And part of me hopes she’s gone so I can’t have any of those questions answered. They’re dangerous to our arrangement and they’re dangerous to me.
But every single one of those questions is answered when I walk into the apartment and find Indy sitting at the kitchen island with her laptop open in front of her.
Braid slung over her left shoulder.
Bare feet dangling off the stool.
Oversized sweatshirt and cotton shorts that she clearly slept in.
“Oh, Ryan is home,” Indy says to the computer, all while she moves her hands in quick motions. She turns towards me. “Ryan, come meet my parents.”
Again, her hands move and this time, I pick up on the four letters of my name from my very minimal knowledge of American Sign Language.
Stepping behind her, I find the camera, allowing her parents to see me. “Hi. I’m Ryan,” I say with a wave.
I find those four letters that make up my name in Indy’s hand movements once again.
“Lovely to meet you,” her mom says, using her hands to speak as well. “I’m Abigale.”
Her dad waves and speaks with only his hands.
“This is my dad, Tim,” Indy says, signing as well. “Geez, Dad!” she says after her father signs something else. She turns towards me. “He said, ‘We hope our daughter hasn’t been too much of a pain in the ass.’”
She wears a post-giggle smile, awaiting my response. Indy must notice my hesitation. “Speak clearly,” she reassures. “He can read lips and I’ll sign for you as well.”
I’ve never met a woman’s parents before, not that this is a “meet the parents” type of moment, but their daughter does live with me and between that and the inappropriate images that have been flashing through my daydreams, it’s a bit terrifying.
But Indy’s parents seem kind and welcoming. Her dad must be where she got her height. I can tell he’s a tall man even as he sits on his living room couch in Florida. On the other hand, her mom is a petite woman, but that blonde hair and those warm brown eyes make me feel at home in the same way I do with her daughter who shares the same attributes.
Leaning forward, I split the screen with Indy. “She’s only a pain in the ass when she leaves her dishes in the sink or forgets her clothes in the dryer for days at a time.”
Indy signs all while wearing a gaping mouth in mock offense.
Her parents laugh. “Just wait until you realize she never screws the lids back on all the way or forgets to close cupboard doors behind her.”
“Mom! God, you guys, I’m right here.”
“Honestly, though,” I continue. “I’ve enjoyed having her here. You raised a good woman.”
Indy’s attention darts to me before she looks away, signing my words as she does.
“Thank you.” Even though Indy translates for her dad, I know the very basics of ASL. She clears her throat uncomfortably. “He asked if you’ll watch after me.”
I look back at Indy, but she won’t make eye contact. She seems nervous for what I’ll have to say and maybe she’s wishing her dad didn’t ask that at all.
But regardless of his request, I’ve been watching out for Indy since she moved in. I hate what she’s going through, and my understanding is partly why I’ve been so accommodating, but I think selfishly I’ve wanted Indy to be here since the first night she slept in my spare room. Why else would I buy her a bed to sleep in and add vegetarian substitutes to my order every time I get groceries delivered?
“Yes, sir. Always.”
Through the laptop screen, I watch Indy bite the corner of her lip, either to keep a smile contained or to hide a small tremble. You never know with her. Emotional girl, my roommate.
“He watched your game against Boston,” Indy continues for her dad. “He says you had an amazing third quarter. He’s a big basketball fan.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, I’ll be sure to get you some tickets next time you come for a visit or when we head down to Florida for a couple games.”
A pair of brows and a smile lift on Tim’s face before he signs once again.
“He would love that.”
“Ryan, we like you in case you couldn’t tell,” Abigale laughs.
Tim signs again, a small gesture I’ve noticed a few times already, but before Indy can translate, I ask her, “What does that sign mean?”
“Which?”
I repeat Tim’s hand motion. It’s a fairly simple one—a fist with a pinky extended, motioned in a small circle around his chest.
“Oh, that’s my name. My sign name.”
“Sign name?”
“It’s a special sign to identify someone,” Indy says, her hands continuing to move for her dad in the most beautifully elegant way. “That way we don’t need to spell out our entire names every time we speak. Not everyone has a sign name. My dad chooses who gets them and what their sign is.” She balls her hand, but her pinky stays straight up then rubs her hand in a small circle over her heart. “’I’ for Indigo and my dad says I’m his whole heart.” She repeats her sign name. “Indy.”
Her mom speaks up. “And I’m Abigale.” She uses her hand, forming the letter “A” and tapping it to her head. “Because Indy’s father first noticed my blonde hair.”
“He typically doesn’t give a sign name right away, but he did with my mom.” Indy smiles thoughtfully, her hands moving. “They’ve been together for almost thirty years, and I think he knew she was going to be in his life from their first meeting. Isn’t that right, Dad?”
A nostalgic smile lifts on Tim’s mouth, nodding to agree with his daughter.
Indy, the romantic. Of course, she would assume that, but watching her parents on the computer screen, I’m not sure that I can argue. They seem utterly in love even after all this time, and it’s no wonder my roommate has these idealistic notions of romance. She grew up watching this.
But most people aren’t like that. Most people can’t be trusted with your heart, and I’d assume she quickly learned that after losing the life she built with her ex.
We chat for a few more minutes, all three of the Ivers speaking a language I didn’t realize was so intricate and beautiful to watch until now, getting to see it in action. The way they make each other smile or laugh with simple movements of their hands. I find myself envious that I can’t participate, and instantly wish I knew more than the basics so Indy’s dad could speak directly to me without his daughter having to translate.
Once Abigale ensures I have her number in case of emergencies, Indy hangs up the call.
“They seem great.”
She smiles. “They’re the best. I miss them.”
“It’s only you? They didn’t have any other kids?”
“They couldn’t. It was a small miracle they got pregnant once. My mom had fertility issues.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Indy brushes me off. “They got one perfect child out of the deal.”
“Mm-hmm,” I hum suspiciously, attempting to keep my wandering eye off her long legs and pajama shorts. “Did you just wake up?”