Maybe Someday(46)

I was five, I was enrolled in a school for

the deaf. That’s where I learned sign lan-

guage. I would come home and teach

Brennan, because neither of my parents

knew ASL. I taught him because I was

five years old and had never had a con-

versation with anyone before. I was so

desperate to communicate I was forcing

my two-year-old brother to learn signs

like “cookie” and “window” just so I would

have someone to talk to.

My heart sinks to my stomach. I look up at

him, but he’s still texting.

Ridge: Imagine walking into your first day

of school to the realization that there is

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actually a way to communicate. When I

saw kids having conversations with their

hands, I was amazed. I lived the first five

years of my life never knowing what it

was like to communicate. The school

began teaching me how to form words us-

ing my voice, how to read, how to sign. I

spent the next few years practicing

everything I learned on Brennan. He be-

came just as fluent in ASL as I was. I

wanted him to know it, but I also didn’t

want to use him as my way to communic-

ate with my parents. So when I would talk

to them, I would always speak my words.

I couldn’t hear my own voice, of course,

and I know it sounds different when deaf

people speak, but I wanted a way to com-

municate with them since they didn’t

know ASL. One day, when I was talking to

my father, he told Brennan to tell me to

shut up, then had Brennan speak for me.

I didn’t understand why, but he was

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angry. Every time I would try to talk to

my father after that, the same thing

would happen, and he would tell Brennan

to tell me to stop voicing my words. Bren-

nan would translate what my father

wanted him to say back to me. I finally

realized my father didn’t want me to talk

because he didn’t like the way my voice

sounded. It embarrassed him that I

couldn’t hear. He didn’t like for me to

speak when we were in public, because

people would know I was deaf, so he

would tell me to shut up every time I did

it. One day at home, he became so angry

that I was still doing it that he started

yelling at Brennan. He assumed that since

I continued speaking my words, Brennan

wasn’t relaying the fact that he didn’t

want me to speak. He was really drunk

that day and took his anger too far, which

wasn’t uncommon. But he hit Brennan so

hard upside the head it knocked him out.

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Tears begin to well in my eyes, and I have to

inhale a calming breath.

Ridge: He was only six years old, Sydney.

Six. I never wanted to give my father an-

other reason to hit him, so that was the

last day I ever spoke out loud. I guess it

just became habit after that.

He lays his phone on the table and folds his

arms in front of him. He doesn’t seem to be wait-

ing for a response from me. He may not even

want one. He watches me, and I know he sees the

tears falling down my cheeks, but he doesn’t re-

act to them. I take a deep breath, then reach over

and pick up a napkin and wipe my eyes. I wish he

wouldn’t see me responding like this but I can’t

hold it back. He smiles softly and begins to reach

across the table for my hand, and then Warren

and Maggie reappear at the booth.

Ridge pulls his hand back and looks up at

them. Maggie’s arms are draped across Warren’s

shoulders, and she’s laughing at nothing in

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particular. Warren keeps trying to grab the back

of the booth—it looks as if he’s about to need

support, too, but he can’t seem to grasp anything.

Ridge and I both stand up and assist them. Ridge

pulls Maggie off Warren, and I wrap Warren’s

arm around my shoulders. He presses his fore-

head to mine.

“Syd, I’m so happy you got cheated on. I’m so

happy you moved in.”

I laugh and push his face away from mine.

Ridge nods his head toward the exit, and I nod in

agreement. Another drink, and we would prob-

ably have to carry these two out.

“I like that dress you wear, Syd. That blue

one? But please don’t wear it again.” Warren is

leaning his head against mine as we make our

way toward the stairs. “I don’t like your ass in it,

because I think I might love Bridgette, and your

dress makes me love your ass.”

Wow. He’s really drunk if he’s admitting that

he might love Bridgette.

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“I already told you I was burning that dress,” I

say, laughing.

“Good,” he says with a sigh.