He looks at me and pulls the corner of his bottom lip into his mouth. I’ve noticed he does this when he’s thinking hard about something. The way he continues to stare at me makes my throat go dry. I break his gaze, pull the straw into my mouth, and take a sip of my soda. When I look back at him, he’s texting again.
Ridge: I was nine when I stopped verbalizing.
His text does more to my stomach than his stare did. I don’t know why.
Me: You used to talk? Why did you stop?
Ridge: It might take me a while to text the explanation.
Me: It’s fine. You can tell me about it at home when we have our laptops.
He scoots to the edge of the booth and peers over the balcony. I follow his gaze down to Maggie and Warren, who are still both hovering around the DJ booth. When he sees that they’re still occupied, he moves away from the railing and leans forward across the table, resting his elbows in front of him as he begins to text.
Ridge: They don’t look like they’re ready to leave, so I guess we have time now. Brennan and I didn’t luck out in the parent department. They both had issues with addiction. They might still have them, but we wouldn’t know, because we haven’t spoken to either of them in years. My mother spent most of our childhood in bed, doped up on pain pills. Our father spent most of our childhood in bars. When I was five, I was enrolled in a school for the deaf. That’s where I learned sign language. I would come home and teach Brennan, because neither of my parents knew ASL. I taught him because I was five years old and had never had a conversation with anyone before. I was so desperate to communicate I was forcing my two-year-old brother to learn signs like “cookie” and “window” just so I would have someone to talk to.
My heart sinks to my stomach. I look up at him, but he’s still texting.
Ridge: Imagine walking into your first day of school to the realization that there is actually a way to communicate. When I saw kids having conversations with their hands, I was amazed. I lived the first five years of my life never knowing what it was like to communicate. The school began teaching me how to form words using my voice, how to read, how to sign. I spent the next few years practicing everything I learned on Brennan. He became just as fluent in ASL as I was. I wanted him to know it, but I also didn’t want to use him as my way to communicate with my parents. So when I would talk to them, I would always speak my words. I couldn’t hear my own voice, of course, and I know it sounds different when deaf people speak, but I wanted a way to communicate with them since they didn’t know ASL. One day, when I was talking to my father, he told Brennan to tell me to shut up, then had Brennan speak for me. I didn’t understand why, but he was angry. Every time I would try to talk to my father after that, the same thing would happen, and he would tell Brennan to tell me to stop voicing my words. Brennan would translate what my father wanted him to say back to me. I finally realized my father didn’t want me to talk because he didn’t like the way my voice sounded. It embarrassed him that I couldn’t hear. He didn’t like for me to speak when we were in public, because people would know I was deaf, so he would tell me to shut up every time I did it. One day at home, he became so angry that I was still doing it that he started yelling at Brennan. He assumed that since I continued speaking my words, Brennan wasn’t relaying the fact that he didn’t want me to speak. He was really drunk that day and took his anger too far, which wasn’t uncommon. But he hit Brennan so hard upside the head it knocked him out.
Tears begin to well in my eyes, and I have to inhale a calming breath.
Ridge: He was only six years old, Sydney. Six. I never wanted to give my father another reason to hit him, so that was the last day I ever spoke out loud. I guess it just became habit after that.
He lays his phone on the table and folds his arms in front of him. He doesn’t seem to be waiting for a response from me. He may not even want one. He watches me, and I know he sees the tears falling down my cheeks, but he doesn’t react to them. I take a deep breath, then reach over and pick up a napkin and wipe my eyes. I wish he wouldn’t see me responding like this but I can’t hold it back. He smiles softly and begins to reach across the table for my hand, and then Warren and Maggie reappear at the booth.