* * *
—
She’d white-knuckled it through the afternoon, most of which she spent listing and crossing out ways she could appeal River Valley’s death sentence—maybe she could apply for a grant?—things she knew wouldn’t work even as she wrote them down. Then she walked home, and sat beside her mother on the porch as she worked on her knitting, a “scarf” she was making for Mel that February guessed was now about twenty feet long. February waited until she was sure her mother wasn’t watching, was looking down to count her stitches, and said aloud: It’s finally happening, Ma. They’re closing River Valley.
There, steeped in her mother’s silence, she felt a sense of solace, at least for a few minutes. Her mother, satisfied by the count, began a new row.
The night darkened, and February chopped a heap of bell peppers with meticulous fervor. How to tell Mel that she was being laid off, that they would lose their home? How to explain that, for her, the eviction didn’t feel like the worst part of the news? She needed time—a few more days to ensure there was absolutely nothing she could do, a little more distance from her and Mel’s last blowout to be sure they were on solid ground. Most of all, her mother could not find out. Mel arrived home in high spirits to find February swishing a wok of stir-fry and lavished praise on her for cooking.
Hey, what did Swall want?
February willed herself not to do anything weird with her face.
Oh, you know, she said. Budgetary crap.
Her mother looked up, wanting to be filled in on the conversation.
Meeting with S-w-a-l-l today.
Budget stuff.
Well, if anyone could squeeze soup from a stone it’s you, said Mel.
What?
February smiled weakly. Mel turned to her mother.
I think she’s Superwoman, said Mel.
Me too, said her mother.
Mel had drawn an S on her chest like the comic book emblem—the correct sign for “super”—and February wondered whether she had learned it somewhere or had intuited it. Either way, it was the furthest thing from the truth, and she vowed not to let herself wait too long to tell Mel what had really happened, lest she’d have to add “liar” to her ever-growing list of personal failures.
2?:34 a.m.—starburst explosion at the foot of the bed. Disoriented, Austin lunged toward his alarm clock before he realized the light was the flasher on their videophone. He fumbled with the remote. A roll of tube socks soared from across the room, pegging him square between the shoulder blades. He spun toward the origin of the projectile, where Eliot was holding one arm in the air signing on a loop: W-T-F.
The phone! Austin said.
Though of course, the call would only be for him. When he answered, it was his father in his undershirt, hair askew. Behind him, his mother was sitting in a kitchen chair, breathing heavily and trying to pull on her shoes.
Baby time!
Now? What do I do?
It could be a while. I can pick you up in the morning once the baby’s here? Nothing to do in the hospital anyway.
But—
Gotta get Mom in the car before the next contraction. Call you with news!
His father hung up, leaving a screen of dark static.
Sorry. My mom’s having the baby.
Eliot said nothing, and Austin couldn’t tell whether he was still awake. He returned to his bed, but he knew there was no chance of sleep. He wanted to be there. He could probably get Walt to take him to the hospital. Walt had been head of security at RVSD for Austin’s whole life—he knew Austin’s parents, played dominoes with the remains of the Deaf club down in Lexington. Austin pulled on his jeans, crawled beneath his desk to retrieve his sneakers, slipped his wallet and phone in the pouch of his hoodie, and ran down the stairs to the security desk.
Can you call Walt for me? Austin said.
The guard, a new guy, looked up from his laptop. Then, to Austin’s horror, the man began to speak. Shit. Did he seriously not know sign? Austin groaned and reached across the partition for a sticky note.
I need Walt, he wrote. I need to go to hospital.
Are you sick? the guard wrote back.
My mom’s having a baby.
That’s not an emergency. For you, he wrote.
Just call him! said Austin finally with his voice, a slurry, untamed thing, and loud. He had never progressed beyond lesson one of volume modulation—on or off—and now that came in handy. Startled, the guard pulled the walkie-talkie from his belt and called for backup.
Walt pulled up in his golf cart moments later, disheveled, having obviously been asleep in the front tower. Austin ran to meet him at the door.
Mom’s having the baby!
Want to go?
Yes! Thank you!
Hop in. We’ll take the squad car.
Austin managed a scathing look at the desk guard as they left.
They jumped in the car—a retired cruiser purchased from the county with the RVSD crest stuck overtop the Colson PD logo. The sky was navy blue and the roads were empty. Walt was a faster driver than Austin would have pegged him for. The radio was loud, and he could feel the beat of the music in the seat leather. Austin’s parents had decided not to find out the baby’s sex, but now, staring out the window, he remembered a scene from an autumn long ago, when he’d arrived home covered in mud and with a sole torn from his brand-new sneaker. As his mother fretted, Grandma Lorna patted her shoulder, laughing and saying, Thank god I had a girl! He sent a wish for a sister into the fading night; his mom deserved a break for once.
* * *
—
When they pulled up to the hospital, Austin saw the unmistakable outline of his father, his crooked gait loping across the parking lot.
My dad, he said.
He pointed to the figure and hopped from the car.
Thank you!
Walt gave him a thumbs-up and Austin took off after his father, waving his arms, though unwilling to unleash his voice again. He caught up to him in the vestibule and grabbed his wrist from behind.
How did you—
His father hugged him, a wraparound affair, and Austin was struck by how much smaller than his dad he still was, despite having grown too tall for his jeans over the summer. He felt little again, protected, until his father pulled back and began to jog away.
Tell me later. I gotta go find your mom!
Austin followed him down the corridor toward the maternity wing, where his father instructed him to wait. So he sat, his dad running backward down the hall pointing at him and yelling at the receptionist, He’s deaf he’s deaf, just so you know. The receptionist seemed uninterested in the news.
Love you! he said, and disappeared.
Austin settled into the waiting area, empty except for one very liver-spotted man, an expectant grandfather, maybe. They were all the same, these rooms: TV in the corner flashing out a cooking show, floor overwaxed as if to offer up proof of cleanliness, the saucerlike reflections of the lights in the tiles. He had seen many waiting rooms over the years—audiologist appointments, mostly, the casting and recasting of ear molds for the hearing aids inserted into his rapidly growing head until all hope of capturing residual hearing had finally been lost.
He sifted through a stack of magazines, the kind that exist only in doctors’ offices. All of them were either adult in the worst way—Health Today, Gentleman’s Golf—or too childish. It was the problem with everything these days. Books, clothes, television shows, he was between them all. He still took comfort in the cartoons he’d grown up watching, though he never mentioned them to anyone, ashamed that his preferences had not automatically matured upon his matriculation to the upper school. But it was the middle of the night, and beside the old man there was no one else in the room. He picked up the Highlights. What’s Wrong with This Picture? What’s Wrong with This Picture? After a while, all the pictures started to look ridiculous. What is wrong with having different-size buttons on your coat, Austin thought, and put the magazine back down. He fell asleep sideways in an extrawide chair and awoke to his father standing over him.