Joy and Tiers (46 page)

I take the note from her. I read it several times. I keep stumbling over the big word. I point to it and ask, “What’s this?”

She writes an explanation, “Men-in-gi-tis: it’s an infection that attacks the lining of your brain and spinal cord. It’s pretty rare, but it can be caught through coughing or sneezing.”

Alarm courses through my body. Oh no! If Rory got it, he couldn’t dance. I form a question, dreading the answer. If I have been out of it for so many days, Mom and Dad should be back from Rory’s audition by now. So he must be sick too. My parents are going to kill me. Rory is going to be part of the American Ballet Company in New York someday. That’s why we move all the time to follow his teachers. I tug on Delores’s lab coat to get her attention as I ask, “Did I make my brother sick? Is that why no one is here?”

Delores hugs my shoulders and smiles. I breathe a sigh of relief. She wouldn’t be smiling if he’s sick, right? She picks up the tablet and writes, being careful to print even though I can tell she wants to write in cursive, “No, everyone is fine. The doctor gave everyone medicine when you first got sick, Rory just got a call back and then they got a freak snow storm in Boston and they couldn’t leave.”

Boston? I thought I’d get a vote this time and we would stay on the West coast. I like my piano teacher and I am learning lots. Icicles surround my heart. Was. I was learning a lot. I can’t learn piano anymore. I was pretty good. Not Rory good. I mean, people don’t go around whispering words like prodigy, genius, and phenomenon around me like they do with him. I hear words like musically inclined, very talented, and inspired—or at least I used to. Now, I hear nothing. How will I live in a world of silence when music feeds my soul and makes me who I am? I wonder where I am going to fit in my very talented family, now that I don’t have talent. Tears stream down my face as I try to bury my head in my pillow.

When I wake up, I find a big gift bag of art supplies Delores has left by my bedside. It contains a book that looks like my mom’s diary, except that it has a treasure map on the front and blank pages inside. There is also a nice pen. It’s like the one my Pa has in his office. I see a tiny note on the gift bag. As I pull it off to read it, I’m shocked when I read the familiar print. “Aidan, just because you can’t hear the music doesn’t mean it’s not inside you. Every piece of music needs a good lyricist.” By understanding my secret fear and helping me start to overcome it that day, Delores and I forged a friendship that remains strong to this day.

She has been by my side helping me find treatment options when my parents were too tied up with Rory to notice, or care, what was happening with me. My mom really did try for a while. But when you grew up being a concert violinist, receiving the adoration of crowds, the drudgery of speech therapy, audiology appointments, and special education gets old quick. As Rory grew more famous, so did the chasm between my family and me. They seemed willing—even eager to leave me behind. Finally, the summer I turned 15, they gave up any pretense of filling the parental role with me and let Delores take me in.

By that time, I had lived in a virtually silent world for four years in near total isolation. My mom refused to learn sign language because she was from a good Irish-Catholic family and she was convinced a miracle would be coming soon. My dad refused to learn because he was pretty sure if I would “man up” and put mind over matter, I wouldn’t really be deaf anymore. He was convinced if I only tried harder to hear, I would no longer be totally oblivious to sound. The only person who accepted the new me was, ironically, Rory.

When I turned sixteen, I became eligible to participate in a medical trial of cochlear implants. Even though cochlear implants are very controversial in the deaf community, I jumped at the chance. Hearing aids were doing me no good and I was tired of the isolation. My world had shrunk to just Rory, Delores, and a few special education kids; I needed more. Once again, Delores was by my side when everything in my world changed.

I remember the day I was “plugged in” as clearly as if it were just yesterday. I lost my hearing at such a late age that I had a very clear memory of what sounds should be like. I had spent five long years dreaming of what it would be like to leave this silent prison I’d been living in. I could hear music in my head as surely as I could feel my own heartbeat, and I couldn’t wait to hear it again.

When no one was looking, I went to an old abandoned church and played the piano, just so I wouldn’t forget how. I always left my private practice sessions in a twisted emotional state. On the one hand, my body had phenomenal muscle memory which allowed me to fall into the rhythm of playing, as if it were a well-loved dance partner that I never left.

As therapeutic and calming as it was to play, every press of a note was like a nick to my soul with a rusty razor blade. No single cut was fatal, but collectively the effect was the slow and excruciatingly painful death of the person I had been. Despite the best efforts of Delores, I had become a sullen, angry shadow of the person I once was. I struggled to maintain my optimism about a procedure that was experimental in my type of deafness. The risk was great. Choosing the procedure meant destroying the 4% of hearing I had left. If the activation didn’t go well, it would amount to nothing and I would actually emerge worse.

When my receiver was turned on, I immediately wanted them to turn it off again. Nothing made sense! My brain felt like scrambled eggs in an earthquake. The sound was loud and screeching like a radio station tuned to two stations that were receiving only static and feedback. I was so disappointed. This was not how I had imagined it would be. I knew some deaf people had trouble processing sound after an implant; I just never figured it would be me. I was so sure my brain would just remember how to process sound and I would be normal again. It was a steep learning process for me. Eventually, as the audiologists tuned my implants and my brain started to develop nerve pathways to better interpret the feedback from the cochlear device, I began to cope much better and adjust to my new perception of sound.

When I turned eighteen, I had a second implant placed in my other ear that helped me hear music even better. My implants are never going to restore my normal hearing, I’ll always be deaf and sadly, music will never be quite the same. If I were to describe it to a hearing person, I would suppose it’s like sound was filtered through a highly distorted synthesizer. When I first got my CI, I had a really hard time even recognizing music, let alone individual notes.

Gradually, with more practice I was able to recognize songs I knew before I became sick. I started playing along to recordings of them, so I could get accustomed to the altered sound of the notes. I practiced piano like a novice, relearning all my scales and chords. I worked like a fiend until I could associate the memory of music I had in my head and heart with the new version of music I heard coming through my implants. By the time I was done, I had developed thick calluses on the pads of my fingers, but some of the ones that had formed around my heart and soul began to fall away. After almost a half a decade, I was finally a musician again.

I shake my head to bring myself back into the present as I slide back behind the piano, place my lemonade on the coaster, and start to play
Piano Man
by Billy Joel. I slip in one of my original songs and no one seems to object. In fact, the Judge guy gives me thumbs up. I am pleasantly surprised. Usually, when I play these gigs, I’m invisible and no one gives a tiddly-wink what I do.

As I continue to play a mix of cover songs, I see an older man burst in, although perhaps it’s more accurate to say I smell him first. It appears he’s been bathing in Kentucky Bourbon. His face is a mask of fury and he appears to be yelling obscenities. As near as I can tell, his anger appears aimed at the groom’s mother. However, there is a lot of chaotic background noise, and even with my cochlear implants, it is nearly impossible to hear accurately. In these situations, I depend on lip reading to clarify things. He swings around, wildly looking for the bridal party. This causes his disheveled shirt to gape, revealing the distinct silhouette of a handgun.
Damn it! Where’s Tara
?

I vault over the top of the baby grand and nearly run over a very startled Judge as I remember to utter, “Gun. Saturday night special. Older guy. Reeks. Probably drunk. Looking for the groom’s mom.”

The Judge starts to ask me a question, but I push past him as I search for Tara. Finally, I spot her and the rest of the bridal party in the gazebo in the flower garden. My heart racing, I take off in a dead sprint until I am a couple of yards away from the back of the gazebo. I flatten my body against the side of a small potting shed and glance over to the bridal party. The big cowboy and the blond pin-up gal are juggling peaches in some sort of friendly competition, and the wedding photographer is busy snapping pictures as the bride and groom watch with bemused grins on their faces. My movement seems have caught Tara’s attention at the same time the armed and angry guy charges toward the front of the gazebo yelling physically impossible profanities. I quickly sign, “Gun! Careful!”

Tara’s eyes widen as she processes what I’ve just said. Her body language changes ever so slightly as her spine stiffens, her stance widens, and her muscles tense in a manner that I recognize from the martial arts classes I took as a teenager. A look of grim determination settles over her face as she studies the ugly situation unfolding in front of her. I can feel the tension roll off of her like heat waves off of asphalt in August. I start to move closer, but Tara cuts me off with an imperceptible shake of her head and a small “no” sign.

I hear more yelling, but the anger in the man’s voice is distorting the sound and I am not in a position to read lips to help me. I’m not catching every word, but what I am catching is nasty and vile. The groom looks like he’d give everything he owned or could ever hope to own to be able to lock his lovely bride in an ivory tower right about now. Before Tara could warn anyone about the gun, the guy points it at the groom. The whole confrontation is over in a blink of an eye. I’m still not sure what happened. One moment, the asshole seemed to hold all the cards. The next, the groom has the drunk guy hog-tied in what seems like a nanosecond.

I have to shake my head and blink my eyes when I suddenly realize the delicately shaped foot planted in firmly across the guy’s neck is Tara’s and she has a can of what looks like bear repellent aimed at his face. If looks could kill, this creep would be vaporized into the atmosphere by now. He looks like he’s about to pee his pants even though he’s continuing to spew profanities like an overheating radiator. Finally, the police department gets there and carts the perp away, and I notice that he did indeed piss his pants. I start to smirk until I glance back up at Tara and notice her sway as she sees the front of his pants. I run to catch her before she crumples to the ground. Just then, the bride warns urgently, “Don’t touch her! You’ll only make it worse.”

Even if I were inclined to follow that advice, it came about three beats too late as Tara collapses in my arms, in a cloud of blue lace and wispy stuff. Reflexively, I gather her up to my chest and stride out of the gazebo in one fluid motion. I anxiously study her limp form in my arms as I see her pulse quiver in a strong, regular cadence at the hollow of her neck. 

After a tense discussion with the groom about her well-being, I carefully walk over to the porch swing on the side porch, being careful not to jostle her too much. I take off my jacket, roll it up and place it under her head. I search in vain for something to place under her feet to elevate them. Finally, I decide to just use myself as a prop. I sit down and place her legs on my lap. During all the ruckus, her beautiful hair has started to come out of the fancy bun she had it in for the wedding. Remembering what a stickler she was for a perfectly straight bun even as a child, I reach over to brush a stray hair out of her face.

Her lashes flutter a few times before she opens her eyes. I can’t even begin to describe her amazing eyes; I’ve never seen anything close to them on another person. Even when she was little, people would accuse her of wearing weird contact lenses. I know her eyes are real. I saw her deal with the very real repercussions after my brother went out and partied with his friends the night before an important dance competition and nearly blinded her when he skipped warm ups and missed a lift, tearing her cornea. Slowly she opens her eyes, squinting against the sun. I hold my hand above her forehead to provide some shade and meet her eyes with a steady gaze.

I’ve forgotten how strikingly beautiful she is. Her eyes are light gray, with a band of brown around the outside, and a naturally occurring tear in one pupil. As she examines me, she is clearly confused, but then she chuckles under her breath as she asks, signing as she speaks, “AJ?”

I nod as I confirm, “Yeah, it’s me, but I go by Aidan now.”

AJ? That fine specimen of manliness is little AJ? He can’t be the same gangly, knock-kneed kid who followed me around trying to persuade me to solve his Rubik’s cube or babysit his DigiPet. His hair, which once was an unfortunate study in frizziness, is now a hairstylist’s dream of glorious tousled curls, gold blond shot through with highlights of red, brushing his shoulders as he played the piano. I’ve been trying to carefully ignore him all night. “Your hair is a lot longer,” I blurt.