Song of Summer (27 page)

“You sure you're okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, wiping a couple tears from my cheeks. “Yeah, I'm okay. I just… I didn't think it would be like this.” I turn to her. “Did you know it would be like this?”

She shrugs and shakes her head and looks away. “Not really. Not that bad. But I didn't think it would be perfect either.”

I start clicking around. I search everything. I watch countless videos and read all the comments: hateful, supportive, experienced, ignorant… I learn about a deaf family who is deciding whether or not to get an implant for their daughter. I see tears of frustration and read stories of heartbreak. I see interviews and read about debates and notice that sometimes the word “deaf” is capitalized and I don't really know why.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, Jenni left. I don't even remember saying good-bye.

After probably two hours of video after video, I see an interview with a doctor on a big-time news station. She's a fancy doctor with a fancy name, and she studies hearing and music. She says that music changes your brain. Like, it physically changes the brain's structure. And she touts the amazing advances of the cochlear implant. And I feel the hope begin to rise within me. Yes, music changes you. Yes, cochlear implants are amazing. Yes, this could happen. With enough practice and listening maybe Carter will come to love it the same way I do.

But then the doctor says it: “If a person is listening with a cochlear implant, they cannot glean any beauty out of music.”

No, that can't be right. I play it again. “If a person is listening with a cochlear implant, they cannot glean any beauty out of music.” I pause the video. What?

In the next few sentences, the fancy doctor tries to take it back. She says that a person can enjoy music but they're not even close to “hearing the whole story.” She says that since there is no clear meaning to derive, the brain doesn't know what to do with it. Speech has a clear meaning and music doesn't, so the brain can translate speech signals more and more clearly with time, but it can't translate music signals. It just can't.

I watch the video seventeen times.

Carter will never,
can
never, hear music the same way I do.

Never.

Last Day of Summer

Carter

I swing my leg down over the bike and my boot strikes the pavement. Hard. I reach up to take off my helmet, curls stuck to my head with sweat. I cradle the helmet under my arm and begin to take off my gloves, glancing up at the Grape Country Dairy sign one last time. Between my nerves and the heat, sweat has practically melded my gloves to my fingers, causing me to wiggle them, one at a time. It's excruciating because I need every second I can get to talk to Robin—we're leaving for NYC. I've only got fifteen minutes here.

My right glove is finally off, allowing my hand to breathe. I run my fingers through my hair and a breeze ruffles it; cooling me, calming me. I feel the rough edge of my scar and set my jaw. Time to do what I came to do. Time to give it one more chance. After unsticking my left glove, I unlock the bike's lockbox and remove the handmade teak peace offering from its nest of blankets. Safe. No scratches. Tucking it under my arm, I walk toward the door. The sun is glaring off the huge windows—I can't tell if Robin can even see me, but her car is one of the four in the parking lot, so I know she's here. The flowers in the little flower garden are all sprawled out—like they're reaching for the sun instead of letting it come to them.

I push the glass door open and stand by the please seat yourself sign, smelling pancakes and malted waffles and bacon. She emerges from the kitchen and a smile lights my eyes, if not the rest of my face. She looks the same as the day I met her—same white button-down, same black pedal pushers, same ponytail—but I see her so differently. There are dark circles under her eyes—she hasn't been sleeping. There are more freckles sprinkled across her pale cheeks—she's been outside. There's a wiser tilt to her head, a more sympathetic look in her eye. Not pity; understanding.

“Hi,” she signs, looking like she wants to smile but can't yet.

“Hi,” I sign.

She gestures to the tables. The corners of her mouth turn up slightly and she pushes a curl back behind her ear and into her ponytail.

That used to be my job.

I swallow and shake my head, pointing instead to the counter. She walks to the server side and I sit on a stool, settling my helmet on the seat next to me and the teak box on the countertop.

“Coffee?” Robin signs.

I shake my head. “Water?” I sign.

She nods. She turns around to get it and I glance back in the kitchen. Violet and Fannie are throwing us glances and whispering by the milkshake machine. I feel a half smile on my face and wave at them. They bustle back into the grill area and look over their shoulders at me. I'm shaking my head, a smile on my face, when Robin brings me a glass of ice water. I take a sip.

“How are you?” I sign.

“Good.”

“Good.” There's a pause. I take another sip. She looks out into the parking lot and a minivan pulls up. She nods at Violet who nods back.

“How's Trina? Your parents?” she signs.

“Good! Trina's sad to leave.”

She nods. “You?” she asks.

I shrug. “Yeah…” I look into her blue eyes. “I'll miss you,” I sign.

She smiles at me, her eyes sad. “It was a good summer,” she signs.

“Yeah.” The family of four from the minivan comes into the restaurant. Violet struts over with menus and two more cars pull up. No. No. God, no. Not now. Of all times. Robin throws her a look and Violet nods twice. She'll take those groups, too. She was born for days like this, right?

I need to do this now before any more people show up.

She glances at me and before she can look away I sign, “I'm sorry. For the way our relationship ended.”

She signs, “Sorry… write?” and I sigh and pull out my trusty little notebook—the one that's been in my pocket since that very first day.

“I'm sorry for how we ended,” I write.

She looks up. “Me, too,” she signs.

I push the teak box over to her. “For you,” I sign.

She shakes her head. “Carter, no…” seeing my name on her hands again makes my eyes smart.

“Please,” I sign. I nod at her, encouraging her to open it. I take up the pen again. “I want you to have it. I'm not trying to buy my way back into your good graces.” I hesitate, then look at her face. It's all corners and edges. Her arms are crossed. I glance up, the two cars from before are seated—a couple and another table of four. That's three tables, ten people, at once. Tough for even a veteran like Violet. Then the unthinkable—two more cars pull in.

Robin's halfway to the stack of menus before she notices me waving to get her attention. “I want you to be in love again,” I write. “Even if it's not with me.” I drop the pen. “Please,” I sign again.

Her edges soften, arms uncrossing, shoulders relaxing. She gives me a half smile and turns to open the box. Her calloused hands caress the top, and right before cracking open the lid, she turns to me. “What is it?” she signs, a mischievous look in her eye.

“Just open it!” I sign. I think I'm more anxious than she is.

I glance at Violet. She's filling drinks for the new tables, but her first table is tapping their menus and the table that was here when I arrived is drumming their fingers, probably waiting on their check or dessert. Two families are walking in through the door. Robin is so preoccupied with the box, she doesn't notice.

Reverently, she swings the lid back on its hinges and pulls the velvet away from the flute. Her face glows. “Carter,” her perfect lips say and she picks it up like it's something hallowed. “It's beautiful,” she signs, switching the flute to her left hand for just an instant. She caresses it and turns it over, seeing the engraving in flowing script: Songbird. Her lips part and her face relaxes into the look I've been waiting for, the look she used to give me. Longing is written all over her face.

I wave my hand so she looks up at me. Her eyes are sparkling. “Beautiful,” she signs again, like she signed at the overlook on our first date.

“Play it,” I sign.

She looks around the restaurant, eyes widening as she realizes just how many people have arrived. She shoots a look at Violet, who is too busy to notice. “Play it!” I sign again.

She gives me a conspiratorial smile, caresses the flute one more, and places it to her lips.

Robin

Just one song. I have to. I can't put it down now that I've picked it up.

“Anywhere ya want!” Violet yells over the clatter of the diner. Eight people find booths by the windows and sit down.

I inhale, preparing to play because Carter Paulson asked me to.

“Robin!” says a voice. Violet.

I turn to her.

“I can't,” she says over her shoulder as she punches an order into the computer. I scan the diner again. Six tables total. Five all at once. She's right—she can't.

“One minute,” I sign to Carter, and place the flute back in its box.

“Okay,” he signs with a tight-lipped smile. He's not okay.

I close the lid and run for the stack of menus, slapping them on the two tables without them. Like lightning, I get drink orders and hustle back to the kitchen. “One minute!” I sign again to Carter.

He nods, his face still flushed from the heat of the drive, his water glass drained of water, just ice remaining. One leg jiggles. I fill the drink orders and find one table ready to order, so I hurry back to the computer.

“One minute!”

He's writing something on his notepad, but I don't have a chance to see because the other table wants to order. Then an order is up, and refills are needed, and somebody wants a milkshake…

When the ancient milkshake machine stops dousing me in milk, I hear another sound—an engine starting.

I turn to the look at the windows. Carter's bike. He kicks it into gear and purrs out of the parking lot, waving one gloved hand as he rides away. Slopping the milkshake onto my tray, I'm halfway down the sidewalk, waving, but he's already gone.

The whole restaurant watches as the bell dings on the door, announcing my reentry. I walk over to the counter and grab a napkin off the counter, dabbing at my eyes before cleaning up spilled milkshake and adding whipped cream. Another table enters after my first two get their meals, so the lunch rush keeps me busy for another hour.

Finally, my double-sat families leave and I'm left with just an older couple who already has their food—spaghetti. Who orders spaghetti at a diner? I catch Fannie and Violet scurrying away from the counter, where Carter left the flute, the glass of now-melted ice, and his little notepad. I chuckle. “It's okay. You can read what he said—you probably did already anyway.”

“It was her idea,” Fannie says, smacking Violet with the back of one pudgy hand.

Violet looks at me with purple-shadowed eyes. “I just wanted to know how I could best comfort you,” she says, and I can't hold back a snicker.

I glance at the top sheet: “I'm glad you like the pennywhistle. I'm so sorry I have to leave. Look me up if you're ever in New York. —Carter.”

So that's that. I sigh, my shoulders slumping, and dump the dirty dishes I'm carrying into a bus bin. Violet lifts the pennywhistle box and prepares to sweep both the glass and the notebook into her own bus bin.

“I'll take that!” I say, rescuing the little pad of paper and shoving it into my apron pocket. After settling the pennywhistle with my purse in a cubby under the counter, I wander over to the salad station.

I'm just sprinkling shredded carrots on the last one, about to cover them in plastic wrap, when I hear, “Robin?” Violet's over my shoulder. “I think your table wants something. They're looking persnickety.”

The elderly couple who ordered spaghetti.

“Oh… yeah… ,” I put the lid on the carrot bin and shove it back in the cooler.

“You okay, honey? You need me to get anything?”

“No, I'm good,” I say. “Don't want to ruin my tip.”

Violet cocks her head and leans in. “They're an old couple. Who ordered spaghetti. Sorry, honey, but your tip is probably gonna suck no matter what.”

“My money's on a buck fifty!” calls Fannie from the back.

“Thank you for your vote of confidence,” I say. “I'm going to go charm their socks off right now.”

I walk over to my table and ask the couple how everything's going. The man looks up at me with a question in his eyes.

“Huh?” he says.

“I said, ‘How is everything?'” And before it's too late, I realize that my hands are moving. I just signed my sentence. Because he couldn't hear me.

The couple is looking at me, mouths agape.

“I'm not deaf, chickie,” the man spits. “I just didn't understand your mumbling.”

“I am so sorry,” I sputter. “I just have this friend… um… well, he's not really a friend. He's an ex-boyfriend. But that's not really an accurate picture of our relationship. I mean, he meant a lot to me and, well, what I mean to say is HE was deaf. Is deaf. You know? So I… I'm used to signing. A little. I'm so sorry.”

The man clearly doesn't get what I'm saying. I almost don't get what I'm saying.

His wife glares at me. “Everything's fine, thank you very much.”

“You're welcome,” I say. “I mean, good! Good. I'm glad everything's fine.” I pull their check out of my apron pocket, my hand brushing the notebook. “Here's your check. If you need anything, just give a holler.”

I turn back to face the kitchen and shake my head at Violet, making my hand into a bomb that lands and then explodes. But then I remember the look on the spaghetti-man's face, and by the time I get back to the counter, I have to hide in the kitchen so my couple doesn't see me completely crack up.