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

Chapter 5

May 1989

G
randma and I stepped into a small florist located several miles from our home. I had passed this storefront growing up but had never been inside the shop. As I stood next to Grandma, my eyes scanned the flowers on display. Grandma proudly introduced me to the florist, resting her hand on my arm. I smiled as they chatted. Throughout the conversation, Grandma kept patting my arm. I had no idea what was being exchanged, although I knew they were talking about me. The florist kept stealing glances at me and smiling.

Grandma was probably telling the florist that I had recently graduated from Gallaudet and that I was now working as a psycho-social counselor in Baltimore, with Deaf and chronically mentally ill clients. I knew she was proud of me and my accomplishments.

I grew up next door to my grandma. I loved her dearly, despite her inability to communicate with me in depth. She knew some basic signs, but beyond that, we depended on paper and pen. I knew she loved me. Every time I walked into the house, she would drop everything she was doing to greet me.

“May I see the flowers?” I gestured, Grandma relaying the message. The florist immediately put on her professional front and escorted me to a tiny table that held two books. After I settled into one of the chairs, she resumed her conversation with Grandma.

It didn’t take long before I fell in love with the most beautiful bouquet – a bright, colorful mixture of delphinium, daisies, stargazer lilies, statices, and freesia. Small green leaves complemented the arrangement.

“Oh, pretty,” Grandma agreed.

I looked at Grandma with a thankful heart as the florist filled out our order. Grandma had offered to pay for the flowers. And, bless the florist’s heart, she gave us a discount. It helped that Grandma and the florist had a long-standing relationship; they had worked together for many years. As a member of Zion Evangelical Lutheran Church, Grandma was responsible for setting up flowers in the sanctuary.

Actually, she had a lot of responsibilities at the church. She even had her own key. I would often accompany Grandma to church on Saturdays while she made sure everything was ready for the Sunday service. I would just roam around, looking at nothing in particular, not paying attention to what she was doing. But I knew God played an important role in Grandma’s life – beyond her service to her church. At home, I would find her sitting in her favorite armchair in the living room, with the Bible open on her lap, reading. Though she never talked to me about it, her actions displayed her deep love and reverence for our Lord.

Chapter 6

Fall 1980

I
t was a typical Friday when our bus pulled into the high school parking lot. I scanned the lot and spotted Grandma’s car. Mom would pick me up some Fridays, but mostly it was Grandma.

When the bus rolled to a stop, ten or so of us got up and stood in a line. We moved slowly as each person, elementary through high school, stepped off the bus. We waited patiently as the bus driver hopped out, walked to the rear side of the bus, and opened the compartment containing everyone’s belongings.

During my elementary years, I had a black suitcase; the tag attached spelled my full name. Every piece of clothing packed into the suitcase had my name sewn in it. As I got older, I outgrew the small black suitcase, and my clothes were no longer identified with my name.

This afternoon I had my blue suitcase in hand, and I walked across the parking lot to Grandma’s car, opened the back door, tossed the suitcase on the seat, and flopped into the front seat. Not much was exchanged between us; our conversation would have to wait until sometime during the weekend, when we would sit by her tiny table in the kitchen with paper and pen, writing back and forth.

When I arrived home, I opened the front door and went straight to my room to change into comfortable clothes, as always. I also checked, out of habit, to ensure that my diary was in its place under my winter sweaters on the shelf Dad had built inside my closet. This time my diary was not underneath the first sweater. Perhaps I had put it between the second and third. Not there, either. My heart began to race as I groped everywhere – underneath, inside the sweaters, and behind the pile of sweaters.

I backed out of the closet, trying to focus. Had I hid it elsewhere? I checked every possible hiding place – inside my drawer, under the mattress, and under the chair cushion. Empty-handed, I sat down on my bed, a sickening feeling building inside me.

It’s not that I had written something bad or secretive. I hid it because I shared a room with my sister, Connie, and I didn’t want her to come across the diary. She was two years younger than I was, and I didn’t want her to read about Randy kissing me.

Had Connie taken the diary? Had she read it? Had Mom? How would I ever find out without asking?

Chapter 7

Same day

M
om appeared in the doorway of my bedroom. After few seconds of silence, she finally asked: “How was school?”

“Fine.”

Mom looked at me, nodding. She wore an expression I knew too well. She was holding something back.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“I found out.” It was her passive aggressive behavior that I had grown to loathe.

“Found out what?” I asked, hoping it had nothing to do with my diary.

“You tell me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Now I see. You’ve been lying,” Mom accused.

“Lying about what?” I had no idea what she was talking about.

“You had sex with Randy.”

I was stunned. Then I began to feel angry. How could she read my diary? It was mine.

“I did not,” I protested. “You misunderstood.”

“You think I’m stupid?”

“I’m telling you the truth. Honestly, I did not.”

“So, you have been lying. Now I know what you have been up to.”

“Please,” I begged. “Give back my diary. Show me where I said I had sex.”

“It’s too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“I threw it away.”

“No, you did not!” I knew she was lying. “Please give it back,” I begged. She had completely misunderstood my writing.

“I don’t have it. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Randy and I attended a camp earlier that summer. He was the first boy I had kissed. We weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend, but we had experimented with kissing. At the camp, the two of us had wandered off to the woods…

“Please give it back. We will read it together and I will explain what I mean.”

“It’s over.” She walked away.

That was the end of our conversation. Why she was so upset, I had no clue. The topic of sex was not taboo in our house, except around my siblings. Growing up, I had often hung around Mom and Dad’s friends, and I knew what sex was all about.

Sex was a fairly open topic. So what was upsetting Mom? I had not mentioned a single word about sex in my diary.

Over the next couple of weekends, when I was home, I would sneak into Mom and Dad’s bedroom, looking for my diary. I checked every possible hiding place. But it was nowhere to be found.

Chapter 8

Fall 1980

B
ridgetta and I exchanged our first secret when we were nine or ten years old.

Her secret? Well, I can’t reveal it because I promised that I’d never tell.

My secret? As a nine-year-old, my written English was better than my mom’s. In fact, I helped her compose letters and complete paperwork. When I received letters from Mom, Bridgetta and I would hide behind the big chair in the corner of our dormitory living room and read them together. She was the only one who could understand the diary incident.

“Did you know that God forbids sex until after marriage?” Bridgetta asked.

“Really? Why?” I’d never heard such a thing.

At that point in my life, I knew very little about God. Mom and Dad didn’t attend church regularly, and when we did go, I had to sit with them in the adult worship service; there were no Sunday school classes for Deaf kids. I once won a picture of Jesus at church, and I hung it on the wall of my bedroom. He was kneeling by a rock, praying. The two-inch golden frame had a small light on the top, and when I turned it on, Jesus glowed beautifully. I often looked at the picture, especially at night. It had a calming effect on me. But I knew very little of who this man was. I knew we shouldn’t lie, cheat, or steal. And I learned a few Bible stories when a church invited some Deaf children to come to Vacation Bible School one summer – Adam and Eve, Noah’s Ark, and David and Goliath. Other than those stories, though, I knew almost nothing. So I was surprised to hear God had a say about
sex
.

Bridgetta proceeded with her testimony – Adam and Eve had sinned, and all of us are sinners. Jesus had died for our sins, and He wanted us to live forever with Him in heaven. She explained that God wanted us to obey Him, and that if we didn’t, we would be doomed to hell.

“Hell?”

I was scared. So I believed her. Why wouldn’t I? Her parents were smarter than mine, and they taught her those things. Right there, I confessed my sins and invited Jesus into my heart.

Prior to this conversation, I had never known sex was a precious gift that God intended only for marriage. This knowledge stayed with me and I was determined to follow His command. Our discussion also sparked my interest in learning more about God and His Word.

Chapter 9

Spring 1981

A
t home for the weekend once again, I entered Mom and Dad’s bedroom, carefully scanning. Which hiding places had I missed? It had been months, and I was still determined to find my diary. Whenever Mom would leave the house – to hang her clothes, work in the garden, or run errands – I would continue to search.

I didn’t believe that Mom had thrown away the diary. Mom was not always honest. However, after our argument, this subject was never brought up again. Mom was very stubborn; once her mind was made up there was no room for discussion.

My eyes scanned every inch of the room, when I laid eyes on a framed picture of my maternal grandparents. Unlike Dad’s mother, Grandma, who always kept her hair short and stylish, Mom’s mother, Grandmother, tied her hair in a bun. It was thin and grayish, and when left loose, fell down to her waist. Whenever we visited, I would watch her brush her long hair. Then she would braid it. I was fascinated by the way she removed loose hair from her hairbrush and used it to secure her braid at the bottom. A rubber band was not needed. She wore tattered calf-length dresses with thick panty hose, often with runs. Grandfather wore faded overalls, which didn’t always look clean. He chewed tobacco, spitting into an empty Yam can, which was left on the windowsill for everyone to see. They were much older than my dad’s parents; Grandmother was forty-two when my mom was born.

The picture frame!

Could it be? My diary was written on composition paper, and there were only five or six pages. I quickly walked over to the window to spy Mom. I didn’t have much time. She was almost done removing the clothes from the clothesline.

Hurriedly, I lifted the picture off the wall and slid the cardboard from behind the frame. And there I saw my handwriting. My diary. I quickly removed the papers, returned the cardboard to its place, and hung the picture where it belonged.

My plan was set. I walked into our bathroom and locked the door. Sitting down on the closed toilet lid, I read for the last time what I had written. I found the part where I had written about wandering off into the woods. Randy had pulled me down to the ground on top of him. We had only hugged and kissed. Mom had jumped to conclusions, thinking that Randy and I didn’t have our clothes on. She didn’t give me the opportunity to explain or to clarify.

I hated the thought of letting go of my diary, but I knew I had to destroy it. I turned on the water faucet, clicked on the exhaust fan, and lit the match, carefully burning each page, one by one, and watching the ashes go down the drain.

I never told Mom that I had found the diary. And if Mom knew, she never said anything.

Chapter 10

May 1989

I
inspected the napkins that had arrived in the mail. Our names and the wedding date were correct. I was relieved. As soon as I saw the picture in one of the wedding-supply catalogs, I knew I had found the perfect design for our wedding.

“I’ve never seen such thing,” Mom said. “For a wedding? It’s unheard of.”

I ignored her comments. She had assumed I would pick a more traditional design. The square-shaped napkin had a simple picture of a boy and a girl walking in the grass, holding hands. The little boy was dressed in a short sleeve t-shirt and blue jeans, and the girl, who was the same height, was dressed in overalls. The girl’s right hand rested in her right rear pocket. Her straight, long hair fell down past her shoulder. Below the picture the napkin read:
This day I will marry my friend.

I knew those attending the wedding would think the design was most fitting. For most of my life, I left my hair long and straight. And, I had practically lived in overalls during my high school years.

Yes, I’m going to marry and spend the rest of my life with my best friend. Besterest,
as we often referred to each other – good, better, best, bester, besterest. Get it? There’s no such word in the dictionary. But for us, it was perfect.

Chapter 11

Spring 1982

I
noticed subtle differences between my parents and my friends’ parents. At a young age, I didn’t think too much about it. After all, my life at home was what I knew; I couldn’t imagine it any other way. But as I grew older, and the more time I spent at my friends’ houses, I began to envy their parents’ hugs and kisses, or when they simply asked them interestedly about school. They would also ask me what I learned that week, what subject I liked best, and other things to get to know me better. My heart would race. I felt cornered, and I would be so glad when they would let me go. Yet, I pondered what it must be like to have parents who cared about you.

Unlike a typical teenager without a care in the world, I knew too much. I knew my Dad’s income. I knew how much money my parents had in savings, or perhaps I should say how little. Mom would say to me, “Don’t tell this to Connie or David, they are so young.” The secrets had made me feel grown-up and important, but what a burden they had been. Knowing their finances, I made every effort to forego any unnecessary expenses. I never asked for brand-name clothing or shoes. Once or twice a year, when we traveled to visit my mom’s parents, Mom and Dad would treat us at McDonald’s; it was the only place we ever ate out. Everyone would order whatever they pleased. But not me. I always ordered the cheapest meal – a 49-cent hamburger and a cup of water.

It seemed as if my parents always needed help, and I made it my responsibility to ensure they understood anything that was being communicated to them. Sometimes I had no clue how to do or say what was needed – I was just a kid myself – but somehow, I managed. For example, when I was in elementary school, a classmate of mine had invited me to go home with her for the weekend. Mom had to write a permission note for me to change my regular plans, so I had her copy my writing: “I have Debbie’s permission to spend the weekend…” Of course, she should have written: “Debbie has my permission…” Those times when I realized my mistakes were so embarrassing.

Though mature for my age, I was in other ways a typical teenager. I was a rather quiet and reserved girl, but once people knew me I was fun to be around. I was well liked by my peers and got along with everyone. My report cards would have made any parent proud. I was an obedient child, and I displayed a pleasant and positive attitude. My life at school was a happy one.

I had my first boyfriend at fourteen. I don’t recall how or when David and I first became attracted to each other. I don’t even remember our first kiss. The first picture I have of us together was in May 1981, just before my fourteenth birthday. The following year, my photo album was filled with pictures of him – and us.

David’s upbringing was very different from mine. He came from a hearing family and was the younger of two. His family attended church every Sunday. He lived within a few miles of MSD and was a day student. In other words, unlike most of us, he did not sleep in the dorm. I would go over to his house sometimes on Sunday evenings when I arrived back at school after the weekend at home.

Our times together were fun. We teased each other a lot and laughed often. We both liked sports – he played football and basketball – and I was on the basketball and track teams. We would cheer for each other when we could. He even sneaked out of his class one afternoon so he could watch me run in the track meet. Later, when he got his driver’s license, we would sometimes sneak off campus without permission and just drive around together.

He was someone I could talk to easily. He was comfortable expressing his emotions – I even saw him cry. I suppose he learned that from his mother. He once told me how she would cry when he was giving her a hard time. A mother who showed sorrow and expressed pain – that was something new to me.