Authors: Mary Carter
My Sister's Voice (5 page)
Chapter 5
L
acey’s art studio was located in a warehouse in downtown Philadelphia, relatively free from the hustle and bustle of the nine-to-fivers. She and a hearing artist, Mike, shared the top floor. Three thousand square feet of creative reign. It had thick wood-beam floors, concrete walls, and exposed pipes. Lacey painted the pipes maroon, and the walls a shade of gray that looked almost black at night but turned silver in the sun. Mike, who was a sculptor, had two large pieces displayed in the entrance, ten feet of twisting design. They were mirror images of each other except for the materials: One was made of steel, the other driftwood.
acey’s art studio was located in a warehouse in downtown Philadelphia, relatively free from the hustle and bustle of the nine-to-fivers. She and a hearing artist, Mike, shared the top floor. Three thousand square feet of creative reign. It had thick wood-beam floors, concrete walls, and exposed pipes. Lacey painted the pipes maroon, and the walls a shade of gray that looked almost black at night but turned silver in the sun. Mike, who was a sculptor, had two large pieces displayed in the entrance, ten feet of twisting design. They were mirror images of each other except for the materials: One was made of steel, the other driftwood.
The pair kept vastly different schedules, but even when they were there together, they had enough space not to get in each other’s way. Mike had the warehouse first, and although tons of artists were dying to share the space with him, Lacey was chosen because she was deaf. And not because Mike pitied her—Lacey would have never put up with that—but because his constant noise didn’t bother her. He soldered, he hammered, he chiseled, he drilled, he sawed. She worked peacefully throughout all of it. Sometimes she felt the vibrations, but she welcomed them. It was like painting on one of those vibrating motel beds you fed with quarters. And it was totally worth it for the space. Lacey’s fifteen-hundred-square-foot section was all the way at the back of the warehouse near two windows facing I-95 and the Ben Franklin Bridge. In the middle of the room they had a communal sink and refrigerator, along with a couple of leather sofas and chairs.
The loft was messier than usual since the two of them had been too busy preparing for the gallery show to clean. Lacey stood in the middle of the floor, knowing she should start on Alan’s painting, but her thwarted sneak attack on the sister impostor and the engagement ring fiasco were consuming her. Mike was out; they would have the place to themselves.
She put on a pot of coffee. Robert would be there any minute. His current play with PDA, Philadelphia Deaf Actors, was rehearsing just down the street from the warehouse.
The overhead lights in the studio flashed, pulsing out news that someone was at the door. Lacey greeted Robert, who bounded into the room still in his costume: a purple-and-green body suit, striped tights, curly shoes, and a floppy hat adorned with bells. It was an outfit any grown man would look ridiculous in, but his height of six-foot-five elevated it to ludicrous. His play,
Deaf Jest!
, opened next week. Robert had the nervous energy of an actor waiting in the wings, and immediately began bouncing about the place, touching everything in sight. He flipped through sketch pads. He winged an eraser off her worktable. He picked up paintbrushes and charcoal sticks, and rubbed them between his thick fingers. When he ambled over to a large green tarp covering a group of paintings propped against the back wall, and bent down as if to remove the cover, Lacey snuck up behind him and whipped off his hat.
Deaf Jest!
, opened next week. Robert had the nervous energy of an actor waiting in the wings, and immediately began bouncing about the place, touching everything in sight. He flipped through sketch pads. He winged an eraser off her worktable. He picked up paintbrushes and charcoal sticks, and rubbed them between his thick fingers. When he ambled over to a large green tarp covering a group of paintings propped against the back wall, and bent down as if to remove the cover, Lacey snuck up behind him and whipped off his hat.
“Nosy,” she said when he turned around. She steered him away from the green tarp and pointed. Across the way, several of Lacey’s pet-and-owner portraits were openly displayed: on easels, against the wall, on top of her table. Robert got as close to each one as he could and studied them.
There was a chubby man and his bulldog, both with equally drooping jowls. An old lady and her poodle, sporting identical tight, white curls. An Irish setter and a beautiful redhead. Robert waved his hand to get Lacey’s attention and when she finally looked his way, he signed, “What kind of dog for me?” He thrust out his chest and lifted his chin. Lacey studied him for several seconds.
“No dog,” she said. “Gorilla.” Robert bent over with his large hands scooping the ground and did his best gorilla impression.
“Funny,” Lacey said.
“Where’s Mike?” Robert asked.
“He’s out somewhere,” Lacey said. Mike was a hunk and Lacey always suspected Robert had a little crush on him. Even Alan seemed jealous of Mike.
“Where’s Rookie?” Robert asked. Lacey clapped her hands. Rookie raced past Robert. Robert laughed and chased him until he caught him. Then, with the dog cradled in his arms, he wandered into the middle of the warehouse and flopped on the couch. Lacey followed. He spread his arms open.
“Big problem, what?” he asked. Lacey hesitated. She really wanted to talk about her sister impostor first, but that would usurp the proposal. She described finding the diamond ring. Robert jumped up and enveloped her in a hug. She pulled away.
“Congratulations,” he said. “But I thought you didn’t want to get married.”
“I’d rather slit my throat,” Lacey said. “He’s going to ruin everything.”
“I think you should say yes,” Robert said. Lacey perched herself on the arm of the couch.
“Join us for dinner tonight?” she asked.
“Ha-ha,” Robert said.
“You, me, Alan, dinner,” Lacey repeated.
“No,” Robert said. “Yourself.”
Lacey stared at her ring finger. “Please? Please?”
“You love Alan.”
“I know.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I don’t want to get married.”
“You should marry a Deaf man.”
“I don’t want to marry a Deaf man. I don’t want to marry any man.”
“How about a man dressed like this?” Robert winked at her suggestively, but he was kidding. He was very happy with his current boyfriend.
“I don’t want to get married at all.”
“You’re lucky,” Robert said. She didn’t know he was still carrying her paintbrush until he flipped it in the air and tried to catch it behind his back. He missed. When he bent over to pick it up, it was with considerable grunting.
“Lucky?”
“You can marry in any state you want, in any church you want, by any preacher you want.”
“Don’t want, don’t want, don’t want.”
“Not normal,” Robert said.
“Exactly,” Lacey said when he was upright and looking at her. “I’m not normal.” She moved over to the coffeepot and filled a mug. She raised her eyebrows at him and tilted her head to the coffeepot. He shook his head no.
“Is it a nice rock?” he asked. He held his hands out as if clutching a giant diamond. Lacey shrugged.
“I’d rather have a new motorcycle,” she said. Then she walked over to a sketch pad she had mounted on an easel facing the couch and wrote
Engagement Ring
on one side and
New Motorcycle
on the other.
Engagement Ring
on one side and
New Motorcycle
on the other.
“What are you doing?” Robert asked.
“Thinking.”
Divorce,
she wrote under
Engagement Ring
.
Sex,
she wrote under
Motorcycle
.
Divorce,
she wrote under
Engagement Ring
.
Sex,
she wrote under
Motorcycle
.
Fat,
she wrote under
Divorce
.
Lean and Mean
, she wrote under
Sex
. Robert looked down at his protruding belly. He and his partner, Eric, had been joined in a commitment ceremony last year.
she wrote under
Divorce
.
Lean and Mean
, she wrote under
Sex
. Robert looked down at his protruding belly. He and his partner, Eric, had been joined in a commitment ceremony last year.
“That happens to single people too,” he said. Lacey wrote
Paranoid
under
Fat. Relaxed,
she wrote under
Lean and Mean
. “Paranoid?” Robert asked. “You’re talking about marriage or marijuana?”
Paranoid
under
Fat. Relaxed,
she wrote under
Lean and Mean
. “Paranoid?” Robert asked. “You’re talking about marriage or marijuana?”
“Every married woman I know is paranoid,” Lacey said.
In love,
she wrote under
Relaxed
.
The End of Love,
she wrote under
Paranoid
. She tossed the marker across the floor. They stepped back and studied the list.
In love,
she wrote under
Relaxed
.
The End of Love,
she wrote under
Paranoid
. She tossed the marker across the floor. They stepped back and studied the list.
| Engagement Ring | New Motorcycle |
| Divorce | Sex |
| Fat | Lean and Mean |
| Paranoid | Relaxed |
| The End of Love | In love |
“When’s your dinner?” he asked.
“Eight.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Make him change his mind.”
“Men don’t like rejection,” Robert said.
“I’ll borrow your outfit,” Lacey said. “He couldn’t propose to me if I looked like you.” Robert bowed and then did a little tap dance and wiggled his curly toe. Lacey laughed.
I have a twin,
she thought.
A face thief. Just tell him. Show him the note. Tell him! Show him the book!
I have a twin,
she thought.
A face thief. Just tell him. Show him the note. Tell him! Show him the book!
Robert jumped off the couch and began swatting dog hair off his pants.
“Gotta go,” he said. “I’m almost on.”
“Thanks for coming,” Lacey said.
“DPHH is tomorrow,” he said. “You should come.” DPHH was Deaf Professional Happy Hour. The group met once a month at a different bar.
“We’ll see,” Lacey said. Robert pointed at Lacey and then made the sign for “hearing,” but instead of making it at his mouth, he made it at his forehead. It was a sign given to Deaf people who acted like hearing people. It wasn’t a compliment.
“I’m busy,” Lacey said.
“You have to socialize,” Robert said.
“Fine. I’ll be there. Maybe.”
“Wow,” Robert said. “It’s not just marriage.”
“What?”
“You don’t like to commit to anything. Not even drinks with other Deafies.”
“I said I’ll be there.”
“It’s because you were an orphan. Because you didn’t go to a Deaf school.” She didn’t belong to either world, that’s what he meant. Lacey just shrugged. It wasn’t her fault. She had wanted to go to PSD, Pennsylvania School for the Deaf. Oh, the arguments she’d had with Margaret, ones she’d lost every time.
“Text me what happens,” Robert said. He slipped his Sidekick out of his pocket.
“I’ll get her,” Lacey said.
“Her?” Robert asked. “Who?” Lacey stared at Robert, unable to answer.
“Nothing,” Lacey said. “You’re due on stage.” Robert tilted his head, then nodded. He glanced at his Sidekick, as if it could help explain things. “I didn’t know court jesters had Sidekicks,” Lacey said.
“It’s a modern version,” Robert said. “The King has a plasma TV too.” He grinned and was gone.
Lacey stood across the street from Mario’s, the cozy Italian restaurant where she and Alan had their first date. Lacey was a freshman at Penn State when she met Alan. He was a senior who sat next to her in poetry class. Most of the students in class were enthralled with the sign language interpreters, but Alan couldn’t take his eyes off Lacey. Especially after he watched her sign “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost. After that, he started an all-out campaign to get her to go out with him. Lacey had dated only Deaf men, and every time he asked her out, she turned him down flat.
It took three months, but he finally wore her down. She promised if he stopped harassing her she would have dinner with him. Once. She held up her index finger and repeated herself. Once. He said he wanted to take her to Mario’s.
He’d eagerly offered to pick her up, but Lacey insisted they meet at the restaurant, even though they both had to travel into the city from campus. He was already at Mario’s when she arrived. He looked a little surprised when she showed up with a sign language interpreter, but he added another seat to the table without complaint.
At first, Lacey was worried she’d made a huge mistake, bringing an interpreter, but once they started to converse she was proud of herself for hiring her. Now there were no limits to their conversation. She answered all his questions about Deaf Culture. She corrected his conception that sign language was universal, telling him that every country had its own sign language. She told him she was Deaf with a capital
D,
which signified a specific group of Deaf individuals, those who used American Sign Language, and were proud of their identity as Deaf persons. Given the choice, she assured him, she wouldn’t want to be hearing.
D,
which signified a specific group of Deaf individuals, those who used American Sign Language, and were proud of their identity as Deaf persons. Given the choice, she assured him, she wouldn’t want to be hearing.
“My group uses American Sign Language, ASL, as their primary communication,” she told him through the interpreter. “We do not consider ourselves handicapped, we do not want to be ‘fixed.’ We have ‘Deaf Pride’—we are happy being deaf. Deaf people share a history, a language, and a shared fight for our rights. We have Deaf poetry, Deaf art, Deaf slang, Deaf jokes. When we sit and converse at a dining table, we take the flowers or other large obtrusions out of the center so we can see each other.” Alan held up his finger at this point and removed the single rose out of the center of the table and set it in front of the interpreter, effectively blocking out her face. Lacey laughed. The interpreter did not.
Lacey shattered the myth that Deaf people were “quiet.” “Until I was about six,” she said, “I thought my name was Shhh. Hearing people are freakishly sensitive when it comes to sound. I was shushed for everything from humming, to tapping my foot, to chewing my food, to breathing, for that matter. Shh, shh, shh, shh, shhhhhhh. And we play our music really loud at parties. Believe me, the police might be called.
“We don’t want to be called Hearing Impaired (don’t want to be fixed!), Deaf and Dumb (duh), or Deaf Mute. Whether or not we choose to use our voice and/or can lip-read varies from individual to individual, but that has no real bearing on our identity. Just don’t assume we’re all the same.”
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