which felt comfortable. But Grace’s cochlear implant would have been so divisive, and “let down” was an understatement. I think they would have been ashamed of Mom, and I think she knew it too.
“How does that make you feel?” I asked, but then we both cracked up as we realized the conversation had come full circle.
Is there something I can do? Some way I can help? signed Mom, becoming serious again.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. At least, I was sure that removing the cochlear implant was a little unrealistic at this stage. But there was one thing. “Is a paralegal qualified to make a contract?”
Mom smiled. Yes, I am qualified to draw up a contract. What is it for?
“The band.”
The band?
“Yeah. You know . . . Dumb.”
Mom looked confused. Why do you need a contract?
“Well, the point of me managing them is to get them paid gigs. And if there’s money, we need to have an agreement about how it’s divided, and what each person’s obligations are, right?”
Mom hesitated, looked everywhere except at me. Is it really necessary? Her gestures were typically smooth, but her face betrayed her. I knew she was calculating how long it would take, already mourning the loss of an hour or two with Grace.
Right on cue, Grace eye-locked Mom, fidgeting like she was about to launch herself onto Mom’s lap.
“What do you mean—is it necessary?” I asked.
I mean . . . you’re making this band sound serious. It’s just a little fun, right?
I felt my breath catch. “I thought you supported me doing this.”
I do.
“But you don’t really believe there’ll ever be a paid gig, do you?”
Mom stared at me, tried to gauge my reaction. I’ll draft a contract for you. Okay? She smiled again, the honey smile. I’ll do it.
Grace began to writhe in annoyance, and I guessed that screaming wasn’t far off, so I kissed her once and handed her back to Mom.
Thank you, I signed. But I already felt guilty for having asked, and deep down I just wanted to scream too.
CHAPTER 10
No doubt about it, Ed was acting weird. As long as we were alone he seemed relaxed and positive, but the moment we arrived at Josh and Will’s house, he became tense. And I don’t think it had anything to do with the heavy electric gates or the No Trespassing signs.
“I don’t think they’re going to appreciate this,” he said for the hundredth time.
For the hundredth time, I ignored him, concentrating on setting up Josh’s video camera on a professional-looking tripod.
“Does this really work?” I asked.
“Hmm?” Ed looked around distractedly, jamming his hands in and out of his jeans pockets. “The video camera? Yeah, it works. There’s nothing like visual and aural evidence that you’re not playing together.”
At the far end of a garage that was almost as large as my house, Will and Tash tuned their guitars. I turned up the amplifier on my hearing aids to hear them better.
“Whatever you do, don’t turn up your hearing aids,” cautioned Ed. “Something tells me Dumb only has one volume, and it isn’t quiet.”
Good point. I turned them right back down again.
Josh wandered over. “Ready when you are, geeks.” He raised his thumbs and flexed his biceps, stretching his blue cotton T-shirt. His eyes looked even brighter than usual, and he kept smiling at me even when there was nothing left to say.
I didn’t look away.
“You should get started,” said Ed coolly. “I’m recording.”
A minute later the two guitars erupted in an explosion of sound so intense that my whole body recoiled. Josh pulled the microphone stand toward him, wrapped his hands around it caressingly, and opened his mouth—
“STOP!” yelled Ed, flapping his arms desperately.
Dumb fizzled out.
“Start with a song you already know. We’ll move on to new material later.”
Dumb was uncharacteristically silent.
“That was a new song, right?”
Josh and Will looked offended. Tash looked threatening.
?
??Okay. Well, never mind. Let’s run it again.”
Dumb prepared to start again.
“I really don’t think they’re ready for this,” said Ed, and although I ignored him again, I could see that he might have a point after all.
This time, Ed let the band get halfway through the song before his musical sensibilities drove him to bring things to a premature halt. “That’s great. I love the . . . the, um . . . oh, what’s the word I’m looking for? . . . I love the . . . enthusiasm.”
Dumb were not enthusiastic about Ed’s word choice.
“Here’s the thing,” he added, “you’re not playing together. At all. Entire time zones separate you. I feel like I’m listening to three different songs being played simultaneously in an echo chamber.”
Josh rolled his eyes. “Okay, we get the picture,” he snapped, momentarily letting down that smooth exterior. “What do we do about it?”
Ed unscrewed the video camera from the tripod and carried it over to them. “First, you need to see and hear what I’m seeing and hearing.”
He scrolled back until he found the beginning of the song, and pressed Play. Although there wasn’t room for me to crowd around the camera’s tiny screen as well, I could tell from their expressions that Josh, Will, and Tash were getting the message loud and clear. By the time he stopped the film, I was wondering if I needed to instigate some serious morale-boosting exercises.
“You know, we have Baz Firkin to help us with all this stuff,” sneered Tash, “and he’s a professional. You might not realize this, but he was lead singer with The Workin’ Firkins.”
“And he’s in prison until next Thursday,” I gently reminded her as Ed cowered behind me.“So for now, Ed has kindly agreed to assume Baz’s responsibilities. Carry on, Ed.”
Ed’s Adam’s apple wobbled as he swallowed hard. “Yes. Okay. Well, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to bang out a steady beat and you’re going to repeat the opening riff again and again. As soon as you feel comfortable, stop thinking about what you’re doing and focus on what the others are doing. Listen to them, not yourself. The emotion is already there, now let’s focus on precision.”
Ed unearthed a pair of drumsticks from his book bag and looked around for something to bang, eventually settling on a trash can lid. As soon as he established the beat, the others joined in. I couldn’t hear a difference, but I could feel the beat as a steady pulse across my hands. And I could see the improvement as clear as day.
After three minutes Dumb wasn’t just playing in time, they were moving together—not in a choreographed way, just their heads and feet. And they were looking at each other too, escaping from their own personal spheres and becoming a single musical entity.
After five minutes, Tash cut loose, adding something to the standard riff. It still sounded like a fuzzy mess to me, but Ed smiled approvingly. A moment later, Will let go too, slapping his thumb against the strings of his bass guitar, and Ed’s smile grew bigger. Then Josh started jumping around like he was adding a trampoline workout to his vocalizations, and Ed erupted in laughter.
They kept going like that for two more minutes, all smiles and pinpoint accuracy. Then Ed cut loose.
He spun the second stick around in his right hand and brought it down on a metal shelf, incorporating various power tools into his funky performance. While the left stick continued to hammer away on the trash can lid, the right introduced ever more complex rhythms on flowerpots and glass jars, punctuated by occasional stick-twirling displays. I couldn’t say if it sounded good, but it looked amazing, and I could feel each object affecting a different part of my body, from my arms to my feet. I was truly experiencing the music, and after a few seconds, so were the others.
Tash was the first to stop playing, her right hand mid-strum when she became too distracted to continue. Will quickly followed, then Josh. But Ed kept going, his arms pumping like pistons, sticks ablaze with motion as he bounced up and down like he was shadowboxing. He bit his lower lip and furrowed his brows in concentration, but instead of looking nervous he appeared transported. I’d never seen him act so confident before. The others seemed awestruck too, although I had to admit that whatever I thought they’d get out of this session, an up-close and personal look at Ed, crazy closet rock star, certainly hadn’t been it.
It was obvious: Ed needed to be in the group.
I let him keep going for another minute before I placed a hand gently on his shoulder. He jumped as if I’d woken him from a trance, then turned bright red and burst into nervous laughter. I couldn’t help it—I laughed too. Ed’s Jekyll and Hyde secret was out, and normal Ed was clearly pretty embarrassed about it.
He peered up and took in the sight of Dumb’s slack-jawed members sizing him up. But no one else laughed. To be honest, they seemed more likely to kneel before him than laugh.
“Holy crap,” said Tash succinctly. “We need a drummer.”
Josh nodded vigorously, but his mouth never closed. “Yeah. And we need one now.”
I was still trying not to laugh, so they couldn’t have known how relieved I was that we all had the same idea.
Finally all eyes turned to Will, waiting for him to green-light the move, but he seemed overwhelmed by the attention. “I don’t know, man,” he mumbled, his gaunt face even more troubled than usual. “I mean, think about it. Where the hell are we going to find a drummer?”
I looked at Ed.
Ed looked at me. “Who? You mean . . . no, you must be kidding.”
Not the response I was hoping for. This would require another approach. “Does Tash look like she’s kidding?”
Ed glanced at Tash and turned pale.
“Good,” I said. “Welcome to Dumb, Ed. I think you’re the missing piece of the puzzle.” I couldn’t resist sarcastically adding, “You complete us.”
Ed scowled, but honestly it felt good to have the last word for a change.
If only I’d actually been right.
CHAPTER 11
Mom shimmied into my bedroom like she was auditioning for the cheerleading squad, waving a piece of paper before me playfully. I squinted at the title and couldn’t help smiling. It was the contract, chock-full of phrases like “in accordance with” and “legally binding” and words like “contingent” and “perpetuity.” It hadn’t occurred to me before, but lawyers really do a first-rate job of making English read like a foreign language.
Is it okay? signed Mom. Her face made it clear that she expected this to be answered in the enthusiastic affirmative.
I nodded, rubbed the edges of the precious document while I wondered how to break the news to her. It’s perfect . . . but I wonder if we could make one small change.
Mom’s eyes narrowed. She was suddenly the anti-cheerleader. What’s wrong with it?
We have a new member.
Some of the perkiness was back again, so I guess she’d been anticipating something more troublesome. Who is it?
I didn’t mean to, but for some reason I hesitated. Ed Chen.
Chess-playing Ed?
Yes. He plays percussion in the Seattle Youth Orchestra. He’ll be our drummer.
Mom grinned like a fool. So you’ll be seeing a lot of each other?
It’s not like that. I rolled my eyes.
She threw up her arms in surrender. Okay. So what name should appear on the contract?
I finger-spelled Ed Chen.
Which is short for . . . Edward? Edgar? Edmund? This is a legal document. I need his full name.
Edgar.
Certain?
I wasn’t certain. I’ll check. I’ll get back to you.
Mom still had a smile on her face, but she didn’t seem amused. Okay, you do that, she signed, then patted my head like I was the naughty puppy she loved in spite of herself.
The next day, Ed was squinting at the chessboard, as usual. He never really played with any rhythm—which is kind of ironic given that he was a human metronome with a drum set—but this time I really felt he was stall
ing. And to be honest, I couldn’t work out why.
“Did you hear me, Ed?” An unusual question coming from me, but he nodded distractedly. “So what is it?” He shook his head. “I have to know,” I said. “It’s for the contract.”
Ed sighed dramatically. He cast his eyes around like he was hiding quiz answers from a prying neighbor, then wrote one word on a scrap on paper and nudged it toward me.
I studied the name, and studied Ed. I may have repeated this process several times before I was completely sure he wasn’t just screwing with me. “Seriously? Your name is really . . . Edgard?”
“Shhh! Yeah. That’s why I go by Ed.”
“I get that,” I said, not trying to be too personal about it, but—really. “And I thought my name was weird.”
“I love your name,” he said simply.
I blushed, and he blushed, and his eyes went all puppy-dog, and then we both pretended to study the board again.
“I’ve never heard the name Edgard before.”
“Yeah, well . . . My mom’s favorite composer is this French guy named Edgard Varèse. He wrote these funky, large-scale percussion pieces. And I mean, only percussion.” Suddenly his lips were moving faster, his face alive with excitement. “No strings, winds, brass . . . just a ton of percussion instruments and sirens and whips and . . . well, almost anything. You name it, he did it.”
I didn’t know whether to be impressed or amused. “That’s weird.”
“No, it’s great. Seriously. So challenging, but it’s like a whole new sound world ...”
He stopped, took a deep breath like he was afraid he’d just overstepped his mark, but I smiled to let him know it was fine. I could imagine new sound worlds. I was totally okay with that.
“Anyway, Mom started giving me percussion instruments to play when I was still a baby, and Varèse is one of my favorites now as well. It’s hard not to like playing the drums after you’ve immersed yourself in Varèse for a while.”