Deception Ebook EPUB 3-17-2014 (2 page)

Chapter 1

1977

F
rom a very young age I could tell I was the envy of Mom and Dad’s friends. Not because I was born with natural beauty or with a special talent, but because I was born Deaf. My being Deaf meant Mom and Dad would be able to pass on their Deaf culture to me – the next generation. It also meant convenience, in a way, being able to converse with their child in their natural language – American Sign Language (ASL).

I was also Mom and Dad’s friends’ next generation. Along with my Deaf peers, I represented the future of Deaf people. I could relate with their experiences. We shared similar upbringings – life at a residential school. We understood each other’s frustrations in how we were treated in the hearing world. We discussed happenings within the Deaf community and shared Deaf jokes. Among Mom and Dad’s circle of friends, I was the only child who was Deaf. Because of that, I often hung around them rather than with their children or my siblings.

At our house, Mom and her female friends sat around the dining room table, catching up on each other’s lives. Of course, there was gossip. They discussed
Days of Our Lives
and
All My Children
. Never mind that in those days, TV shows were not closed-captioned. Their conversations were made all the more lively by the fact that they would deduce what had happened, and then, when they got together, they would compare notes about their assumptions.

The men either stood outside or in the kitchen, discussing various topics – work, sports, and the news. I would shift between the two groups, although I preferred the men. They were more fun to be around, and we teased each other a lot.

One Friday night, I tried out the latest joke on Terry, one of Dad’s friends. I held a dessert plate in my left hand, and with my right hand, I passed on an identical plate to him. Then, I gave instructions: “Keep your eyes on my face the whole time and copy exactly what I do. Okay? I’ll see how well you can copy me.”

Terry laughed and looked at everyone forming a circle to see the show. “She thinks she’s smart. This shouldn’t be too hard,” Terry said.

“Okay, are you ready?” I challenged him.

“I’m ready,” he responded with confidence.

With the plate still in my left hand, my right finger circled the bottom of the plate. I lifted my finger to my chin and touched it there. Terry copied my exact movement; so far, so good. My finger returned to the bottom of the plate, and I repeated myself, touching a different place on my face. This went on for several minutes. When I was satisfied with what I saw, I held out my right hand and asked for his plate.

“You did great,” I told Terry. “I’m finished.”

Looking at everyone, I asked: “What do you think?”

Everyone laughed and commented: “You’d better look in the mirror!” “She’s smart!” “Wish I had camera!”

With everyone trailing behind, Terry walked into our bathroom and looked in the mirror. His face was covered with black marks. Prior to pulling the prank, I had burned the bottom of his plate with a match, creating black soot.

“You! You got me this time,” he said, wrapping his arm around my shoulder for an affectionate hug. “I’ll get you back.”

“I’ll see if you can,” I said, laughing.

I enjoyed being the center of attention. It would be several years until I realized what was missing in our house – Mom and Dad’s affection.

Chapter 2

Early years with Mom

W
hen I was young, I looked up to Mom. In my eyes, she was a superwoman. I had close friends at school, but when I was home on weekends, Mom was my playmate and best friend.

As I’d fill her in on my time away during the week, Mom loved to reminisce about her life at the Pennsylvania School for the Deaf (PSD) where she grew up. She would tell me how each time when she’d return to campus her dormitory counselor would force her head into a sink, pour terrible-smelling medicated shampoo onto her hair, and scrub roughly. The counselor would then wrap her head tightly in a towel. This was to ensure that all potential lice eggs would be killed. All this happened even though Mom claimed she did not have lice. To make matters worse, not every student had to go through this humiliating procedure.

She shared how the teachers would whip her hands with a ruler when she was caught signing in the classroom or between classes. The teachers would drill her in making a specific sound through her nose, learning to enunciate. When Mom was not able to make the sound correctly, the teacher would pinch and jerk her nose, which would sometimes result in a nose-bleed. And she told how her dorm counselor would inspect her bed in the mornings before school. If her sheets were one inch longer on one side than on the other, the counselor would strip the sheets off the bed and force Mom to remake her bed. No matter how many times Mom told me her stories, I never grew tired of hearing them. Her experience was so unlike mine.

Mom was the youngest of fourteen siblings. (Her mom stopped having children after she miscarried her fifteenth child.) Despite the fact that she was the youngest, Mom was the first to graduate from high school. “If I had not attended PSD, I would have quit just like my sisters and brothers to help out with farm work,” she said thankfully. She had lived at the residential school her entire life, Kindergarten through her senior year in high school. Her trips home were limited to Christmas break and summer.

I envied Mom. Her farm tales sounded fun. While milking the cow, she would sneak in a drink directly from the udder. She described how the chickens were killed: “My father would hold them by their necks and cut off their heads. Then, they would run around flapping with blood spurting out of their necks.”

“They were still alive?” My young mind had difficulty imagining such a scene.

Mom was not afraid of anything. A snake? Not a problem. She’d split it in half with a shovel. Bat? She’d grab a broom, open the bedroom window, and lure the bat out of the closet. Huge hairy spider? She smashed it with a napkin. Mouse? After Mom released the dead mouse from the trap, she would hold it by its tail and chase us to test our reactions. I never questioned her ability to protect my siblings and me from nature’s harm.

Everything my siblings and I did, Mom insisted she was capable of doing the same, and even better than us. She could run as fast as we could. She could beat us in an arm-wrestling contest. She could twirl a Hula-Hoop without letting it fall. She could ride a bike without holding the handlebars – that is, until the day she took a bad fall and learned her lesson. Not to mention all the board games she would win. She was no merciful player either. If Mom lost, it meant one of us had cheated. If we denied it, she would demand a rematch.

My friends thought Mom was cool. She participated in our games, helping us find good places to hide during hide and seek. At night, when we were ready to sleep, Mom would sneak outside to spook us through the bedroom window, scaring us out of our skin. Mom would show off her strength by flexing her muscles; my friends’ jaws would drop seeing how strong Mom was.

You could tell how hard a worker Mom was just by looking at her hands. They were not smooth and silky. Every spring, she and Dad planted vegetables – corn, potatoes, lima beans, string beans, peas, zucchini, squash, tomatoes, cucumbers, green peppers, and onions. We also grew strawberries, watermelons, and cantaloupes. After harvesting, Mom would either freeze or can the summer bounty.

Indeed, Mom was a superwoman. She was the one who could do it all. She was our housekeeper. She was our cook. She was our hairdresser and barber. She was our seamstress. She was our banker. And so much more.

Unfortunately, what Mom couldn’t do were the things I needed most from her.

Chapter 3

1978

M
y younger sister Connie walked into our bedroom and burst into tears.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“I don’t want to call,” she sobbed. No explanation was needed. Mom or Dad had asked her to make a phone call. To whom, I wasn’t sure. It could be that Dad wanted her to call someone regarding a letter or a bill that he had received. It could be that Mom wanted her to schedule a doctor’s appointment. It could be that Dad wanted her to relay a message to someone.

“Don’t,” I commanded.

“Mom will be so mad.”

“I’ll go to talk to her now,” I said.

“No,” she pleaded. “Please don’t. She will get angry.”

I ignored Connie and stormed out of our bedroom. I had assumed the role of peacemaker, settling disputes or misunderstandings between Mom and Dad and my siblings (and at times people outside home). I was overprotective of my siblings, especially Connie, because she was next in line. Unfortunately, I was not around them much. I lived at the Maryland School for the Deaf (MSD), and I was home only on weekends, forty-nine hours to be exact, not including holidays and summers.

When I was away at school, all the responsibilities that would have normally been mine fell on her shoulders. To make matters worse, she was hearing, which meant she had one added responsibility that I did not have to deal with – interpreting.

It had happened one time too many and I was fed up. Why couldn’t Mom or Dad understand? Connie was only a child.

“Who did you want Connie to call?” I asked.

Mom looked at Dad. “See. Connie always tattle-tells. Connie does not want to help us. You all never want to help,” she accused me.

“Not true!” I argued back. I listed all the times we had helped her. But it didn’t matter. Mom wouldn’t listen. As always, Dad just stood there, speechless. He was never much help.

“Sue is very lucky! Very, very lucky,” Mom said. “Missy always helps Sue and Bill. She never complains. Same with Dawn. She always helps her parents. Right?” Mom looked at Dad.

Dad said nothing.

Mom continued: “Connie always complains. Complains!”

“Connie is so young,” I tried to make Mom and Dad understand. “Some of the words are hard for her to interpret. She does not know those people, so she does not feel comfortable talking. Why don’t you ask Grandma or Harold to help you?”

“Not Grandma’s business to know who we want to call. If I ask Harold, he would wonder why I don’t ask my
own
children. Connie can call. I know she can do it.”

“You just don’t understand.” The minute I said it, I wished I hadn’t.

“You think I’m stupid?” Mom glanced at Dad. “See. She thinks I’m stupid! I knew it.”

Dad finally tried to intervene. He looked at both of us and said, “Just forget it.” As if that would resolve our problem.

“I never said the word
stupid
. I did not say that! You added that word yourself. I said you don’t understand why Connie does not want to call,” I tried to explain. “Some words are hard for her. Better to ask Grandma or someone else so that there’s no misunderstanding.”

“Ha! Connie knows the words. You all don’t help because you don’t love me. I know it,” Mom reasoned. She added, “If I die, you wouldn’t care.”

“Not true! Please don’t say that,” I begged. This kind of talk scared me, but at the same time it never made me stop arguing with her. She had threatened numerous times in the past that she would go into the garage, get in the car, start the motor, and let it run so that the carbon monoxide would kill her.

I let out an exasperated sigh as I stormed out of the room – another day and another bungled attempt at expressing our thoughts and feelings.

Chapter 4

Early years with Dad

P
eople often tell me that I looked like Dad. We have similar features, except for our ears – his are quite large. I also inherited his laid-back personality. We both grew up attending the same residential school – MSD. Dad graduated with the class of 1959, and I would in 1985. We even shared the same teacher, Ms. Mooring, in elementary school; she seemed so old to me, wrinkles and all. She liked to tell me how she always had to tie Dad’s shoes when his laces came loose.

Everyone in our hometown seemed to know Dad. He was not famous, mind you, but everywhere we went, there’d be at least one person walking over to shake Dad’s hand. The person extending his hand would begin to talk, and Dad would smile and nod as if he understood everything. I would nudge Dad and say, “You don’t even know what he said.” As soon as the person stopped talking and left, Dad would begin reminiscing about how he’d known that person in the old days. You see, Williamsport was a small town of less than 1,800 people. My dad grew up here. My grandfather graduated from Williamsport High School and was known as a great athlete. My paternal great-grandfather was well-known in the community; he was a county superintendent of roads, and served as a board member of our local bank. Several of my relatives still lived in the area. Because Dad was Deaf, I suppose, he was someone people didn’t easily forget.

Dad had a strong work ethic. Right after his graduation, he was employed by Moller Organ – a factory that manufactured handcrafted pipe organs. His work was unique – he was Deaf, and yet, he was a part of the company that built pipe organs which produced beautiful sounds in churches all over the world. His work required sharp eyes and precise measurement, and he was proud of his contribution to organ-making.

Dad was a friend to all – young and old, hearing and Deaf, uneducated and educated. We knew several Deaf elderly people who did not have driver’s licenses, and Dad would gladly take them places – the annual summer Deaf picnic in Boonsboro, MSD reunion gatherings, and other Deaf-related events. I loved to tag along, and when I received my license, I also volunteered to take our older friends for their medicine, grocery shopping, or on errands.

Dad was proud of his good deeds and liked to tell me how the “world” couldn’t manage without him. How he had taught his friends to play baseball. How his co-workers had depended on him to cover their duties at work, yet no one could cover Dad’s station. How he was the first among his high school classmates to purchase a car with his own money and would chauffeur his friends around town after graduation because they didn’t have cars.

Traditions were very important to Dad. We ate turkey or ham four times a year – Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, and on his birthday. He expected the same dishes to be served at each of those special occasions. And speaking of food, supper was served every afternoon at 4:30 p.m. sharp. He was never home late from work, always arriving between 4:21 and 4:23 p.m. He would put his black lunch box on the kitchen counter and wash his face and hands in the bathroom before sitting in his usual place at the table.

Dad was a huge fan of the Baltimore Orioles, the University of Maryland basketball, and the Washington Redskins. My Sundays – before returning to school – were spent sitting in front of the TV with him. He was forever telling me trivia about the players, and I even learned the players by their names. Dad rarely became angry, but if a referee made a lousy call or a player made a stupid mistake, we’d see his temper flare. But his anger was never directed toward us kids. He never laid a finger on us. In fact, if Mom sent us to our rooms, he’d let us out as soon as she left the house.

Dad gave me what he could, the only way he knew how. Yet his soft heart and good nature couldn’t give me what I needed most. I needed a “daddy.” But that just couldn’t be.