sick and that Judy Ingram would take us home.
“Judy Ingram?”
Leah nodded. You need to thank her.
“Did she bring us home?”
Leah grinned—my secret.
“And how’d I get up here?” Brooke gestured to the room. “And in your pajamas?” She was in Leah’s lemon-colored two-piece summer PJs. They fit her fine, maybe a tad big; but panties and a T-shirt were more her norm.
Leah sat up against the headboard. My bed, my rules.
“And your secret,” Brooke said.
Leah nodded—for now.
“If I humiliated myself in front of anybody, you’d let me know, right?”
Only Danny.
Brooke thought about that. “He’s used to it by now.”
Leah nodded.
Brooke leaned forward and pressed her forehead against Leah’s, stared into her fully awake pupils from a fraction of an inch away. “Thank you, sister.”
Leah’s eyes offered concrete affirmation without any part of her body moving.
Brooke sat upright and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
Leah caught her by the forearm to get her to look. What did Matt say to make you angry?
Brooke laughed. “Which time?”
At dinner.
“Oh, he said, ‘Your farm boy isn’t good enough for us.’”
Leah frowned. At least Father didn’t hear.
“But he did,” Brooke said, her anger rising again. “He heard and smiled and nodded. That’s what pissed me off, not Matt.” She turned and stood, headed for the bathroom to brush her teeth and pop a couple aspirin.
Sisters’ Weekend
They lay on their backs gazing up at the stars, just like when they were kids. Well, it wasn’t exactly like when they were kids. Back then, they would’ve been out in the middle of the lawn, not on the deck safely raised a few feet above the ground; and they would’ve been lying directly on the grass and dirt, not atop clean and plush beach towels. Still, the stars were the same, so high and lofty yet also close and intimate. And the heavy late-summer air was the same or seemed so, lying atop them like a vast blanket, close and warm and fragrant, full of both history and promise.
In the dome of stars Brooke had an instinctive intimation of her sister’s reality, the void of stillness that was nonetheless so full of sparkling diamonds of detail and nuance and revelation. And in the press of night air Leah perceived Brooke’s world, could all but hear the chatter of life, the irresistible call to engage and explore. Yet neither was aware of this exchange of perceptions, this unconscious role reversal. It was part of who they were—Brooke-Leah, Leah-Brooke—part of whom they’d always been.
Tomorrow Brooke was off to college at the state university an hour’s drive away. Momma and Father and Leah would deliver her and help her carry a carload of boxes filled with clothes and linens and books and stereo equipment and records across the plaza and into the elevator and up to her four-girl suite in the high-rise dorm. Matt was already there, set up in an off-campus apartment with three other guys, beginning his junior year at the same university. He’d made it clear even before she’d applied that she shouldn’t count on any help or guidance from him, and Brooke had replied then and since with just one word—Good!—though they had quietly agreed that she would catch a ride home with him (he’d bought a car, a sporty two-seater) on the rare weekends he went, but only if she paid for the gas.
When Brooke had decided to attend the main campus of the state university rather than the local branch in town, where she could’ve lived at home, Leah had accepted the decision as Brooke being Brooke, always looking for new challenge. Knowing this, she had even gently encouraged that choice, never considering what it might mean for her life. Brooke’s absence was not something she’d ever known, nor something she could or would contemplate in advance.
And on Monday, Leah would begin her junior year at the public high school, transferring from the small private school she’d attended since she was five. This change came about at Leah’s initiative, but was quickly picked up by Momma as a well-timed transition. Though the school had no provisions for handicapped students, the principal, Jackson Porter, was from Momma’s small hometown and had known Leah all her life. He was well aware of her academic gifts and advancement and felt sure that with but a few adjustments she could thrive in his school. They met with her teachers earlier in the week and advised them of her condition. Principal Porter made it clear that she was to be treated as any other student, asked only that she be allowed to sit in the front row of the class and that the teachers make a conscious effort to face the class when lecturing and to annunciate clearly—“which I’m sure you already do” he said confidently. A few of her teachers seemed skeptical at first, but were quickly won over by Leah herself—her poise and attentiveness and winning smile. They all agreed that Leah would use a writing tablet to communicate with the teachers and staff until such time as some of them learned the rudiments of sign language, if they ever did. Leah was already used to doing this with other casual acquaintances and saw it as no burden.
At first Brooke was shocked and hurt by Leah’s request. “Why didn’t you transfer this year, when I could’ve helped you?”
Leah had simply gazed calmly at her.
“Well, the girls will all talk behind your back and the guys will tell you anything just to get you alone.”
Leah laughed.
“What?” Brooke shouted, all worked into a tizzy.
The girls don’t have to talk behind my back and the guys can’t give me a line if they don’t sign.
Brooke stared at her a moment then shook her head and laughed. “They really aren’t going to know what to make of you.”
Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
“Your choice.”
Leah had nodded—let’s hope good.
But now under the stars they both had their doubts, but each for the other. Leah wondered how Brooke would respond to such a large and diverse group of peers, where her rebellious nature would be largely lost, or at least diluted, by the wide range of people and personalities surrounding her. Brooke really didn’t know what it was like to not have something to push against. And Brooke feared for Leah’s isolation. It was difficult enough being a newcomer. At least that was a choice. But Leah could never set aside her difference, her separateness. And what if that loneliness made her question herself, her innate self-confidence?
The stars and the night offered no answer to their divergent concerns, just lay atop them like a blanket, covering both.
August 28
Dear Brooke,
So how is college life treating you? How are your roommates, your classes, the food? Have you started to figure your way around? Is it hard to get from one class to the other? The campus seemed so big and so crowded on Saturday I could not imagine ever knowing how to get from one place to the other. But I guess that is the way with all new things.
The calendar on the wall says it has been only five days since I last saw you, but I feel like it has been five years! I think I have written about three books and several shorter essays to you in my head. Every free minute I have I find myself telling Brooke another story about my day or my thoughts or this funny thing that happened. Was I like that when you were here? Could you ever turn me off? I do not recall monopolizing your time, yet somehow I always got it out, unloaded on poor old Brooke! Now there’s nobody to unload to. It is all stuck inside.
I will try unloading here, in written form, but not get too carried away. You after all have lots of other things to do than read your sister’s boring accounts, and I can only write so late into the night before Momma will flash the hall light to tell me it is time to go to sleep. “Eight hours of sleep paints a cheery face!”
My first day of high school was interesting. The bus driver got lost and we were a half-hour late. I knew where he made the wrong turn and hoped somebody would tell him, but all the other riders were either sophomores too caught up in
telling each other about their summer or freshman too scared to make a move or a peep. As we got more and more lost, I think everyone, even some of the sophomores, was looking to me to straighten the guy out. But all I could do was sit there and smile. I felt so helpless.
We finally made it, though. But by then homeroom was over. None of us had our locker assignments or combinations, so they had us put our stuff in the office conference room with a nametag stuck to it. Then they had to find the schedule for each one of us. That took forever. We were from all different grades and homerooms and the secretary had to pull the file for each and jot out the class schedule and room numbers. I showed the secretary that I already had mine, but I think she thought I was putting one over on her and waved me back to sit with the others. Only when she finally pulled my file and saw who I was did she understand. “Oh, you’re the deaf girl!” she shouted for all the rest to hear. Then everybody looked at me funny. I smiled and tried to look composed but it was hard. So I looked out the office window to avoid their stares. It looked so peaceful out there—busses parked and empty with their doors open and windows down to let the heat out, and parents dropping kids off late. Some of those late kids looked really sad and scared, so I didn’t feel so alone.
By the time I got to my first class, it was three-quarters over. It was American History and the teacher, Miss Peacock, a wizen-faced old woman with a bird-like nature but more