Give Me a Sign(79)

“But the doctor says—” my mom starts, but I cut her off.

“Max needs a better reason to have the surgery than ‘my parents want me to,’？” I say before reassuring her. “I think he might go for it. And that’ll be fine. Just give him more time to think. From what I’ve heard, too many kids get them because their parents want them to, not because they want it.”

My mom is quiet for a while. “You know, when he was born, one of the doctors told us he might never speak.”

“Would it have been so bad if he didn’t?” I ask. “Being deaf isn’t something that needs to be fixed.”

“I know, sweetie. Hindsight is much clearer,” my mom continues. “But it can be scary as a new parent. You got your diagnosis at a couple of weeks old.”

“I thought I failed the newborn hearing screening.”

“On one of the follow-up checkups,” my mom says. “I already knew you were responsive to my voice, at least when I spoke loudly. I knew it would be a challenge, but I felt more prepared, somehow. I’d already gotten to know you. And sure enough, once we had you fitted with hearing aids, you did well. But with Max, they told us all this as I held him in my arms for the first time. And as he grew up, he didn’t make it all seem as easy as it was with you.”

“It wasn’t easy for me,” I say.

“I know.” My mom considers her words. “But I was never too worried about you.”

“Would you have been more worried if I had a profound loss?”

My mom hesitates. I can only imagine the concerns she had at the time—all a distant memory now. “Probably. But we would have figured it out.”

“I wish I’d been able to learn sign language.” To make myself clear, I add, “That our whole family had learned.”

“It wasn’t something you needed.”

“There are varying levels of need,” I say. My family has always treated hearing aids like glasses—the difference is, glasses are a corrective device, while hearing aids are only assistive. “I’m picking up sign pretty well now. It helps a lot. It’ll help Max, too.”

My mom nods. I understand it must have been scary to have not one but two deaf kids, especially since they’d never met anyone with hearing loss before us. I don’t fault her for wanting what she thought was best for us, raising us as hearing-passing. That’s what ableism has shown as the “best move.” But I want to use sign language.

It seems like my mom is about to say something else when Max comes running to us. “Can we stop and get Portillo’s for lunch?” he asks my parents. “Oh, Lilah’s gonna be a senior counselor next summer,” he says, breaking my news to them before climbing into the van.

“You got the job?” my dad asks.

“Yep.”

“That’s exciting,” my mom says. “Looks like you’ll have to keep practicing your sign.”

“That’s the plan.” Then, as he has all summer, Isaac appears by my side. He nudges my arm for an introduction. “This is Isaac,” I say and sign. “Isaac, these are my parents.”

“Hi, Isaac,” my mom says.

Isaac signs as my dad reaches out to shake his hand. “What did he say?” my dad asks.

“He says nice to meet you,” I say. I demonstrate each sign for my parents to copy, “Nice. To meet. You.”

Isaac grins at their attempt. “Have a safe drive home,” he signs to them, noticing another of his campers’ parents are here for pickup. “See you later,” he signs to me with a smile before jogging away.

“What’d he say that time?” my dad asks.

“Oh, drive home safe,” I translate.

“He seems nice,” my mom says, smiling. “I see why you’re extra eager to improve your sign language.”

I blush. “One of many reasons.”

Chapter Thirty

Ethan gathers us around after the last of the campers leave. “All right, it’s almost one,” he says and signs. “We need to clean and pack up. But I wanted to announce our plans for tonight.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “We got donations specifically for our counselor celebration fund, so we’re bringing back the end-of-the-season reward night. To thank you for all your hard work this summer, we’ve got tickets for the concert at Wrigley Field.”

“Awesome,” I sign to Isaac, who nods enthusiastically.

That afternoon when we board the Amtrak train, Natasha flips one of the pairs of seats so she and Jaden can sit directly across from me and Isaac.

“I hate this shirt,” Jaden signs. He’s wearing one of Natasha’s #44 Rizzo T-shirts that she usually wears as a large pajama shirt, but it’s a little snug on Jaden.

“You have to wear it,” she signs. “We’re going to W-r-i-g-l-e-y.”

“I don’t like the Cubs,” he signs. “None of you are wearing Cubs shirts right now!”

“I like the Cubs,” Isaac signs.

“Me too,” I sign.

“And you’re already in the shirt,” Natasha signs.

Some of the other people on the train are watching us. It bothers me for a little while, but soon I’m so invested in our conversation that I don’t notice them anymore. It’s nice not having to struggle to hear above the noisy train.